Page 25 of In the Eyes of Lord Lingley

“Well, that explains much!” Mary pondered the evening before. In this light, they had been recognizing her new station rather than her new marriage. No wonder the Comtesse was so surprised at her curtsey. She looked beseechingly at the Duchesse. “Please, could you instruct me? I do not wish to make a mistake and embarrass the Ashfords or their Majesties in Spain.”

“I am so pleased that you asked,” she beamed approvingly. “We shall spend an hour together every morning until you leave, and you will join me for my at-homes to practice that which you will learn.”

“Merci!” Mary cried in relief. “We have been invited to the theater by the Duc de Richelieu, which we thought was symbolic but seems more diplomatic all the time. It is in five days.”

“You will be ready,” she promised. “I am so pleased that John had the forethought to enlist Madame Courant to your aid. You will be the toast of Paris! Let us begin now!”

They worked for two hours that afternoon, reviewing proper addresses and depth of curtsies, as there were few that outranked her now, which was the most uncomfortable position for her as she had so trained herself to a certain level of consequence that it was a matter of unlearning behaviors she had practiced her entire life. It felt completely unnatural to nod her head in greeting to most everyone she would ever meet again, no matter their title or wealth. She had laughed merrily at the thought of her new brother Bingley’s sisters and their put-upon airs. They would probably choke on their outrage and envy when they learned of the reality of their new sisters’ elevated connections. She also hoped she was not within a hundred miles of her mother when she discovered it. The noise alone would be prodigious, the vulgarity she did not dare contemplate.

By the time that the date of the theater invitation arrived, they had attended two dinners and Mary, three at homes with the Duchesse. It was still unnatural to her, but she had not made another mistake since her education had begun. Madame Courant had sent her a note proclaiming that “Mary Rose” had become all the rage and every modiste in London had been inundated with orders for new gowns. In celebration, she had sent her a carriage gown in the same rose pink, as well as an extremely formal theater gown for that evening. Lingley had procured a delicate tiara of rubies to match her ruby set, and she looked every inch a princess when they boarded the carriage that evening to head to the Duc’s home for dinner before the performance.

“With all of our outings, you have gained some color, my dear.” Lingley pulled her close as they made their way slowly through the Parisian streets.

“Is it bad?” Mary asked, looking down at the wide expanse of her decollete and shoulders, which were bared in the daring new gown.

“Not in the least! Your coloring does not lean to the pale, nearly colorless English rose. You need that hint of sun-kissed glow to save your skin from looking sallow.” He declared. “Blond-haired and blue-eyed is not the ideal the world over, you know. You are quite the continental beauty, dearest.”

“Do not let my mother hear such heresy,” she teased to cover her lingering abashment.

When they arrived, she relinquished her caplet and long opera gloves to the maid who assisted her and took her husband’s arm as they followed the pompous butler to the receiving room where the company had gathered. The butler cleared his throat imperiously, drawing the attention of the room, and announced in ringing tones, “Son Altesse Royale l’infante Juan Carlos et l’infanta Mary, Don et Donna de la Vega.”

They were greeted first by a beaming Duchesse de Rochfoucald who winked at Mary as she curtsied deeply, which Mary returned with a gracious nod and several busses to her cheeks, to honor her position as her husband’s godmother. “May I introduce our host, your highness?” Mary nodded as a manner of course. “The Duc de Richeliue, Armand-Emmanuel du Plessis our new prime minister.”

“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Monsieur le Duc,” she said. Lingley bowed while Mary curtsied shallowly. “Please accept our congratulations on your appointment.”

They spoke of polite nothings for several minutes until dinner was announced, and the Duc offered his arm to Mary with a bow, while Lingley did the same for his Godmother. They were seated together at the head of the table, with Mary on the Duc’s right and the Duchesse on his left beside Lingley. Mary’s other companion was a highly ranked former officer of the Russian army, and friend of the Duc, Compte de Langeron. Both gentlemen were highly impressed with Mary’s knowledge of the war and tactics as well as the width and breadth of her literary enjoyment. Lingley entertained his companions while he watched his wife win two more admirers. It pleased him greatly that she was growing so confident in herself and her worth.

The theater was as they expected, the conversation in the box, the largest which the theater boasted, never wavered no matter what took place on the stage. King Louis XVIII made a momentary appearance, which allowed Mary to use her much practiced royal curtsey for the first time. The Duchesse was highly complementary during a quiet moment after the king had retired, raising her confidence even further.

Once the production had ended, Mary was ashamed to admit that she had not even caught the name of it and told Lingley so.

“I do not believe the actors even tried to compete with the show which took place in our box, my dear. There were several times that I noted the soprano enter the stage, send the box a glare and stomp off again without performing her part.”

“She did not!” Mary gasped with a laugh.

“Quite the prima dona, I think.” He joined in her laughter and led her toward the large entrance foyer.

“Lingley!” “Lord Lingley!”

Several voices called, and they turned to see two couples fighting their way through the crowd toward them, being led by the most beautiful woman Mary had ever seen, outside of her sister Jane, with whom there was no comparison. Lingley lit up with welcome, beyond her experience, and turned her toward them.

“My lord!” The woman cried as they came abreast. “We had no idea that you would be in Paris when we came. You ought to have informed us sooner!”

“Mrs. Wilson,” he greeted politely before ignoring her completely and heartily greeting the gentlemen of the party. “Linford! Wilson! Are you on your way back to England?”

There was much shaking of hands and slapping of backs, reminding Mary of the young men in Meryton and how they would greet one another before sneaking away from their parents to find some mischief. She grinned as she stepped forward, “Will you introduce me, husband?”

Mrs. Wilson’s eyes flared wide, and the second woman, obviously of some relation due to the similarity of their looks, reached for her, gripping her hand tightly. Missing the byplay completely, Lingley turned to Mary with a beaming smile and pulled her close beside him.

“Mary, these are some of my closest friends. We attended Eton and Cambridge together and spent many breaks visiting at one house or another. May I present Baron Franklin Linford and his wife Angelica, and Mr. Peter Wilson and his wife Araminta. Gentlemen, ladies, my wife, Mary Bennet Lingley.”

“Bennet?” Mr. Wilson’s brow wrinkled. “Did not Darcy and Bingley marry Bennets? Are you a relation?”

“Yes,” Mary replied, giving Lingley a happy smile. “I am the middle Bennet sister. From your discussion, I assume that you are recently married as well?”

“Yes, indeed!” Baron Linford grinned down at his wife, who was looking worriedly at Mrs. Wilson. “Angelica and I married in January, soon after the season began. Araminta and Wilson married at the end of the season. They are sisters, so we decided to take the opportunity to travel together. It has been a wonderful time. We just returned to Paris from—”

“When did you meet?” Mrs. Wilson demanded with a pout. “It could not have been very long ago.”