Page 202 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

She turned to Mary, and her expression shifted. The fear receded, replaced by sudden, intense admiration. "But you… you do not crumble."

"Me?" Mary let out a short, harsh laugh. "I am invisible, Georgiana. I am the dun paint on the wall. No one sees me."

"I see you!" Georgiana exclaimed with a sudden huff of spirit. "I saw you yesterday. With that milliner on Bond Street. That vulture in silk."

Mary narrowed her eyes at the memory. "The woman who attempted to charge four guineas for a ribbon because we arrived in a crest-bearing carriage."

"Exactly! Mrs Annesley was flustered. I was cowering behind my parasol. But you..." Georgiana leaned closer, her eyes shining with hero-worship. "You just stood there. You did not raise your voice, you did not get angry. You just planted your feet. You narrowed your eyes and waited."

"It was daylight robbery," Mary said stiffly. "She thought us fools."

"You were unyielding!" Georgiana sounded ecstatic. "Like a wall. Or… forgive me… like a mule."

Mary blinked. "A mule?"

"A very dignified mule," Georgiana added quickly, realising her error. "A mule of high breeding. But you would not move. And she broke! She lowered the price out of sheer defeat of her soul. I want that, Mary. I want to know how to do that. I want to know how to be a mule."

Mary looked at her hands. They were not elegant like Georgiana's. They were square-palmed, capable, and currently clenched in her lap. She had always hated them.

But Georgiana did not see clumsy hands. She saw masonry. She saw foundations.

"You wish to learn obstinacy?" Mary asked slowly.

"I wish to learn backbone," Georgiana corrected, looking at Mary steadily. "I want to be able to stand in a room and not feel as if I am about to blow away if someone opens a window."

Mary looked at the sheet music on the stand. It was a Clementi sonata. Dense. Complex. Technical. Impressive. About as emotional as a sermon on temperance.

She reached out and closed the book with a decisivethud.

Beneath it lay a thin, worn collection of Scottish airs. Simple songs. Songs of heartbreak and hills and wind. Jane used to hum them before she became a Viscountess and started communicating via strawberry.

Mary looked from the music to Georgiana, and she did not see a rival, or a superior, nor a mirror of her own inadequacy. She saw an ally.

"I will teach you." Mary's voice was steel. "I will teach you how to narrow your eyes. I will teach you the silence that makes men check their cravats to see if they are undone. I will teach you how to stand so that they must walk around you."

"Thank you," Georgiana whispered, as if accepting a state secret.

"And in return," Mary continued, touching the worn cover of the Scottish airs, "you will teach me this."

"The music?"

"The feeling. You will teach me how to play so that they do not just hear notes. You will teach me how to make them cry."

Georgiana smiled then. The smile was small and tentative, but it reached her eyes.

"Iron for air."

"Backbone for beauty," Mary countered.

"A pact." Georgiana held out her hand.

Mary looked at it. A Darcy hand. Pale, delicate, and trembling slightly.

She took it in her own. "A pact."

Georgiana shifted on the bench, sitting straighter. She mimicked Mary's posture—shoulders back, chin slightly lifted, gaze direct. It was an imperfect imitation, but the intention was there. She looked less like a mouse and more like a mouse that was considering buying a helmet.

"Play," Georgiana pleaded. "Please. But not the Clementi. The Clementi is shouting."