CHAPTER EIGHT

Sunday April 26

I saw him today! I also saw a very embarrassed Sir Thomas who hardly looked at me and a haughty Lord Gosford, but Mr Beaupays was there and he walked me outside after the service and was very agreeable and kind and made me such a number of pretty compliments. I was walking on air!

"Miss Bennet," he said, "you look remarkably well today!"

"Thank you, sir," I said, smiling back. "You don't look particularly bad yourself."

He only half-laughed, and I could tell was secretly a little concerned. "Not particularly bad? A compliment indeed! I am glad I took such care with my clothes in that case, if I earned such praise from your lips!"

Sometimes the way he speaks and his expressions makes me want to double over with laughter. Very improper, probably, but I am afraid that is how things stand. I love every little bit about him – well, almost – but his whole life seems to be governed by clothes and appearance and such trifles. Trifles, indeed! The whole of high class society seems to be run by them, and at times, it worries me. Would he like me if I were not pretty? – and I know I am, unfortunately – yes, very vain, but could anyone be so foolish as to think themselves only mediocre if someone like Mr Beaupays is attracted to them? I have changed somewhat over the last year. Anyhow, it worries me. What if I were Mary in appearance and Kitty in heart? He would look at me and raise his eyebrows with a little conceited smirk, I am sure he would, and then he would pay no more attention to me ever again. When we are married I will have to make it my job to educate him in this matter.

I managed to restrain myself this time from bursting into very improper tears of laughter, and made do with a small smile. "Oh, don't worry, sir, you know you make quite a picture."

He smiled again, relieved. He drove me home in his phaeton (we had permission since we took Betty) although he is terribly bad at driving. He concentrates grimly on the task as if it were as important as life and death, staring ahead, but trying to talk flat out at the same time. He drives too slowly on the straight, and takes corners much too fast, and has no grasp of balance or relatives. I was concerned all the way and even begged him to let me take the reins after another close upheaval. Not that I can drive much better, but at least I do know to slow down at corners and speed up on the straights.

"No, no, no!" he insisted. "I am quite fine. Not the most skilled whipster, I admit, but I can manage tolerably, I am sure."

I wasn't quite sure, but I consoled myself with the notion that if he overturned us, he would have to be very gallant and handsome to make up for it. It was a wonderful drive; contrary to what you may believe, his head is not wholly taken up with trifles and ribbons and bonnets. We had a very interesting discussion about different species of trees which grace the road to Pemberley, (some people in my history would not believe I could ever be interested in such things). I must admit though that after several short minutes of that, he clapped his hands, (I watched the reins in concern), and said, "Enough of that dull stuff! Who is your favourite seamstress?"

I smiled in amusement. I used to think I might get bored and tired with his ever-continuing theories and wanderings on clothes, but when I think about it now, it just serves to amuse me. And how many women have complained about their husbands being absolutely impervious to the claims of fashion? At least I shall not be one of them! And if I ever get tired of it, I shall visit my perfectly serious, thoughtful and boring sister Mary, and rush back to him in a day, happy and grateful to have a frivolous husband.

No. That is cruel. If I did not wish to keep a strictly authentic diary, I would cross that out immediately. Mary is not all bad. She can find it in herself to be companionable, and I must admit I have never tried to draw her out. Poor thing, in fact, she must be very lonely sometimes. Father hardly tolerates her, and Mama is, frankly, on the far, opposite end of the spectrum from Mary and I doubt she would ever find it any comfort to have Mama's approval. Lydia and I tease her and Jane and Elizabeth are no more than tolerant of her.

I feel terrible, diary. Thinking about it makes me feel like a horrible, unsisterly, inhuman beast. I hereby resolve to be kinder to Mary when I next see her. I don't have great hopes of becoming friends with her, but at least I shan't be conscience-struck whenever I think of it.

Tuesday April 28

I had a lovely day yesterday, diary! Mr Darcy, Elizabeth, Georgiana, Mr Beaupays and I went out for a wonderful picnic in the woods, and we picked blackberries and ate them. It wasn't so perfect an idea as I thought it would be because the wild blackberries ripped both mine and Georgiana's dresses slightly – which quite shocked Mr Beaupays into despair – and Elizabeth couldn't get near the berries because she is so large now! But it was still a delicious afternoon, and we were very lucky to have Mr Beaupays with us. He turned up in the morning, just as we were setting out, and Elizabeth, noting my sudden exuberance, invited him too. She is such a kind sister! I shall be always grateful to her for this trip to Pemberley, although I must say I shall never think of those horrible couple of days organising her baby's life without a shudder.

Anyhow, we sat and ate heavenly food from the Pemberley kitchens, spread out over blankets, and drank Pemberley's prize wine. I must say that food was miles better than anything Lord Gosford's startlingly mediocre cook made for the Falconhurst picnic. And Mr Beaupays and Lizzy cracked jokes, and Darcy, Georgiana and I smiled and ate, and I had a very stimulating conversation with my brother-in-law (whose name I have never managed to pronounce, though urged to – I fear my sense of humour would overcome my sense of better judgement in calling him Fitzwilliam) about the importance of having a good clergyman in a district and what a difference it made to the overall climate of a town. Mr Beaupays joined in the discussion at some point and quickly manoeuvred the subject to something else, I forget what, but it was very interesting, and he was very nice to me. As soon as I got home, I flopped on my bed, starry-eyed, with a goofy smile on my face, and thought only of him. I think that this time, it is the real thing, diary. Lord Gosford and Sir Thomas were interesting interruptions in the story, you could probably say. But I have a curious feeling that Mr Beaupays is who I will end up with.

Reading over my diary now, I realise that from the way I have described him, you may have concocted an image of him in your subconscious mind that is far different and much worse than the real picture. It isn't like that. How can I explain what he is really like? It isn't so much what he says and does that makes him special; it is the way he smiles, or the way he takes one's arm when handing one down from the carriage. Or the way he pretends to be impervious and inalterably strong, but has a little vulnerable look in his eyes whenever he looks my way. Or the way I can tell – I am sure – that very deep down, he does realise that some things are more important than clothes. (And of course he is very handsome but that doesn't matter at all! – only a little bit.)

You see, diary, that he is really a very nice man and I should love holding dinner parties for all the cream of society.

And today was a nice day also, although I did not see Mr Beaupays. But I had a lovely afternoon in the grove with Louisa, acting out the Scottish play. Louisa was Macbeth and I was everything else, except when Macbeth wasn't in a scene – then Louisa took another part. I can tell you honestly that we scared shivers down our own spines being the weird sisters. Shakespeare is just dramatic enough to be out-of-the-ordinary and just realistic enough to be dramatic and spine-tingling. I would love beyond all things to be a playwright! Well, maybe except for marrying Mr Beaupays, but still, I think it must be such a romantic life! Louisa wishes to be one too.

"Kitty!" she said in inspired tones, eyes wide and hands grasping mine. "We should write our own play!"

So we are going to. It will be fun that I am sure can never be equalled. She is to come around to Pemberley tomorrow, when Alice comes to visit Georgiana, and we are to start our play. We don't have any ideas yet, and although I have racked my brains, the only ideas that pop into my head are things like, 'a Scottish lord who meets witches who make him ambitious, which causes him to kill the king,' or 'a Moor who becomes jealous of another man's supposed hold on his Venetian wife and kills her', or 'two lovers whose families are desperately opposed to each other.' They are wonderful ideas but unfortunately have already been used. Isn't it an annoyance when you are trying so hard to think of something, and everything else pops into your head? Like when you say, "I would like to write a book like such-and-such," and then find it difficult to think of anything but the exact same storyline of such-and-such. Or, "I would like to write a song like such-and-such," and ever since then your head has been bombarded with the tune of such-and-such when you are trying to think of a different tune, all of your own. Such things have nearly caused me to rip out my hair in frustration many times.

Wednesday April 29

It may seem strange, diary, that I hardly talk about Georgiana. I suddenly realised in bed last night that I have scarcely said a word about her, except my first impressions and the bare facts. Well, we are not the best of friends, but still get along rather well indeed. Our personalities being so different, we find it hard to relate perfectly, but I like her very much indeed and think she is very sweet, worthy, and generous. Of course we have our differences and would find each other's constant company a little irksome. But we have our own friends, and do our own things, and therefore get along remarkably well for two very different people. I like her very much indeed, but would not be inconsolable if I never saw her again, just a little disappointed. That sounds very hard-hearted, but it is the truth.

I also realised that I hardly mention a change that has greatly affected my life in general. Ever since I first heard Mr Wakefield speak, I have been thinking more and more about God, and . . . well . . . I think God just seems more real to me now. I have been reading my Bible more and I am starting to understand it more. I am realising now what it means to be a Christian, and it is certainly not just going to church and saying grace at mealtimes. The thing that cuts through the outer core and reaches my heart the most is the fact that I know I am guilty and unworthy of being loved by such a person as God, but that Christ still died for me, while I was still unworthy. There is a verse in the epistle to the Romans that says 'For scarcely for a righteous man will one die: yet peradventure for a good man some would even dare to die. But God commandeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.' I find it very hard to explain, while I know I am still the same Kitty, peacock and all (though trying hard not to be) – but I know that when I first discovered that Christianity wasn't just about putting your tuppence in the collection bag, I was plain scared. Because I knew that I wasn't there. But now, as I know more about it, and more about God, I feel much better, because I know now that God is a forgiving God.

Well, that was a very large rant about something that used to be an absurdity and a bore to me. Pray forget it if you wish, but remember that it is important to me.

I told you yesterday about the play-writing Louisa and I were to attempt to do today. Essentially it was a mess, but it was an amusement, I suppose. Our end result was not satisfying, but Louisa has persuaded me to think that when I am a famous playwright, I will look back and laugh and say, "That was the beginning of a rich and wonderful career." Hmmm. Maybe. Maybe not!

I shall show you an excerpt of our inspired reflections.

Enter butler.

Butler: "Good evening, master."

Master: "Good evening, Samson. I am feeling very sombre tonight and would like to have a glass of port and a pastry, if you please."

Butler: "Will that be a blueberry or an apricot pastry, sir?"

Master: "Blueberry, please, with that wonderful glaze Cook does, and a sprinkling of icing sugar. And then call in my lawyer."

Butler: "At once, sir. Will you take the 1645 port or the 1701?"

Master: "It is a difficult decision. Which do you recommend, Samson?"

There is a crash outside.

Butler: "Oh, sir! I just heard a crash outside! What do you suppose it could be?"

Master: "Burglars, perhaps, or maybe wolves. I shall take my revolver and check."

It is a frightful embarrassment to me because it is so boring and it winds around in circles dreadfully. I don't think we had a plot at all. It was about a lord who has a son who has an incurable disease who wants to marry someone, and the lord is having trouble with funds and housebreakers, and the butler, meanwhile, is being threatened by thugs to murder the lord or his family will suffer, and the person the lord's son wants to marry has a dark secret we have not quite decided on yet, and meanwhile there is a war going on in the back garden, the French versus the English, and a lot of the play seems to refine upon Louisa's taste in food. I want to tear it up, but as I explained before, Louisa persuaded me to keep it. I feel she is overly optimistic. I don't think playwriting is written in the stars for me, somehow. But I will keep it, if only to humour her.