Well, actually what he said sounded more like: Mish Bennet, you’vegotter ‘elpme. Ferold timeshake, pleeesh. But trying to reproduce his drunken slurs in writing would be even worse than listening was.
I was afraid he would frighten Susanna, but she was evidently too absorbed with chewing on her pig to care over-much about Mark. The only small mercy in the situation. I shut my eyes in an effort not to look at Mr. Dalton.
I do not condemn Mark for drunkenness. I cannot. It is not just the pain of his war wounds—which must certainly be bad enough. He drinks to shut out the memories, all the lost voices of Waterloo that he carries in his head.
I understand; to be honest, I would be tempted to take to drink myself in an effort to forget. If forgetting did not seem even more wrong.
Still, it is one thing to deal with a drunken Mark myself, and another entirely to do so under Mr. Dalton’s gaze—imagining what sort of conclusions Mr. Dalton must be drawing about Mark and me.
Mark was looking as though he might cry. Also not unusual; he had apparently reached the maudlin state of inebriation, which follows the angry and blustering one. So I asked, “What is it, Mark?”
To be strictly proper, I should call him Captain Chamberlayne, of course. But one of the first times he came to see me, he was drunk enough to be violently sick all over my shoes. And when a man has cast up his accounts all over your best pair of nankeen boots, further formality seems absurd.
Mark drew himself up—or tried to—either the gin or his peg leg made him lurch and stumble again. “Just a few pounds, if you can manage it? Just enough to see me through to the end of the month.”
“Of course.” Holding baby Susanna on my hip, I crossed to the side table where I had laid down my reticule and fished out what money I had there. Only a few pounds; the rest of my allowances are deposited, at my uncle’s insistence, in the bank. “Here.”
Mark took the money. With his left hand—he left his right arm over in Brussels as well as his leg. As he pocketed my few banknotes, he looked as though he would cry all over again—in gratitude, this time. “Thank you, Miss Bennet. You are an angel—a true angel.” He sketched a drunken and weaving bow. “You know that I will repay you, as soon as it is in my power. On my honour, I promise you.”
I had a sudden memory of Mark, dressed up in one of my Aunt Phillips’s caps and gowns to play a prank on his fellow militia officers. That had been Lydia’s idea, but Mark had been an enthusiastic participant.
I blinked away the stinging in my eyes and said, “Try to use some of it to buy food this time. Promise me that?”
Mark blinked bleary, bloodshot eyes at me. “Of course, Miss Bennet. Of course I will. Directly I leave here.”
He will not, of course. All Mark’s money—any I give him, and the allowance he gets from his own family, besides—goes to paying for drink and gambling in various London gaming hells.
I was all at once furiously angry. Not with Mark, but with Mr. Dalton, for witnessing this—and doubtless being censorious and disapproving. And more than that, with myself, for being embarrassed at Mark’s appearance.
And even more than that, with the entire ugly, unfair world of politics and battles and war. For gulping in perfectly nice young men like Mark Chamberlayne, chewing them up, and then spitting them out like so much rubbish.
Mark abruptly swayed and pitched forward, his eyes beginning to cross themselves. He would have toppled into me—and thus Susanna—if Mr. Dalton had not been so quick. He caught Mark around the shoulders, holding him upright.
“Steady there.” Mr. Dalton did not look censorious or disapproving, I must grant him. Though perhaps a clergyman must learn to conceal such feelings. “I think we had better get you home—wherever that may be. Miss Bennet”—he looked up at me—“can you tell me his address?”
Before I could answer, Mark turned, fixing his bleary gaze on Mr. Dalton. “I don’t believe I’ve had the honour of making your acqu— acqua—” Mark gave up the effort to force his tongue into forming the word and finished: “Don’t think I know you, sir.” A frown of doubt crossed his face. “Or do I?”
I suppose I ought at that point to have stepped forward to introduce them. But I could not think of a way of saying, Mr. Dalton may I present to you Captain Mark Chamberlayne, that would not take the situation from the merely embarrassing to the grotesquely farcical.
Mr. Dalton shook his head. “We’ve never met. But I’d be delighted if you would do me the honour of walking with me a short distance. If I’m not mistaken, you have served in the army. You must have seen a great deal during your time on campaign. I wonder if you can tell me—”
I have no idea what Mr. Dalton asked. Something about the attitude of the Belgian peasantry towards the former Emperor, I think. But I was too busy being horrified to more than half register the words. If there was one thing Mark surely did not need at that moment, it was to be reminded of his time fighting on the Continent.
To my astonishment, however, Mark’s shoulders straightened, he sketched a brief bow, and then said—or slurred, rather—“I should be delighted to enlighten you, sir. You may have heard that they were all hale and hearty supporters of old Boney. But that’s not true. Not true at all.”
I caught at Mr. Dalton’s arm, dragging him around to face me. “What do you think you’re doing?” I hissed.
Mr. Dalton glanced back at Mark. Who appeared lost in rapt contemplation of the dust motes dancing in the rays of sun beaming through the parlour windows. An odd look of—what? weariness? or pain?—crossed Mr. Dalton’s face, and he said, his voice quiet, “I knew a … I knew someone else who had suffered through an experience similar to your friend’s here. Everyone was constantly telling him to forget, to put the past behind him. But I found, too late, that all he really wanted was to talk of it. And have someone truly listen.” He glanced at Mark again. “I can give him that at the same time I see him safely back to his place of lodging. If you can give me the address?”
Based on Mark’s response, he might well have been right. But for that moment, I was angry all over again. Angry at Mr. Dalton’s assumption of authority. And angry that he seemed on two minutes’ acquaintance to know more about how to help Mark than I did.
Neither of which sentiments, now that I am looking at them written down, reflects very creditably on me. This business of self-examination is positively exhausting at times.
At any rate, I said—
Well, if I am strictly honest, I more snapped the words than said them. “You need not trouble yourself. I am quite able to see Captain Chamberlayne back to his lodging house myself.”
“I would not dare to suggest otherwise, Miss Bennet.” A twist of a smile touched the corners of Mr. Dalton’s mouth, then faded as his gaze refocused on Mark. “But tomorrow morning, he will wake, sober, and remember this. And I think he would wish to be spared the added humiliation of having forced you to play his nursemaid as well as his money lender.”
There was still absolutely no censure or even judgement in Mr. Dalton’s voice or his gaze. Only that same brief shadow of weariness.
I looked at Mark. At his peg leg. The empty right sleeve pinned up below the stump of what remained of his arm. He has never shown it to me, but I know exactly what it must look like; I saw more amputations than I can even begin to count in the aftermath of the battle.
Mr. Dalton was right; Mark would wake and remember the details of his visit here. And I knew from past experience that he would be penitent and filled with self-loathing—and that that would drive him into drink all over again.
I gave Mr. Dalton Mark’s address, or at least the most recent one I knew of for him; for the past year, Mark has been descending through an increasingly squalid series of lodging houses in the East End. And Mr. Dalton took Mark’s arm and said, as though resuming their conversation, “Now that is most interesting, what you say. Most interesting indeed.”
Mark appeared to have forgotten, if not Mr. Dalton’s presence altogether,
at least the thread of what they had been saying. “I don’t believe I’ve had the honour of making your—” he started to say again.
Mr. Dalton clapped him on the shoulder and smiled. All trace of the look of pain, if pain it had been, was gone as though I had only imagined it. “Lance Dalton, at your service. And you are the man who is going to put me straight as to the attitudes of the Belgian peasantry.”
Mark still looked dazed, but he gave a dubious nod and Mr. Dalton bowed to me. “Miss Bennet, I wish you good day. And you as well, Miss Gardiner.” And then he sketched another bow at Susanna, who waved her chubby fist at him and gurgled.
Mr. Dalton smiled—a real smile, this time. It was only at that moment, when he took baby Susanna’s fist in his, that I realised how fully his earlier smile had been an assumed one—even if very convincing—put on for Mark’s sake.
He bowed over Susanna’s small hand and said, “And my apologies, Miss Gardiner, for having interrupted your private entertainment.” He did not look at me, but I could see the amusement still in his gaze. “I hope your Mr. Pig there enjoys his dinner appointment with his rather alarmingly Continental friend Duck.”
Tuesday 9 January 1816
There are only four days now until Georgiana’s party, so this morning I dragged Mary into the morning room, rolled back the carpets, and forced her to attend to a lesson in dancing.
Being Mary, she of course protested that she knew perfectly well how to dance, that she had no need of my assistance, that in fact she had found a book of instruction written by a French dancing master, and moreover had read the book in the original language, which was more than I could do …
I said—rather unkindly, I admit, but I was short on patience even before all her objections began—that unless she wanted to give an encore of her performance at Aunt Gardiner’s dinner party, she would be quiet and let me give her some practical instruction.
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 fl
atter 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.
Later …
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.”
Kitty Bennet's Diary (Pride and Prejudice Chronicles) Page 4
