Slow of Wit Chapter 4

No preamble today!

Chapter 4

Mary lingered in the hallway of the lodge, making some comment about the tie of her cloak as her sisters threw their robes away with abandon. The spring rains had not yet receded, and as much as they all wished the dark clouds and heavy winds across the channel to christen the French in their icy blessing, so far their prayers had been meaningless.

The Miss Bennets proceeded into the dance in a gaggle, and much akin to the geese such a procession was named for they announced their entry with a cacophony of sound. If the hall had been lively before, the addition of such a large family of young women was fair set to drown out even the musicians. These estimable gentlemen had begun their set with the voice of a lone chalumeau in one shadowed alcove. Lydia and Elizabeth called out across the room, heedlessly at odds with this performance.

Elizabeth made haste to her good friend Miss Lucas, and the younger girl to a group of young men who were old enough to dance, if not quite old enough to leave their mothers' sides without blushing.

Mary yet lingered. She watched more people arrive, and braided the cords of her cloak until they were quite twisted. There were the landowners, of course, whose names she was not supposed to know, and then the married couples who seemed to infest the lower part of the –shire in complacent matrimonial bliss. Mary nodded to them politely, and allowed the noise of the atrium to drown out any mistakes she made in each greeting. Once they had exchanged such pleasantries it was understood that no further conversation need take place, and those of the guests who were not already warned away by attempting to breach Miss Bennet's wall of implacable quotation had surely been made wary by their mutual acquaintance.

Once the party had assembled Mary thought it safe to proceed into the hall, and promptly availed herself of a glass of wine and a dark corner. The presence of an enclosing footstool would discourage any demands for her hand, she hoped, and since there remained more than twice the number of ladies to men in the room she did not consider herself to be in any danger.

For some time this tactic worked admirably, and it was only when another lady sought to avail herself of the shadowed recess that Miss Bennet's private musing was disturbed. She looked up with quick alarm at the approaching figure, and quickly stepped back to provide her with some room. Seeing the other lady's distress, she made haste to avail her of both a handkerchief and a sympathetic ear. The latter was not required for some moments, as the prior was made ample use of.

"I am sorry," Mary was the one who broke the silence, and beneath the drowning music her words were sure and sincere. She understood exactly what had transpired, or a larger part of it than others might. The good lady swallowed back another cry, and allowed herself to be comforted by grasping Mary's piano-gnarled fingers.

"He was a good boy. A good boy." She repeated, as if the words would make the grim truth stay its ruthless course.

"We are all proud of him," Mary clasped her hand more tightly, "But why are you here, Mrs. Ussel? I am sure even the most formal invitation might be excused under such circumstances!"

"My husband believed I would benefit from the distraction." The sodden handkerchief was more than an effective argument against that, and Mary offered the woman a second. As she accepted and thanked Miss Bennet, the woman confided in the girl that they had also decided that her son's death should be kept from the general company's knowledge for the present, at least until they had other news to distract them. Mary listened in some confusion, and begged for an explanation, which was reluctantly provided.

"He was placed in the fourth regiment of Lord Morval's light infantry, as I confided to your good mother, my dear, but which fact I beg you must not remind her of, for what transpired..." again, the handkerchief was raised, "What... occurred..."

"I beg you, d-do not distress yourself!" Mary cried, but the good woman was determined now to confide, and thus she spoke:

"The whole regiment was... I do not understand, but there was a simply fearful battle, and his troop I'm sure were quite, quite outnumbered. They... they retreated, back to their camp, and from thence they were decimated for cowardice in battle."

"Decimated?" Mary knew the word, and she understood it, but she could not comprehend that the boy who had grown up in the next village had fallen prey to such an outmoded punishment. Mrs. Ussel regarded her with distaste, and affected to explain.

"They were lined up, and one of every ten men was shot where he stood." She bit back a sob, "It will be in the broadsheets soon enough, for there were a great many of them, and it was a great disgrace. I beg you, Mary, to keep this fearful secret until such time as it is beyond my shame."

"Of c-course." The girl replied shakily, and was proceeding to enquire after the woman's health when there came a lull in the general sound of the room, and many heads turned towards the atrium. Mary had believed herself to be the last entrant into the company, but she spied five new faces through the crowd.

She trembled at the first, for they were women, and stylishly attired. It was not their elegant bearing or silken skirts which so affected the girl, but the way that their lips moved with a surety and rapidness. It declared their quick wit to the room at large, even if their current conversation was not best pleasing to those who might overhear.

The men interested Mary far less, although she perceived that there were three of them. One, a stouter gentleman whose face held the fleshiness of a hedonistic youth, was quickly making his way towards the single gaming table the hall could provide. The other two were younger and more vibrant. Mary's keen eye rested on them and she wondered if she could truly discern the brightness of alcohol on one's cheek, or the dourness of the orient on the other.

These thoughts were not disclosed, and unjust they may have been, for Mary was quickly summoned to her mother's side. The brighter man was amongst the gathered company, and as she made her curtsey beside her assembled sisters she caught that here, at last, was the promised Mr. Bingley.

His eye wandered between the ladies with the unmistakable air of a connoisseur, and what delight he took in all he surveyed! Even Mary was surprised with a nod of appreciation to her hesitant genuflection, and found herself red in the cheek even when his eye had moved on toward her sisters. As with most eyes, though, the gentleman's were quickly drawn anew to study Miss Jane Bennet, and since her position beside the soft firelight was quite effectively designed, he delighted to follow the encouragement to take up the young lady's hand.

Mary opined that Jane had been somewhat thrown into the young man's yet undisclosed company, and was summarily hushed by her mother. It did not seem to mar the happiness of either party, the sister mused in private, and certainly the young man himself appeared equal to such behaviour. There could not be a dance in the whole of England whose partners were evenly matched, and a young man of such a look and half the consequence would soon grow accustomed to women's violent affections as a matter of course.

She was thinking this with some complacency (although directed at no lady or gentleman in particular) when the curt voice of the second gentleman recalled her to her senses.

"Thank you, madam, but I rarely dance." He moved away from the gathered women with some haste, and to Mary's consternation began to find his way toward her alcove. Without any acknowledgement of her presence or tenderness towards her wish to be alone, he rested against the wall and viewed the general company with unblinking attention.

Mary made sure not to show any alarm, and yet she could not enjoy the same thoughtful peace which she had first sought in this corner. Indeed, it was at some distance from the fire, and lacking both the warmth of her own thoughts or the smart waistcoat of her neighbour, she found herself shivering.

"Come, Darcy!" The bright man soon approached, and declared to his friend in a voice which carried to many of the dancers. "I must have you dance! I will not have you standing about in this foolish manner!"

Foolish manner! Mary found a deep blush spreading across her cheek, for although she knew her conduct to be unusual, never had it been described in such scathing tones by one whose word would be gospel to all and sundry. The man he had addressed turned slightly, and Mary saw a glint of amusement in his dark eyes as, for a moment, they sought her out. Seeking to meet her gaze, he won it and the corner of his mouth turned up. Mary understood and shared in its ruefulness; the man's friend must have seen it as a sneer, for he made some outcry of indignation, insisting that his friend dance.

"I certainly shall not." Darcy replied finally, and his voice carried with dignity rather than volume. "You know how I detest it."

Mary hid a smile, and moved away. She had no interest in the quarrels of such men, and when she heard her older sister being recommended she was glad of her own alacrity of movement. To be compared with Elizabeth at such a moment would have dulled her mood, and she took no pleasure in her sister's praise, nor in Mr. Darcy's censure of the same partner.

"Were you speaking to Mrs. Ussel?" Jane had broken away from the dance, and she made the enquiry in some haste as she saw Mr. Bingley making his way towards her for the second time. Mary nodded, mute in this crowd, and Jane kissed her cheek. "Darling, she looks very ill, and you likewise. I wonder if you might accompany her home. Once you are returned to Longbourne yourself, dearest, there will be ample time for James to return to us with the carriage – if you leave now."

"Thank you," Mary whispered, and felt a glow of love for her sister whose arm was already being taken by the eager young man.

He spared her a smile, but it was clear that he did not see her at all.

Mr. Darcy, in Mary's pretence, watched her with envy as she, the victor, was the one to make her glorious escape.