Author's Note: I have made my grad school decision and secured a place to live. Now I only have to worry about finding some way to pay for all this. Thank you to everyone for your congratulations! I hope everyone is enjoying the lovely spring weather—we've just been through a few stormy days here!
Kitty Bennet had a terrible secret.
Under ordinary circumstances, this would have been cause for rejoicing, for the heroines of her favorite novels were always in possession of terrible secrets, or discovering terrible secrets, or the subjects of terrible secrets. Had Kitty's terrible secret been of the type which frequently formed the backbones of such novels, she almost certainly would have been unable to contain her excitement, and the secret would not have remained so for very long. But this secret was not of the sort which she wished to share—indeed, it made her feel rather ashamed.
Kitty's secret was that she was quite unaccountably bored.
There was no excuse for her to be so. She was seated upon a bench in a quiet park, her hands clasped daintily in her lap, well aware that she looked quite fetching in her new walking-dress. Her dear Alexander was seated at her side, leaning toward her, a book of love-poetry in his hands, from which he was reading to her in the tenderest voice imaginable. The day was brilliant and they were quite alone. This was the sort of scene in which, only a few days before, Kitty had delighted. There had never been anything so gratifying as the warmth of Alexander's attention, or the timbre of his voice when he spoke to her so. Yet today, she could not help wishing that he would be quiet. What was wrong with her?
It felt as though Alexander had been reading for hours, when in fact it had been only a few minutes. She could not focus on the words, and instead kept fidgeting. There was nothing to look at; there was nobody else walking nearby (for if there had been, of course Alexander would have become Mr. Price and such tender moments would have been out of the question), and many of the pretty flowers which had once scented the air had begun to wither with the recent cold weather. This was a park in which they had walked and sat many times before, as it was usually quiet, and Kitty was struck by how many times she had enjoyed this view, and thought this place the most charming in the world, for it was where she could lean upon Alexander's arm without fear of chastisement; but suddenly she had a vision of herself sitting here forever, staring at these same dying flowers, listening to this same monotonous poem, and this was her whole future, stretching into eternity, sitting and staring and listening and never being allowed to speak—
Kitty started and shook herself. How silly she was being!
"My love," she said, tentatively, turning to him; and Alexander obligingly paused in his reading, looking up at her. "My love, it is a beautiful poem, but I'm afraid I might not understand all of it, and I wonder if we might talk a little instead."
"Of course," Alexander said readily, putting the book down. "What would you like to talk about, my beauty?"
"Oh—anything will do."
"If I had my druthers, I should choose to talk about you," Alexander answered, smiling. "You look remarkably pretty today, my dear, and I don't know if I said so before—but even if I did, it ought to be said again. That dress suits you prodigiously well."
"Thank you," Kitty said, blushing a little. "It is new, you know, for I did not bring many autumn-clothes with me, so Mamma said I may buy some more."
"I hope you will wear it sometimes when we are in Town together. It may be selfish, but I do enjoy having other men envy me."
"Do you think this is fine enough for Town? I imagine I shall have to buy many new clothes from the warehouses there, or everyone will know me for a country-lass."
"That is not such a trial—people are forever charmed by country-lasses. It is the artful girls of the city who draw the most censure. You have a captivating simplicity about you, which none of the Town-ladies in their fine silks can rival."
"Well I should not like to appear too gauche," Kitty said decidedly. "And I imagine I will need a great many new things, for we will dine out very often, won't we, my dear?"
"Every night, if you like. And we shall go to Almack's whenever you please, and walk in the Park every afternoon."
Kitty gave a sigh of relief. This was her future—the glittering ballrooms and elegant halls of London. She did not know what had come over her before, but she felt very foolish now.
Alexander had taken it upon himself, as he always did, to fill the momentary silence with several fine compliments; he was now extolling Kitty's spirit as one of the brightest and most vivacious he had ever known.
"I am sure you will be the toast of Town before a week is out," he was saying. "You have that rare quality of enjoying yourself wherever you go, and never taking anything too seriously, or thinking too hard about things."
"You are kind, my love," Kitty said brightly. "I cannot wait for you to meet the rest of my family; I am sure they shall all adore you, and think I have done very well for myself. Will you come to Longbourn in the fall, and see Papa? Or, better—perhaps I shall have Lizzie invite you to Pemberley for Christmas! That would be a delight."
"I should like to go to Pemberley," Mr. Price admitted. "I have heard it is a most elegant estate, with very extensive grounds—quite the jewel of Derbyshire, I understand."
"Yes, it is very fine; but I could never be so happy in the country as in Town. I wonder Lizzie endures it so well, and is not always longing to be at Clifton House (that is their house in Mayfair, you know).—And once you have met my family," Kitty continued consciously, "I should like to meet yours."
She could not say why she was so determined to speak of Alexander's family, but she had taken to mentioning them at odd moments, if only to see how he reacted. Alexander never discussed them of his own volition, and gave only curt answers to her questions, and always changed the subject. This reticence only served to pique her curiosity, though she could tell that Alexander was only irritated by her insistence. But she could not help herself. Having grown up in a close-knit family of her own, Kitty was perplexed by this unwillingness to discuss the people who must have been his companions from the very first; surely not all of his associations with them were unpleasant.
"I do not think that is a good idea," Alexander answered, stiffening, as she knew he would, and shifting away from her.
"But I must meet them sometime," she maintained, giving a little laugh to lighten the mood, though it was a weak effort. "It would be most strange if I went all my life without catching sight of them. Are your parents living?"
"My mother is," he replied brusquely. "My father died when I was very young."
"I am sorry," Kitty said, a little abashed. "But surely his death must have brought you and your mother closer together."
"For a time, perhaps; but that closeness has dissipated. I have little to do with her now."
"And your sister?"
"I have little to do with her, either."
"Is she older, or younger?"
"Younger, by some five years. She is just your age now, or a little younger. But I am afraid she has turned out a most selfish, disagreeable girl—too much like our mother."
"What is her name?" Kitty pressed.
"Pamela."
"Like the novel!" Kitty exclaimed, delighted, for she had never before met a real Pamela. "Have they ever come to Bath?"
"I believe they have, once or twice, though never in my company."
"When was the last time you saw them?"
"I cannot recall—two years—perhaps three. My dear," he said, in his sternest voice, "this is not a subject which gives me any pleasure, and I wish you would not keep asking me these questions."
"I am only making conversation," Kitty answered, affecting a wounded tone, but he seemed quite unswayed, and stared resolutely ahead. She sighed. "I think it is a shame, my love, that you are not more intimate with your family. Perhaps they have changed since you last saw them, and are more agreeable now. And, you know," she went on, looking up at him demurely, "very often it only takes a grand event—like a great party or a ball, or even a wedding—to mend such relationships."
"I do not think it is a relationship which can be mended," Alexander said firmly. "If you must know, Kitty, they wish me to do something which I am quite unwilling to do; and so until one or the other of us changes his mind completely (which I do not think likely), we shall always be entirely at odds. Now leave it alone, and let us speak of something else."
Kitty obligingly dropped the subject, though she wished he would not be so disagreeable about it. Alexander, after a long pause, took up the book again and turned to her, and she allowed her gaze to drift once more to the dying flowers.
Every relationship must have its moments of boredom, she thought, as her beau embarked upon the same poem he had been reading earlier. Indeed, she knew perfectly well that her own parents often—more often than not—found each other quite tedious. It was not so unusual that she should sometimes find Alexander's company rather dull, particularly when he insisted upon reading these interminable verses. There had been no reason for her earlier panic; she was merely out-of-sorts, and would surely feel better tomorrow. And then before very long they would be really engaged, and then married, and they would live together forever and be happy.
That this prospect seemed less enchanting to her today, than it had in the past, Kitty merely attributed to her present peculiar humor. And, turning to Alexander with a smile, she endeavored to listen to the lines he was reading; for after all they were love-poems, and he was reading them out of love, and she really ought to pay attention.
Given their variant schedules and divergent interests, it was rare that the Bennet sisters found themselves alone together. Most of Kitty's time, outside of the morning calls and evening assemblies that filled their social hours, was spent with Mr. Price, or Rosamond (and sometimes her sisters), or Mrs. Bennet. Mary, in an effort to dodge the dreaded morning visits without incurring her mother's wrath, had taken to spending her mornings practicing at Hart House and her afternoons in a park or a bookshop somewhere, alone or, if Robert had a break between appointments and Rosamond was not otherwise engaged, with one or both of the twins. Rosamond had teased that it would be easier for her if her friends coordinated their agendas and called on her both at once, but in truth the present arrangement suited both of the sisters very well, for they each liked to have Rosamond's full attention, to discuss their own very different concerns and ideas, and would not have ceded ground to one another with any sort of grace. And so it stood that the only time Mary and Kitty spent together was in company or in their shared bedroom, when their attention was always upon other things, and they rarely spoke more than a few words together.
But Kitty, upon returning home from her walk with Mr. Price, still thinking with dissatisfaction over the gentleman's antipathy for his family, found her sister alone in the little parlor at Henry Street and was caught by an unexpected wave of fondness. Mary was bent over Emma Courtney, her brow furrowed in concentration and her hair shining chestnut in the afternoon sun. She looked a little like Lizzie, but a much plainer, more prudish version of Lizzie, and Kitty suddenly thought how very much she liked Mary's plainness. Her sister could never be called a beauty, she thought warmly, but she looked very much like herself—very much as she ought to look, and had always looked, and should always look. It was exceedingly comforting.
Mary, apparently determined to destroy any affection she might have engendered, raised her head at that moment and fixed Kitty with a hard stare. "You have been out with Mr. Price again, have you not?" she demanded, pursing her lips.
"Yes," Kitty sighed, but she was a naturally warm and affectionate girl, and her momentary love for her sister could not be undone so easily. She came into the room and took the seat on the settee beside Mary, leaning her head on her sister's shoulder. "What are you reading?"
"It is called The Memoirs of Emma Courtney; Rosamond recommended it. You should not spend so much time with Mr. Price, Kitty. You know he is hardly the sort of gentleman of whom our father would approve."
"Where is Mamma?"
"She and Mrs. Rowley have gone to take the waters.—He has yet to prove himself a man of sense and intelligence; as it stands I think him nothing more than a fop, and a disagreeable one at that."
"Please, Mary," Kitty sighed, sitting upright again, "I do not wish to talk about Mr. Price."
"Indeed?" Mary regarded her critically. "He is all you ever wish to talk about."
"He is not," Kitty protested, with a guilty little laugh. "I never talk of him in company, or to you or Rosamond or anybody. In fact I am sure I talk of him less than you talk of Robert."
"You and Mamma seem to have no other subject when you are together."
"Mamma likes to hear of him, I suppose," Kitty said carelessly, peeling off her gloves. "You know that that is her main delight: hearing of our adventures. It makes her feel like a girl again, and not like a lady married for twenty—oh, Lord, twenty-five years, I suppose."
In truth this had never occurred to Mary, and she was obliged to consider it for a moment.
"How have you passed your day, Mary?" Kitty went on, giving her sister a bright smile. "Mine has been very dull so far, but I hope yours has been better."
"I suppose you would consider it dull," Mary replied stiffly. "I have been to Hart House, and come home, and spent the afternoon reading."
"Did you see Robert?" her sister asked automatically.
"He and his father had gone out to see a patient. I did see the elder Mr. Hart, however, for a brief moment; he was leaving as I was coming in."
"I quite adore Theo Hart," Kitty giggled. "I am sure I could very well have fallen in love with him, if he weren't already married. He is much more lively than Robert, and then Rose and Juliet and I could have been sisters. I shouldn't have minded being married to a barrister and living in Bath." But I would much rather live in London, she reminded herself silently.
"You 'quite adore' him?" Mary asked, mildly shocked.
"Oh Mary, you take everything so seriously," Kitty chided, but she was smiling.
Mary hesitated, unaccustomed to such good humor from her sister. Most frequently their exchanges devolved into ill-natured spats, but Kitty seemed quite unwilling to be bothered; in fact she almost seemed to be enjoying their conversation.
"I am sorry your day was so dull," Mary ventured, in the spirit of friendliness. "I was under the impression that you took a great deal of pleasure in Mr. Price's society."
Kitty gave another sigh. "He was not as amusing today, as he sometimes is," she admitted. "I suppose I am rather out-of-sorts; I did not sleep well last night, I think. Anyway I am sure it is only natural, when you spend so much time with a person, that they are not always particularly engaging. Are you never bored by Robert's company?"
Mary blinked owlishly. "No," she replied immediately, then paused, to consider the question, and repeated, "No. He is perhaps sometimes rather flippant, I suppose, and prone to disagreeing with me—but I would not say that I am ever bored. Indeed the reason I esteem his friendship so highly is his capacity to engage in interesting and worthwhile conversation, which is far too rare in our polite society." She stopped there, aware that her sister looked rather deflated.
"Oh," Kitty said.
"But then," Mary offered, hesitantly, "I do not spend quite so much time with Robert, as you do with Mr. Price."
Kitty did not answer. Her brow was furrowed, and she was biting her lip. Mary, realizing she had nearly come to the defense of a man she rather loathed, went on hurriedly, "And I should not be surprised to find you growing tired of Mr. Price. His conversation is very limited, I find—he engages in all of the usual pleasantries, and makes some pretty compliment, and will not be drawn into any serious discourse or debate. He flatters and laughs and that is all. I could not imagine enjoying a discussion with such a shallow mind."
"Well," Kitty said, after a moment, "let us talk of something else, anyway. Have you bought any new books? Are there any that I may enjoy, or are they all quite dull and serious?"
Mary, a little relieved at the change in subject, assured her sister that she may very well enjoy Evelina, and gave a brief description of its themes and contents; and a conversation was begun, which was much more civil than many others they had enjoyed, and left both sisters with rather more favorable impressions of one another than they had previously entertained.
Yet Kitty went to bed that night in a curious state of discontent. She was not particularly alarmed by Mary's judgment of Mr. Price; she had long ago decided to discount her sister's opinions on that subject as wholly unfair and uninformed. Rather, it was her conversation with Mr. Price himself which still concerned her—his aversion to his family, his displeasure at discussing them, his irritation at her questions. She could not say why, but the matter vexed her greatly, and Alexander's final forceful insistence upon closing the subject had only served to feed her curiosity further.
The longer she considered the matter, the more she began to feel like a heroine in a novel. Some injustice had been done to her beloved, and she thought it only proper that she should wish to make everything right again. Perhaps, she thought, Alexander was mistaken in his estimation of his mother and sister, and she might soothe the troubled waters; or perhaps they had truly committed some horrendous sin against him, and she might see justice done. Whatever the case, she resolved to pursue the matter however she could.
With this purpose in mind, Kitty made full use of the greatest instrument at her disposal. Calling at Hart House on Saturday afternoon, she was informed that Miss Hart and Mr. Hart had gone out, and was directed to the little walking-park behind the house, where she found the twins walking with Oliver Finch beneath the dappled leaves.
Rosamond embraced her gladly. "How good to see you! I never know which Miss Bennet I will have the pleasure of meeting next."
"And are you not relieved it is me?" Kitty asked impishly. "Hello, Mr. Hart; hello, Mr. Finch." She curtsied.
The gentlemen greeted her rather more sedately than Rosamond had done. Mr. Finch, she was pleased to note, gave her a little smile before glancing away; but he seemed quite happy to let Robert give Kitty his arm, while he offered his own to Rosamond. The four of them walked together in agreeable conversation for a while, though nothing of any great value was said, and before long Mr. Finch and Rosamond had fallen back a little and appeared to be engaged in an earnest, if hushed, conversation of their own.
"They are speaking very seriously," Kitty said gleefully, though she wished she could speak to Rose alone, for that was why she had really come to Widcombe. Robert, glancing over his shoulder, took in the scene behind them.
"Indeed they are."
"I wonder what they are talking about," Kitty went on. "I am sure it must be something of great import."
"I find that very few people discuss anything of 'great import,'" Robert replied drily. "More often we talk about things which we think vastly significant, but which are in fact very small concerns in the lives of very small people."
"Lord," Kitty laughed, "that is very hard upon your sister, and I daresay upon everybody else as well!"
"I mean no insult. I only mean that we, as a society, have a habit of considering all of our personal affairs very momentous when there is no need."
"That I agree with," Kitty said, though she was not entirely sure she had his meaning aright. "I think everybody ought to laugh more, and think less."
"Perhaps that would solve a great many problems."
"I think it would. But I do not know how you can speak so, and yet take so much pleasure in conversations with my sister Mary, who is always very serious and thinks every little thing a matter worthy of the gravest moral judgment."
Robert glanced at her and gave a little smile. "Your sister at least knows her own mind," he said. "It is only her perspective that may need adjustment."
Kitty did not understand what was meant by this, and instead looked back at Rosamond and Mr. Finch again. They were still speaking together, and Rosamond was smiling. Kitty wished they would walk a little faster. "But it must be a very significant conversation," she said, "for they are very long about it, and taking great pains to keep it secret from us."
"Not so significant; I doubt any affairs of the world are being decided, or lives being changed."
"Oh," Kitty said, suddenly struck by the thought that perhaps Mr. Finch was taking the opportunity to press his suit. She elected to pursue the path of greatest discretion. "Perhaps you are right."
She and Robert walked on a little longer, before at last Kitty decided that though she could not speak to Rosamond just now, she may as well make do with her present companion; and so, as they stopped to wait for the others, she asked directly, "Mr. Hart, have you ever met a Miss Pamela Price?"
Robert seemed surprised by the question. "Is she a friend of yours?"
"No—well—I do not know her, but I understand she is Mr. Price's sister. He said she has been in Bath before, and I was wondering if you had ever met her. You and your family seem to know everybody who comes to Bath."
"We may have met, of course, but I cannot say with any certainty. You are addressing the wrong twin, Miss Bennet," he added, apologetically. "Rose is much better than I am at recalling names and faces."
"It does not matter," Kitty said, though truly she was rather disappointed. "I do not have any specific aim in mind," she added conscientiously, though Robert did not seem to be expecting an explanation, "only curiosity."
Robert nodded, but said nothing else.
Rosamond, upon hearing the name in question, bit her lip and admitted that though she had heard the name, she could not be entirely certain whether they had ever met; but if they had, surely it was only for a moment or two. Kitty thought she saw a question in her friend's eyes, but Rosamond did not give voice to it, and instead only turned to Mr. Finch to ask if he had heard of the young lady.
To everyone's surprise, he had. "I have met her several times," was the immediate response. "Only briefly, and it was some time ago—but she spent a Season here. Do you not remember, Robert? You danced with her at the Upper Rooms."
Robert's eyes widened, and Rosamond laughed. "What a scoundrel you are, brother!" she teased. "To dance with a lady—to make her quite in love with you, no doubt—and then to forget her entirely! I am ashamed to be called your sister."
"It was only one dance, Miss Hart," Mr. Finch interjected, blushing, "your brother is not so villainous."
"But what was she like?" Kitty demanded eagerly. "Was she handsome? Was she well-tempered?"
"Was she a good dancer, Robert?" Rosamond asked mischievously.
Mr. Finch, belatedly realizing that he was the only one of the party who might answer Kitty's questions, met her eyes for a moment and glanced away. "She was most kind to her mother, whose health was quite poor at the time—I believe that was why they had come to Bath."
"When did they come?"
"It was two years ago now, I believe. Perhaps a little more."
"And did she mention her brother?"
"I cannot say that she did," Mr. Finch replied, quite stiffly. Kitty felt the awkwardness in his tone, but soldiered on.
"But was she amiable? Not only to her mother, I mean, but to everyone else?"
"She was. I thought her an agreeable girl, if rather—" He paused, and the others looked at him.
"Rather what?" Robert pressed. "You cannot stop there, Oliver; I am quite curious now."
Oliver gave his friend a weak smile. "She was rather distant," he finished at last. "She never seemed particularly happy in company; or so I thought. I imagine it was concern for her mother's health which made her so."
"How unfortunate," Rosamond said softly. "I do hope everything turned out all right."
"I believe her mother was recovered by the time they left Bath. But as to their present situation, I could not say."
Oliver was blushing a little, and did not meet anyone's eyes; his gaze was directed toward the swaying treetops. The four of them stood in silence for another moment, before Robert quietly suggested that they begin walking back to Hart House for some tea.
As they walked, Kitty considered the matter as it lay now. She was certain that Alexander could not have known how ill his mother had been, nor how it had worried his sister, or he would surely have affected a reconciliation; she also thought it possible that he had been mistaken in his sister's character, or that some great change had been affected in her since their last meeting—for she did not think Oliver Finch the sort to be taken in by feigned amiability, however foolish Alexander thought him. Perhaps she might persuade Alexander to contact his sister, and so begin a friendly correspondence between them, which might end in a happy reunion.
It also occurred to her that Oliver Finch was not telling them everything he knew about the young lady; his hesitation and faraway gaze was proof enough of that, but she could not consider this matter very deeply, for just then Rosamond asked "Why did you wish to know about Miss Price, Kitty?"
"Oh," Kitty answered, a little embarrassed, "only curiosity, you know."
"But how did you come across her name at all?"
"Why, Mr. Price mentioned her—but he did not tell me much about her, and I did not like to ask, for fear of seeming impolite."
Rosamond appeared to consider this.
"What a peculiar mind you have," Robert Hart interjected, with what Kitty hoped was a teasing tone, "to think it impolite to ask a gentleman about his own family, yet have no qualms about questioning everyone else."
"I do not mean any harm," Kitty protested, a little hurt.
"Perhaps not; but you certainly take a rather circuitous route," Rosamond agreed, laughing. "I am sure Mr. Price himself could give you the completest picture of his sister, if that is what you want."
"I do not think he likes talking about her," Kitty answered with a careful vagueness.
Neither brother nor sister had anything to say to this, and Mr. Finch had nothing to say at all, and their conversation turned to other things as they returned to Hart House. Kitty was glad of the change in subject. She could not help feeling a little awkward discussing Miss Price (or her brother, for that matter) with Mr. Finch; she felt sure that there had been some censure in his brown eyes.
She was surprised therefore, when, upon their leaving Hart House together (Kitty being bound for an engagement with Miss Wolfe in Milsom Street, and Mr. Finch returning to Larkhall to prepare for his Sunday duties), the gentleman very haltingly asked her whether Mr. Price was well.
"Indeed he is," Kitty said, taken aback that Mr. Finch had initiated any sort of conversation, let alone one regarding a gentleman for whom he clearly had no fondness. "I saw him only yesterday, and he was in the best of spirits."
"I am pleased to hear it."
Kitty was not certain this was the case, but appreciated her companion's effort, and said magnanimously, "You and Rose seem to be very much in each others' confidence. You were walking and talking so long together today, that Mr. Hart and I considered going back to Hart House without you."
"It was not our intention to keep you waiting."
"I did not mind it," Kitty answered, laughing. "But I am sure she likes you above anyone. I never see her smile so much when she is talking with certain other gentlemen."
Mr. Finch's brow furrowed softly. "I always enjoy the lady's company," he replied, "and I hope she enjoys mine."
"She does," Kitty said confidently. "She told me she prefers your company to that of any other gentleman. Is that not kind of her?"
Rosamond had of course said no such thing, but Mr. Finch could not know that.
"Miss Rosamond is possessed of an excellent nature," he replied, "and I have never known her to be anything but kind. It is no wonder she is so generally well-liked; yet sometimes I do wonder that she likes me."
He said this very quietly, and immediately blushed very red, and looked as though he had not meant to say it at all. Kitty, her heart overflowing with tenderness, took his arm consolingly.
"Of course she likes you," she declared cheerfully. "Even if you are rather reserved, and serious, you are really very amiable and Rose is clever enough not to mind the other things."
"Thank you, Miss Bennet."
"Is it not marvelous," she continued, "to find someone who likes you very much, even when you do not entirely know why? That is what it is like with Mr. Price," she added, a little consciously; for despite the sort of intimacy which had suddenly sprung up between them, she was hesitant to be too open. But she went on, "He is always very kind to me, and says such wonderful things; and even though I do not always think they are true, it is lovely to know that he thinks so."
Kitty was quite unprepared for the rush of relief which swept over her when she spoke of Alexander. She had not realized how very much she wished to have someone to listen to her as she detailed the compliments he had paid her, and the various kindnesses he had done her, and the ways in which he looked at her. She suddenly, desperately wished she could speak this way to Rosamond, or Juliet, or even Mary—someone of her own age, who might giggle and gasp along with her. Mr. Finch glanced at her, but did not respond.
"Is that not how it is with Rose?" Kitty pressed, a little embarrassed.
There was a long pause; then, "Somewhat," Mr. Finch admitted. "She has always been most amiable. I am very glad to count her as a friend."
"There, you see," Kitty said, with satisfaction.
"She is very easy to talk to; perhaps" and now he was smiling, faintly, "more so than anyone else I know."
"If she does not mind talking with Mary," Kitty assured him, "she can never mind talking with you.—Mr. Price tells me that I am a brighter conversationalist than any other young lady, and more amusing as well. I am sure he is only flattering me, but it is nice to be flattered."
"Indeed."
"And," Kitty went on, feeling a wave of nostalgia for her whispered, tittering exchanges with Lydia, "he scoffs when I say that I am not the beauty of my family (though that is because he has only ever seen Mary. He would certainly agree with me if he were ever to see Jane), and tells me I am prettier than any girl in Town. He says there is a simplicity to me that other young ladies lack. I cannot believe he finds me so beautiful as all that, but I think him the most charming man in the world for saying so."
"I understand he is very charming."
"The most charming man in the world," Kitty repeated with certainty. "I am sure I could never love anybody else."
Mr. Finch regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Are you, then—are you—engaged?"
Kitty bit her lip. "As it happens," she said, rather stiffly, "we are not."
Her companion said nothing, but glanced away, giving a small nod to a passing acquaintance. Kitty watched him carefully.
"Not yet," she amended, "but he already speaks of our living in Town together, and all of the things we will do when we are there, and how much he shall like to meet my father and sisters. So you see he can have no wicked designs upon me—not if he speaks of meeting my family. He is most particularly eager to meet my brothers-in-law, and if he wished to—to elope, why, then I am sure he should fear them above anyone else, for they are the ones who would hunt him down and fight him. Papa is too old."
"I did not imply that Mr. Price wished to elope."
"Well I am sure you thought it," Kitty said crossly. "It is what everybody thinks, ever since Lydia ran away with Wickham. Everybody thinks I am silly and stupid and must be watched closely or I will do something very bad, but I am not such a fool as Lydia. I am older than she is, and I am sure I am cleverer too, or at least I understand things better. I could not be induced to run away with a gentleman, merely upon his word."
Mr. Finch was staring at her with no small amount of surprise. It suddenly occurred to Kitty that he almost certainly did not know what she was talking about, and she blushed a little.
"Anyway," she finished, "Mr. Price does mean to marry me; of that, I am certain. And I mean to marry him, and then we will be together forever, like in a fairy-tale, and be so much in love that everyone else envies us."
"Then I wish you great happiness."
"Thank you," Kitty said, appeased. "And thank you for letting me speak to you so long, Mr. Finch; it is only that you are the only one who knows how matters stand between us—though I suppose Mamma guesses, but I cannot say anything more to her or she will write to everyone in Meryton. It is nice to speak so freely."
"I do hope you will consider announcing the engagement," Mr. Finch replied, very seriously, "once it is official."
"Oh, of course we shall do so then.—You are very good at listening, Mr. Finch," she said. "I have no doubt that you will be a bishop before very long."
To her surprise, Mr. Finch smiled. "I am afraid it takes rather more than silence to be made a bishop."
"Whatever else is necessary," Kitty replied warmly, "I am sure you possess, or will learn quite quickly. Dr. Blackburn will be glad to have you as curate. And it is not only silence, you know—it is pretending to be interested. I know you do not like Mr. Price very well, but you do not tell me so when I speak of him. You are very impartial. That is why Mr. Collins is a poor clergyman," she added thoughtfully. "He has too many opinions, though they are mostly for the sake of pleasing his patroness, and he shares them too often. I hope, when you have a patroness, you will not blather on about her so much."
"I will try not to."
"Particularly if your patroness is as dreary as Lady Catherine. But I do not think you are in danger of being like Mr. Collins. He speaks far more than you do, and always at great length, and it is never very interesting; and he is rather foolish and embarrassing in company; and he is not nearly so handsome as you are."
This last was said entirely accidentally, and Kitty gave a little gasp, and flushed a deep red, and looked away; though she could not suppress a tiny giggle, which she smothered with her hand. Mr. Finch looked quite startled, and he too was blushing (though he had not said anything foolish). Kitty supposed that, as a clergyman, he was not used to being told he was handsome. She hoped that Rosamond would endeavor to rectify this.
"Anyway," she said, with what she thought was admirable casualness, "I think you will be a very good curate, and an even better rector, and I hope that someday they put you in charge of the entire church. This is where I must leave you, for I am going to Milsom Street. Goodbye!"
And with a hurried curtsy and a flashed smile, she hastened away, leaving Mr. Finch standing rather confusedly upon the Pulteney Bridge.
Despite the spirited description of Alexander's charm which she had given Mr. Finch, Kitty could not help finding their next encounter as troubling as the previous one. Mr. Price had called at Henry Street, where Mrs. Bennet had fawned over him (as usual) and Mary had glowered at him over the top of her book (as usual), and Kitty had sat beside him on the settee, regarding him warmly and blushing when he glanced in her direction. His conversation with Mrs. Bennet was amiable and lively, and he was even polite to Mary, and afforded Kitty several very tender looks when her mother and sister were not watching. All of this was very pleasant, and Kitty luxuriated in the significant smiles which her mother gave her, and even flattered herself to think Mary's glances more jealous than disapproving (for how often did Robert Hart call at Henry Street, and make himself so agreeable, and then walk out with her?).
Upon their leaving the house together, however, Mr. Price immediately embarked upon a long catalogue of the many ways in which Kitty was more handsome, more engaging, more captivating than she had been when he saw her three days before; and Kitty suddenly found herself wishing, above anything, that he would talk about something besides her.
"Are you going to the fancy-ball on Thursday?" she interrupted him.
Alexander was startled, but recovered quickly. "I am, and I am looking forward to it very much."
"So am I," Kitty agreed, unaccountably relieved. "It has been too long since we have had a ball, and I do so want to dance."
"I shall be glad to partner you."
Kitty giggled. "Only two dances—any more, and everyone will begin to talk."
"We cannot have that."
His tone was very serious, but as Kitty glanced at him, he gave her a smile.
"Did you know," she said carefully, taking advantage of his good humor (not that he had any other sort), "that your mother and sister were in Bath only two years ago?"
The smile dropped from his face. Kitty's stomach sank.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I spoke to—to Rosamond," she said, hesitantly. "She said she had met Miss Price when she was in Bath, and that it was two years ago, or maybe a little more."
Alexander did not say anything. He was staring at the road ahead of them.
"She said that your sister was very amiable," Kitty ventured. "She liked her very much. I know you said that you thought Miss Price selfish and unkind, but surely there has been some great change in her since last you were together."
"Miss Hart does not know my sister."
"Why, surely she does not know her so well as you do, but she said—"
"No, Kitty," he continued, his expression dark. "Miss Hart has not met my sister. I have known her for well over a year, now. Surely, if she were also acquainted with my sister, she would have mentioned her, or asked after her, or sent her compliments, or something along those lines."
Kitty did not have an answer for this. She did not like Alexander's tone; his voice was very low.
"So the question is," he continued, "where has this glowing report truly originated?"
Kitty took a deep breath. "Rose has met Miss Price," she insisted, but went on charily, "though—she did not remember her very well, or they were never very intimate; she certainly must not have realized that you were related."
"Then to whom have you been speaking?"
"Well—I—" She hesitated; but she could not bear to lie to him any longer (and was a little afraid to, besides). "Mr. Finch knew her when she was here," she answered, quietly.
"Mr. Finch," Alexander said flatly.
"He was the one who said she was amiable, and that Robert Hart danced with her once. And he also said," she continued, remembering herself, "that they came to Bath because your mother was very ill, and that Miss Price was most kind to her, and took excellent care of her. He seemed as though he had thought very well of her."
To her surprise, Alexander gave a short bark of a laugh. "He was probably in love with her."
"Oh! I do not think so," Kitty said, reproachfully.
"No? Well, it does not matter. Oliver Finch—you do speak of Oliver, don't you? Yes, for you always speak of Oliver—Oliver Finch is a dullard and a prig, who likes everyone because he is not clever enough to do otherwise, but has not the strength of character to make anybody like him."
Kitty thought this highly unfair, and opened her mouth to say so, but Alexander went on,
"His word cannot compel me to think differently than I do of my sister, or of my mother, or of anybody else. And I do wish, Kitty, that you would stop meddling in my affairs; I have never appreciated inquisitiveness. I think it a grotesque quality, which transforms otherwise agreeable young ladies into gossipy fishwives."
Kitty was silent. She felt rather cold, not only because of the September chill in the air. At least, she thought vaguely, he had not shouted at her; that should have greatly frightened her; but she could not help finding his low voice and hard eyes rather more menacing.
Alexander, glancing at her, seemed to realize this; and, putting his arm carefully about her waist, he drew her close to him.
"I love you," he said, softly. "But you do exasperate me sometimes."
Kitty averted her gaze and did not reply. The first time he had spoken to her so, she had cried and pled with him to forgive her; but she could not seem to find any tears within herself this time, much less any pleading.
"I do not understand why you are so interested in my family," Alexander continued. "I promise you, they are not worth your care and concern."
"I wish you would tell me how they have offended you. I would have you make amends."
"I wish you would not pry," he replied, irritation seeping through his gentle tone. "There are no amends to be made."
"How can you know?"
Alexander breathed out through his nose and looked away for a long moment. When he turned to her again, his blue eyes were wide and soft.
"My love," he said, quietly, "my beauty, you must trust me. This is one of many areas in which you must trust that I know what I am about, and that I will not lead you astray. Besides," he added, giving her a wide smile, "it is unseemly for a wife to ask so many questions of her husband."
"I am not your wife," she said, rather bitterly.
"But I would have you become so."
Kitty turned to him; and, before her eyes, he dropped to one knee and took her hand. Her heart began to beat very fast and her face went red, then white.
"Katherine," he began, slowly, "I have made no secret of my feelings for you; from the first moment of our meeting, I have thought you sweeter, lovelier, more enchanting than any other young lady upon whom I have ever laid eyes. The goodness of your nature has captivated me, wholly and completely."
Kitty's palms were sweating, and she hoped he would not notice. Her irritation, her frustration, her doubt vanished in an instant—he was proposing—he was asking her to marry him (though she could not help wishing, only a little, that he would stop complimenting her, and simply ask the question)—
"When first I saw you," he continued, "I knew I must make you my own; I must have you beside me, every day, forever, for I could not bear to be parted from you. Your charms are refreshing in their simplicity, your laughter infectious, your smile like that of an angel; you are a bright star in a dark sky. My only wish is to spend the rest of my life making you happy, and showing you the world as you wish to see it, and proving to everyone the veracity of true love. Katherine, my Kitty, my sweet one, will you marry me?"
"Yes," Kitty mouthed, her voice gone entirely, but a moment later she was able to cry "Yes!" and throw her arms about him as he stood from the grass. "Yes, my love," she cried again, kissing him upon the cheek; "You have made me so happy!"
"You have made me happier," he replied, teasingly, taking her hand. "You do not know how long it has taken me to gather my courage."
"But why?" she demanded, laughing rather wildly, "For you knew I could only say yes!"
Mr. Price did not reply, but smiled at her, and began walking again. Kitty quieted as well, leaning dotingly upon his arm. There, she thought, rather smugly, she had been proved right; he did not mean to elope or otherwise discredit her—he had proposed openly and honestly and very tenderly. She was to be married, a married lady with a house in Town which she could now, without hesitation, consider her very own, and a husband handsomer than any of her sisters'. She could not wait to tell Mary, and Rosamond, and anyone else who might have doubted him.
"How perfect," she exclaimed eagerly, the thought suddenly occurring to her; "now we may announce it at the ball on Thursday."
Alexander glanced at her, a little uneasily. "Perhaps we might wait awhile, my love, before we spread the news," he said hesitantly. "We cannot be married for a little while, at least; I should not like to marry you until all of my affairs are in order, and I am confident that I can support you in the style to which you are accustomed."
"The style to which I am accustomed is not very grand," Kitty assured him. "I have only one hundred a year."
"Even so, there are some investments upon which I am waiting, and some loans to be returned, and a few other matters which I must see to before the wedding. Besides," he went on, "I thought we might be married from London, and it will take me a little time to make the arrangements there."
"Oh." Kitty was a little crestfallen. "I thought we might be married from Longbourn, as were my sisters—well, not Lydia, but then that was a different matter."
"From Longbourn? But would you not like to begin our new life in London? I have a friend there, a clergyman, who can marry us; and surely your family can come see us in Town. Your mother will certainly appreciate the opportunity."
This was true, and Kitty reflected upon it for a moment. She had always imagined herself married from home—but London was so much more elegant, and, as Alexander pointed out, it was to be the site of their life together. Would it not be exciting to have a London-wedding? Rosamond would certainly be jealous, and Maria Lucas, and so many of her other friends.
"Well, then," she said, brightening, "I do not see why we may not be married in Town. But how long, do you think, until everything is arranged?"
"Oh—a few weeks, or a month or two. Not very long."
This was less time than Kitty had anticipated.
"But I should like to continue as we have been until then. That is, discreetly—I would not have the gossips of Bath dissecting our engagement and speculating upon our chances of happiness. If we wait awhile, they will have less to talk about."
Kitty supposed this made sense, though she was rather disgruntled; she wished Alexander were not so concerned with what everybody else might say. "May I tell Mamma? I will ask her not to tell anyone."
"Of course you may tell your mother," Alexander answered, laughing. "She must be the first to know; though your sister, I think, will not be pleased."
"La! I won't tell Mary; I will save it as a grand surprise, and give her a very bad shock indeed. And I shall do the same with my other sisters. They will all be very surprised when I suddenly invite them to my wedding!"
Mrs. Bennet reacted quite as her daughter expected: with a loud squeal, and a crushing embrace, and much stroking of Kitty's hair, and many happy tears. She was perfectly understanding of the need for secrecy (or discretion, as Mr. Price called it), and indeed condemned the local gossips for making things so difficult for young couples. "One cannot even speak to a gentleman without everyone speculating upon it," she said disgustedly, "and when one is engaged to be married, it is even worse; everyone is so very nosy, and there are so many rumors spread. I wish I could tell Lady Lucas! But I shall wait, as you suggest, my dear. How happy I am for you! How glad I will be, to see all my girls married! We must have him to dinner tomorrow!"
Mary, coming home from Mostyn's a little later, did not seem to notice her mother's jubiliation or Kitty's insistent outbreaks of giggles; or if she did, she did not attribute it to its true cause.
As the evening went by, however, Kitty sobered somewhat more quickly than she should have. The initial exhilaration of the proposal had passed, and she found herself frequently lost in thought. There was something which troubled her, pressing and pressing at her, but she could not tell what it was. Of course she was still a little bothered by Alexander's relationship with his mother and sister—that was only natural, for she loved him and she wished him happiness in all aspects of his life. But there was something else. It was a little niggling feeling, a tiny hum in her mind that every so often manifested itself as an unexpected sinking of the stomach or worrying of the lip.
You are being ridiculous, she told herself sternly. It is only nerves; it is quite natural; there is no need to pay so much attention to it.
But she could not help it. She wondered if Jane or Lizzie or even Lydia had felt so, on the eve of their own engagements.
It was not until she was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, that it occurred to her. The candle was still lit, for Mary was reading (a new book, another recommendation of Rosamond's), and Kitty thought how very easy it would be to turn onto her side and make the announcement. It was only fair, she reasoned, that Mary should know. It was really rather unkind to keep it from her. And Alexander had not said she shouldn't tell her sister; he had only said that she would not be pleased. And indeed, Mary would not be pleased—but they were sisters, and surely she would not be entirely horrible about it. She knew how Kitty loved him, and how she had waited for this day. Certainly she would at least offer her congratulations, however insincere.
Kitty rolled onto her side, propping her head upon her hand, and watched her sister. Mary was holding the book with one hand, the other tugging lightly on her earlobe, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration. The hand at her ear came down and turned the page. Her eyes flicked from the end of one page to the beginning of the next. Her hand came up again, this time tangling in her hair and wrapping a strand around one finger.
Kitty suddenly realized that she did not want to tell her sister. She did not want to tell Mary, or Rosamond, or Maria Lucas, or anybody else, though she could not say why. The thought brought a sudden lump to her throat.
"You are staring at me," Mary murmured, glancing at her. "Am I keeping you awake?"
"I am not very tired," Kitty said, and it was true.
"You may read one of my books, if you like."
Kitty rolled onto her back and rested her hands on her stomach. "No, thank you. I should like to think for awhile."
Mary gave an uncharitable little snort, and turned the page again.
Kitty lay silently, her eyes fixed upon the ceiling, and thought without focus. She could not tell how long it was before Mary laid her book upon the little table between their beds, whispered "Goodnight, Kitty," and blew out the candle. She closed her eyes against the dark as she listened to Mary arrange herself in the bed. The evening had turned cloudy, and the light straining through the window was muted. Before much longer, only the soft sound of Mary's breathing filled the room. Kitty turned onto her side and tucked her hands beneath her pillow, biting her lip and squeezing her eyes shut as she sank into a dreamless sleep.