Pemberley to Waterloo: Georgiana Darcy's Diary, Volume 2
Page 23
She cannot. At least, she cannot dance well. I remember her having dance lessons when we were young, with all the rest of us. And I can't recall that she was so especially unskilled then. But I suppose it has been years since she had the opportunity to practice. And I am not sure that she has ever danced in company with a young man.
Not that it was her fault entirely. Once he was on the dance floor, I could understand Mr. Callahan's reluctance. He is, quite possibly, the worst dancer I have ever seen. He tripped and stumbled and stepped on the other dancers' feet--and could not to save his own life keep to the beat of the music.
I could only see them out of the corner of my eye, since I was playing. But the combination of him and Mary together was like something from a Punch and Judy show. They reeled around, crashing into the other couples in the line. And then Mr. Callahan stepped on the hem of Mary's gown as she turned to move away from him during the allemande.
There was a rending sound of tearing fabric. And Mary lost her balance and was yanked backwards off her feet, her arms flailing wildly. She landed flat on her back in the centre of the dance floor.
There was a moment of absolute silence when the entire room seemed to stare at her, collectively uncertain of what to do or say. And then Mary scrambled ungracefully up and bolted from the room, her hands covering her face.
I got up from the piano and ran after her. Mr. Callahan was standing where Mary had left him, looking acutely horrified and miserable, as well. But I was much less concerned with him than with Mary. It was entirely my fault that she had attempted dancing tonight at all.
I should have expected her to run upstairs to our room. But I suppose she was not thinking clearly and simply chose the nearest bolt-hole. Which happened to be the downstairs cloakroom at the foot of the stairs.
As I came out of the drawing room and into the hall, I saw the door bang behind her, and heard the key turn in the lock.
"Mary?" I knocked on the door. But there was no response. Nothing but the sound of a muffled sob from inside. I felt truly dreadful, then. That's twice in three days that Mary-the-Complacent has been reduced to tears.
"Mary, please come out." I knocked again. "Everyone knows it was just an accident. No one will laugh at you. Besides, it was my fault. I ought to have made sure that you weren't a complete disaster on the dance floor before I sent you out there tonight."
In hindsight, it was not the most tactful way I could have phrased it. I didn't mean to say it--I was just feeling both guilty and irritated at the same time, and it simply slipped out.
Renewed sobs sounded from behind the locked cloakroom door. But Mary didn't answer or show any signs of being willing to come out.
I tried several more times. Without any better results. And then finally I gave up, leaning against the panel, uncertain of what to do. Clearly I was making no headway with trying to apologise or reason with Mary. And yet I didn't feel, either, as though I could simply go and rejoin the party and leave my sister weeping in a cloakroom.
I was debating whether to try knocking again, when I felt a touch on my elbow and turned to find a young man standing beside me. A very handsome young man--really, one of the most handsome men I have ever seen, with wheat-blond hair combed very straight back from his brow, a lean, chiselled face and eyes of a deep, piercing shade of blue.
He cleared his throat. "Miss Bennett, I wonder if you would--"
However handsome he was, at sight of him my temper abruptly snapped. I had been refusing offers from young men like him all night--and for weeks before this. Scores and scores of handsome young men incapable of getting it through their thick skulls the definition of the words 'no thank you.' And now this young man had followed me out here to pester me while I was already feeling wretched about Mary.
I cut him off. "No. I would not care to dance. I would not care to have you turn pages for me at the piano. I would not like to step outside with you to see the moonrise." I looked him up and down. "As you are no doubt already aware, sir, you have very pretty blue eyes. But go and turn your lovelorn attentions on some other girl than me, because there is no invitation you could issue, no request you could make that could lead me to say yes. Do you understand?"
The man took a step backwards at the vehemence of my tone. And then he said, one eyebrow raised, "Not even if I requested you to convey my regrets to your Aunt that I must leave at once? I am called away to attend a parishioner, who is gravely ill."
He held up a scrap of folded paper in one hand--the message, presumably. And I noticed what I had overlooked before: that above his black evening jacket, he wore the white collar of a clergyman.
His mouth quirked up at one corner. "Though I am, of course, deeply sensible of the compliment about my eyes."
It was, I suppose, proof of whatever that quotation is about the mills of God and divine justice and all that sort of thing. It was my fault that Mary had been so mortified. And now the celestial mills had obligingly provided me with an opportunity to feel toe-curlingly embarrassed, as well.
There was a silence during which I silently prayed--of course without result--that God would be obliging enough to let me sink down through the floor and vanish from sight.
And then finally the man cleared his throat and said, "I don't believe we have been formally introduced. My name is Lancelot Dalton."
I heard myself say, "Good heavens, Lancelot? Surely not."
Mr. Dalton's eyebrows lifted again. And I felt my toes re-curling themselves.
You would think, wouldn't you, that I would by now have managed to govern the habit of speaking without pause for thought. It just seemed too much, that a man could look quite so much like the illustration of the prince in a book of fairy tales--and have a name like Lancelot, besides.
Mr. Dalton said, gravely, "My mother had an unfortunate fondness for the old medieval romances. At least I never had a brother for her to name Gallahad. Though I do have a sister called Gwenevere."
I looked at him, uncertain of whether he was serious or joking. And then I recollected myself enough to offer him my hand and say, "And I am Kitty--Catherine Bennett."
Mr. Dalton took my hand and said that it was a pleasure to meet me. Which proves that even clergymen must occasionally tell lies.
And then he said, "If you wouldn't mind conveying my message to your aunt? My parishioner was in dire straights when I left this evening to come here. And I'm afraid this message means that she must have taken a turn for the worse. I left your aunt's address so that I might be summoned if there was any change."
I said that of course I would give Aunt Gardiner his regrets, and he thanked me, bowed, and left. Luckily before I could manage to insult him again.
I looked at the cloakroom door, but Mary was silent. No more muffled sobs. If I knew her, she was probably pressed with her ear to the keyhole, delighting in every embarrassing detail of my exchange with Mr. Dalton. Though I decided that after the debacle of her dancing, I needn't begrudge her that much, and went to find my aunt.
Aunt Gardiner made a soft sound of distress when I delivered Mr. Dalton's message. "Oh, I am sorry. But not surprised that Lance should have gone to whoever it is who is ill. He is the most conscientious and selfless young man I have ever met."
"Of course he is," I muttered.
Aunt Gardiner looked faintly surprised by my tone. But she said, "Yes, indeed. It is such a shame, really. Lance is the son of my dearest school friend, Harriet Winters. But she and her husband Mr. Dalton--Lance's father--died when Lance was just sixteen, and Lance and his sister were left almost penniless. Lance has taken holy orders. But he has neither money nor connections to find a position as vicar of a parish of his own. He has been doing charity work in the East End while he looks for a benefice somewhere. I suppose it must be one of his charity cases who needed him tonight."
Really, it only needed that. The man whom I accused of being a lovelorn swain is actually a clergyman who is not only a paragon of every virtue, but is also selflessly dedicat
ing his life to ministering to the London poor.
When I consider what Mr. Dalton must think of me--
Actually, I don't know why I should still care what Mr. Dalton thinks of me. It's not as though I am ever likely to see him again. Certainly not if I consult my own wishes in the matter.
Thank you for previewing Kitty Bennet's Diary.
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Credits
The cover of Pemberley to Waterloo incorporates a portrait of Rosamund Hester Elizabeth Croker painted in 1827 by Thomas Lawrence and the Duchess of Richmond's Ball painted in 1868 by Henry O'Neil as well as a letter in Jane Austen's own hand. The title font is Exmouth from PrimaFont Software.
Pia Frauss's excellent Jane Austen font is used for Georgiana's signature at the end. Although the font has been licensed for this ebook, Austen fans may be interested to know that Pia Frauss's fonts are free for private, non-commercial use. See the conditions of use at her website.
Anna Elliott can be contacted at ae@annaelliottbooks.com. She would love to hear your comments. Thank you for reading!
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Product Description
Author's Note
Wednesday 21 June 1815
Book I
Sunday 18 December 1814
Monday 19 December 1814
Tuesday 20 December 1814
Wednesday 21 December 1814
Thursday 22 December 1814
Friday 23 December 1814
Saturday 24 December 1814
Pemberley Woods (illus.)
Sunday 25 December 1814
Claddaugh Ring (illus.)
Monday 26 December 1814
Friday 30 December 1814
Saturday 31 December 1814
Sunday 1 January 1815
Thursday 5 January 1815
Friday 6 January 1815
Sunday 8 January 1815
Tuesday 10 January 1815
Thursday 12 January 1815
Friday 13 January 1815
Tuesday 14 February 1815
Saturday 18 February 1815
Monday 27 February 1815
Tuesday 7 March 1815
Elizabeth and Baby (illus.)
Wednesday 15 March 1815
Thursday 6 April 1815
Edward with his Horse (illus.)
Monday 17 April 1815
Monday 1 May 1815
Monday 15 May 1815
Saturday 10 June 1815
Sunday 11 June 1815
Monday 12 June 1815
Packet Ship (illus.)
Tuesday 13 June 1815
Thursday 15 June 1815
Friday 16 June 1815
Saturday 17 June 1815
Sunday 18 June 1815
Monday 19 June 1815
Tuesday 20 June 1815
Book II
Thursday 22 June 1815
Friday 23 June 1815
Sunday 25 June 1815
Tuesday 27 June 1815
Saturday 1 July 1815
Sunday 2 July 1815
Monday 3 July, 1815
Tuesday 4 July 1815
Wednesday 5 July 1815
Thursday 6 July 1815
Saturday 8 July 1815
Epilogue
Georgiana and Edward (illus.)
Preview of Kitty Bennet's Diary
Wednesday 20 December 1815
Tuesday 2 January 1815
Wednesday 3 January 1815
Thursday 4 January 1816
Credits