Page 11 of In the Eyes of Lord Lingley

“But you have known one another for less than a day! Less than an hour!” Mrs. Gardiner cried. “How can you wish to marry a stranger with a family such as ours?”

That made Lingley laugh, for he could completely understand her misgivings. “I will tell you a secret, Madame. I have known your niece for much, much longer than any of you are aware.”

“What? How?” she demanded, worried that another of her nieces might have acted inappropriately.

“Seven and ten years ago, as a boy of ten, I escaped my keepers and came across a precocious young child by the name of May. I must blame my youth, for I was sure that the being, who took the form of a tiny adorably malformed girl, was a Fae of some sort. No matter that she insisted that she was the daughter of a gentleman who owned a neighboring estate. We spent much time together, having adventures and running wild in the woods until my parents, worried over my wild stories and insistence that I had been befriended by a magical being, carried me off to London where I spent several months being poked and prodded by learned physicians, medical quacks, and my father’s switch until I, out of sheer self-preservation, declared that I had made it all up.”

“That is horrible!” She gasped.

“It was nothing to what I might have experienced at Eton should I have mentioned such a thing. I was only two years away and my father was terrified that his only heir would be thought of as daft,” Lingley grinned. “My dear mother was told after my traumatic birth that she could not have any other children, and history seems to have proved the midwife correct.”

“So you expect us to believe that you saw her at the wedding after nearly two decades and immediately lost your heart?” Neither Gardiner looked convinced.

“I would not say that I am in love,” he admitted candidly. “But I do hold a lingering affection for my friend, and after seeing how horribly she has been treated by her family and neighbors, I could not in good conscience walk away from her. Whether she knew it or not, she was pleading for assistance when she challenged me to marry her. Those brief flashes of fire she showed were very intriguing to me, and I am certain, once she is treated as well as she ought to have been all these years, her true self will emerge. And anyone who could listen to such stuff and nonsense as she, without responding in kind, has an astounding amount of self-possession and will make an excellent countess and then marchioness one day.”

“It is as good a reason as any, I suppose,” Mrs. Gardiner declared, squeezing her husband’s arm in comfort. “I would wish for true affection for all my nieces, but it is a good beginning. Just please promise me that you will protect her from the slings and arrows of the world. She has borne enough. She deserves some peace and acceptance.”

“And she will have it, I promise you. We shall be traveling to the continent now that the war is truly over and done and will not return until she is comfortable in her own skin. We will attend the usual parties and such that expatriates are always invited to, but not until she is ready. We will be one another’s sole companions every day until I have convinced her of her worth.” He spoke so earnestly that they could not question his sincerity.

“You cannot present her in the rags her mother provided. She will never survive the scandal. I have her measurements and have ordered several fine traveling gowns, two morning gowns, and underthings more appropriate to her new station.” Mrs. Gardiner informed him with a blush. “I would do more, but I truly believe that she will enjoy choosing her own things.”

“Thank you, madame. I had planned to order her wardrobe in Paris and add to it as needed as we travel. I did not even think how she would be viewed entering such establishments dressed as she was. It seems I still have much to learn about the care of a wife. I should let you return to your evening. If you think of anything else, please send a note and I shall take care of it.”

The Gardiners rose and escorted him to the doorway, promising to see him at the wedding the following week. He offered to travel together, which pleased the couple greatly, and promised to send a note with his plans in the next day or so before bowing politely and entering his carriage. He returned to his lonely townhouse to dine in solitary splendor while he planned their future travels. He prayed that the special license was granted quickly, he could not wait to bring home his wife and begin their life together. He wondered if she still liked to play in the mud and catch frogs— likely not, what a shame.

Chapter 7

Exclamations were heard all through Meryton. No one could believe the great good luck of the Bennets. For several weeks it seemed as if Miss Lydia, now Lydia Wickham, had ruined them all by running off with an officer while she was apparently unsupervised in Brighton. It had been all over Meryton and other than visits by Mrs. Phillips, their aunt and the premier gossip in town, no one had dared to acknowledge them until suddenly Mrs. Bennet, who had taken to her bed, appeared in the haberdashery crowing about the marriage of her youngest daughter and demanding well wishes from all who would listen.

“Of all the days to come down with a cold!” Lady Lucas moaned, tucked up in her bed with a tisane. “Two or three, perhaps, but eight? Certainly not!”

“But I heard it myself, Mama! 8 cows!” her youngest son cried.

“It is unheard of! Eight cows and a title,” she frowned. “Charlotte’s is nothing to it. Even Jane and Lizzy were not so blessed! What is this veil of fortune which remains draped over the Bennets! Shall Kitty marry a prince?”

“You should have seen Mrs. Bennet, she collapsed as though a brick had fallen on her head, and all the while Mary sat up in the window,” giggled Miss Maria Lucas.

Longbourne was not much quieter as Mrs. Bennet swung between incandescent joy that a daughter would marry so well, and overwhelming displeasure that she was to lose her future companion. She was horrified at the thought that Kitty might marry soon, and then she would be left to her own company. Her moans and complaints had become so incessant that Mr. Bennet declared that he would write to Viscount Lingley and refuse his permission for the marriage if it continued. Mrs. Bennet immediately went silent, though her scowls did not disappear.

She also refused to provide more than three dresses for the bride, as she declared that she would only choose the homeliest fabrics and unflattering colors, and she refused to waste funds on such ugly clothes. Mary made no complaints as she was certain still that it was all a joke to the Viscount. The wager between him and Colonel Fitzwilliam made the most sense. He likely was in need of funds and hoped to collect now that they were engaged and would disappear, leaving her to even further derision from her neighbors.

Neither of her parents were willing to hear her misgivings, so she did as she had always done and tucked her feelings away. She spent the fortnight of waiting practicing her pianoforte and continuing her studies as she would have done in any case. Kitty ignored her as usual, spending her days with Maria Lucas, Penelope Harrington and Lucy Long, likely bemoaning the lack of officers to flirt with. Hoydens, all of them!

No matter how much she tried, however, Mary could not ignore the passing time nor the impending mortification. Each morning, after tossing and turning the whole night through, she would crawl from her bed and dress in one of her many brown gowns. Unbeknownst to her mother, Mary did not prefer the color, but it was usually one of the most economical, and her mother had purchased it for years for her least favorite daughter without enquiring into her preferences. But in her mother’s muddled mind, Mary always wore brown, thus she only liked brown, and that was all she bought, like an eternal ring. What she would give for a dress of pink, or cream; perhaps green… Even her wedding gown, which she had had high hopes that her mother would wish to be lovely, was a muted, muddy brown with an unappealing greenish tinge. She felt like a bog beast. Mrs. Bennet did not even add the lace she was so obsessed with. Her Aunt Gardiner was so upset at her sister-in-law that she had returned to London with her husband in protest. She had attempted to convince Mary to come with her in order to have a gown from Town made, but she could not countenance the cost, knowing that her uncle would be forced to pay for it and it would likely go to waste. The Gardiners had five children of their own to provide for; it was unacceptable to her to take advantage of their generosity.

Mary fought back tears. Not only would she be forced to wear the ugliest gown in all of England, but she would have to stand in it before all of Meryton as she was jilted and abandoned at the altar. She had never been so angry at another person. He was likely lashing out at her for her offensive behavior after Colonel Fitzwilliam insulted her. She knew that she ought never to have spoken to them, but the Viscount had seemed almost familiar, and she had been drawn to his side, hoping to study him more closely. She muttered imprecations at herself in every language she knew. She really was as stupid as her father always declared.

By the time that the fortnight was through, Mary was nearly ill from lack of sleep. When she woke the morning of her wedding, she had deep bruises under her eyes and her usually sallow skin was even more waxen and pale. Her hair was lank and thick with a rough yet oily texture. It did not help that her mother insisted that she must wash it daily with a horribly harsh soap to combat the problem. She had to wonder if it was making it worse, but again, the lye soap made by the maids was free to use, unlike the sweet smelling, finely milled soaps which Mrs. Bennet and her favorite daughters were provided with. Elizabeth and Catherine spent some of their pin money to purchase their own, but Mary was only given £10 a year, less than a third of her sisters, and did not wish to waste it on such vanities. She liked pretty things as much as anyone, but ribbons were costly, and what was the point in wearing a beautifully colored ribbon if she was stuck in a dung-colored gown. Lydia and Kitty had poked fun at her for years for her parsimony, but she had little to say in response. She had attempted to save a portion of her pin money for her future and had saved nearly £36, but Lydia had found it before she left for Brighton with Mrs. Forster and her mother had commandeered it for her favorite. No pleas to her father prevented the theft, and she had given up any hope for a future outside of that of a poor relation to one of her sisters.

She crawled from her bed and looked over her small room with a jaundiced eye. Her belongings were few, but she had not bothered to pack any of them, though a small trunk stood open with her new dresses and underthings inside. She sighed, the scene looked so hopeful, yet she was anything but. She rang the bell to let the maid know that she had awakened so that her bath might be prepared in the kitchen. The rest of the family used the copper tub in their rooms, but Mrs. Bennet saw no need for her to cause so much work for the servants. She had attempted the same with Elizabeth, but she had complained to her father, and he had given his own orders to the servants to countermand his wife’s. Mary had learned years ago that her father had no interest in her needs and well-being, so she never bothered to complain to him herself.

She gathered her things and hurried down the servant’s stair to the kitchen to wash and dress and then returned to her room to twist her hair into her usual tight bun at the base of her skull which was the only style which contained her frizzy mop. Her only jewelry was a tiny gold cross which her deceased godmother had given her for her fifth birthday, and she hung it about her throat. The chain was rather short and tight, as it had been meant for a child, making it more of a choker than a necklace. For a moment, she wished that she had been able to present herself more appealingly, but she quickly reminded herself that there was no point in giving the neighborhood even more fodder for their tormenting. Perhaps her mother’s disinterest was kindly meant, should she have been truly dressed as a bride, as her sisters had been, the teasing would have been merciless.

Once she was ready, she carried her plain straw bonnet with her down to the sitting room to await her family. She had left her copy of the Iliad on the table there, and she picked it up to read more while breakfast was prepared. She did not feel hunger, her stomach too disordered to wish for a heavy meal, but she was determined to at least have a bit of toast and some tea.

“Mary-Hannah!” Mrs. Bennet’s voice cried from up the stairs. “Oh, where is that girl? We must leave soon! Mr. Bennet! Kitty! Did you finish your tray?”

“You did not order a tray for me, Mrs. Bennet,” Mr. Bennet groused. “I shall be eating in the dining room, Madame.”