Kitty Bennet's Diary (Pride and Prejudice Chronicles)

by Elliott, Anna

  Up until that moment, I had been so entirely focused on taking care of his injury that I had forgotten to feel conscious. But as he spoke, I realised abruptly that he was sitting before me with his upper body completely bare—and that I had put my arms round his waist in the act of securing the bandage.

  I was suddenly and very thoroughly aware of the heat of his skin, the hard ridges of muscle under my fingers, the beating pulse I could see at the base of his throat. The stir of his breath against my hair.

  I swallowed and said, in as practical a manner as I could manage, “I am not leaving you yet, if that is what you are suggesting.”

  I may have managed to fall hopelessly in love with him. But I could at the least avoid behaving like a blushing, stammering schoolgirl in his presence.

  Lance shook his head. I could see that the mixture of laudanum and brandy was beginning to take effect; his blue eyes were growing slightly unfocused. “It’s scarcely fair to you—”

  I interrupted him. “Someone was recently telling me that I ought to occasionally consider my own needs first.” I pretended to consider. “Now, I wonder who that can have been—and whether he ought not to take his own advice. You ought to have someone to sit with you—to make sure the wound does not open and begin bleeding again, if nothing else. Now, come along—I suppose that is your bedchamber, through that door?”

  I nodded towards the doorway at the back of the room.

  Lance exhaled an exasperated sound that was part laugh, part grunt of pain. But he allowed me to help him to his feet, and together we made our staggering way into the bedroom. Lance more or less collapsed onto the narrow bed, dragging me down with him. Which made me conscious all over again of the intimacy of our position, alone in his bedroom—without a soul in the world apart from Mrs. Poole knowing where we were.

  I pulled back and said, still trying to speak practically, “Do you want anything to eat? Or something to drink?”

  Even the short walk from the outer room had tired Lance. His eyes had drifted closed as he leaned back against the pillows, but he shook his head. “Nothing. Thank you.”

  I drew away from the bed, trying to quiet the racing beat of my own heart, and looked about the room. It was Spartanly neat and bare. The furnishings—heavy, old-fashioned furniture and a flowery paper on the walls—must have been Mrs. Poole’s choice. And Lance seemed to have brought practically nothing of his own to his living quarters. A few books were stacked on the table beside the bed, their titles seeming to indicate that they were volumes on theology—with some history mixed in. But apart from them, the rooms might have belonged to anyone at all.

  I wandered over to the single personal item that caught my eye: a framed crayon drawing that stood on the big oak dresser. And then I drew back in surprise.

  The drawing was signed by G. Dalton—I assumed that meant it had been done by Lance’s sister. And the subject was two young men, both seated astride big charger horses, both wearing army uniforms. One of them looked so much like Lance—only with darker hair—that I knew it had to be his brother. And the other man in the drawing was Lance himself.

  I turned around. “You were in the army, as well as your brother?” I asked.

  Lance nodded. He looked blearily at the drawing, a furrow appearing between his brows, and exhaled. “Our father … purchased our commissions together. That’s when Gwen made that picture. I was eighteen. Percy was twenty. He oughtn’t to have been in the army at all. He was the heir, and our parents were set against the idea. He ought to have been home, learning to run the estate. But he was equally set on joining the army. It was all he had ever wanted. To be a soldier. Ever since we were boys. And our parents … they could never deny Percy anything he truly wanted.”

  I looked again at the drawing. Gwen was a skilled artist. She had captured the brothers’ expressions very well. Lance looked younger—but still sober, grave. Percy was laughing beside him, his expression open and carefree. As though he were still a boy, and the officer’s red coat and sash he wore were only a part of all the joyful play.

  “Then … were you in Brussels, as well?” I asked.

  I was still trying to assimilate this new side to his character. Though his sister had said that a clergyman was the very last thing she would have expected him to become. And now that I came to think of it, he did behave far more like a soldier than a man of the church. When he had halted his runaway team of horses … when he had threatened Lord Henry … and just today, when he had scaled the outside wall to get in through the window and disarm Mark.

  Lance shook his head. “No. I was in the cavalry. Percy joined the infantry. My regiment was posted to join the fighting in the American colonies, just before Napoleon escaped from Elba. We were recalled, but not in time for us to reach Waterloo. If I had been—”

  He stopped. And the expression on his face—a kind of still-muscled control that clearly overlay grief and pain—made my heart feel twisted inside my chest.

  Without thinking, I crossed to perch beside him on the bed—there was no chair for me to sit on—and put my hand over the top of his. “If you had been, you might have been the one to die,” I said.

  “My mother certainly wishes I had been.” The words seemed to surprise him, as though he had spoken without first realising what he was going to say. He shook his head as though trying to clear it. “Exactly how much of that laudanum did you give me?”

  “I may have been a little over-generous,” I admitted. And perhaps more than just a little, to judge by his already slurring speech and drooping eyes. He would—with any luck—be asleep soon.

  But it was as though pain and weariness and the effects of the drug had combined to break some internal dam. He turned his head on the pillow to look at me and went on, “It’s entirely true, you know. About my mother. Percy was always her favourite. And he—” Lance stopped and I saw the muscles of his throat ripple as he swallowed. “I don’t know whether he truly died of his wounds. He had been trampled by a horse and had broken ribs that never healed properly—among other injuries. He had lost an arm, just like Captain Chamberlayne. His health was very weak. But there were also days … days when he spoke of wishing to die.” A brief, bleak smile touched the edges of Lance’s mouth. “Again, just like Captain Chamberlayne. And then one morning—”

  He broke off again, and I felt his fingers clench and then deliberately loosen under mine. “I was the one to find him. He appeared to have died in his sleep. But there was a bottle—an empty bottle—beside his bed. It was a sleeping medication that the apothecary had given him. A mixture of syrup of poppies. And Percy had been strongly warned against taking too much. I never told either Gwen or my mother. I threw the bottle away. But I have wondered ever since—”

  “No!” I interrupted him again. “No, you are wrong. He would not have taken his own life.”

  Lance did not argue. But neither did he look convinced.

  “I mean it,” I said. His chest was still bare, save for the bandages. Since he had lain down, I had been staring at the assortment of scars that marked his skin. He had not been lying, either, that night at Vauxhall; he really had known injuries far more severe than a bruised hand. A long, pale scar that must have been left by a sabre cut ran across his collarbone. Another scar—this one fresher, the skin still puckered and red—criss-crossed one shoulder.

  I touched one of the scars lightly, with just the tips of my fingers. “You have been in combat. You must have seen sights—terrible things—just as Mark and your brother did. How do you get over that? How do you bear the memories?”

  It occurred to me afterwards that I have myself a rather desperate wish to know the answer to that question. But in the moment, I was not even considering that. I was thinking only of Lance, of how much I wished him to believe that he was in no way to blame for his brother’s death.

  I felt his chest rise and fall as he drew breath, and then at last he said, “One does not get over it. I do not believe anyone does. But I suppose … I
suppose you reach a point where you accept that it will always be with you—the memories of all that you have done, all that you have seen. And that however heavy it may be, the weight of the memories is yours alone to carry—and so somehow you do, because you must.” He stopped, forcing a brief smile. “Or at least, that is as far as I have come.”

  I slipped my hand into his. “Well, your brother would have known that, too. He would have had his own weight of memories to carry. And that is how I know that he would never willingly have added to yours by intentionally taking his life. He would never have wished to cause you that pain.”

  Lance stared at me a long moment, his eyes very blue in his white, exhausted face. And then at last he let out a long, unsteady breath. “I … thank you, Miss Bennet. I hope you may be right.”

  I knew I ought to tell him to close his eyes and sleep if he could. But I could not stop myself from venturing one question more.

  “Why did you become a clergyman?” I asked.

  Lance’s head turned restlessly against the pillow, his eyes once more drifting half shut. “I wanted … I felt as though I ought to make my life matter, somehow. Since I was the one who had lived. As if I owed it to Percy to … to accomplish something real, I suppose. I had my university degree already. It was speedily arranged that I should be ordained.”

  His words had been gradually slowing. But he was not quite asleep after all. He opened his eyes once more and looked at me, his gaze startlingly blue and pain-filled. “But I am not sure how much of a clergyman I can be. I—” He stopped and exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair. “I do charity work here in the East End. I hope I accomplish some good. But that is why I have not even tried to find a position as vicar of my own parish. The thought of standing up in church every Sunday and preaching a sermon … what can I tell others about faith, when at times I seem to have so little of my own?”

  He looked younger—and suddenly vulnerable, lying there and looking up at me. His mouth was bracketed by lines of pain, and his fair hair was rumpled, one lock falling down over his forehead.

  Before I could stop myself, I reached to smooth it back, brushing my fingertips lightly against his brow. “You would make a splendid vicar. I would a hundred times prefer to hear a sermon from someone who has doubted than from some smug sycophant who has never even considered the questions of his own faith enough to have doubts. And besides—isn’t there that story in the Bible about Doubting Thomas? Jesus let Thomas touch His wounds to prove He was who He claimed to be. He did not say, Oh for Heaven’s sake, Thomas, just take my word for it.”

  Lance let out a smothered burst of a laugh at that, still looking up at me. “Miss Bennet, I confess I would greatly enjoy hearing you debate with some of the theology tutors at Oxford.”

  But then his voice changed. “You are extraordinary, you know.”

  My heart thumped against my ribs. But I tried to speak lightly, pulling my hand away from his. “Now I know I was too liberal with the laudanum.”

  “No.” Lance shook his head. And he kept hold of my hand. “I mean it. You are extraordinary. To have come through all you have—to have seen so much pain, and yet never to have lost your strength … your compassion … your ability to laugh.” His eyes had trouble focusing. But he raised his free hand and touched my cheek. His fingertips were warm and a little rough against my skin—and the touch seemed to echo through my every nerve. “You are … amazing. I thought from the first moment I met you that I had never known any other girl quite like you. You … make me believe.”

  The last words trailed off in a sigh of breath as his eyelids finally drifted closed. I waited, frozen in place, my hand still in his. But he was asleep at last, his breathing deep and even, the lines of pain and weariness smoothed from his face.

  My chest ached—it still aches, as I am writing this—as though I had swallowed broken glass. I shut my eyes. And then forced myself to gently detach my fingers from Lance’s and ease slowly off the edge of the bed. I pulled the blankets up over him—and he sighed again and shifted in his sleep. I bent—I could not help it—and touched my lips to his cheek.

  But then I did not let myself look at him again as I went back to the outer room and found paper and pen on the small writing desk I had seen there.

  I have no idea how long I sat there, staring at the blank sheet of paper before me and struggling with what I should write. Long enough that I began to fear the laudanum would wear off, and Lance would wake and find me still there, trying to think what to say.

  It was that fear that finally propelled me to scrawl—without allowing myself to pause for thought:

  Mr. Dalton—

  Please do not write to me or come to see me. I cannot see you again.

  Kitty Bennet

  I folded the note, propped it up where he would see it, and went to tell Mrs. Poole that I was leaving. I asked her to look in on Lance periodically to see that he was all right, and that the wound had not turned to fever.

  Then I walked all the way back to my aunt and uncle’s. Without actually seeing any of the streets or neighbourhoods through which I walked.

  I wish—

  But I seem to have come full circle back to where I began. And this entry has already reached practically novel-length proportions. My fingers are dreadfully cramped from holding the pen for so long.

  Wednesday 7 February 1816

  Lance called at the house today.

  I suppose it was futile to hope that he would not, even after the note I left for him. I sent word through Rose to tell him that I was not at home.

  Which was cowardly, but I could not face the thought of having to send him away from me in person.

  Thursday 8 February 1816

  Gwenevere Dalton called to see me today. I did not send Rose to tell her that I was not at home. In part it was a kind of penance for having been too cowardly to see Lance yesterday. And in part … in part I wanted to hear anything she could tell me of Lance. It was rather like the impulse to keep tonguing a sore tooth, to see whether it still hurts. I wanted any news of him, however painful the hearing might be.

  Gwen was wearing a grey bombazine morning dress, with sleeves slashed with black velvet and a high, ruffled collar of white lace. She gave me a hard look as I came into the drawing room, and she was silent for quite a half minute. And then she said, “Well. I came here with the firm intention of chewing your ears off. But you look very nearly as miserable as my brother does.”

  I swallowed, as half a dozen questions seemed all at once to jostle for position as uppermost in my mind. I settled on, “What … what has Lance told you?”

  “Very little.” Gwen picked up a china ornament from the mantel and then set it down again. “Save that you do not wish to see him again. Lance is … he is very private, in many ways. He never makes a public show of his feelings. But I could see that he was reproaching himself for something.”

  That made my chest ache—the thought that Lance was thinking it was his fault that I had refused to see him. That I was angry or affronted by what he had said in his lodging room. I felt my legs fold under me, and without quite meaning to, I sat down hard on the edge of the sofa. “Please—” I looked up at Gwen. “I know I am scarcely in a position to ask you for favours. But will you please tell your brother that I am not offended or … or angry, at all, about what he said to me. He must not think that. He has been nothing but gentlemanly in every way. That I cannot see him again—that fault is all, all mine.”

  Gwen gave me another hard look. And then she came to sit down in the chair opposite mine. “Look here, Kitty—I hope I may call you Kitty? Please, won’t you tell me what has happened? My brother has fallen in love with you. Not that he has said as much directly, but he is my brother, after all. I can read what he feels—especially when it is clear on his face every time he speaks your name. And you care for him, as well. Just by looking at you, that much is plain. So what is to stop the two of you telling each other how you feel?” She frowned at m
e. “You haven’t a secret case of leprosy, have you? Or a husband locked away in an asylum for the insane?”

  That made me laugh, a little—even if the laugh felt on the edge of crying. “No leprosy or insane husbands. Nothing so dramatic.” I swallowed against the sharp ache in my throat. “But all the same, your brother and I … it is impossible. He may think that he has fallen in love with me. But he does not know me. Not really. If he truly knew who I am, I promise you, he would not care for me at all.”

  I was afraid Gwen would press me to explain more fully. But she did not. She only continued to study me, her head a little on one side. And then she said, “Very well. I suppose I must bid you good morning, then.”

  It had been painful to see her, painful to hold this conversation. And yet it was painful to see her go so abruptly, as well. I got to my feet, and when I could trust my voice to hold steady, I said, “Thank you for calling. And you will”—I swallowed again—“you will tell your brother what I said?”

  “I will tell him.” Gwen’s voice was soft now, gentle. “I promise.”

  “Thank you.” I could not stop myself from asking, “And your brother—he is … he is well, I hope? I mean, he is not ill … or … indisposed in any way?”

  Gwen gave me a puzzled look. Which means, I suppose, that Lance never told her about the gunshot wound. But it must also mean that he is recovering and that the wound has not turned poisonous, if he was able to conceal it from his sister.

  Gwen rose and said, “Yes. Physically, he seemed perfectly well.”

  “Oh. Well, good.” I could hear how flat the words sounded, but I could not think of anything else to say. “I— Good-bye, then.”

  Gwen ignored my outstretched hand, though, and pulled me into a quick, hard hug. “Oh, this is by no means good-bye. If I am to be denied the pleasure of gaining you for a sister, I am determined to keep you for a friend. I will see you again—and soon.”