Lizzie
The carriage was indeed waiting outside. Mary took the seat beside Charlotte, ostensibly so she could point out buildings of interest on the way, though it was difficult for Charlotte to pay attention when Mary’s thigh was pressed so firmly against her own.
The journey took just over an hour, though in Mary’s company the time flew, and soon enough they were stopping outside a house. The road was busy with carriages stopping every minute, regurgitating its passengers onto the pavement. It wasn’t necessary to clutch Mary’s hand in order to descend the steps, but Charlotte relished the opportunity to do so anyway.
The Cromleys’ house was two-thirds as large as Netherfield, Jane and Bingley’s grand house, with short wings on either side. If this was what Mary considered modest in comparison to Miss Abbott, Charlotte was glad indeed that she had selected this ball. The gentlemen were dressed in the dark jackets and tan breeches now so fashionable amongst thehaute ton, while the ladies peacocked in bright shades of sapphire, ruby, and gold which dazzled the eyes. Charlotte breathed an inward sigh of relief; her black silk dress would not stand out here, but it would not shame her either. She peered through the dim evening at the gardens, though she could see but little; the bright moon was shrouded in thick clouds tonight. “If we can escape later,” Mary murmured, taking her arm, “then I shall show you Mr Cromley’s prize roses. Prized by him, of course, although Mr Mellor has bested him in the annual competition for the last eight years.”
“I would like that very much,” Charlotte whispered back, and they ascended the steps, smiling at each other.
Inside, servants dressed in fine livery stood to attention, while the cheerful crowd bustled in and out of a stately room. Charlotte saw at once why Mary preferred such a ball to something stuffier and more formal; the atmosphere was one of charming amiability rather than the haughty judgement which tended to overshadow any Rosings event. A string quartet in the corner played a lively tune, and the dancers whirled and spun in perfect time. The air smelled of a hundred different perfumes, though Mary’s violet scent seemed to Charlotte to be the most pleasing.
“Ah, there are our hosts,” said Mary, jerking her chin to indicate a handsome couple at the other end of the hall. “I shall introduce you in good time. Let us fetch some punch first, and then—oh, there is Delia!”
The young woman who came towards them was perhaps seven-and-twenty, dark, with a broad nose and uncommonly pretty green eyes which sparkled with animation. Charlotte compared the girl to the drawing she’d seen in Mary’s letters,but even a cursory recall proved that this girl was a different person entirely. Perhaps she was the artist, or perhaps this was another one of Mary’s intimate friends.And just how intimate is she with her friends?the little voice asked.Even if it were possible, would you simply be one amongst many? How could you ever hope to compare to all these beautiful women?
“Miss Highbridge,” Mary said, beaming, “I am delighted to present you with my good friend, Mrs Collins.”
Charlotte couldn’t help blinking in surprise at the introduction; she had forgotten that Mary only referred to her married name amongst company. “Why, Mrs Collins, it is a pleasure indeed!” cried Miss Highbridge. Her dress matched her eyes, the late-summer sheen of dry bracken, and her slender waist was encircled with a pine-coloured ribbon. “Miss Bennet has told me so much about you.”
“Has she?” Charlotte couldn’t help wondering what had been said. The look which passed between Mary and Miss Highbridge spoke louder than words, though in a language which Charlotte could not decipher. “All bad, I suppose,” she teased.
Miss Highbridge feigned surprise. “On the contrary, she could not praise you enough. Why, she holds you in great esteem indeed.”
“Enough, Delia,” Mary murmured, a pink flushing creeping up her neck. “I have only just arrived and already you are embarrassing me.”
“There is nothing embarrassing about a truthful compliment,” said she, cheerfully ignoring her friend’s scowl. “And how long are you in town, Mrs Collins?”
“I assume Mrs Tremaine isn’t here tonight?” Mary asked, changing the subject before Charlotte could answer.
“Oh, I do hope not.” Miss Highbridge snorted. “We are safe for an evening at least, although I believe she has petitioned to chair the next salon meeting.”
“I had already volunteered to do so,” Mary said, a muscle in her jaw jumping.
“Pfft. Tell that to Mrs Tremaine.”
“I would give quite a lot to never say anything to Mrs Tremaine ever again,” Mary muttered, causing Miss Highbridge to snort again. “Hark, a ship sails near.”
Charlotte frowned, baffled by this sudden statement, but the meaning was made clear in a moment. A young man was heading through the crowd towards them, his eyes intent upon Mary. “Good evening, Miss Bennet,” said he.
“Good evening, Mr Hillinghead.”
“Would you care to dance?”
“I am afraid I must abstain for the moment, sir,” she said politely and the young man’s smile turned rueful. He gave a jerky bow before marching away back to his fellows, who slapped him on the back with comradely good cheer.
“One of that group try to win you over every time.” Miss Highbridge shook her head. “One must admire their determination, at least.”
“That is one of the many reasons why I would never encourage their suits,” Mary declared. “A young man must learn from his mistakes, and not keep making the same ones over and over. Besides, none of them wish to dance with me for the pleasure of my company, but only to be the one to break me first, like some sort of wild horse. It is but a game to them. It will not be long before Mr Hillinghead realises that a far better companion awaits him.” She nodded towards a girl on the fringes of a large group, gathered near the punch bowl, who was watching the young man with longing writ large across her face. “Miss St Clair has been quite in love with him for two years, and he is a fool not to notice it sooner, perhaps because he is too busy making sport with his fellow fools.”
“Well, we do not always recognise what is right in front of us,” Miss Highbridge said archly.
Mary shot her another warning glare. “Would you like a glassof punch, Charlotte? It is quite warm in here and my throat is terribly dry.”
Charlotte agreed, but before either could move, a man in a captain’s uniform stepped into their path, who Miss Highbridge introduced as Mr Harold. “He is married to my cousin Abigail,” she said, smiling at him before turning. “You know Miss Bennet, of course, and this is Miss Bennet’s friend, Mrs Collins, who is in town for the week.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you.” Mr Harold bowed. His waistcoat was a warm cream colour, his black boots polished to such a sheen that they reflected the movements of the crowd above. “Do you dance, Mrs Collins?”
“I do.”
