Mr. Price's declaration had had the effect of disposing Kitty even more kindly toward Rosamond. It is often easier to forgive a friend with whom one has had an argument, when one knows oneself to have been in the right, and the friend to have most embarrassingly misjudged—and Kitty had had a most stirring proof of her upper hand. Therefore she set out for Hart House at the next opportunity. She asked Mary to come; but her sister declined, claiming that she would not like the Harts to become tired of her. Kitty laughed at this, for it was exactly what Mr. Price always said and she recognized it as a symptom of the shy lover; and in truth she was glad to go alone, for she should like to speak to Rosamond privately.
It turned out that she did not need to go so far as Widcombe. As she hurried south toward the Broad Quay bridge, she came upon Rosamond herself, standing upon the bridge with Mr. Finch, just as Kitty herself had stood upon North Parade with Mr. Price a few days earlier. Faithful romantic that she was, Kitty felt her heart leap at the sight of this—the handsome hero alone with the beautiful maiden, perhaps already succeeding in wooing his irresolute beloved away from the wealthy villain who sought her hand. Kitty leaned on the rail a few feet away, ducking her head so her bonnet shielded her face, and attempted to hear what she could of their conversation; but it did not seem to be particularly tender at the moment. Rosamond was laughing, not a coy giggle but an honest laugh, and Mr. Finch (to Kitty's amazement) was grinning.
"Of course," he was saying, "I ought to have explained myself, or asked the obvious question; but I could not bring myself to correct the lady. She seemed very sure of herself."
"Indeed, Mr. Finch," Rosamond replied teasingly, "anybody may say anything about you, with a little confidence in their voice, and you nod your head and agree—or at the least do not disagree, which is the same thing. You must not be shocked that nobody has yet made a true study of your character, for you are forever allowing contradictions."
"I suppose you would say it is a sign of weak will."
"Not at all! I am sure that this unwillingness to correct false impressions of yourself is in fact born from a desire to be regarded as a character of myth and legend. Years from now," she went on solemnly, "when we are all dead, and someone asks—as someone inevitably will—'What about this Oliver Finch of whom I have heard so much?', there will be so many compelling lies to tell: that you penned twenty-nine volumes of sermons; that you discovered treasure beneath the Roman Baths; that you once purchased the entire Royal Crescent and then sold it the next day; that you were bishop of Bath Abbey by the time you were nineteen. They shall write such splendid false histories of you!"
Mr. Finch was laughing (laughing! Kitty thought with astonishment, for she had hardly ever seen him smile). "I am glad you see such value in my faults, Miss Rosamond," he answered. "But for my part I imagine I should try harder to speak for myself."
"I imagine you should," Rosamond allowed, "though it will be less interesting."
"It is only that I never know how to do it. I always feel very impolite when I am obliged to contradict someone, and so I decide silence is the best course. It is ridiculous, I know," he added, a little despairingly, "that I am twenty-four years of age, and unable to comport myself in society." He turned to look out along the Avon. Kitty fancied she saw a soft, sympathetic light in Rose's gray eyes, though it was difficult to tell from this distance.
"But think, Mr. Finch," Rosamond began after a moment, "how many truly offensive people one meets in society: the proud and pompous, the uncharitable, the boorish, the spiteful, the shallow, the narrow-minded. And they have not your self-awareness—very often they see no fault in themselves. Take heart that you are not one of these; you are only reserved. When you do make yourself heard, you do so with all the intelligence and compassion that can be expected of any gentleman."
The gentleman said something that was too quiet for Kitty to hear, and she endeavored to move a little closer; for she felt that Rosamond had left Mr. Finch a very good opening for a pretty compliment and a declaration of love, and she did not want to miss it. But at that moment Rose's eyes fell on her, and she exclaimed "Why, Kitty!"
Mr. Finch turned to regard her as well, and went very red. Kitty, aware that no gentleman likes to be interrupted in a tender moment with his beloved, was sympathetic; but she had no choice now except to join them, and try to look as though she had not been eavesdropping.
"Hello, Rosamond," she said as cheerfully as she could, dropping into a brief curtsy, "hello, Mr. Finch. Whatever do you do here?"
"Mr. Finch was kind enough to call at Hart House this morning; and as he must return to Larkhall, and I must visit the market, we thought it would be pleasant to walk up to town together."
"I am glad I walked this way, then, for I was coming to see you; and I should have been most disappointed to go all the way to Widcombe and find nobody at home!"
Rosamond promptly invited Kitty to walk with them, and they set off north along the bridge. Whatever air of romance had enveloped the young couple before was now evaporated, and Kitty felt very sorry for poor Mr. Finch, who indeed looked remarkably self-conscious. She endeavored to ease the tension somewhat, and spoke to him first.
"Is it not a long walk for you, Mr. Finch, from Larkhall to Widcombe?" she asked.
"It is not a terrible distance," he replied quietly. "Less than an hour, all told, and it is no hardship when the weather is clement. There are many fine sights along the road."
And at its end, no doubt, Kitty thought with satisfaction, noting the way he glanced quickly at Rosamond, before returning his eyes to the street ahead.
"My sister and I are always so glad when Mr. Finch is able to find time to visit us," Rosamond said, smiling at him. "He is a most agreeable companion, and devotes himself to our amusement; he is far more gallant with us than our brothers ever are."
"That is a common failing of the brother," Mr. Finch agreed shyly. "As gallant as I may be with you, Miss Rosamond, I scarcely afford the same consideration to my own sisters."
Rosamond laughed, and Mr. Finch looked pleased at having made her do so; Kitty, who had never heard the gentleman joke before, let out a startled little laugh of her own.
"I wish I had brothers," she said. "I like having Mr. Bingley as a brother-in-law, for he is so cheerful, and I should want more brothers like him. I have only four sisters, and out of them only one or two are at all agreeable."
"It is so in every large family," Rosamond agreed sagely. "Really I can only bear Juliet's company with any gladness; Robert is always arguing with me, and Theo and Helena make me tired."
"But you have a sister-in-law with whom you are intimate," Kitty countered, "and that is the same as having another sister. And perhaps soon you shall have another sister-in-law whom you love just as well. So then you shall have three siblings you like, out of a possible seven (if we include your sister's husband)—and that is not so bad."
She was pleased to find Rosamond as pleasant to her as ever, at least in Mr. Finch's company; furthermore, she was proud of herself to have so neatly hinted at the match between Mary and Robert. She should have liked to make her insinuation more explicit, but Rosamond had turned to Mr. Finch.
"Three out of seven—is that a good fraction, Mr. Finch? I ask because you have seven siblings, counting Mrs. Fitzwilliam is who like a sister to you, and therefore you are our basis for comparison. How many of your brothers and sisters do you truly like?"
"All of them," the gentleman replied, rather stiffly, Kitty thought. Rosamond only gave him a little smile.
"You are a paragon, sir."
"That is," Mr. Finch amended hesitantly, perhaps realizing that his response had disappointed her, "I like all of them now, when I am on the verge of moving away to Larkhall. If I were to live with them all for much longer, my answer might be rather different."
The young ladies laughed.
"That is how I feel," Kitty answered readily. "I like Lizzie very much now, when she is away in Derbyshire; but when she lived at Longbourn she was forever nagging me and being very serious and dull. And I am hardly ever fond of Mary, except when she is asleep, but perhaps I will like her more when she marries and sets up house someplace."
"You are too hard on your sisters!" Rosamond cried, laughing. "I can attest to Mrs. Darcy's goodness, for I like her very much; and as to Miss Bennet—"
"Oh," Kitty interrupted, "Miss Bennet is very good to you, Rose, and to your family, for she has excellent reason to be."
Rosamond glanced at her, eyes sparkling. "And what reason might that be?"
Kitty giggled. "Why," she answered innocently, "you keep inviting her to concerts; and if left to her own devices, she should never attend any. Mamma would not take her."
"That is a good reason to be agreeable," Rosamond allowed. "I am glad to know that, even if Miss Bennet's friendship with me is a ruse, it is all in the name of Music."
"Or Love," Kitty added cheekily—"for indeed she loves music."
They walked on, Rosamond supplying light conversation as they made their way along the busy streets of Bath. Kitty was glad to talk with her; she had not realized how very much she had missed Rose's easy company over the course of the past week. She chatted happily with her friend, describing how she had been spending her days (though she concealed a few details relating to Mr. Price) and listening to Rose's accounts of the concert and visits with mutual friends. Mr. Finch remained largely silent, though he would speak agreeably enough if applied to by Rosamond; he addressed Kitty only once or twice, and then very awkwardly. Kitty was at first irritated by this, but quickly saw in it a satisfying proof of his love—how could he give his proper attention to Miss Katherine Bennet when all he could think of was Miss Rosamond Hart?
The gentleman left them where the Grand Parade met the Orange Grove crescent; he was to take Arglye Street east to Larkhall, while they went west to the Guildhall Market. He offered his compliments to both of their families, and bowed very low before making a hasty escape. Kitty stood watching him go, rather bemused; but Rosamond took her arm and guided her along the crescent.
"He is a very odd sort of gentleman," Kitty said, momentarily forgetting that she wished to encourage Rosamond in that gentleman's direction.
"Mr. Finch? He is merely shy; it is sometimes the case with the younger children of a large family."
"That is not the case with my family," Kitty said decidedly. "Lydia has never in her life been shy, and I do not think I am either."
"Nor do I," Rosamond said teasingly. "But one must make allowances for differences of temperament. Some, when confronted with a loud room, endeavor to be the loudest; others prefer not to add to the noise. Mr. Finch is very amiable when one comes to know him better."
"He is very amiable with you," Kitty hinted, remembering her purpose. "He came to call on us the other day, and he was not at all—not at all the way he is when you speak to him."
"He came to call on you?" Rosamond regarded her with interest.
"Yes, but as I say, he was not so pleasant as he is with you. He hardly spoke, and he never laughed or told any jokes; indeed the only time he smiled was when Mamma mentioned you. I am sorry to say that he was very dull."
Rosamond gave a little laugh. "Do not mistake reticence for dullness. 'Still waters run deep,' and Oliver Finch is certainly worth the trouble of making conversation."
"Well," Kitty said, "I am glad you have taken that trouble, for he seems to like you very much."
"We are good friends," Rosamond agreed.
"Have you been long acquainted?"
"Oh," Rosamond replied carelessly, "we have been long acquainted with nearly everybody in Bath. My father used to attend the Finch children when they were ill—I believe he nursed Miss Louisa through a rather dangerous fever. And Theo was at school with Mr. Rowland. Now that Theo has married Anne, that has brought Colonel and Mrs. Fitzwilliam into our circle, and of course she used to be Miss Finch; so I suppose we have spent a great deal of time with them recently."
"But particularly with Mr. Oliver? I seem to see him more than the others." Kitty was very proud of her carefully neutral tone; perhaps, as Mrs. Bennet seemed to think, she had the makings of a matchmaker.
"I suppose so. He has not yet taken on his full duties at Larkhall—he will not, I understand, until he is settled in the curate's house. And so he has some spare time to himself for the moment. You seem very curious," she added, smiling at Kitty.
"Oh—I am not really," Kitty said, rather flustered.
They had reached Guildhall Market by this time, and they walked through it in a companionable silence that was scarcely noticeable above the general din of merchants and shoppers going about their business. Rosamond stopped every so often to examine a stall or a cart, and occasionally made an order for later delivery to Hart House. Kitty, who had only ever been to the much smaller market in Meryton, was content to look about her. The bright fruits and vegetables gave every appearance of midsummer, though it was nearly September, for the season had been very mild; and the thick cuts of meat at the butchers' told of an abundant year. Kitty was a little alarmed by the large fish at the fishmongers' stall, who gaped at her with blank eyes and open mouths, and she was glad when Rosamond concluded her business there quickly.
"They come along the river from Bristol," her friend whispered, as they hurried away, "and they are very good; but I confess I do not like looking at them."
The young ladies made their way through the warren of stalls, pausing to examine a few bolts of fabric and spools of ribbon. The market was crowded, and their progress was slow. Merchants touted their wares noisily, as shoppers meandered from stall to stall or hurried purposefully about their errands. There were not so many fine clothes or fashionable people to be seen as on Milsom Street, but Rosamond was greeted very cheerfully by several well-dressed ladies—most of them were the wives of clergymen and lawyers and such, but a few were, like Rose herself, the young daughters of widowers, who had learned at an early age the business of keeping house.
Kitty had thought before that Bath was rather quiet, for it was not the Season, but Guildhall proved otherwise. For the first time, it occurred to Kitty that Bath was a living city, not merely a parade of glittering dance-floors and fashionable card-parties. Society may have decamped to London or the country for the autumn, but Bath was hardly empty: there was still business to be done and lives to be lived. Glancing at Rosamond, who looked very capable as she gave her order to the baker, Kitty began to realize that her friend had concerns beyond balls and beaux, and the thought gave her a strange feeling—as though she was somehow out of her depth.
"It is kind of you, Kitty, to walk with me," Rosamond said, as they continued on their way. "I am sure this cannot be very interesting to you. Usually I come with Anne or with Cook—sometimes I am obliged to come alone—but it is pleasant to have your company."
"In fact I had hoped to speak to you privately, Rose," Kitty said, screwing up her courage, "and I have not had the chance until now."
Rosamond met her eyes with a little smile. "How ominous that sounds! I hope I have not offended you in some way."
"No," Kitty replied, "no, for I am afraid I have offended you, Rosamond. What I said at the Finches' ball—"
She hesitated, for a desire to tell Rosamond of Mr. Price's confession, and to gloat over her friend, had suddenly ignited in her breast. How satisfying, she thought, to give Rosamond such a proof of her wrongheadedness—to prove that it was she who had been unfairly maligned, and Mr. Price as well—
But Kitty, petty though she could be at times, was not naturally of a malicious temperament; besides, she suspected that Rosamond would be less willing to forgive deliberate spite than momentary anger. "It was callous," she finished, "and I ought not to have said it. You are not shallow, or selfish, and it was wrong of me to make the suggestion. I am very sorry."
Rosamond was regarding her thoughtfully, her large eyes never leaving Kitty's face; and at the final words her features softened. "Of course I forgive you," she replied softly, "and I must offer my own apologies; it was not my place to interfere."
No, it was not, Kitty thought, rather smugly, but she did not say it.
"You are my friend," Rose continued, "and therefore it is my wish to see you happy. You seem to be happy now, and I am glad of it, whatever its cause."
"I am very happy," Kitty affirmed, beaming.
Rosamond linked their arms again, and they made their way out of the bustling market and into the open air.
Mrs. Bennet had thought aright when she crowed that everyone in Bath, seeing Mary with the Harts at the concert, would make the obvious conclusion; though it was to be wondered whether this conclusion would have been so obvious if Mrs. Bennet herself had not industriously instilled the idea in so many minds.
"I was so pleased to see you at the concert last night, Miss Bennet, though I did not have a chance to say hello," simpered Mrs. Carpenter, who had called at Henry Street. Kitty having gone to Hart House, Mary had been summoned to take her sister's usual place in the sitting-room, though she usually did her best to avoid such mornings. "And of course none of us were surprised to see you with Dr. Hart and his family. We all know perfectly well how it is."
"I am afraid I do not take your meaning, ma'am," Mary answered, frowning. Her pleasant memories of the concert began to evaporate in the face of so much gossip.
"Well, well, it does not do to talk of such things too much," Mrs. Carpenter said, with a significant smile. "Of course we must be discreet. But I must congratulate you, Miss Bennet; he is such an amiable gentleman. I daresay there are plenty of young ladies in Bath who would not mind being in your position."
"Oh, we are all very fond of Mr. Hart!" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. "He is exceedingly clever, of course, and he and Mary are always having such fascinating conversations together. They are scarce to be parted. He has invited her to another concert next week, you know."
"In fact it was Dr. Hart who made the invitation," Mary interjected, but Mrs. Bennet waved a dismissive hand.
"On his son's behalf, of course, my love; you must know that.—The entire family is so fond of my Mary," Mrs. Bennet continued eagerly to Mrs. Carpenter. "Miss Hart simply dotes upon her, to be sure, and Dr. Hart already looks on her as a daughter. And it is always best, I find, for a young lady to marry into a family where she already has friends. My Jane was very intimate with Mr. Bingley's sisters before ever Mr. Bingley proposed, and it has worked out beautifully."
"Indeed," Mrs. Carpenter agreed sagely, glad to find an opening in the conversation. "My Cecily became Miss Ingram's particular friend almost as soon as they met, and that is how she met Mr. Ingram in the first place; and they could not be happier. And my Julia—"
"I could not imagine a more perfect match," Mrs. Bennet went on blissfully, with that particular deafness granted to mothers whose chief delight is discussing the triumphs of their own progeny. "Mr. Hart's temperament, his interests, his opinions, his situation—it is all quite as though it has been arranged, as though he has been made for Mary. They are so much alike, you know, and they fit so well together. No," she repeated emphatically, "I could not imagine a more perfect match."
Mrs. Bennet had been making similar statements ever since they had come to Bath—indeed, some vague precursors had passed her lips before they even left Pemberley, where she had first discovered the existence of an unmarried Hart brother—but Mary, looking at her mother now, saw for the first time how firmly Mrs. Bennet believed what she was saying. An anxious little knot began to twist and swell in her chest.
Mrs. Carpenter took her leave a few happy minutes later, and Mrs. Bennet turned to her daughter, beaming with satisfaction. "There, you see?" she exclaimed cheerfully. "I thought people might notice your going to the concert with the Harts. Nobody will be surprised, I wager, when the engagement is announced."
"I wish you would stop talking about an engagement that does not exist," Mary snapped, feeling suddenly furious with her mother.
Mrs. Bennet did not appear to notice her daughter's vexation. "It does not exist yet, my dear, but it shall!"
"And if it does not?" Mary retorted.
Her mother regarded her as though she had begun speaking another language. "You are tired, child," she said, soothingly, after a moment; "It is from staying out so late last night.—And," she added, triumphantly, "I will shortly be writing to Lady Lucas and your aunt Phillips, telling them about both you and your sister, so you know that there shall be great celebrating in Meryton when the announcement is made!"
"Mamma!" Mary cried. "It is uncertain yet that there will ever be an announcement; and here you are boasting about it to everyone of our acquaintance! What will happen if I do not marry Mr. Hart—or if Kitty does not marry Mr. Price?"
"Do not shout at me, Mary Bennet," her mother said coldly.
"But I do not want to marry him!" Mary shouted.
The forcefulness of her exclamation surprised even her, and the sitting-room was for a moment cast into a very stunned silence.
"Robert Hart is an excellent friend," Mary said after a long hesitation, and her voice sounded terribly quiet in the stillness of the room. "But as to marriage—Mamma, I am not prepared."
Her voice broke, and she suddenly found herself blinking away tears. She brushed at her eyes impatiently.
"Oh, my dear," Mrs. Bennet said softly. She came to sit beside her daughter, and took one of Mary's hands in her own. "You are thinking too much; you always do. Marriage is not the sort of thing for which one can practice. You do not see it now, but the preparation is done. Mr. Hart is an excellent gentleman with whom you can live a happy life; you are already attached to him, and now it is only a matter of making things official."
"I do not want to marry him," Mary insisted.
Mrs. Bennet sighed and brushed a stray curl from Mary's eyes. "Of course you do; you are only nervous, for you will be taking on a new role and new duties. It is very different, you know, being a wife. I remember feeling quite out of sorts for the first year of my marriage to Mr. Bennet. That cannot be avoided."
"But you looked forward to marrying Papa," Mary pressed. "You were excited; you imagined yourself as a bride."
"Indeed, for I had wished for a long time to have a house of my own, and I was eager to be a mother. And of course every young lady dreams of having a grand wedding, and I had bought the most beautiful wedding-clothes…" She gave a little faraway sigh, then abruptly shook her head and met Mary's eyes again. "But naturally I was also apprehensive. To marry is to create a new life and leave the old behind, and that does not come without a little fear. I wore a very brave face, to be sure, but you cannot think I was entirely easy—not with my poor nerves being what they are!"
Mary regarded her mother seriously. Mrs. Bennet was smiling at her encouragingly; but she also looked tired. It struck Mary suddenly that her parents' marriage was not at all what she wanted for herself—but of course she could not say so. The anxious little knot in her chest swelled a little larger, and she gently removed her hand from her mother's.
"I think I will go read," she said quietly.
"Very well, my love; but do not concern yourself anymore about this matter. It is quite natural for you to be nervous—it does not signify anything. Every young lady in such a situation suffers from a touch of nerves."
Mary only nodded, and hurried out of the sitting-room and up the stairs.
It seemed a long while since she had lain in bed, wondering why she was not in love with Robert Hart, though in fact it had been less than a fortnight. Mary had always believed her daylight hours could be more constructively engaged than in daydreams, but as she entered the bright bedroom she saw nothing that could occupy her. Her thoughts were whirling, her heart pounding. She sat heavily down upon her bed, and gazed vacantly out the window at the blue Bath sky, fringed along the lower sill with the tops of houses and buildings; and there she stayed for several minutes, thinking of everything and nothing, until at last she gave herself a little shake and frowned. Certainly this absentmindedness was not helping anything.
The matter, she felt, should be addressed as rationally as possible. She began with a consideration of points that spoke for her mother's view of the situation:
1. She enjoyed his company and his attention, and when she viewed the matter objectively, she believed she could truly live a happy life at his side. (The thought of actually beginning that life made the little knot in her chest twist more tightly, but she put this aside for the moment.)
2. They were equals in intellect, and when they disagreed, they were able to do so civilly. They were candid with one another, an element which many marriages did not possess. Robert's conversation was among the only that she had ever found consistently interesting.
3. Though he was young, Robert boasted excellent prospects. The life Dr. Hart provided for his family was a proof that an exceedingly comfortable income was to be made in Robert's chosen field; furthermore, with his many friends and family connections he would have no trouble in establishing himself. Mary would never have so many clothes or servants as her elder sisters, but she would not want for anything within reason.
4. He had shown no inclination to find fault with her, at least not in the way that an unkind husband would. He was honest, of course, but that was to be desired in a mate. He seemed unlikely to separate her from the things that gave her pleasure: music, reading and being outdoors. In fact he encouraged her in these pursuits.
5. Though the thought made her blush hotly, she did find Robert attractive. There was a quiet charm in his gray eyes, his tall frame, his fair hair. She had even enjoyed dancing with him, to an extent, and she was always pleased when he gave her his arm as they walked; clearly (she nearly buried her face in her hands out of shame) she appreciated physical contact with him.
6. She found his family and friends agreeable. It had already been discovered that they shared important interests, and the Harts had welcomed her most generously into their circle. This would of course make married life far more comfortable.
7. Robert Hart was, above all else, a good friend—and was not friendship the truest basis of love?
Perhaps, she thought, viewing the matter from this side, a case could be made for marriage. Certainly Robert Hart exhibited all of the traits she desired in a husband, and more—she truly liked him. She could not think of anybody else she would rather marry. They were, as Mrs. Bennet had declared, quite a perfect match.
But this thought made her grow anxious again, and her mind naturally turned over to the points which spoke against her mother's view:
1. Robert had already told her that he had no desire to marry at the present time, and indeed it was in part upon this fact that the openness of their friendship had first been established.
2. The only other reason which occurred to her was also the most insurmountable: she did not feel herself ready for marriage. The very thought made her palms sweat and her heart pound uneasily; she could not imagine giving up her solitude, even for someone she liked as much as Robert. She felt certain that she would be ready in time, but now—now she could not fathom it.
But perhaps, she thought worriedly, this was merely a symptom of the general apprehension to which her mother had referred. Certainly every girl was nervous before her marriage, and doubts were to be expected. Had Robert spoken truly when he told her he was not ready, or was he merely experiencing the basic anxiety of the suitor? Was he expecting a serious attachment to form—did he think that one already had? Did he believe that she expected a proposal? Perhaps she had misjudged the situation entirely. Was it truly possible that her sister and mother—indeed, all of Bath by now—were seeing something that was not there, or was she the one who was blind?
Mary lay back upon her pillows, suddenly feeling rather ill, and passed a hand over her eyes. What should she do, she asked herself, if Robert did propose? She imagined him saying those words—"I must tell you of my feelings; I am in love with you; will you be my wife"—but instead of a quickening pulse and fluttering heart, she felt only a little cold shiver of dread and a tiny voice in her head cried Don't make me, don't make me, not yet!
"Is it so strange," she demanded of the empty room, "to love a man, and yet be afraid of marrying him?" She wondered distantly if something was terribly wrong with her.
Mary had indeed been out very late the previous evening, and so it will come as no surprise to the reader (though Mary had never been fond of naps, believing them thoroughly unproductive) that she soon drifted into an uneasy doze, and woke only when Kitty came in, weighed down with a new bonnet and several very pretty ribbons from the shops in Milsom Street.
The next days passed without much change at Henry Street. Mary was quiet and disagreeable, which Kitty thought quite unaccountable of her since she had been to her precious concert and was to attend another quite soon; and Kitty herself was more merry than ever, her spirits buoyed not only by the discreet attentions of Mr. Price (who came to walk with her again on Friday, and said many more wonderful things to her) but by her tête-à-tête with Rosamond. Mrs. Bennet, faithful that her conversation with Mary had allayed her daughter's fears, rested happy in the knowledge that her last two daughters would soon be married, and all of her worries ended forever.
Miss Hart had not forgotten her engagement with Mary, and arrived on Saturday morning. Mary, who had not seen Robert since the concert, felt awkward around his sister; with every glance at Miss Hart's sunny countenance, she could not help wondering if the young lady shared those expectations and suspicions which seemed to delight everyone else of their acquaintance. Was there not a certain gleam in Miss Hart's eyes when she looked at Mary; a certain smile playing about her lips; a certain familiarity in her address, as though she were already preparing to embrace Mary as a sister-in-law?
"I thought Mrs. Hart was to join us," Mary said desperately, for she was suddenly unreasonably afraid that Rosamond, unchecked by another presence, would want to talk about Robert. It was not a conversation to which she presently felt equal.
"Anne is indisposed this morning," Miss Hart replied, "to her great disappointment, for she loves visiting Mostyn's.—It is nothing serious," she added, at Mary's look of alarm, "I understand it is only a little weakness. But I am concerned, Miss Bennet, for it was only with much effort on both our parts that Anne and I were able to find something which interested you; and now I am afraid that I alone shall not be able to do you justice. Do you think your sister might like to join us?"
Kitty had gone to the Pump Room with Miss Wolfe, and Mary relayed the information with some relief. Miss Hart may have been liable to introduce Robert into the conversation at some point, but Kitty was certain to do so, along with many giggles and significant looks and transparent hints from which Miss Hart, with her quieter manner, would most likely abstain.
The day, at least, was cloudless and bright, and Mary felt her spirits lift somewhat as they set out from Henry Street; good weather always affected her so. Miss Rosamond seemed disinclined to discuss her brother, and was instead more interested in hearing Mary's opinions of the concert they attended, and offering her own. This was a subject upon which Mary was most eager to engage, and their walk was pleasant, as both of the young ladies shared their raptures over Wednesday's entertainment. Mary was pleased to find Miss Rosamond's opinion of the performance as high as her own, for she felt that the young lady, having attended many such concerts, was to be trusted in such matters.
"We have missed you at Hart House," Rosamond said, as their conversation shifted from Boccherini specifically to music generally. "It is always agreeable to have music in the home which I am not obliged to provide."
"You and your family have already been too generous with me; I could not take further advantage of your kindness."
"What kindness? You have earned your right to borrow my instrument, Miss Bennet, for you read The Italian in its entirety despite your very strong objections to it, and that was our agreement. I am merely fulfilling my end of the accord."
"But the concerts," Mary said, rather helplessly; "I have done nothing to earn those."
"Do you imagine that we invite you because we are generous?" Miss Rosamond demanded, with a little laugh. "Indeed, Miss Bennet, it is only because we are all so tired of each other that we require someone else to talk to, and you seem a most willing victim. If it were not you, it should be some other unfortunate young lady."
"You tease, Miss Hart, but I am aware—" Mary stopped. She could not bring herself to finish the sentence; she certainly had not intended to mention Robert, and she cursed herself for doing so now. This was not a conversation which she felt could give her any pleasure. Rosamond, however, seemed to take her meaning.
"Aware that we—or rather I—wish to encourage the friendship between yourself and my brother? There is no harm in saying so."
They were silent for a long moment. Mary was choosing her next words carefully.
"I only hope," she said at last, her voice low, "that I am not fostering some expectation which I cannot at this time hope to fulfill."
Miss Rosamond nodded, though she was not looking at Mary. Her eyes were directed on the road ahead, and she seemed to be thinking seriously.
"I am not unaware, Miss Bennet," she answered finally, "that there have been certain—rumors. It seems that a lady and a gentleman cannot be friends in Bath, without providing a wealth of speculation for those who interest themselves in such matters. Certainly," she added, with a rueful little smile, "I understand your position. I am obliged to tell you that upon this subject you are consulting with the wrong twin; Robert's concerns are his alone; but for my part, I can say freely that my only expectation of you is your friendship—to myself and to my family."
Mary's relief staggered her with its strength. Mrs. Bennet had made so much of the young lady's approval—had assured her so confidently that Robert's proposal would be dependent upon his sister's opinion—that to hear Rosamond herself disclaim any interest in the match was a weight lifted from her shoulders. Yet a nagging worry still remained.
"Do you believe," she asked, "that Robert shares my feelings on the matter?"
"Again, Miss Bennet, I must encourage you to discuss your feelings with the brother and not with the sister. I cannot answer for him. It would be unfair to both of you."
"Your respect for your brother does you credit, Miss Hart," Mary said, though she was not entirely reassured. "It is always best for siblings to find a happy medium between concern for one another and care for each others' privacy. The healthiest familial relationships are those that do not overstep their bounds."
Miss Rosamond laughed. "Robert and I were not always so respectful; as children we would spy upon Theo and take notes on his doings, and I regret to admit that I used to read Helena's diary quite regularly. It was far more thrilling than my own, for that was before I was 'out.' And even after," she added good-humoredly, "I was never able to attract as much excitement as my sister."
"I used to read Jane's diary," Mary confessed, glad of the change in subject, "though I always found it more disconcerting than exciting. I could not imagine being obliged to attend so many balls and parties, and speak to so many people; the very idea was alarming to me. I am afraid I have not the temperament for society."
Rosamond laughed again. "The key, Miss Bennet, is to learn what type of society you can bear, and make your home there."
"I would limit myself to concerts and intellectual gatherings if I could, for that is where I feel I could enjoy the best education, but I fear my mother and sister would disapprove. They think it unconscionable of a young lady not to enjoy a ball."
"Indeed? I suppose then you must take your education where you can find it. The world itself is a great teacher, even when we have not the advantage of listening to the masters or discoursing with philosophers."
Mary thought privately that this was easy enough for Miss Rosamond to say, for her father held a subscription to Bath's famous concerts and her home boasted an impressive library brimming with texts of all disciplines. But she did not say so.
Mostyn's was busy, and a cheerful hum filled the shop as the young ladies entered. Rosamond steered them expertly toward the shelves devoted to fiction, though she assured Mary that they could look about the shop more thoroughly once they had selected her novel, and there they stood for some time. It seemed to Mary that she could not have found a better guide for her entry into the world of novels, for Miss Rosamond scanned the books with an expert eye, considering and dismissing them easily with no more than a glance at their titles, and kept up a running commentary as she did so, which seemed to be addressed half to Mary and half to herself.
"If you have not done so," she remarked, "you must read The Vicar of Wakefield, for it is one of those which everybody has read; but that we can leave for another day. People tend to make much of Pamela, but for my part I found it ridiculous, for the girl herself was a fool and her lover was a villain—that will not do. The Broken Mirror has an excellent mystery, but there is not very much meaning in it; we have already tried Mrs. Radcliffe so we shall look elsewhere for now; Love in Excess? But it is written from the perspective of the gentleman, and I do not think you will approve of him. You ought to read Tristram Shandy when you have a great deal of time, but just now I think we shall try something simpler. Carlotta we have already dismissed, and so let us dismiss Juliana, Olympia and Florentina right alongside it. The Widow's Secret?—no, it is too silly."
At length, she pulled two volumes from the shelves, and presented them to her companion with a flourish which made Mary smile in spite of herself. "Emma Courtney is quite good; it has much to do with thought and philosophy; but I am worried you may find it rather shocking," she explained. "One of our neighbors scolded Papa for letting me read it—though he has never censored our reading, and I do not think it has done me any harm. But I do not know how your parents feel about such things. Evelina is older, but the story is good and the heroine is far more sympathetic than many of these beautiful idiots one finds in novels, and for the most part it is very realistic. That one I think you will like especially, as it the story of a girl who must learn to make her way in society, though she is not always sure of herself."
Mary met Rosamond's eyes, wondering what was meant by this, but the young lady looked as tranquil as ever. "Which should you prefer?" Rosamond asked.
"I suppose I will take Evelina," Mary replied.
"That is a good choice," Miss Hart agreed with a smile.
The selection made, the young ladies were in no hurry to leave the shop, and drifted quietly apart; Miss Hart browsed casually through a section of historical works, while Mary turned to the shelf of sermons and philosophical texts. There were several books there which she had not read, nor even seen in the libraries at Longbourn, Netherfield or Pemberley, and she pulled a few from the shelf in order to page through them. But ultimately, to her displeasure, she could not find anything terribly interesting, and she was obliged to return them all to their places. At any rate, she reflected, she ought to abstain from buying any new books of philosophy until she had least completed Foundations of Natural Right. She glanced over at Miss Hart, who now stood near one of the bright windows, reading intently; it seemed Mary had plenty of time to peruse. There was great pleasure, she thought, in having the time to browse and wander; it was a great luxury in which she had scarcely ever been indulged, having always been hurried along by a sister or mother who had no interest in Meryton's dusty little bookshop, and wanted to see the new hats and bonnets displayed in the windows of Mr. Sterling's.
Before very long, Mary's amble around the shop took her back to the shelf of fiction, and she hesitated before it. The Memoirs of Emma Courtney had not yet been re-shelved, and it still sat where Miss Hart had set it down. She picked up the book and turned a few pages; there did not seem to be anything very shocking that she could see, but certainly the text included plenty of the words that she had been accustomed to seeing in more serious works. Miss Hart had said that the book dealt with philosophy; she wondered what exactly she had meant. Would it be very foolish of her, to purchase two novels? Certainly Kitty would be shocked.
She set the book down again. Mary Bennet does not read novels, she told herself sternly, except when she is compelled to do so, and then she does not enjoy them; she reads sermons and treatises and books of ideas. Novels are the preferred reading material of the trivial-minded, and Mary Bennet is very serious of mind.
But she picked the book up again, biting her lip. Evelina did not look as though it would take her a very long time, and the thought of attempting Foundations of Natural Right again made her sigh. She would need something to read in the coming weeks, and it may as well be something interesting. With a little nod of decision, she fit the book under her arm, where it rested on top of Evelina.
"Have you changed your mind?" Miss Hart asked behind her.
"No," Mary said, turning to face her, "I believe I shall take both."
Rosamond's face betrayed no shock or surprise. Perhaps the moment was not so historic as Mary had thought. "Sometimes that is the best option," the young lady agreed, smiling. "Shall we go? There is a very good tea-shop around the corner."
Mary agreed, and the two ladies paid for their purchases and left Mostyn's behind.
August 31, 1798
12 Henry Street
Bath, Somersetshire
My dear sister,
You simply must come to Bath when you have an opportunity! It is a town built upon amusements and entertainments; not a day goes by when we do not receive some invitation or other, or when we are not called upon by a friend or acquaintance. Everybody here is very obliging and we are hardly ever at home, for there is so much to do. And of course, as I had hoped, Bath is filled with young gentlemen, every one of them as amiable and handsome as you please, though I suppose this is not at all important to you as you have no daughters of your own.
Still, I am sure you will be very pleased to know that both of your nieces have done prodigiously well here, even Mary though we certainly did not expect it of her! She has formed an attachment with a Mr. Hart, son of Dr. Hart, who has attended the Royal Family on more than one occasion—so we certainly shall not be ashamed to be connected with such a family. Mr. Hart is to carry on his father's practice, I understand, so Mary shall be very well provided for. He indeed seems very close to making a proposal, as his family has already shown Mary great consideration in singling her out on numerous occasions. I may confess to you, sister, that I have long worried about the prospect of having a spinster daughter to look after forever, for Mary has never attracted the attention of a gentleman; but I shall worry no longer. She is very much attached to him and he seems to share her regard.
Of course Kitty has received a great deal of attention here, as we knew she would, but in particular from a Mr. Price, who has a house in Town (and one in the country, to be sure) and three carriages of his own. Kitty is already very much attached to him and I suspect he has made some confession of his feelings to her, though she has not said so to me (you know how girls can be about such things). He is the handsomest man we ever saw, and very amiable and lively. I could not have arranged a better match! I look forward to writing to Mr. Bennet very soon with two happy announcements, which I know will give him great pleasure. He is as eager as I am to have the girls married and taken care of. It will be the greatest relief to both of us to see all of our daughters settled in homes of their own; certainly I may hint to you that it is no small accomplishment to find excellent husbands for five young ladies, and I shall be deservedly pleased with myself when it is done!
Sister, I am called away now, for Mr. Hart has come to call and Mary and I must attend him. I shall hope that at our next meeting, you will find me the happy mother of five married daughters—indeed I believe it is quite certain at this point. Of course I send you all of my love, and my best wishes to Mr. Phillips and all of our friends in Meryton.
Your fond sister,
Frances Bennet
Mrs. Bennet crossed the 't' on her surname with a flourish and leaned back, satisfied. Of course Mr. Hart had not come to call, but Mrs. Phillips could not know that, and it certainly looked well upon the page. She gave a little happy sigh as she folded, sanded and sealed the letter. What a triumph, to return to Meryton with her last daughters married! How shocked and envious everybody would be!
Setting aside the letter to her sister, Mrs. Bennet pulled a new sheaf of paper toward her, and began writing again.
August 31, 1798
12 Henry Street
Bath, Somersetshire
My dear friend,
We are all very well here in Bath, though kept exceedingly busy by the many invitations and calls we receive. The girls are enjoying themselves immensely, and have made many friends and acquaintances—including two very particular friends of whom I shall say more in a moment! I really must recommend that you bring Maria here at the next opportunity, for this is the best place in the world to meet gentlemen and form attachments. I daresay Charlotte would not have married so late in life, if she had come to Bath when she was one- or two-and-twenty!
It is not for much longer that Longbourn will be able to boast the presence of a "Miss Bennet," for I imagine I shall be writing a long letter to Mr. Bennet very soon, with two happy announcements enclosed…