Her Particular Friend

Her Particular Friend By JL Merrow It was undoubtedly a fault, Mary reflected, to have retained at the staid old age of nine-and- twenty that playfulness, that lack of regard for consequences, which men found so captivating in a girl of nineteen. And yet, she could not help herself, nor indeed would she, if she could. Let others wait for old age to excuse their eccentricities; she would have what fun she might while still young enough to enjoy it. And was it so very bad a sin, merely to introduce oneself to a young lady whose handsome face and tall figure had caught one’s eye across the pump room? By no means, were it not that Mary needed no introduction to tell her this young lady’s name—and was, moreover, quite aware that the young lady’s family would not wish for the acquaintance. Mary felt her spirits lift with the prospect of mischief as she crossed the room with unhurried tread. “Excuse me,” she said, directing her most charming smile at her fair quarry, who was presently engaged in fetching a glass of water. “But are you not Miss Susan Price, of Mansfield Park?” Miss Price smiled back, an uncertain smile, but not a hesitant one. “I am indeed. But forgive me…” “Ah! No forgiveness is needed, I assure you. And how are you enjoying the waters?” Mary asked, inclining her head in the direction of the glass held by Miss Price. Amusement bubbled within her, but it would not do to let it show. “Or as I should rather say, how are you enjoying Bath? For I am quite sure nobody enjoys the waters.” “I like Bath very well, thank you, and although I dare say you are correct about the waters, this glass is for my aunt.” Miss Price’s eyes showed her confusion, but she forged bravely on, Mary was delighted to see. “You are acquainted with my aunt, Lady Bertram?” “Oh, yes, indeed. At least, I was formerly so. I regret to say we have not been greatly in contact, these past ten years. Tell me, how does your sister, Mrs Bertram?” “Fanny? Oh, Fanny is very well.” A flush of colour suffused Miss Price’s cheek as she spoke with enthusiasm of her sister. “She is lately delivered of their second child, a fine, healthy boy. They have named him William, after his uncle.” It was not often Mary surprised herself, but to her astonishment she found her pleasure at this news entirely untainted by jealousy. “I am so pleased to hear that. You will perhaps not know this, but at one time dear Fanny and I were quite intimate. I wonder if she still wears the gold chain I gave her?” Miss Price took a breath, and appeared to straighten her back, although indeed her posture needed no correction. “Perhaps you would be so good as to tell me your name, so that when I write, I may remember you to her?” “Oh, have I neglected to mention it? How very careless of me. But of course. I am Mrs Lynd—now widowed, alas. But formerly I was Mary Crawford, of Mansfield Parsonage.” Miss Susan Price, it seemed, was made of sterner stuff than her elder sister. Her jaw did not drop; she did not swoon; her eyes widened but a fraction and her gasp was barely audible. Nonetheless, as Mary inclined her head and glided away, she found herself entirely pleased with the consternation she had caused.