We were talking as we worked—and I commented idly that it was very good of her to give her time to her brother’s charity endeavour.
Miss Dalton waved that aside. “I confess that at first it was merely an excuse to spend time with Lance.” She cast an affectionate look in her brother’s direction. Mr. Dalton was, at that moment, in his shirtsleeves, with his cuffs rolled up to the elbow, helping to hang up a garland of pine boughs above the door. “I do not see nearly as much of him as I would like.”
That startled me. I looked up in confusion and asked, “Does not your brother live with you?”
Miss Dalton looked conscious, as though she were afraid of saying more than she had intended. But then she sighed and shook her head. “No. He and our mother—” She stopped. “I suppose there is no harm in your knowing. Perhaps it is even better so—you will be forewarned in case the subject ever comes up with Lance.” She stopped and gave me a look I could not quite interpret. But then she went on, “Our mother— Percival was her favourite son.”
Miss Dalton paused again to cast another glance in her brother’s direction. “Do you know that horrid phrase ‘an heir and a spare’? I will not say that my parents quite went so far as to view Lance that way—as a mere spare son, to come into use only if something were to happen to Percival. But Percival was always the golden child. Our mother’s pride and joy. And when he—” Her voice trembled slightly, and she swallowed. “When he died, our mother—” She stopped again, seeming to choose her words with care. “Our mother was not herself. She … she seemed to blame Lance. Completely unjustly, of course. But it seemed a constant grief to her that Percival, her favourite, had been taken from her, but Lance yet lived. Lance determined … he determined that his presence in the house was only causing her more grief. So he moved into private lodgings. Not far from here; he wished to be as close as possible to his charity endeavours. And I stayed to care for my mother.” Miss Dalton’s lips twisted. “Though I do not seem to be making a particularly successful job of it. She still dresses entirely in black—she has even had all of her nightclothes dyed with black, and sleeps on black sheets—and refuses on most days to come out of her room.”
My eyes had widened at her story. Though not with disbelief. It is a myth that all parents love all their children equally. Some like Aunt Gardiner do. But growing up, I knew quite well that my mother’s favourites were Jane for her beauty and Lydia for her vivacious temper. And that my father’s favourite was Lizzy. Mary and I were the sisters whom our mother and father could have dispensed with very well and never missed terribly much.
I hesitated—but then reached out and touched Miss Dalton’s hand. “You must not blame yourself for that. Grief—” I thought back to those first few horrible weeks after John died. After I returned from Belgium and seemed to see the faces of all the fine, gallant young men I had watched die in agony, every time I closed my eyes.
I felt as though I were trapped a mile underwater, like a sunken ship. “I have thought that grief is one of those unfortunate parts of life that one cannot get around—one cannot get over it. One only gets through it. And one has to make one’s own way. Perhaps your mother only needs more time.”
Miss Dalton squeezed my hand and gave me a watery smile in return. “Thank you, Miss Bennet.” I had the impression she might have said more. But the first guests were beginning to arrive, and at that moment, I caught sight of Louisa Hurst and Miranda Pettigrew just entering through the door.
Miranda attached herself instantly to Mr. Dalton with affected cries of delight at meeting with him that reached me even from across the room.
And I ducked quickly into the completed gypsy’s tent before Mrs. Hurst could see and recognise me.
The interior of the tent was dim; the heavy layers of curtains that Miss Dalton and I had used ensured that. My wrists jangled with bracelets, and my fingers were stiff with rings. And I had draped myself with very nearly every scarf and shawl in Aunt Gardiner’s and my possession, winding one turban-style about my hair and then draping another one over that, so that my face would be completely in shadow. No one save for Miss Dalton, my aunt, and Georgiana—whose help I enlisted yesterday, after I dealt with Lord Henry—knew I had agreed to play the gypsy’s role; I had only to sit in the tent and wait for Mrs. Hurst to take her turn at having her fortune told.
But Mrs. Hurst did not take her turn. An hour or two passed; the tent grew increasingly stifling. I could hear the voices of the children and adult guests outside as they laughed and chattered and played at the other party games. And I began to feel as though I would scream if I had to make one single more promise—in my affectedly deep and mysterious gypsy’s voice—of love and happiness and good fortune. But Louisa Hurst still did not appear in my tent.
At last Georgiana—bless her—appeared in the tent opening and dropped into the chair we had placed opposite my little table. She smiled. “You must make a very convincing gypsy,” she said. “I have heard several guests talking of Madame Marianna’s wonderful predictions.”
I let the smothering shawl drop away from my head and used it to fan myself. “I would be a great deal more pleased to hear it if only Mrs. Hurst showed any signs of taking advantage of Madame Marianna’s gift of foretelling.”
“I know,” Georgiana said, sobering. “That is exactly why I came to speak with you. The fete is only supposed to last for another hour—and what if she never comes into the fortune telling tent at all? Do you think I ought to go and urge her to try it? I can say that you gave me the most amazing fortune while I was in here.”
I shook my head. “No. We cannot risk it.” Louisa Hurst may be petty and vain and selfish. But she is not a fool. The odds of our scheme succeeding were slight enough without giving her any reason to suspect Georgiana’s motives. Especially since Georgiana had her own vital part to play later. “No, we will think of something. Do you think you might tell everyone that Madame Marianna requires a slight rest to commune with her guiding spirits—or whatever it is that fortune tellers do?” I wiped my forehead. “I feel as though I shall melt if I have to stay in here much longer.”
“Of course,” Georgiana said. “Just let me know when you are ready to return.”
Gwenevere Dalton and I had constructed the tent so that it backed directly onto a small side door leading out of the large empty ward in which the fete was being held. It was easy enough for me to simply slip out from under the rear folds of the tent, and from there go through the door without being observed.
I had—most gratefully—abandoned the multitude of shawls, bracelets, and rings inside the tent, and I drew a breath of relief at the wash of cooler air in the hallway outside. It also occurred to me that it would be no bad thing for me to be observed—as Kitty Bennet—doing something that would give me a legitimate excuse for not having partaken of the fete’s festivities. I remembered that my aunt had spoken of parcels being made up for the children who were too ill to leave their beds; perhaps I could help with distributing those.
The hospital is not large; I quickly found the children’s ward—where an elderly, grey-haired nurse was already handing out the wrapped presents to the bedridden patients. She was happy enough, though, to allow me to help.
The children ranged in age from somewhere about five to twelve years of age. And they were so sweet, all of them, and so grateful—they tore open the parcels eagerly and marvelled over the contents.
All, that is, except for one small, freckle-faced boy at the far end of the ward. He looked to be about ten years old. And he must have been suffering from some condition of the spine, for he was lying propped up in a half-sitting position against some pillows with a complicated-looking brace of leather and metal rods strapped to his back. He could not sit fully up, nor easily move his arms. So I unpacked the box for him. And he lay and glowered at the warm mittens and knitted scarf and picture book Aunt Gardiner had given him.
“What good is all this lot?” he demanded. I will not even try to write the d
ialect, but he spoke with a sharply nasal cockney accent. He scowled at the hat and gloves. “I can’t go outside. I’m stuck in this bed all day. And what do I want with some sissy picture book?”
Aunt Gardiner’s choice of book was rather unfortunate—much as I love her. It was a book of illustrated stories about two children—Lucy and Francis—who learn all about politeness and good manners. Proper table manners, the proper way to greet their elders, how to behave in church … If it had been my gift, I probably would have scowled at it as well.
I said, “Well, what would you really like?”
The boy considered a moment and then said, flatly, “A sword.” There was a slightly challenging note to his voice and a lift to his chin—as though he were daring me to say that a sword was hardly of any more use to a crippled, bedridden boy than a hat and gloves.
I said, “Very well. A sword it is, then.” I have played pirates and knights so often with my cousins Thomas and Jack that I am—if I do say so—past master of the art of making swords from stiffened paper or scrap wood.
I had to improvise because of course there were not many suitable materials to be found in the children’s ward. But eventually—venturing into a small storeroom—I found some pieces of old packing crates that would do for blades. And I commandeered some rags—I suppose they were to be used as bandages—to wrap around the ends for the hilts. The crosspieces I made from rolled newspaper, tied round the blades.
I assembled the swords—I made two of them—while sitting beside the freckled boy’s bed, and he watched with growing interest. Though he tried to disguise it by maintaining the scowl. At last I finished them, and I handed one with a flourish to the boy, keeping one for myself. “There you are. One for me and one for you. Now, what is your name?”
The boy gripped the makeshift hilt—awkwardly, but I did not try to help or correct him. “Will,” he said. In a slightly less surly tone than before.
“Will?” I shook my head. “No, no. That will never do. That is not a proper pirate name at all. You had better be … let me see, Black-hearted William. And I will be Captain Kate. Now then, Black-hearted William.” I saluted his blade lightly with mine. “Let us see what you can do with this weapon. I warn you, I will not give over my ship to you without a bloodthirsty fight.”
Will’s mouth actually curved into a small smile at that. And then—with a look of fierce concentration—he raised his sword as far as he was able and struck my blade with his own. I pretended to reel backwards—
Well, I will not record all the details of our fight. But, so long as I was obliging enough to stay well within his range, Will managed remarkably well for a boy confined to bed and restricted by a brace on his back. The battle ended with my allowing myself to be stabbed to the heart and dying a gruesome death on the floor beside Will’s bed.
Will let out a laugh and a crow of triumph, and I sat up, laughing as well. And then a pair of clerical-black trousers moved into my field of view and brought me back to earth with a practically palpable thud.
Though at least this time I was not surprised by Mr. Dalton’s sudden appearance. I have practically come to expect him to appear like the genie from the bottle whenever I am behaving less than decorously.
Besides, I could not be sorry for the playacting. Not when I looked at Will’s face and saw it alight, still, with laughter. Mr. Dalton was smiling, too, as he offered me his hand to help me to my feet.
“Ah, my first mate—come to save his wounded captain,” I said as I accepted Mr. Dalton’s hand. I turned to Will, who was still grinning at me from his bed. I set my sword down, propped against his bedside. “You may have won this round,” I said, “but do not think by any means that this fight is over. I shall be back to reclaim my ship from you, Black-hearted William, never fear.”
We shook hands. And Mr. Dalton fell into step beside me as I walked back down the ward’s central aisle.
“Do you know,” he said, when we were out of earshot, “that is the first time I have seen young Will back there smile—much less laugh—since I have been coming here.”
I glanced back at Will’s bed. “Sick or healthy, I suspect all boys love to play at pirates and swords.” And then I lowered my voice and asked, “What is the matter with him? His back—was it an accident?”
Mr. Dalton shook his head. “No. He has a congenital palsy that has settled in his legs and spine. The physicians do not know the cause. Though it seems to be growing worse with time.”
“Is there no cure?”
“No. None, even if there were money to pay for his treatment—which his family certainly does not have.” Mr. Dalton’s smile had faded and his face was bleak as he glanced back at Will’s bed. “Will there is one of ten children. His family never comes to visit him any more. His mother has not been in these two months, at least.”
“That’s horrible!” I said. So violently that the nearby nurse looked round.
“Life is hard in these parts of the city.” Mr. Dalton’s voice was sober. “Will’s parents have already buried three of his younger siblings. One cannot entirely blame his mother for wishing to protect herself against further heartbreak by cutting Will off before she is forced to watch him waste slowly away.”
I looked back at Will’s bed again. All our sword battling must have tired him; his eyes were beginning to droop closed.
I could in fact blame his mother—or rather, a strong part of me wanted to. But then I had never found myself in her situation, with nine healthy children to support and one dying child.
I said, “Well, I shall come and see him again. I did just promise him a re-match, after all.” I glanced up at Mr. Dalton and added, “Though I warn you, I shall expect you to do more than just stand by and laugh at me next time. As my first mate, you had better be prepared to raise a sword as well.”
“I stand ready to defend my captain to the death,” Mr. Dalton said gravely. And then we both laughed.
It was at that moment that we were interrupted by the joint entrance of his sister and Miranda Pettigrew. Miranda—naturally—made straight for Mr. Dalton. Pausing only to direct an extremely unfriendly glance in my direction before she poutingly told him that he had absolutely promised to win her a prize in the game of horseshoes.
Miss Dalton—with what looked to me like patent relief—abandoned her brother to Miranda. Not that I could entirely blame her for that; after five minutes in Miranda’s company, I invariably start longing for escape, as well. Miss Dalton took my arm, drawing me further up the ward. Her dark eyes were wide and amazed. “Good Heaven,” she said in an undertone. “What on earth did you do to make Lance laugh like that? He has always been such a sober, serious-minded fellow. Even before—” Her voice caught slightly. “Even before Percy died.”
That surprised me. Mr. Dalton is often grave in his manner, I suppose. But he has never seemed overly so to me. Today was not the first time I had seen him moved into unguarded laughter, at any rate. There was the other night in Vauxhall Gardens, as well.
I stamped on that thought before it could take root, though, and glanced backwards. I could not hear what Mr. Dalton was saying in response to Miranda’s overtures. But he was smiling at her. I said, “I think you credit me over-much. I am sure Miss Pettigrew is far more skilled at drawing smiles from your brother than I am.”
Miss Dalton turned to follow the direction of my gaze. And then she snorted. “If my brother presents me with Miss Miranda Pettigrew for a sister-in-law, I shall cheerfully murder him with my bare hands. But he will not,” she added, her tone one of complete certainty. “He is kind to her—Lance is never anything but kind. But I know my brother, and he has absolutely no interest in girls of her type and never has. You certainly have no reason to fear her as a rival.”
I felt my jaw drop—even as the blood simultaneously spilled upwards into my cheeks. “Miss Dalton, I have not … that is, you are entirely mistaken about … I assure you that there is nothing whatever of that kind between your brother and me …
” I stammered.
Miss Dalton interrupted me, though. “Oh, please do call me Gwen—everyone does.” She looked over my shoulder towards her brother again. She shook her head and said, speaking half to herself, “I still cannot quite get over the shock of seeing him in a clergyman’s collar. If anyone had told me a year ago that Lance of all people would enter the church, I should have laughed. But he is a good man—even if I am the one to say so.”
A thousand questions crowded into my head—the first of which concerning Miss Dalton’s implication that her brother had not originally been intended for a career in the church.
But before I could gather wits enough to ask any of them, Gwen startled me completely by drawing me into a swift hug. “I do like you,” she whispered. “And if you can succeed in making my brother happy again—in persuading him that the entire weight of the world does not in fact rest on his shoulders—I promise that I shall love you forever.”
Later …
It is three o’clock in the morning. Again. This seems to have become my preferred time of day for writing in my diary. However, in the first place, I am not sleeping—again. And in the second place, I never did set down an account of my fortune-telling session with Mrs. Hurst—which was after all the entire purpose of my last entry.
To begin where I left off, before I could even stammer another response to Gwen’s words, she moved on to say, “But what I really came to tell you was this: your Mrs. Hurst has at last been persuaded by some of her friends that she must have her fortune told before the end of the fete. She is waiting—not especially patiently—for Madame Marianna’s return.”
That news (almost) wiped away all thoughts of Mr. Dalton. I felt a qualm of fear slither through me. If the scheme was to succeed at all—and at that moment it seemed wildly improbable that it should—everything depended on me. And what if I failed Jane? What if I could not play my part with enough assurance to convince Mrs. Hurst? What if she only laughed?
Kitty Bennet's Diary (Pride and Prejudice Chronicles) Page 14
