Kitty Bennet's Diary (Pride and Prejudice Chronicles) (26 page)

“I suppose.”  There seemed little point in denying it.  “I mean, yes, I am.”

Mary hunched her shoulders again, exhaling a shuddering breath, and blew her nose.  “I am so sorry, Kitty.  You tried to warn me about Lord Henry.  You must think me … I have been such an utter
lackwit
.”

I stared.  Since we had been children, I could not remember ever hearing Mary apologise to me, or deplore her own judgement.  I covered her hand with mine.  “No, I do not.  Or at least, I do not reproach you any more than I reproach myself.  I—”

I stopped.  I had never spoken of my own entanglement with Lord Henry before.  Only a little to Georgiana, who already knew in any case.  But somehow, sitting there on the window seat with Mary, the whole story came spilling out.  John—Lord Henry—John’s death at Waterloo last summer.

“That is why it is no great challenge to promise Miranda that I will not see or speak to Lance,” I finished at last.  “I had already determined for myself that I could not see him again.”

Mary had stopped crying as I spoke, and now looked at me with swollen, red-rimmed eyes.  “You could at least try telling Mr. Dalton the truth yourself.  You might find that he understands, and does not blame or judge you for past mistakes.”

“I know.”  I leaned my head against the cool window pane at our backs.  “Perhaps he might, but there is still the danger to his reputation, if he were to marry me—” 

“Nonsense.”  Mary spoke crisply—or as crisply as she could, considering that her voice was still clogged with tears.  “I do not believe the danger is so great as you have convinced yourself it may be.  In the year since last Christmas, has any rumour of your association with Lord Henry raised its head?”

I shook my head.  “No, but—”

“I had not heard anything of it, nor even suspected, and I am your own sister.  Besides which, Miranda Pettigrew has never once mentioned anything along those lines.  Nor has Mrs. Hurst, and you know she frequently visits Jane and Charles in Derbyshire.  And I promise you that if such a juicy piece of scandal were being whispered around London society or anywhere else, they of all people would have heard it—and done their best to spread it about to all they encountered, besides.”

That made me smile, if briefly.  But then Mary blew her nose, fixed me with a very direct stare, and said, “What is the real trouble, Kitty?  Is it … is it John?  Do you not think that he should wish for you to be happy?”

A memory of John rose up before I could stop it: him dancing with me, kissing my cheek on the night before the battle, the night before he marched off to die.  I shook my head.  “No—I know he would wish it.  Though after the way I treated him, I do not think that I deserve to be.  It’s just—”  I stopped speaking.

It is strange.  I usually feel like the elder sister, for all Mary is a year older than I am.  Especially ever since I got back from Brussels, I have felt about a hundred.  But at that moment, I did feel younger—almost as though Mary had taken the place of Lizzy or Jane.

I pressed my eyes briefly closed.  I have never exactly thought of myself as a coward.  But perhaps I am one, after all.  “The real trouble … the real trouble is that if I were to tell Lance the truth, there is the equal—or far greater chance, it seems to me—that he would
not
understand.  That he would discover that I am not at all who he thinks I am.”

And I would have to watch his expression change as he lost all the good opinion he has of me.

And with that loss … I cannot quite explain it, save that I feel as though
I
should lose something, too: the hope of ever actually becoming that version of Kitty Bennet, the one that I saw reflected in his eyes.

Mary said nothing to that.  For which I was grateful.

We were both quiet a moment.  Then Mary straightened her shoulders and said, “We ought not to despair.  Despair is a sin, so the Bible teaches us.”  She sounded far more like her usual self—but then she entirely spoiled the effect by adding, “Besides, these tangles always turn out happily in romantic novels.”

I stared at her all over again.  “You read romantic novels?”

A flush spread over Mary’s face beneath the splotchy remnants of her tears.  “Well, sometimes.  Late at night … in bed.” 

And I had thought nothing I learned about my sister could further surprise me.  I laughed, though I still felt oddly on the verge of crying.  “Then let us hope—for both our sakes—that this is a special three-volume edition with gilt-edged cover and engraved illustrations.”  I swallowed again, and added, “Thank you, Mary.  Truly.  For listening, and for … well, just thank you.  I am glad you know the whole truth.”

 Mary squeezed my hand.  “I am glad you told me.  But you are wrong about one thing, Kitty.”

I laughed, a little unsteadily.  “I am very sure that I am wrong about many things.  Which in particular did you mean?”

Mary smiled, but then sobered, giving me another direct look as she wiped her eyes again.  “You do deserve to be happy.”

I have—finally—extracted the truth of what occurred between Mary and Lord Henry at the musical gathering two days ago.  Or rather, more of the truth.  I knew yesterday from Mary’s behaviour that there had to be more to the story than Miranda had given me.  Though now that I have heard Mary’s account of the afternoon, I scarcely know
what
to think.

To begin at the beginning, though: Last night, after we had both blown out our candles and retired to bed, I broke the silence to say, “Mary?”

I could tell by her breathing that she was not yet asleep.

There was a rustle of blankets as Mary rolled over in her own bed to face me.  “Yes?”

I had been staring up at the ceiling and thinking the words for some little time; the darkness of the room and the silence of the house all around us made it easier to actually speak them.  “I am so sorry.  I ought to have told you before about my own … entanglement with Lord Henry.  If I had—”

“If you had, I would likely not have listened in any case.”  I heard Mary shift position again, and imagined her rolling onto her back to stare up at the ceiling, as well.  “Did you listen to Georgiana when she warned you away last year?”

“No.”

“Well, then.”  Mary was silent a moment, and then at last she said, “I have spent my whole life thinking of myself as having superior wisdom and judgement.  Believing that I would never behave rashly or allow myself to indulge in anything improper.  It is”—she let out another uneven breath—“it is quite disconcerting to realise that what I have actually been is a pompous prig.  And that I am in fact every bit as capable of being a fool as everyone else.  When I think of my past behaviour—”  There was another rustle, as though Mary had shaken her head against the pillows.  “Admit it, Kitty—you must have been sorely tempted to murder me on dozens of occasions.”

“Well, not dozens.  Perhaps a handful, I grant you—but no more.”

Mary laughed shakily at that, and I laughed, too.  But then I sobered and said, “I am sorry for everything that has happened in regard to Lord Carmichael.  And I do wish that I had confided in you sooner about what I knew of his true character—even if it would not have changed what occurred.  But it is … it is nice, Mary, to find you willing to admit that you are human like the rest of us after all.” 

“Is it?”

It truly was.  Six weeks ago, I could never have imagined lying awake and exchanging midnight confidences with Mary in this way.

Mary was silent again, and then she said, “I only wish that I knew exactly where I ought to go from this point on.  How to stop wishing to crawl under a rock and die when I recall all the idiotic mistakes I have made.  How to … I do not know … how to leave behind everything I have been before, pompous and foolish both, and somehow make myself into something
better
than before.”

It was my turn to exhale an unsteady half-laugh.  “I am not at all sure that I am the right person to be handing out advice on that account.  In fact, I am fairly sure that I am not.”

There was another pause, as though Mary were considering.  And then she said, “You
are
different, Kitty.  You have been, ever since you got back from Brussels this past summer.  Though of course that is not surprising, considering the terrible things you must have seen.  I know you have nightmares about it all, still.”

I was so startled that I nearly sat up in bed; I had not realised that Mary knew anything about my bad dreams.

Mary hesitated, then continued a little awkwardly, “I know you think perhaps that I could not understand, since I was not there.  But if you should ever wish to talk of it … well, I am here, that is all.”

“Thank you.”  I did
not
actually wish to speak of anything about Waterloo to Mary—any more than I had when Aunt Gardiner made the same offer.  Not because Mary would not understand—more because I did not wish to let all the blood-soaked memories of those days invade the night’s peace, and the unfamiliar comfort of speaking with Mary in this way.

I was touched that Mary had offered, though.

I cleared my throat and then said, “Mary?  Will you tell me what happened between you and Lord Henry?  He must have said something—
done
something more than just kiss you to have upset you so.”

Mary was silent so long that I thought perhaps she was going to refuse to answer—and I felt a qualm of fear, recalling Lord Henry’s behaviour with
me
at Vauxhall.  If he had hurt Mary, or tried to force himself on her—

But then Mary’s voice came out of the darkness, sounding as though she were speaking through gritted teeth.  “If I tell you, do you solemnly
promise
not to laugh?”

That did not sound as though she had been hurt, at least.  Puzzled, I said, “Of course.”

“I mean it, Kitty.  Swear that you won’t laugh at me.”

I was more bemused than ever.  “All right—I mean, I swear.  Now tell me what in the name of goodness happened?”  I could imagine Lord Henry offending Mary, even trying to do her harm—what I could
no
t imagine was what Lord Henry might have done to effect this particular response.

Mary exhaled hard.  “Very well.  Henry—Lord Henry—asked me to wait until everyone was watching the musicians playing, and then to slip away.  Someplace where we could be alone together, he said.  He—I had not seen very much of him, this last week or more.  So I was glad.  I thought perhaps—that perhaps I ought to reward his attentions by allowing him to kiss me.  Which I never had before,” she added in a prim voice—sounding very much more like the Mary I knew.  “We went into the library.  There was no one about, not even any of the servants.  We sat down on one of the window seats.  He put his arms around me, and … and …”  Mary’s voice sounded strangled.  “And it was absolutely
revolting
,” she exploded at last.  “He was awkward and clumsy and he got slobber all
over
my face, and his tongue …”  I imagined Mary’s shudder.  “How any other girls have ever permitted him to kiss them, I have no idea.  Or else kisses in general are greatly overrated by all the romantic novels.  Because if Lord Henry’s performance is anything to judge by, the whole practice is positively
disgusting
.” 

I started to speak, but Mary went on, the words tumbling out faster.  “And then—do you know what he had the effrontery to say to me afterwards?  After Miranda had caught us and then gone out again, I mean.”  I could just faintly see the dark outline of her sitting up in bed, almost quivering with indignation.  “He actually had the insufferable nerve to tell me that kissing me was like touching his lips to a dead fish.  As though kissing him were not like kissing a … a
sheep dog
!”

A part of me was struggling to keep my sworn oath that I would not laugh.  As dreadful as the whole scene sounded, I could understand why Mary had extracted that particular promise from me.  A part of me was also furious with Lord Henry—and thought that he deserved to have me carry out my threat to get in contact with his aunt in the guise of his estranged bride.

But in larger part … in larger part, I was more puzzled even than I had been before.  Mary’s story had awakened a whole host of memories—of evenings where
I
was the one whom Lord Henry persuaded into dark corners and kissed.

I said nothing to Mary.  There are limits to exactly how far I am willing to go with sisterly confidences, much as Mary’s and my relationship has changed and grown.  And besides, I did not wish to upset her any further.

But I— 

Very well.  There is no particularly discreet way to phrase this.  And besides, Susanna has just woken from her morning nap and is demanding—in loud, insistent baby babblings—that I pay attention to her instead of scribbling in my dull old journal.  The smear of ink at the top of the page is because she has just made a determined effort to grab my pen.

So I will dispense with all circumlocutions.

I daresay no one in the world—save perhaps Mary—has a lower opinion of Lord Henry Carmichael than I have.  There are an absolute multitude of uncomplimentary epithets that I could apply to him, based on our past acquaintance.  But even I do have to grant that ‘kisses like a sheep dog’ is most decidedly not one of them.

Oh Heavens—I have only a moment to write this; Saunders, Georgiana’s coachman, is outside, waiting to convey Mary and me to Darcy House. He arrived just a quarter of an hour ago, bearing Georgiana’s message.  Jane has—  It seems her baby is to be born today.  Only a few weeks early, now, but still—  I cannot help but be terribly afraid.

Please, please, let her and the child be all right.  Please do not let her die.

I feel … I feel rather as though I had been pounded all over with rocks and then squeezed through a laundry-wringer.  I am sitting up in bed and writing this.  I have the room to myself at the moment, since Mary is still at Darcy House.

I suppose I ought properly to begin where I left off yesterday evening.  Strange that not even a full day has passed since I wrote that last entry.  It feels a week later, but it is actually barely ten o’clock in the morning as I write this now.