Kitty Bennet's Diary (Pride and Prejudice Chronicles)

by Elliott, Anna

  “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.

  Thursday 11 January 1816

  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.

  I glanced questioningly at my aunt. I had given her both of Mr. Dalton’s messages—his regrets when he left her dinner party and his message about the boxes for the children’s hospital—but she had not mentioned anything of a tragedy in Mr. Dalton’s past.

  Aunt Gardiner’s lips compressed.

  My aunt was quite a beauty in her youth, and is very pretty, still, with softly curling dark hair and hazel eyes. At that moment, though, she looked less lovely than simply angry. She said to Mrs. Hurst, her voice short, “One could indeed describe it as a tragedy.”

  And then she turned to me, her expression softening slightly. “Lance’s mother was my second cousin. I’ve known him ever since he was a child. Lance and his brother and sister.” She stopped. “His older brother … his brother was a colonel in the army. Percival, his name was.”

  Percival. I registered the name and thought—inanely—that Lance in fact had not been joking about his mother’s fondness for Arthurian names. But mostly my throat had gone dry and my whole body tensed in anticipation of what Aunt Gardiner was about to say.

  “His regiment was at Waterloo. Percival survived. But he was wounded—badly wounded. And his nerves were … damaged, too.”

  Aunt Gardiner swallowed, and I saw a sheen of tears in her eyes. “He … he never recovered. He died. Just six months ago.”

  I had always thought it just romantic exaggeration when the authors of gothic romances speak of their heroines’ blood running hot or cold or coming out all over in gooseflesh at the villain’s words. But as Aunt Gardiner spoke, my whole body flashed first hot and then icy cold.

  It was—it must have been—Percival, his brother, of whom Mr. Dalton was speaking when he said that he had known someone in similar case to Ben. And I groused and snapped at him and tried my best to throw his offers to help back into his face.

  The conversation went on. According to my aunt, the children’s hospital is but one of Mr. Dalton’s many projects. Despite having been ordained, he has no actual parish living of his own, but instead has lived in London since his brother’s death and devotes himself to charity work among the poor of the East End.

  Of course he does. I might have known that in addition to having a tragically dead brother, he is also an absolute paragon of Christian charity and—

  I had to break off writing
just now, as my Aunt Gardiner knocked on the door of the room. She noticed I ate very little at dinner, and wanted to ask whether I was feeling well.

  She is very busy just now in packing for the older children, who are going to stay with their grandparents—Aunt Gardiner’s parents—in the country for the next month and a half, beginning tomorrow. And yet Aunt Gardiner still found time to worry over me and come to my room.

  I promised her that I was quite well, that I had not even the slightest hint of a fever or a sore throat. But instead of leaving, she studied me even more closely, touching my cheek as though I were one of her own children and peering intently into my eyes.

  “I hope that the conversation this morning did not upset you,” she said at last. “My speaking of Lance’s brother and the war, I mean.” She stopped, but when I said nothing in response, she went on, “I know that you must have experienced … that things must have been very bad in Brussels at the time of the battle. And your poor Captain Ayres was killed of course …” Her voice trailed away again, and then she sighed. I suspect the sigh was in response to the look on my face. “I am sorry, my dear. I do not mean to pry. I only meant to say that if you ever wish to speak of … of anything, I am here to listen.”

  As well as being lovely, Aunt Gardiner is so truly good and kind. I shut my eyes. Wishing for a disloyal moment that I could have grown up with her for a mother.

  I shook my head, though, and said, “Thank you, Aunt. Truly. But I am quite well … that is, I will be quite well.” My throat tightened, making the last words wobble. I said, “What I mean to say is that I do not think that speaking of it would do anything to help.”

  Aunt Gardiner studied me another moment, but to my relief, she said nothing more—only kissed my forehead and said, “Goodnight, my dear.”

  Looking back to where I left off before my aunt came in, I suppose I ought to finish the account of Mrs. Hurst and Miranda’s visit.

  Miranda continued to chatter at me all through the rest of the time they stayed—though this time I could not manage to block it out as I had done before. And short of clapping my hands over my ears or resorting to my store of bad language, I could not think of a way of stopping her, either.

  Apparently she has determined that she is going to marry Mr. Dalton, and has plans—chiefly involving new ball gowns and extravagant dinner parties put on by Mrs. Hurst—to make him propose by the New Year.

  The worst was that I could recall a time when I thought that way myself; I have hideously clear memories of chattering in exactly that fashion to Georgiana last year.

  My patience did finally reach a breaking point. I said, “And how will you like being a clergyman’s wife?”

  Of course, I might have known all attempts at sarcasm would be lost on Miranda. She only giggled and tossed her blonde ringlets and said, “Oh, la! I mean to make him give up that nonsense about the church, of course, directly we are engaged. He has his own income, you know. And it is not as though he has his own parish yet, either. I am certain that I can persuade him to take up some more fashionable profession. Such as the army, perhaps.” She giggled again as she leaned forward, putting her plump hand over mine. “Do you not think he would look excessively handsome in a soldier’s coat of red?”

  Saturday 13 January 1816

  I am writing this curled up on Aunt Gardiner’s drawing room sofa. The mantel clock has just struck five in the morning. I only just returned home—and I am so tired that my eyes feel gritty. But I do not think I could sleep, even so. And I did not want to risk waking Mary by lighting the bedside candle in our room.

  Tonight was Georgiana’s Ball.

  Poor Aunt Gardiner was too tired to attend after spending another night with a teething Susanna, and Uncle Gardiner chose to stay home with her. But they gave Mary and me the use of the carriage so that we might go; since it was a ball given by our sister-in-law, they were not particular about chaperones.

  Madame LeFarge had made a special effort and had Mary’s new rose silk dress finished and delivered this morning. It is lovely. I helped Mary to dress. And I did her hair for her, plaiting strands of pearls into it this time.

  Which left me once again with very little time to dress myself, though it scarcely mattered. I chose my white satin with the silver embroidery, and matching silver slippers. I coiled my hair into a loose knot at the nape of my neck.

  And wished all the time I was dressing that I might suddenly come down with an actual touch of bubonic plague. Or that my conscience would at least allow me to feign illness for the night.

  I like Georgiana. I do. It is just that she is so excessively perfect in every regard. Pretty. Gentle. Well-mannered. Sensible. She is almost my own age exactly and, despite her natural shyness, is now mistress of Darcy House, hosting grand affairs like tonight’s ball.

  She also knows far too much about me—such as the reason my engagement to John was broken off. And she was with me last summer in Brussels, during the battle at Waterloo, which means that I cannot see her without inevitably remembering those days in every horrible detail.

  At any rate, since I could neither feign nor manufacture genuine illness, Mary and I arrived at Darcy House with a throng of other people and were ushered inside by a pair of footmen in powdered wigs and elegant liveries.

  Mary clutched my hand, looking—for her—quite nervous and awed by all the splendour. “Goodness, Kitty,” she whispered. And then said nothing more.

  My Aunt and Uncle Gardiner are comfortably well-to-do, and despite the entail on my father’s estate, my parents are by no means poor. Certainly not when compared, say, to the beggars I see freezing on street corners around the city.

  But like all of Mr. Darcy’s family, Georgiana and her husband Edward—who is the younger son of an earl—simply live in a different world entirely from ours.

  Darcy House is located in the very exclusive Grosvenor Square, built of elegant stone and pillared stucco, and is four storeys tall. The interior is just as elegant and palatial without being in the least ostentatious or overly-lavish. The entrance hall leads into a high-ceilinged saloon with marble fireplaces and a Roman-style frieze around the edge of the ceiling. And the ballroom at the back of the house is vast—large enough for a party of five hundred.

  Tonight the room was decorated with hothouse orchids and trailing fronds of ivy, and hundreds of candles blazed in the chandeliers. A quartet of musicians played in a raised alcove at the head of the room.

  Georgiana was near the door, and she came to greet us as we entered.

  Georgiana has her brother’s dark hair and eyes, but in her the aristocratic Darcy features are softened into refined delicacy. Tonight she was wearing a peach-coloured silk gown with a beaded overdress and a diamond bandeau in her hair.

  Her husband Edward is lean and darkly good-looking, with broad shoulders and a soldier’s stance. He was standing nearby—ostensibly talking to some other gentlemen—as Georgiana embraced us. But I could see he was only barely attending to what they said. He could scarcely take his eyes off his wife.

  “Kitty—and Mary.” Georgiana kissed both of our cheeks—though I saw her own cheeks colour slightly under her husband’s obviously adoring regard. “I am so glad you could come. And how is Mrs. Gardiner?”

  I let Mary answer. And when a gentleman we are slightly acquainted with—Mr. Malcolm Fredericks, the son of one of our father’s boyhood friends—came over and asked me to dance, I for once agreed and made my escape.

  Mr. Fredericks is scarcely my idea of a romantic suitor—even if I had been looking for one. He is tall and loose-jointed with a hook nose and very large ears that stick out from his head at nearly right angles. None of which of course is the poor man’s fault. But he also can talk of absolutely nothing but hunting.

  Literally nothing. All the while we were dancing, he told me in exhaustive detail exactly how many grouse he succeeded in shooting this past November, how many rabbits and hare and pheasants, and what guns he had used to shoot them all
with.

  At one point during our dance he said to me—in a daring flight of poetic fancy; and no, I promise I am not fabricating one single part of this account—”Do you know, Miss Bennet, I believe your eyes are the exact colour of those of the stag I shot on my estate in Hampshire last year? A very handsome creature. I had his antlers preserved and mounted on my wall.”

  I suppose it served me right for breaking my self-imposed rule against dancing.

  Then, as Mr. Fredericks and I danced our way down the line, I suddenly caught sight of Jane.

  I had not seen my eldest sister yet that night, though I had looked for her among the crowds. When I spotted her at last from the dance floor, she was sitting down on a gold-brocade upholstered chaise in the corner of the room, looking frighteningly pale, her eyes closed and her hands clasped over her middle.

  I cut Mr. Fredericks off in the middle of another description of some small animal’s gory demise with a murmured excuse and crossed swiftly to her.

  “Jane!” I sat down on the bench beside her and touched her hand. “Are you ill? Is something wrong?”

  Jane opened her eyes and looked at me, blinking. Her gaze was unfocused, and it seemed to take her a half-second to recognise me. “Oh—Kitty. Yes—I mean, no, nothing is wrong. It is just—” She stopped and gasped sharply, bending forward over the swollen curve of her abdomen and breathing hard. “It is just that I seem to be having a stray pain or two. It happens, as the … as the time of confinement draws near. There is no cause for alarm.”

  I did not believe her. Jane never wishes to cause a fuss. But she spoke between pauses for breath, and her face was still ashy-pale and sticky with perspiration. The hand I held felt cold and clammy.

  “Regardless,” I said, “You ought not to be here. Come, let me help you to your room. Can you stand, do you think? Walk, with my help?”