Kitty Bennet's Diary (Pride and Prejudice Chronicles) (18 page)

Mary frowned and—as I had hoped—reached for the letter.  I concentrated on spreading marmalade onto a slice of toast, forcing myself
not
to watch her as she read through what Georgiana had written.

After a moment, Mary said, “The situation appears to me rather more serious than Georgiana simply having got into a ‘fuss’, as you put it.  What are we going to do?”

I shrugged again.  “
You
, of course, may do as you like, but
I
am not proposing to do anything.  Why should I?  Jane was silly enough to travel in her condition, and now she is feeling a bit out of sorts.  That does not mean I ought to give up the pleasures of London to sit cooped up with her in Georgiana’s best spare room.”  I covered a yawn with my hand.  “I cannot think of anything more utterly dreary.”

Mary bristled.  I do not think I have ever seen anyone truly bristle before.  But if she were a hedgehog, her every quill would have been standing on end.  “Really, Kitty.  I had thought in recent months that your character might be becoming
slightly
less flighty and irresponsible than in the past.  But I see I was mistaken.”

She paused, scowling at the letter in her hand, and I held my breath—praying that my gamble would pay off.  After another moment’s silence, Mary huffed out a breath and said, “Well, if you do not know your duty, I at least know mine.”  She rose from the table.  “I shall call on Jane directly—and I shall not leave her side until I am confident she is on her way to recovery from whatever ails her.”

I exhaled.  That, of course, had been my private wager: that however much delight Mary might take in meeting with Lord Henry Carmichael, the prospect of being able to feel morally superior to me would delight her even more.

Mary paused in the doorway, glancing back at me and said, thoughtfully, “Perhaps I ought to write to our mother.  She ought to be informed of Jane’s ill health.  I am sure she would want to be here, and it might be that she would be able to do some good.”

That, of course, brought me very thoroughly out of my moment’s self-congratulation.  I could instantly picture it: my mother, here in London, alternately throwing me and Mary at the heads of whatever eligible gentlemen caught her eye.

She would probably be delighted to join Mary in stalking Lord Henry—like a mother cat hunting mice for her kittens’ supper.

“No!”  My response—which emerged as closer to a strangled shriek than a spoken word—made Mary raise her eyebrows.  I gulped in a breath and said in calmer tones, “I mean … I mean that I am sure there is no need to worry our mother.  Not when you are here to see that Jane has everything in the way of good care that she needs, Mary.  You are so very wise, and have such an excellent sense for steering a course through every crisis.”

For a moment, I wondered whether I was perhaps laying the flattery on too thickly.  But no, apparently such a thing is not possible with Mary.

She merely nodded and said—entirely without irony—”Very true.”  And then she went off to fetch her bonnet and cloak, positively oozing
a sense of her own virtue.

 I
may
also have invaded my aunt’s sickroom to the extent of asking her to write a short note to Rhys Williams, asking him whether he might call at Georgiana’s on his way home from the City each day, in order that he can escort Mary back to Gracechurch Street.

I am thoroughly exhausted.  I would never have believed it could be so tiring to sit inside a fabric tent and promise giggling young women dashing suitors, fortunes, and thrilling trips abroad.  But I am determined to prop my eyes open a little longer so that I can write this down before any of the details fade from my memory.

It seems that I will
not
have to tear out my previous entry into this diary after all.  My plan for recovering Jane’s necklace from Mrs. Hurst has succeeded.  Or at least, the first stage of it has.  It remains to be seen whether the plan will ultimately succeed.

The children’s hospital is located not far from my aunt and uncle’s house, on a poor but respectable street.  I arrived early so that I might help with setting up for the fete: putting up sprays of holly and mistletoe and pine boughs.  Arranging the trays of refreshments.  And constructing my gypsy’s tent.  Gwenevere Dalton and I undertook to accomplish that particular task together—fashioning the tent out of an assortment of heavy velvet and brocade curtains that she had brought from home.

We were talking as we worked—and I commented idly that it was very good of her to give her time to her brother’s charity endeavour.

Miss Dalton waved that aside.  “I confess that at first it was merely an excuse to spend time with Lance.”  She cast an affectionate look in her brother’s direction.  Mr. Dalton was, at that moment, in his shirtsleeves, with his cuffs rolled up to the elbow, helping to hang up a garland of pine boughs above the door.  “I do not see nearly as much of him as I would like.”

That startled me.  I looked up in confusion and asked, “Does not your brother live with you?”

Miss Dalton looked conscious, as though she were afraid of saying more than she had intended.  But then she sighed and shook her head.  “No.  He and our mother—”  She stopped.  “I suppose there is no harm in your knowing.  Perhaps it is even better so—you will be forewarned in case the subject ever comes up with Lance.”  She stopped and gave me a look I could not quite interpret.  But then she went on, “Our mother— Percival was her favourite son.”

Miss Dalton paused again to cast another glance in her brother’s direction.  “Do you know that horrid phrase ‘an heir and a spare’?  I will not say that my parents quite went so far as to view Lance that way—as a mere spare son, to come into use only if something were to happen to Percival.  But Percival was always the golden child.  Our mother’s pride and joy.  And when he—”  Her voice trembled slightly, and she swallowed.  “When he died, our mother—”  She stopped again, seeming to choose her words with care.  “Our mother was not herself.  She … she seemed to blame Lance.  Completely unjustly, of course.  But it seemed a constant grief to her that Percival, her favourite, had been taken from her, but Lance yet lived.  Lance determined … he determined that his presence in the house was only causing her more grief.  So he moved into private lodgings.  Not far from here; he wished to be as close as possible to his charity endeavours.  And I stayed to care for my mother.”  Miss Dalton’s lips twisted.  “Though I do not seem to be making a particularly successful job of it.  She still dresses entirely in black—she has even had all of her nightclothes dyed with black, and sleeps on black sheets—and refuses on most days to come out of her room.”

My eyes had widened at her story.  Though not with disbelief.  It is a myth that all parents love all their children equally.  Some like Aunt Gardiner do.  But growing up, I knew quite well that my mother’s favourites were Jane for her beauty and Lydia for her vivacious temper.  And that my father’s favourite was Lizzy.  Mary and I were the sisters whom our mother and father could have dispensed with very well and never missed terribly much.

I hesitated—but then reached out and touched Miss Dalton’s hand.  “You must not blame yourself for that.  Grief—”  I thought back to those first few horrible weeks after John died.  After I returned from Belgium and seemed to see the faces of
all
the fine, gallant young men I had watched die in agony, every time I closed my eyes.

I felt as though I were trapped a mile underwater, like a sunken ship.  “I have thought that grief is one of those unfortunate parts of life that one cannot get around—one cannot get over it.  One only gets through it.  And one has to make one’s own way.  Perhaps your mother only needs more time.”

Miss Dalton squeezed my hand and gave me a watery smile in return.  “Thank you, Miss Bennet.”  I had the impression she might have said more.  But the first guests were beginning to arrive, and at that moment, I caught sight of Louisa Hurst and Miranda Pettigrew just entering through the door.

Miranda attached herself instantly to Mr. Dalton with affected cries of delight at meeting with him that reached me even from across the room.

And I ducked quickly into the completed gypsy’s tent before Mrs. Hurst could see and recognise me.

The interior of the tent was dim; the heavy layers of curtains that Miss Dalton and I had used ensured that.  My wrists jangled with bracelets, and my fingers were stiff with rings.  And I had draped myself with very nearly every scarf and shawl in Aunt Gardiner’s and my possession, winding one turban-style about my hair and then draping another one over that, so that my face would be completely in shadow.  No one save for Miss Dalton, my aunt, and Georgiana—whose help I enlisted yesterday, after I dealt with Lord Henry—knew I had agreed to play the gypsy’s role; I had only to sit in the tent and wait for Mrs. Hurst to take her turn at having her fortune told.

But Mrs. Hurst did not take her turn.  An hour or two passed; the tent grew increasingly stifling.  I could hear the voices of the children and adult guests outside as they laughed and chattered and played at the other party games.  And I began to feel as though I would scream if I had to make one single more promise—in my affectedly deep and mysterious gypsy’s voice—of love and happiness and good fortune.  But Louisa Hurst still did not appear in my tent.

At last Georgiana—bless her—appeared in the tent opening and dropped into the chair we had placed opposite my little table.  She smiled.  “You must make a very convincing gypsy,” she said.  “I have heard several guests talking of Madame Marianna’s wonderful predictions.”

I let the smothering shawl drop away from my head and used it to fan myself.  “I would be a great deal more pleased to hear it if only Mrs. Hurst showed any signs of taking advantage of Madame Marianna’s gift of foretelling.”

“I know,” Georgiana said, sobering.  “That is exactly why I came to speak with you.  The fete is only supposed to last for another hour—and what if she never comes into the fortune telling tent at all?  Do you think I ought to go and urge her to try it?  I can say that you gave me the most amazing fortune while I was in here.”

I shook my head.  “No.  We cannot risk it.”  Louisa Hurst may be petty and vain and selfish.  But she is not a fool.  The odds of our scheme succeeding were slight enough without giving her any reason to suspect Georgiana’s motives.  Especially since Georgiana had her own vital part to play later.  “No, we will think of something.  Do you think you might tell everyone that Madame Marianna requires a slight rest to commune with her guiding spirits—or whatever it is that fortune tellers do?”  I wiped my forehead.  “I feel as though I shall melt if I have to stay in here much longer.”

“Of course,” Georgiana said.  “Just let me know when you are ready to return.”

Gwenevere Dalton and I had constructed the tent so that it backed directly onto a small side door leading out of the large empty ward in which the fete was being held.  It was easy enough for me to simply slip out from under the rear folds of the tent, and from there go through the door without being observed.

I had—most gratefully—abandoned the multitude of shawls, bracelets, and rings inside the tent, and I drew a breath of relief at the wash of cooler air in the hallway outside.  It also occurred to me that it would be no bad thing for me to be observed—as Kitty Bennet—doing something that would give me a legitimate excuse for not having partaken of the fete’s festivities.  I remembered that my aunt had spoken of parcels being made up for the children who were too ill to leave their beds; perhaps I could help with distributing those.

The hospital is not large; I quickly found the children’s ward—where an elderly, grey-haired nurse was already handing out the wrapped presents to the bedridden patients.  She was happy enough, though, to allow me to help.

The children ranged in age from somewhere about five to twelve years of age.  And they were so sweet, all of them, and so grateful—they tore open the parcels eagerly and marvelled over the contents.

All, that is, except for one small, freckle-faced boy at the far end of the ward.  He looked to be about ten years old.  And he must have been suffering from some condition of the spine, for he was lying propped up in a half-sitting position against some pillows with a complicated-looking brace of leather and metal rods strapped to his back.  He could not sit fully up, nor easily move his arms.  So I unpacked the box for him.  And he lay and glowered at the warm mittens and knitted scarf and picture book Aunt Gardiner had given him.

“What good is all this lot?”  he demanded.  I will not even try to write the dialect, but he spoke with a sharply nasal cockney accent.  He scowled at the hat and gloves.  “I can’t go outside.  I’m stuck in this bed all day.  And what do I want with some sissy picture book?”

Aunt Gardiner’s choice of book
was
rather unfortunate—much as I love her.  It was a book of illustrated stories about two children—Lucy and Francis—who learn all about politeness and good manners.  Proper table manners, the proper way to greet their elders, how to behave in church …  If it had been my gift, I probably would have scowled at it as well.

I said, “Well, what would you really like?”

The boy considered a moment and then said, flatly, “A sword.”  There was a slightly challenging note to his voice and a lift to his chin—as though he were daring me to say that a sword was hardly of any more use to a crippled, bedridden boy than a hat and gloves.

I said, “Very well.  A sword it is, then.”  I have played pirates and knights so often with my cousins Thomas and Jack that I am—if I do say so—past master of the art of making swords from stiffened paper or scrap wood.

I had to improvise because of course there were not many suitable materials to be found in the children’s ward.  But eventually—venturing into a small storeroom—I found some pieces of old packing crates that would do for blades.  And I commandeered some rags—I suppose they were to be used as bandages—to wrap around the ends for the hilts.  The crosspieces I made from rolled newspaper, tied round the blades.