Kitty Bennet's Diary (Pride and Prejudice Chronicles)

by Elliott, Anna

  Friday 9 February 1816

  I went to see Jane today. I have been wishing to go ever since Georgiana told me she was concerned for Jane’s health. But I could not face seeing her yesterday, not when I felt as though the whole of my last encounter with Lance must be printed across my face for all to read. And I knew Georgiana would send for me if there were any serious cause for concern.

  Perhaps it is not serious. But I am concerned. Mary was already there with Jane when I arrived. We came separately because I had to wait until I had settled Susanna down for her morning nap. Georgiana was downstairs playing with Amelia, and Mary was reading aloud to Jane. And I saw at once, as soon as I came into the room, that just as Georgiana said, Jane does look tired and pale, as though she has not been sleeping well.

  Mary broke off reading as I entered—I was correct: the book she had chosen really was an incredibly dull-looking volume of sermons—and I told her that she ought to take the rest of the afternoon for herself, that I would sit with Jane. It was depressingly easy to convince her to abandon her self-imposed duty. Meaning that she was very likely going to scheme up a way of seeing Lord Henry the moment she walked out the door. But at that moment, I scarcely cared; I wanted too much to speak with Jane alone.

  Of course, in true Jane-like fashion, she brushed aside my questions and concern and asked about me, instead, her eyes searching my face. “Are you sure you are quite well, Kitty? You look so … so sad, somehow.” And then Jane’s expression took on a strange, almost frighteningly remote look, and she said, “You were always so happy, even as a baby. I remember sneaking up on tiptoe so that I could peek at you in your cradle—I was six, and mother had said she would give me a fearful scolding if I woke you. But you weren’t asleep at all, and you waved your little hands at me and laughed …”

  Jane’s voice trailed away, and I felt a cold, crawling worry wriggle its way all up and down my spine. It was not so much Jane’s words themselves as the way she spoke them. So detached and remote, as though she were drifting away from me. It reminded me of my last visit to my grandmother—my mother’s mother—just before she died. The physician had come and said she had only a very little time. So all of us sisters were called in to see her, one at a time, so that we might kiss her cheek and tell her good-bye. We went in order of ages, so that when I was called in, she had already seen Jane, Elizabeth, and Mary—and she was so tired that all she could do was to feebly pat my hand and say in a dreamy, far-off way that I was ‘a good little girl’.

  I had not intended to tell Jane of our scheme for getting her necklace back. But I was too frightened to stop myself. I took Jane’s hand and said, “If it is Mrs. Hurst you are worrying about, please try not to. Georgiana and I have been … speaking with her, and we have every hope that we will succeed in persuading her to return Charles’s mother’s jewels.”

  Jane tried to smile at me, and said, “Thank you, Kitty.” That was very like Jane, as well. But she sank back against the pillows almost at once and closed her eyes. “But somehow … somehow I don’t seem to care nearly as much about the necklace as I did. I ought to have been honest with Charles … even if he did end with being angry with me. I wish—”

  She stopped, biting her lip. And I debated with myself whether to tell her that Georgiana had in fact written to Charles, that if all went well, he ought even now to be on his way to town. Jane might be thankful to know that there was every chance she would see him soon. But on the other hand, travel at this time of year is so uncertain. There must be hundreds of opportunities for Charles to be delayed by weather or bad roads between Derbyshire and London. And I was afraid that the worry of waiting day to day to see whether Charles had yet arrived would be equally as bad for Jane as thinking that Charles was still on their estate.

  At any rate, I had not the chance to decide one way or the other. Before I could speak, the door flew open and Amelia came bounding in, demanding that Jane and I admire the ‘crown’ that Georgiana had fashioned for her out of gilt paper.

  Jane did brighten at Amelia’s entrance. She smiled and clapped when Amelia performed a two-year-old’s version of the steps of the quadrille. But before I left, I saw her hunch over and clutch at her middle at least twice—as though the birthing pains that frightened us a few weeks ago had begun again.

  And now that I am back at my aunt and uncle’s, I still cannot help but be afraid—

  I had to break off writing just now. Mary came in, having returned from wherever she went after Georgiana’s. Actually, it would be more accurate to say that she burst into the room. She was sobbing and shaking and her face was a mess of tears and smeared rouge—and she would not speak to me at all, only threw herself down on her bed and buried her face in the pillow, still crying hard.

  Before I could make her speak a single word to me, the bell rang, and I had to go down to dinner—it was better than having my aunt or one of the servants come up to ask when Mary and I would be down. Of course my aunt and uncle inquired where Mary was, but I told them only that Mary was feeling unwell. Without telling any actual untruths, I think I may have managed to give the impression that Mary had come down with a touch of my aunt’s feverish cold.

  I did feel guilty for the almost-lie. But until I find out what has happened, I did not feel I ought to tell anyone. I still do not know what happened to upset Mary so. She was asleep and snoring by the time I excused myself to Aunt and Uncle Gardiner and returned to our room.

  I am worried for her, too, of course, as well as for Jane. But I suppose the one bright spot in this day is the faint hope I have that Mary’s tears mean that she has finally been awakened to Lord Henry Carmichael’s true character.

  Saturday 10 February 1816

  I remember when I was younger, I used to love Aunt Gardiner’s visits to Longbourn. She was so calm and sensible and kind—so very different from my mother, who was constantly taking vapours and alarms. One of Aunt Gardiner’s favourite sayings whenever anything went wrong—from a burned finger to one of our sisterly quarrels—was, There, there, things are never as bad as you think they are.

  Well, I suppose that is true enough, in a way. Sometimes things are not so bad as you think. Sometimes they are even worse.

  I had meant to question Mary this morning. But between wondering over her outburst … and feeling frightened about Jane … and—

  Very well, I suppose I might as well admit it: I was also lying awake and thinking of someone whose name I cannot write down in this journal without becoming thoroughly and utterly sick of myself.

  At any rate, it was hours before I managed to drop off, and when I woke this morning, Mary was already gone—to sit with Jane, her hastily scribbled note informed me. And really that alone should have told me that something was wrong. Mary does not scribble, any more than she ever does things in haste. But I was not unduly worried. Not, that is, until Rose came up to tell me that Miranda was here to pay a morning call on me, and I entered the drawing room to find Miranda, looking like a cat licking her whiskers to catch the last drops of cream.

  I still had no idea what she had come to see me about, but I felt the first qualm of unease, all the same. No possible good could come from Miranda Pettigrew looking sleek and smug.

  We exchanged the usual polite ‘good mornings’. Then she clasped her plump little hands together and said, “Oh, Miss Bennet. I have just come to tell you how terribly sorry I am to hear of your sister’s most unfortunate encounter at Lady Claridge’s musical soiree yesterday afternoon. As though your poor family has not suffered scandal enough.”

  Her eyes were wide and round—and as hard as twin chips of ice-blue glass. I said, as calmly as I could, “My sister? I assume you must mean my sister Mary, since my sister Jane is confined to her bed.”

  “Oh!” Miranda covered her mouth with one hand, eyes widening even more. “Oh, did Mary not tell you? Well, I suppose that is only natural. She must be so ashamed. I know I should be quite mortified, to have been caught in such a disgraceful positi
on.”

  This must be related to Lord Henry—it had to be. I said, still speaking calmly, “Mary was understandably … upset, last night. Too much so to give me a full account. Perhaps if you might explain more clearly what occurred and why you are here?”

  Miranda’s small pink tongue darted out over her lips and she wriggled on her chair, smoothing the ruffles on her violet-coloured pelisse. “Well, Mrs. Hurst and I brought Mary to Lady Claridge’s yesterday afternoon. Anyone would think that Mary would be grateful to dear Mrs. Hurst, for introducing her to such a very refined company. But a certain gentleman was in attendance—Lord Henry Carmichael. You may have heard”—Miranda paused and looked across at me again with those icy-hard eyes—“you may have heard something of Mary’s acquaintance with him, Miss Bennet?”

  I remember hearing a horrible old joke, once. Something along the lines of:

  What happened while I was away, Tom?

  The cat died, master.

  How did the cat die, Tom?

  When your house burned down, master.

  How did my house catch on fire, Tom?

  The candles at your wife’s funeral, master.

  At that moment, I had an unpleasant feeling that I was going to be positively envying Tom’s master by the time Miranda had finished her story. I said, “Go on.”

  Though Miranda scarcely needed any encouragement. She leaned forward slightly in her chair and lowered her voice, “Well, as soon as we arrived, Mary went straight up to Lord Henry. She was quite shameless about it. Apparently she has no reservations about proclaiming to the world that she has set her cap for him.”

  That, coming from Miranda, had rather the ring of a pot accusing a kettle of being black. But I knew I had better hear the worst of what had happened, since it seemed that Mary was unlikely to tell me herself. Besides which, I was beginning to have a fairly good idea of the general purpose of Miranda’s visit. I managed to grit my teeth and say again, “Go on.”

  “Well, it so happened that during the music, I”—Miranda coughed slightly—“I chanced to see that Mary was slipping out of the room, in the company of Lord Henry himself. Of course, I was terribly concerned for her. To go off with an unmarried gentleman, to whom she is not even engaged. Only think what it would do to her reputation. So I followed them. Intending, of course, to remind Mary of what a dreadfully compromising position she was placing herself in. But when I finally found them—they had gone into a little reading alcove in Lady Claridge’s library—I found …” Miranda paused dramatically, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I found that she was actually kissing him. I assure you, I have never been so shocked in my life.” Miranda wriggled her shoulders again and primmed up her mouth.

  I was torn between wanting to smack the look of pious sympathy off Miranda’s pretty face—and wanting to tie Mary to a chair and force her to listen to me until she learned a single modicum of sense.

  Except that, to talk of pots and kettles, I had not exactly the space to judge, considering that Georgiana and Edward caught me with Lord Henry in precisely the same compromising position at Pemberley last year.

  “Of course”—Miranda made a display of studying her own gloved hands—“of course, very fortunately for Mary’s reputation, I was the only one who saw her with Lord Henry. That is—”

  I interrupted her. If I had suspected before, I now knew precisely why she had come. “What is it you want, Miranda?”

  Miranda’s head came up with a jerk. And then she widened her eyes in an exaggerated look of shock, one hand going to her heart. “Why, Kitty, how can you speak so unkindly? When all I want is to enable your family to avoid the disgrace of—”

  “Spare me.” I suppose perhaps it was not the wisest move on my part to antagonise her; she really did have Mary—and thus me—more or less at her mercy, simply by the threat of what she could choose to tell. But in the past three days, I have seen Mark nearly shoot himself, treated the gunshot wound in Lance’s side, learned that Lance admires me—and been forced to cut myself off from him forever. Just then I had small—or rather precisely no—patience for continuing to play Miranda’s games. “You came here this morning because you want something in return for holding your tongue about Mary,” I snapped. “So what is it? Money?”

  Miranda’s eyes narrowed, but she evidently decided that there was nothing to be gained by further bush-beating. She said, “I want you to promise me that you will never see Lancelot Dalton again.”

  I very nearly laughed in her face. Of all the possible demands that she could have made …

  But I managed to contain myself. I said, shortly, “Very well.”

  Miranda looked utterly taken aback; plainly she had not been expecting me to agree quite so readily. Then her eyes narrowed again, as though trying to gauge whether I was sincere or no. “I have your word?”

  “Certainly. My word—promise—anything you like.” The momentary grim amusement had faded, and all I wanted in the world just then was to be free of Miranda’s company as quickly as could be managed. “If I see Lancelot Dalton again, it will not be by my own choice. And if I should meet him by chance, I will avoid all direct speech with him, even if I have to cross to the other side of the street or hide under furniture in order to do so. Does that satisfy you?”

  Miranda still looked faintly perplexed, with a furrow between her arched brows. She said, “I suppose so.” And then, when I said nothing more, she added, rather lamely, “Well. I will bid you good morning, then.”

  She sounded rather disappointed. I suppose blackmail must become considerably less enjoyable when your victim capitulates so readily, without even a single tearful plea for mercy.

  I stayed where I was as Miranda rose from her chair and swept out. I heard the front door open and close again. And then, from quite nearby, I heard a muffled sob.

  That brought me out of my chair with a yelp. There are few things more disconcerting than thinking you are alone, only to discover that you are not, after all. The sobs were coming from behind the curtains across the parlour's big bow window. I had noticed—vaguely—that they were closed when I entered the room, not drawn as they usually are in the mornings. But then, it would not have been the first time that Rose forgot to draw the curtains.

  I crossed and yanked the curtains aside—then stared in blank astonishment at the sight of Mary, huddled on the window seat and crying into an already-soaked handkerchief. “Mary? What on earth are you doing there? I thought you had gone to Jane.”

  “I was—I mean, I did.” Mary spoke between gulping sobs. “But Jane sent me home again. I had told her I had a cold, you see. On account of having to explain why my nose and eyes were so red. So she and Georgiana sent for Rhys—Mr. Williams—and he brought me home.”

  “All right,” I said. “But that does not explain why you decided to play hide-and-go-seek behind the parlour curtains.” I spoke gently, though. Mary looked more than miserable—she looked defeated, somehow. Her shoulders were slumped, and even apart from the tears, her eyes had a dark, forlorn shadow I had never seen in Mary’s gaze before.

  She mopped her eyes with the handkerchief. “I had come in here to … to sit down, and be alone. I did not wish to see anyone, not even Aunt Gardiner. But then I heard Rose letting Miranda in. I could not face having to meet with her. Not after … after …” Mary trailed off and gulped again. “So I hid behind the curtains. I thought if I could just keep quiet long enough, you—both of you—would go away. But I—”

  She dissolved into a fresh burst of crying. I slid down onto the window seat next to her, putting my arm around her shaking shoulders. I did not say anything, only let her cry. After a while, Mary raised her head, scrubbing at her eyes again. “You actually … you agreed never to see Mr. Dalton again. Just to protect me from Miranda?”

  I sighed. “You are my sister, Mary. Of course I would do everything I could to protect you from gossip and scandal. But you must not think … that is, Miranda did not know …” I closed my eyes. Trying to
summon the energy—not to mention the words—to properly explain to Mary how things stood between Lance and me.

  “You are in love with him, are you not?”

  Mary’s question made me startle all over again—because that is far more interest and perceptiveness than Mary usually displays in anyone else’s affairs. Or perhaps I should rather be worried that my feelings have been so obvious, even to Mary.

  “I suppose.” There seemed little point in denying it. “I mean, yes, I am.”

  Mary hunched her shoulders again, exhaling a shuddering breath, and blew her nose. “I am so sorry, Kitty. You tried to warn me about Lord Henry. You must think me … I have been such an utter lackwit.”

  I stared. Since we had been children, I could not remember ever hearing Mary apologise to me, or deplore her own judgement. I covered her hand with mine. “No, I do not. Or at least, I do not reproach you any more than I reproach myself. I—”

  I stopped. I had never spoken of my own entanglement with Lord Henry before. Only a little to Georgiana, who already knew in any case. But somehow, sitting there on the window seat with Mary, the whole story came spilling out. John—Lord Henry—John’s death at Waterloo last summer.

  “That is why it is no great challenge to promise Miranda that I will not see or speak to Lance,” I finished at last. “I had already determined for myself that I could not see him again.”

  Mary had stopped crying as I spoke, and now looked at me with swollen, red-rimmed eyes. “You could at least try telling Mr. Dalton the truth yourself. You might find that he understands, and does not blame or judge you for past mistakes.”

  “I know.” I leaned my head against the cool window pane at our backs. “Perhaps he might, but there is still the danger to his reputation, if he were to marry me—”

  “Nonsense.” Mary spoke crisply—or as crisply as she could, considering that her voice was still clogged with tears. “I do not believe the danger is so great as you have convinced yourself it may be. In the year since last Christmas, has any rumour of your association with Lord Henry raised its head?”