Page 200 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

The room went silent. Elizabeth beamed at her husband as if he had just recited a sonnet. Jane looked misty-eyed at his vulnerability. Robert gave him a nod of approval.

Mary felt the weight of four pairs of eyes pressing down on her. She knew, intellectually, that they meant well. They were trying to pry her out of her shell like a stubborn oyster. But they did not understand that the oyster liked the shell. The shell was quiet. The shell did not ask about Coleridge or demand levity.

"I am sure you are right, brother." Mary rose to her feet. She smoothed her skirts with hands that did not tremble, though her stomach was turning somersaults. "However, I find I must retire. I shall go and change for dinner."

Jane blinked, her beautiful face scrunching in confusion. "But Mary, it is only four o'clock."

"Complexions like mine," Mary said, lifting her chin in a posture she hoped conveyed dignity rather than flight, "require preparation."

She turned and left the parlour, with her head held high. She nodded to the footman in the hall, who was mildly confused to see a guest retreating upstairs in the middle of the afternoon. Mary ignored him. She walked with the grace of a queen, waiting until she rounded the curve of the banister and was firmly out of sight before allowing her shoulders to slump.

She did not go to her room, though. She turned sharply left, heading for the end of the corridor, to the one room in Darcy House where no one could follow her without a musical education and a tolerance for minor keys.

The music room.

She slipped inside and pressed her back against the door, the heavy mahogany shutting out the muffled sounds of the household. The air here was different. It did not smell of marital bliss. It smelled of old paper and the distinct, dusty aroma of silence. It was delicious.

Mary crossed the room to the instrument that reigned in the centre of the floor.

It was a Broadwood. A massive, glossy beast of a pianoforte that looked as though it ate lesser instruments for breakfast. It waited there, gleaming under the chandelier, looking at her like it expected Mozart, or perhaps a visiting Archduke.

Mary gave it a look in return. One that said:You will be lucky to get Clementi, and you will like it.

It was a magnificent piece, far superior to the battered upright at Longbourn, which had lost a battle with humidity in 1798 and never fully recovered. She sat on the velvet bench, her reflection staring back at her from the polished fallboard.

She looked at herself. It was a sobering exercise.

The spectacles were new, framed in wire, utilitarian and severe. Her hair was knotted back so tightly it pulled at her temples. Her dress was the colour of a potato. It was a sensible, durable, entirely forgettable brown that seemed designed to blend into the wainscoting.

She took a breath and began the inventory. She had always kept accounts in her head. It was safer than hoping, and the mathematics were rarely wrong.

The London Season Ledger:

Balls Attended:Twelve.

Dances Requested:Four. (Two by Robert, two by Darcy. All arranged in advance like diplomatic treaties to prevent a war).

Conversations of Substance Initiated by a Gentleman:Zero.

Compliments Received:One. (Viscount Keathley had remarked that she was "frighteningly punctual," which, while technically true, is a compliment usually reserved for the Royal Mail coach and executioners).

It was a brutal ledger.