Kitty Bennet's Diary (Pride and Prejudice Chronicles) (6 page)

Mary did quite well, really.  In that she only tripped over her own feet twice.  And only interrupted me seven or eight times to say that she was sure I was teaching her the steps all wrong, and that she thought I ought to at least study a textbook or two before I could be declared competent to instruct anyone in the figures of the quadrille.

I was taking a short rest—to count slowly and silently to fifty so that I might with any luck avoid strangling my sister—when the morning room door opened.  It was Rose—for once and of course when it did not matter in the least—actually remembering her duty of announcing callers.

She said, “Mrs. Bingley to see you, Miss Bennet and Miss Kitty.”

And Jane came into the room afterwards.

I would have been glad of any interruption just then—I might even have welcomed Mr. Dalton.  But I really was glad to see Jane.  It is not quite so hard to face her as it is Lizzy.  And I have not seen her in months.

Jane hugged me tightly.  And then turned to kiss Mary’s cheek.  Mary does not do anything so undignified as embrace anyone, even a sister.

When all our greetings and exclamations of surprise had been exchanged, I said, “It is wonderful to see you.  But what on earth are you doing travelling in your condition, Jane?  I thought you would stay in Derbyshire until the baby’s birth.”

Jane and Charles have an estate not too far from Lizzy and Mr. Darcy’s place at Pemberley.  And they seldom venture from it to London, since neither of them is especially fond of city life and society.

Mary gave me a censorious look—because of course it is not considered delicate to refer to the imminent birth of a child.

That particular rule has always struck me as rather silly, really.  It is not as though anyone could not tell merely by looking at Jane that she is to be confined within the next two months—her stomach is a huge round ball beneath the high waist of her pelisse and travelling gown.

Jane moved her shoulders slightly.  “I wanted a change of scene, and there was no danger in travelling.  The baby is not due to arrive until February.”

I looked at Jane, surprised.  Jane really is the loveliest of all of us—even still, with the birth of the child so near.  She has curling golden-blonde hair and wide, long-lashed blue eyes and creamy porcelain skin.  And moreover it is quite impossible to hate her for it, because she is unfailingly sweet and good and kind.  Not the false kind of sweetness common in society, either.  With Jane, nothing is ever an act; she genuinely
is
nice, right down to her very core.

Which means that Jane never tells lies, or gets impatient or out of temper, or snaps at anyone.  Not even Mary—or me, for that matter.

Today, though, when I looked at her more closely I saw that there were slight purple shadows under her eyes, and a tightness about the line of her mouth.  It was more than that, though.  There was something in her voice … a hard edge that was completely unlike Jane’s usual speaking tones.

“And Charles did not object?” I asked.

Charles Bingley is Jane’s perfect match; he is as good-tempered and agreeable as Jane herself is.  And despite being both rich and handsome, he is very modest, as well.  When I have seen him and Jane together, he looks … wondering.  As though he still cannot get over the miracle of having won Jane for his wife.

Jane shrugged again, not quite meeting my eyes.  And when she spoke, the tightness in her voice was more pronounced.  “Charles did not accompany me.  I came alone.  Or rather, just Amelia and I.”

I was more surprised than ever.  And troubled, as well.  But I said, “And we are being abominably rude by keeping you standing.  Here.  Sit down.”  I led Jane to a side chair.  “And have you seen Aunt Gardiner yet?  She must be somewhere about.”

Jane sank down into the chair with a little sigh of weariness, resting her hand lightly on the swelling of the unborn child.  She shook her head.  “No, I have not yet seen our aunt.  But I cannot stay long today.  I left Amelia napping.  She’ll be awake soon, and fretful if I am not there.”

“Where are you staying?” I asked.

“With Georgiana and Edward at Darcy House,”  Jane said.

Darcy House of course is Mr. Darcy’s London property, but he gives it over to his sister Georgiana and her husband Edward Fitzwilliam whenever they have need to be in town.  It is where the party this weekend will be held.

Jane asked how Mary and I were after that, and kept the conversation focused on Mary’s and my affairs for the rest of her visit.

Mary—naturally—offered to give Jane a demonstration of the dance steps she and I had been practising, which at least spared me the necessity of answering Jane’s questions about myself.

By some miracle, Mary must have absorbed some of my instructions after all, because she managed to get the whole way through an entire quadrille without tripping or losing the tempo.

Jane, sounding much more like her usual self, applauded and said that Mary had performed splendidly and would undoubtedly be a tremendous success at her next social engagement.

“I will look forward very much to seeing you dance again, Mary.”  Jane smiled.  “Since at the moment I am barred from the entertainment myself, I will take my pleasure through watching you.”

Jane meant it quite sincerely, too.  That is what Jane is like.

She rose to take her leave soon after—telling us that we must call on her soon, and saying that she would of course see us at Saturday’s ball.  The air of tension or strain was nearly gone from her tone as she kissed us both and departed.

But I felt a prick of something like uneasiness or worry, still.

Usually it is no good trying to speak with Mary about such things, but there was no one else for me to talk to.  So I said, as the door closed behind Jane, “I hope nothing is amiss between her and Charles.  It is strange that she should have come to London alone.”

Mary made a slight, dismissive gesture.  “It is most unwise of her to travel.  Everything I have read indicates that very great harm may be done to the child by excessive activity.”  And then she picked up the written list I had given her of dancing steps: rigadon, fleuret, and so on.  “Shall we try it again?  I flatter myself that I was making significant progress when we were obliged to leave off.”

I cannot imagine why I was surprised.  Mary, generally speaking, has no concern whatever for anyone’s affairs but her own.

Or perhaps that is not quite fair.  Rather, she is supremely confident that no one
would
get into difficulties if only they could be more like she is herself.  And therefore in her view, there is no use in worrying over others—not when their troubles are so clearly of their own making.

However, unlike Jane, I do occasionally lose my temper.  Well, if I am continuing to be honest in this journal, I suppose it is more than just occasionally.

I snapped, “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Mary, Jane is your sister as well as mine.  Haven’t you any thought to spare for
why
she should have been willing to take the risk of travelling with the baby’s birth so near?”

Mary looked quite surprised—at least briefly.  But then she frowned and said, “In my opinion, speculation is uniquely unprofitable.  If you truly want to know the reasons for Jane’s behaviour, you ought simply to ask Jane herself to elucidate.”

I gave up.  Attempting to argue with someone who actually uses the word ‘elucidate’ in casual conversation is clearly futile.

I would not have believed it possible—but a second miracle occurred this afternoon in regards to Mary.  I was playing at spillikins with the children in the nursery, when Mary came in and asked whether she might speak with me.  I was surprised, but I said of course—and picked up Susanna so that she would not disturb the pile of jackstraws while her older brothers and sisters kept playing without me.

Mary has in fact been leaving off her glasses these last few days.  Her eyes look quite different without them.  Actually, her whole face looks different—less priggish and solemn.  This afternoon as I walked with her over to the nursery window seat and sat down, she looked … pensive rather than prim or self-righteous, a furrow of thought between her brows.

“I have been thinking,” Mary said, “about your remarks earlier today.  You implied that I was lacking in proper sisterly affection because I was not more concerned about Jane and her reasons for coming to London.”

“Well—”  I stopped, uncertain of how to reply.  It seemed unkind to say that, yes, absolutely, I thought her behaviour smug, sanctimonious, and entirely self-absorbed.

As it happened, though, I did not need to say anything, because Mary went on.  “I have come to the conclusion that you were correct,” she said.

Which was miraculous enough in itself, but Mary did not stop there.  She said, “The poet Donne teaches us that, ‘No man is an island, entire of itself.’  I have been remiss in neglecting the truth of that useful lesson.  I ought to be more concerned about Jane.  Do you think I ought to write to her—or perhaps call—and ask whether she and Charles have quarrelled?  The poet Donne also has some very instructive remarks on the perfect harmony that ought to exist between a husband and wife.  Perhaps I could copy some of them out for Jane.  I could even send them to Charles, as well.”  Mary looked thoughtful.  “Since he is, after all, our brother now that he is wedded to Jane, it would be perfectly proper for us to correspond.”

“No!”  I spoke so sharply that Susanna startled in my lap and I had to pat her back to quiet her.  “That is, I believe it would be of much greater service to Jane if you—”  I wracked my brains, trying to think of some way to prevent Mary’s sending pages of John Donne’s thoughts on marital bliss to Jane’s husband.  “If you were to offer to take little Amelia out for walks in the park and that sort of thing,” I finished.  “I’m sure Jane must be finding it very wearying to care for Amelia in her condition.”

Mary did not look entirely convinced, but she did agree that she would offer her services to Jane.

It is nearly nine o’clock at night now.  I have been waiting all day for word from either Mark or Mr. Dalton as to whether they reached Mark’s lodging house safely yesterday, but I have heard nothing.  At least Mark has not come back asking for more money; I suppose I may take that for a good sign.

Mrs. Hurst called on my Aunt Gardiner today.

I must admit it amuses me, rather, that my brother-in-law Charles’s sister now courts my Aunt Gardiner’s acquaintance to such a degree.  When Charles first fell in love with Jane, Mrs. Hurst did her level best to prevent his marrying her.

She despised our family—despised my Aunt and Uncle Gardiner in particular for my uncle’s connection to anything so vulgar as a trade, and turned up her nose at his residence in Cheapside.

However, that was before my sister Elizabeth’s marriage introduced my Aunt and Uncle Gardiner to a whole host of the cream of London society.   My aunt was an unqualified success—not all of the
ton
being as empty-headed and vicious as Mrs. Hurst and her set.

Now Mrs. Hurst calls on my aunt regularly in an effort to finagle invitations to the grand parties to which my aunt and uncle are invited.

And I suppose I must qualify that it would amuse me a good deal
more
if it did not mean that Mrs. Hurst’s company is inflicted on us at least once a week.

Mrs. Hurst is tall and rather stout—though she does her best to rein in her figure with corsets that push her bosom up into an absolutely astonishing shelf.  She has reddish-brown hair that is fashionably cut short and frames her face.  Her eyes are green and slightly prominent and always remind me of those of a fish.

Though perhaps my perception is skewed by the fact that every time she sees me, Mrs. Hurst informs me in her high, affected voice that I am “letting myself go shockingly” by not taking more care with my dress and appearance; that eighteen is “halfway to being entirely on the shelf”; and that I shall never catch a husband if I do not make more of an effort.  As though husbands were strange, wild creatures to be hunted down and scooped up in a net like butterflies or pollywogs.

The last time Mrs. Hurst said that to me, I told her that if I had caught myself a husband like
hers
, I would certainly throw him back into his native habitat at once.

I am afraid I have not even managed to work up anything in the way of penitence for being so rude, either, since it has so far stopped Mrs. Hurst from speaking to me directly again.

At any rate, when she called at the house today, she was accompanied by Miranda Pettigrew, who seated herself beside me and started to chatter of balls and plays and all the young men with whom she had danced.  My Aunt Gardiner and I were alone; Mary had—most inconveniently—actually taken my advice and gone to see Jane.

At least I discovered that I need not listen to anything Miranda said; she scarcely even paused to take a breath, much less to allow me to speak.  I was scowling at my embroidery—another of my self-imposed penances has been forcing myself to learn to sew—when suddenly a fragment of one sentence caught my ear.

“Poor, poor Mr. Dalton,” Miranda had said.

My hands jerked and I accidentally rammed the needle into my thumb.  Biting back a word that would no doubt have made Mrs. Hurst faint with shock.  Whatever else one may say about the aftermath of battle, one picks up any number of interesting invectives from wounded soldiers, such that I now have an entire lifetime’s supply of bad words to draw on.

“Do you mean Mr. Lancelot Dalton?” I asked.  “Why do you call him ‘poor’?”

Miranda gave me look of peevish annoyance, which meant that I had probably just given away the fact that I had been utterly inattentive of anything she had been saying.  But Mrs. Hurst heard me and answered for her, momentarily forgetting that she is not speaking to me.  “Oh, yes, indeed.  It is such a sad story.  Truly tragic.”

“
Tragic
,” Miranda echoed.  “It is no wonder he is always so solemn and grave, when one thinks of what he has had to endure—”  She fished in her reticule for a lace-edged handkerchief and used it to dab carefully at her (completely dry) eyes.