Author's Note: Thank you so much for the kind reviews! I'm so glad to see some of you who read Miss de Bourgh are interested in this story as well. I was a little bit nervous (okay, super nervous) about trying a sequel, even if it isn't really a proper sequel, and everybody has been lovely and encouraging. You guys really are fabulous!
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Kitty Bennet had never been an early riser, but she opened her eyes, on her first morning in Bath, with none of her usual sluggishness. Sunlight was streaming in through the tall windows, and Kitty sat up in her bed to press her face to the glass. Her heart raced, and she threw back her covers, all but dancing to the wardrobe.
She dressed quickly, careful not to wake her sister, still sleeping soundly in the other bed. Mary had been excessively disagreeable of late, indeed ever since the scheme of coming to Bath was first proposed, and Kitty was eager to enjoy her first moments in the city (the previous evening did not count, for she had only just arrived) without her sister ruining them. She pulled on her bonnet, spencer, and gloves, and hurried out of the room.
Kitty was the first of the Bennet ladies to rise, and so the house was quiet; but the world outside was not. Despite the early hour, merchants and their assistants were opening their shops, and a few of the Bennets' neighbors were already emerging from their houses, parasols held aloft in the sunshine. Kitty stood on the front step for a moment, surveying the scene breathlessly.
She had never been to London, or Brighton, or any of the other fashionable places. As the fourth of five children, in a family whose living, while comfortable, was hardly luxurious, Kitty's opportunities for travel had been limited; Pemberley was the farthest she had ever been from home. There had once been talk of sending her to stay with her aunt and uncle Gardiner, in Cheapside, as a consolation for her not having been invited to Brighton—but this, of course, was before Lydia's elopement, which her father had interpreted as a sign that his youngest daughters, so long scolded by their elder sisters for their frivolity, were indeed not to be trusted. Kitty naturally found this utterly unfair, and had complained about it very bitterly, with a great many tears; but none of this had ever made any difference to her father's opinion.
For a young lady of eighteen, desperate for romance and excitement, who yearns for new faces and new adventures; for a young lady who has pored over the London fashion plates for which her aunt Philips sends away every season, and has taken care to practice her dancing at every opportunity; for a young lady who delights in laughter and flirtation, and is never happier than when she is on the arm of a gallant officer in a red coat; for such a young lady, the countryside is unbearably confining. This, Kitty felt, was what her father did not understand.
(She was of course mistaken—Mr. Bennet understood this only too well, and it formed a great part of his reluctance to send Kitty away from Longbourn. Yet he also understood, though grudgingly, that a young lady deprived of new experiences can never achieve her full potential, and it was this knowledge which had at last convinced him that a few months in Bath could do no great harm.)
But at last Kitty was away—away from Longbourn, from Meryton, from Hertfordshire. Kitty's dreams that night had been of Bath: of the Pump-room and the Roman Baths, of the canal, of Milsom Street, of the tea-shops and of a great many glittering ballrooms. She had danced with dashing soldiers, tall dark-eyed Lords and Sirs, one or two gentlemen who bore a striking resemblance to the elder Mr. Hart, and even a foreign prince with a gold crown upon his head. Though she had not yet met any of these fancied suitors, she was pleased to find that the real waking city, in appearance at least, lived up to her expectations. Bath was perfect; walking lightly down the street, she found pleasure in everything she saw. The ladies were smartly attired, the gentlemen invariably handsome, and the shop windows teeming with objects of interest. The sun gleamed brilliantly on the white stone, and the sky was a crisp late-summer blue. Kitty felt rather lightheaded with happiness.
The eastern end of Henry Street met Manvers Street, and Kitty, unwilling to go much further lest she should lose her bearings, stood for a moment on the corner. Manvers Street was a much larger thoroughfare, and much busier; carts and carriages raced up and down, while men and women passed Kitty hurriedly, their footsteps and voices echoing softly. There was a cheerful hum to the city, an agreeable rhythm which Kitty found soothing. She craned her neck, to see if she could catch a glimpse of the river, but it was too far away; so she contented herself with watching the people instead.
At length, however, the insistent rumbling of her stomach reminded Kitty of the early hour, and she hurried home.
The Bennet ladies breakfasted noisily, though there was a noticeable imbalance of conversation. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty prattled over one another—about their plans for the day, about the families they were going to call on, about whose names they should find on the Pump-room register—while Mary sat, silent, picking at her food, until Mrs. Bennet rebuked her for her sulky manner.
"I am sure you are the most ungrateful young lady I ever saw," Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, eyeing her daughter crossly. "I declare there are dozens of girls in Meryton who would prefer your present situation to their own."
"Then we are equally unfortunate, for I would much prefer to be back in Meryton," Mary replied irritably.
Mrs. Bennet threw up her hands in frustration.
"Mamma," Kitty cried, "you mustn't pay Mary any mind—for we are in Bath, and we shall be happy here, even if she will not."
"How right you are, my dear," Mrs. Bennet agreed, giving her younger daughter a beatific smile. "We must not let your sister's bad temper spoil our own merriment; we must make every effort to enjoy ourselves."
She afforded Mary a punishing glare, before turning her smile upon Kitty again.
Despite her eagerness to make the acquaintance of the promising young Mr. Hart, Mrs. Bennet had elected to call first upon the Fitzwilliams, who lived in James Street. The Colonel's intimate friendship with Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy was the closer connexion, and demanded the greater courtesy—besides which, Mrs. Bennet hoped that Colonel Fitzwilliam's extensive military acquaintance might yield a second prospective son-in-law. It was a short walk, which led them close to the center of town, though, to Kitty's disappointment, they did not pass the Abbey, or the Pump-room, or the Roman Baths, or any of the other sights worth seeing. The house was a pleasant one, very well kept, with a tidy parlor into which the Bennets were shown upon their arrival.
Here, Mrs. Bennet was pleased to find Mrs. Fitzwilliam already sitting with Mrs. and Miss Hart, in addition to two young gentlemen unfamiliar to her—one of whom, she deduced, must be Miss Hart's propitious brother. (She smiled benevolently at both of them.) Kitty was overjoyed to be reunited with her dear Rosamond, whose pleasure was no less, and the two young ladies greeted each other so happily, and with so many giggles and exclamations on Kitty's part, that it was several moments before Mrs. Fitzwilliam was able to make herself heard, and introduce the two gentlemen as Mr. Robert Hart and Mr. Oliver Finch.
Rosamond was a remarkably lovely girl, with gold hair, a delicate countenance, and large gray eyes; and her twin brother indeed resembled her in his coloring, though naturally his features were stronger and more masculine, and he was at least a foot taller than his sister (who was, it must be admitted, of a rather petite stature). Kitty was quick to notice his broad smile and fair hair, which reminded her a great deal of his elder brother, and she afforded Robert Hart her most charming smile as she curtsied. She was disappointed to see that he only gave her a polite bow in return.
Oliver Finch was the cousin of Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who, orphaned at a young age, had been raised in his family; indeed, the lady's first introduction to Colonel Fitzwilliam had come about because one of the Finch brothers had served in the colonel's regiment some years ago. This Mr. Finch, the youngest son of the family (he could not have been older than four-and-twenty), was not a soldier, but a clergyman, who had recently been named curate of one of the smaller parishes in Bath. Looking at him, however, Kitty wondered that he was not the military brother—Oliver Finch was taller even than Mr. Hart, and brawny, with shoulders that looked too wide to fit into a curate's robe. He was undoubtedly handsome, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and Mrs. Bennet privately decided that he might do very well for whichever of her daughters did not marry Mr. Hart.
The party sat down again. Kitty claimed a seat at Rosamond's side, impatient to hear her friend's news of the summer and even more impatient to relate her own; Mary, who had no interest in anybody's conversation, was disgruntled to find herself jostled from the first seat she took.
"Let the married ladies sit together, my dear," Mrs. Bennet said sweetly, sitting demurely between Mrs. Hart and Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "I see there is an empty chair by Mr. Hart."
Mary sighed, certain she should pass a very tiresome morning indeed.
Mr. Hart's first question was, of course, whether or not Miss Bennet liked Bath. Mary was not given to small talk, and was not in a humor to entertain polite remarks, and she answered, quite frankly, that she had not seen enough of it to form a complete opinion, but that she found it rather off-putting. To her surprise, Mr. Hart did not seem offended—in fact, he gave a short laugh.
"I had no anticipation of an honest reply, Miss Bennet, but I am grateful, for you have saved me a great many irksome pleasantries. I suppose I am not now obligated to ask you whether you have visited the Pump-room, or any of the other dull questions which are always repeated in Bath."
"I would not have an answer for you," Mary replied, rather nonplussed by his response.
"Thank God! Perhaps we may now have a true conversation."
Mary's interest was peaked, in spite of herself. "I am willing to make the attempt, sir, if you are."
"Tell me then, Miss Bennet, what it is that disturbs you about Bath."
Mrs. Bennet appeared to have overheard this request, for she gave Mary a very dark look, and a warning shake of the head; but Mary, feeling that it would be more polite to answer the question than to change the subject, ignored her. "Bath is too large for my tastes, Mr. Hart, and a great deal too crowded. I have no love of crowds; I always prefer an empty room to a full one. Besides this, I find the noise distracting."
"What is it distracting you from?"
"From my thoughts," Mary replied, though her mother was now gesturing reproachfully. "I believe careful self-examination to be essential for a full life, and it cannot be done when one is constantly agitated by noise. Furthermore, I find myself disgusted by the city's shallowness. The Pump-room, for example, is a building entirely devoted to spectacle: one goes only there to see and to be seen, which I believe is a waste of time that should be spent learning and improving one's mind. In a city built upon frivolity, there is no room for thought or reflection, which I believe to be critical if one hopes to better oneself."
It was the longest speech Mary had ever made to someone who was not a member of her immediate family, and Mr. Hart sat in silence for some moments after she had finished. At length, however, he replied:
"I am in agreement with much of what you say, Miss Bennet, concerning the problem of shallowness; but I would argue that one cannot improve oneself merely by thinking. Experience and practice are also necessary."
"The experience of a ball—the practice of promenading?"
"Perhaps; but I meant more generally the experience of unhappiness, and the practice of enduring unfortunate circumstances. It is often said that one learns the most from adversity. If indeed you find Bath so trying as you say, then this may be your greatest opportunity."
Mary had attempted to remind herself of this, over the previous months, but one's mental and moral superiority can often be as lonely as it is reassuring, and she had found little comfort in her virtuous misery.
"Besides," Mr. Hart continued, "perhaps you may find that there is something to be said for frivolity. People, you know, must be amused."
"I disagree," Mary said haughtily. "I have never needed amusement."
"I am sure you have not," Mr. Hart replied, but there was something in his tone which hinted to Mary that he may have been laughing at her. "And what would you prefer, then, to Bath? A country village?"
"Not necessarily, though a village would be better," Mary answered, rather indignantly, for she did not take well to being laughed at. "I would prefer any quiet place—green, and tranquil, where one can be left alone in peace."
"I am often of your mind. As a student of medicine, I can tell you that certain studies have been performed, which show that men and women who spend their lives in the country quite often live longer than their city cousins."
"I am not surprised," Mary said, a little appeased. "And I am sure that farmers and shepherds are generally found to be morally superior to shopkeepers and publicans."
"I could not speak to that," Mr. Hart admitted, but the mocking tone had returned. Mary was glad to have found Robert Hart a good deal more serious-minded than his sister, but she could have wished that he was not so sardonic.
Kitty, for her part, was having a rather less weighty conversation with Rosamond. She was eager to hear all she could of how her friend had spent the Season in Bath—whom she had met, which balls she had attended, what she had worn, which scandals she had witnessed. Rosamond, upon discerning the general trend of her friend's questions, could not help but laugh.
"I do not live so glamorously as you seem to think," she teased. "I am sorry to confess that I spend a great deal of time writing letters, and a great deal of time upon the pianoforte; and when I can be prevailed upon to leave the house, it is usually only to call on Theo and Anne" (she indicated Mrs. Hart) "or occasionally to visit a book-shop."
Kitty was insistent. "But you must have gone to the Assembly Rooms; does not your father have a subscription?"
"He does, and indeed we attended quite often this year. There were several excellent concerts held."
"And balls," Kitty returned, her impatience growing.
"And balls," Rosamond agreed teasingly. "But I must disappoint you, Kitty, for I do not think I danced with more than three earls this Season, and only one member of the Royal Family."
Kitty made a face at her, but could not help laughing.
"And you, Mr. Finch?" she added genially, for that gentleman, seated on Rosamond's other side, had heretofore been silent. "Did you enjoy the Season?"
"Oh—yes," he replied, looking startled at Kitty's address. "Yes, I enjoyed it very much."
He made no further reply, but cast his eyes down to his lap.
"Did you attend any assemblies in Hertfordshire?" Rosamond asked, after a moment of silence.
"La! None that were notable; balls are different in the country, you know, for there are never any new faces—unless there are officers in the village, or somebody has cousins to stay. But really it is only ever the same people."
"That is not so different from Bath," Rosamond said lightly. "One encounters many of the same people here, over and over again; there are only more of them."
"But I think it must be better, for everybody is so fashionably dressed, and it is not nearly so provincial," Kitty insisted. Rosamond laughed.
"Kitty, I am afraid you are mistaking us for London, and I hope you shall not be disappointed; Bath is really only a very small city, and not half so cosmopolitan as you seem to expect. Do you agree, Mr. Finch?"
"Yes—certainly," Mr. Finch agreed, blushing. Rosamond smiled at him.
"Of course it is not London; Papa would never have let me come, if it was," Kitty sighed. "But neither is it Meryton, and I am determined to be amused while I am here."
"I am glad to hear it!" Rosamond exclaimed. "Then I shall do my best to amuse you; should you like to walk to the Pump-room today? Anne and I had thought we might spend some time there, for we have not gone in a fortnight at least."
Kitty was thrilled at the proposition (though amazed that Rosamond could have stayed away from the place for an entire fortnight), and agreed readily, declaring that her mother and sister would certainly be glad to join the party.
"Or Mamma will, at any rate," she added ruefully. "Mary will likely roll her eyes, and complain all the way there. She has been horrid all summer, and only worse since we left Longbourn."
"Perhaps she is merely homesick," Rosamond said gently. "I am sure that her spirits will improve, once she has begun to enjoy herself."
"Mary never enjoys herself," Kitty assured her. "She considers enjoyment to be imprudent, and a waste of time.—Will you walk with us, Mr. Finch?"
Mr. Finch flushed, and stammered a response; and Kitty, who had originally considered him quite as attractive as Mr. Hart (the elder or the younger), began to think that he was really in fact very tiresome, and certainly not the dashing beau for which she had hoped. For all her romantic nature, Kitty was not so shallow that she could fall in love with a handsome man of no conversation; she did not require eloquence, but articulacy, at least, was to be preferred.
Besides which, she thought wisely, he was obviously quite in love with Rosamond, and therefore it was no hardship for her to give him up entirely.
In the end, it was only the Bennets and the Harts who made their way to the Pump-room. Mrs. Fitzwilliam was expecting more callers, and Mr. Finch, his handsome face very red indeed, managed to inform them that he had some parish business to take care of, but that he had enjoyed making the Bennets' acquaintance, and hoped that they would meet again soon.
"I believe that speech quite exhausted him," Mr. Hart remarked to Kitty, as they left the Fitzwilliams' house. "You must have made an impression on him, Miss Bennet, or I daresay he would only have muttered 'Goodbye' and made his escape."
"Robert, do try and appear well-mannered," Rosamond chided him. "I have told Mrs. Bennet that you are a gentleman, and I should hate for her to discover that I have been lying."
"Oh! My dear Miss Hart," Mrs. Bennet cried, "you must make no apologies to me for your brother's behavior; I daresay he is only a little high-spirited, as many gentlemen are!"
"Indeed," Mr. Hart said, "that is a kinder term than my sister generally uses."
But he was smiling, and Kitty, who for a moment had feared that the Harts' squabbling was serious, was relieved enough to ask Mr. Hart if he had enjoyed the Season.
"I have been rather too busy with my studies to go about very much," Mr. Hart replied, to Kitty's disappointment.
"Oh—but I hope you will not spend all your time at study, while we are here," Kitty said sweetly. "It would be very unkind of you, for Mamma and I have been eager to make your acquaintance, ever since Rosamond told us she had a twin. I have never met twins before." Mr. Hart smiled, to her delight (though she would rather have heard him laugh).
"You will soon find that we are no different from any other pair of siblings, except that we have rather less patience with one another."
"I am sure that is not the case, for you and your sister are both so good-natured!"
"It is all an act, I assure you," Mr. Hart said, with a confidential air. Kitty giggled, her heart fluttering. Though he was not an officer, she could not help thinking Robert Hart very agreeable indeed.
Mary would rather have been walking with Mr. Hart; as far as she was concerned, he was the only member of the party with any true depth of mind, and the only one with whom she could have a truly satisfying conversation. However, Kitty's hold on his arm was secure, and Mrs. Hart and Miss Hart were walking ahead together, so that Mary was obliged to walk with her mother. She was glad, at least, that she should not have to answer any insipid questions about whether she were enjoying Bath, and if she looked forward to the first ball at the Assembly Rooms; but, on the other hand, she was forced to endure Mrs. Bennet's admonishments on her conduct that morning.
"I daresay you were very rude to Mr. Hart," Mrs. Bennet said, hardly bothering to lower her voice. Mary reddened, and was glad that Kitty's chatter seemed to be sufficiently holding that gentleman's attention. "You must have made him very uncomfortable indeed—the poor man! I am sure he shall want nothing more to do with you, and who could blame him? I only hope you have not prejudiced him against your sister, as well!"
"Mr. Hart did not appear upset," Mary protested, more quietly. "Indeed, he even thanked me for my honesty."
Mrs. Bennet's eyes narrowed. "An honest young lady is hardly an amiable one, and I am sure you were very insolent. I shall wonder if I am able to sleep at all tonight, for all the damage you are doing to my poor nerves!"
She said this last very loudly, and at a moment when the conversation between Kitty and Mr. Hart had reached a pause. The two of them glanced back, Kitty with a smirk and Mr. Hart with an amused quirk of his lips. Mary, her face hot, averted her eyes, and attempted to look completely absorbed in studying the buildings they passed.
The Pump-room was large, with high ceilings and tall windows which offered an ideal view of the street outside. Kitty was unable to suppress a gasp as they entered. There were fashionable ladies and gentlemen walking up and down the room in twos and threes, laughing and calling to one another, and more parties seated near the walls. A band of musicians was situated in the alcove, playing a cheerful fast-paced tune that rose above the hum of voices.
"It is not very crowded today," Rosamond remarked. "I daresay we shall be able to find seats very easily."
Mary stared at her; to her, the room looked as crowded as any ballroom she had ever stood in.
"It is rather early, yet; and many of the families who came for the Season have left already," Mrs. Hart agreed. "Shall we sit?"
"I should like to take a turn—though I am hardly dressed for it," Mrs. Bennet declared, patting her bonnet nervously. "The girls and I shall join you in a moment or two, Mrs. Hart."
"I'll sit with you, Anne," Mr. Hart said.
"I should also like to sit," Mary cut in, glancing at her mother. To her surprise, Mrs. Bennet made no objection.
Rosamond's eyes had strayed to the pump. " I should like a glass of mineral-water," she said vaguely. "May I fetch one for anybody else?"
The others had scarcely given their polite denials before she had begun making her way across the room. Mrs. Bennet took Kitty's arm and swept her into the promenade, and Mary followed the Harts towards a cluster of empty chairs.
"I hope Rose is not feeling ill," Mrs. Hart commented, as they took their seats.
"I daresay she is feeling quite well," Mr. Hart assured her. "I am sure there is some less creditable reason for her abandonment."
Mrs. Hart smiled, and turned to Mary. "How are you enjoying Bath, Miss Bennet?"
"We have already established that Miss Bennet is not enjoying it," Mr. Hart put in. "She finds it too crowded, and the constant noise is not conducive to serious thought or self-reflection."
Mrs. Hart's brow wrinkled. "I am sorry to hear it. You must loathe the Pump-room especially, for crowds and noise are its particular domain."
"I believe loathe is too strong a word," Mary said carefully, her mother's remonstrances lingering in her mind. "I must admit that such surroundings offer plenty of opportunity for the observation of people; and an understanding of mankind in general is essential for an understanding of oneself."
Mrs. Hart bit her lip. "I believe you are right," she said finally. "I suppose such is the reason we read novels, or visit the theatre. There are no stories which fascinate us so much as our own—as human stories, I mean."
"I am not interested in stories," Mary objected. "I am interested in lessons."
"And you do not think we can take lessons from stories?" Mrs. Hart said, rather shrewdly.
Mary was quite unable to reply for a moment. Mr. Hart smiled at her silence.
"I warn you, Miss Bennet, that Anne has grown very adept at arguing over the past year or so. It is a survival tactic, on her part—she is married to my brother Theodore, and he is a lawyer."
"And he is of a naturally quarrelsome temperament besides," Mrs. Hart added, laughing. "But I think I see your point, Miss Bennet: you believe in looking at things from a moral perspective, rather than merely seeking entertainment."
"I do not see the use in entertainment," Mary agreed. "I believe that one should not pursue any path which does not result in some education or improvement."
"I do not believe there is any such path," Mrs. Hart replied. She paused for a long moment, as if gathering her thoughts, and then continued slowly, "I have come to think of all life as an education. I think even the most meaningless moments may have their value."
Miss Hart reappeared at that moment, and took the seat on Mary's other side. This distracted the Harts from their conversation, for Mr. Hart took pleasure in pointing out that his sister carried no cup of mineral-water, despite her long absence.
"There was such a crush at the pump," Miss Hart declared. "I was forced to admit defeat."
"Yet you stood there for five minutes before doing so?"
"I kept thinking it would clear."
"And after waiting so long, you did not think it worth your time to wait two minutes more?"
"I did not wish to neglect Miss Bennet—"
"I hope you are not insinuating that Anne and I are neglectful."
"Do stop pestering her, Robert," Mrs. Hart reproached him, though she was smiling.
Mr. Hart grinned. "Who was at the pump, Rosamond, to so distract your attention? I do think you might have fetched a cup anyway, and at least feigned legitimacy."
His twin ignored him.
Mrs. Bennet, meanwhile, was enjoying very much the opportunity to peer at the ladies and gentlemen they passed, and to examine the manners, and dress, and general appearance, of Bath's citizens. Kitty was no less captivated, and they had taken several turns about the room before they were able to have any conversation, so engaged were they in watching everybody else.
"Well, my dear," Mrs. Bennet whispered at length, "what do you think of our company this morning?"
"I think Mr. Hart very pleasant," Kitty replied eagerly, "and I am sure I shall fall in love with him very shortly."
"Quite as I had hoped! But I would warn you not to settle upon him just yet, for there is plenty of time for you to meet other gentlemen, and you may find another you prefer. What of Mr. Finch? I am certain I saw you talking with him."
Kitty waved a dismissive hand. "He is very shy, and can hardly say two words without blushing; besides, Mamma, he is madly in love with Rosamond, so he is no prospect."
Mrs. Bennet sighed. "I had thought as much, from watching him; and I suppose it was not to be expected, that every gentleman we met should prove a suitor. Well, if Miss Hart is to marry Mr. Finch, then at least she shall be unavailable to any other gentleman—for you know, my dear, that she is very pretty, and the sooner she is married, the better it will be for you and your sister. And I am glad you are already so fond of Mr. Hart. I had a suspicion, you know, that we might expect something from him."
Kitty agreed readily, and smiled, and asked her mother if they might now join the others.
The party spent a very agreeable hour in the Pump-room—agreeable, that is, to everyone except Mary; for while she had enjoyed her conversation with Mr. Hart that morning, and had even found her moment with Mrs. Hart rather interesting, a larger party was not conducive to meaningful talk. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty had no patience for discussions of morality or philosophy, and as to Miss Hart, Mary doubted very much whether that young lady had ever once had a serious thought. The general conversation was restricted to such trivial matters as the weather, and the Bennets' journey from Longbourn, and whether they liked their lodgings; and Mary, therefore, was obliged to remained silent and subdued. This was no more than she was accustomed to—but it seemed somehow worse at the cheerful and bustling Pump-room, and the longing for little Meryton reared its head again, worse than ever.
While Mary was uneasy, Kitty was exuberant. The Pump-room was everything she had wished for, and she could scarcely take her eyes from the elegant ladies and gentlemen promenading before them. The company was ideal: not only was the society of the twins engaging, but the Harts appeared to be acquainted with a great many of the people in the room, and introduced the Bennets to several more families within the span of an hour.
"My father is a physician, and my brother is a barrister," Rosamond explained with a smile, when Kitty commented upon her friend's large acquaintance. "Between the two of them, they have at some point looked after nearly every family in Bath—in one way or the other."
By the time they left the Pump-room, the Bennets' Bath acquaintance had expanded from the Fitzwilliams and the Harts, to include the Burkes, the Jameses, the Daltons, the Seabrooks, and the Wolfes. Dr. Hart and his son appeared to have taken excellent care of their clients, for the Harts received three invitations to dine (the Bennets were kindly included in each of them)—and from Mrs. Wolfe, to Kitty's great delight, an invitation to a ball, which that lady was planning to take place some days after the Sydney Gardens gala.
All of these invitations were enough to convince Mrs. Bennet that her scheme to come to Bath had been a brilliant one. In addition, she soon discovered, by careful questioning of Mrs. Hart, that nearly all of these families possessed at least one unmarried son; and she was sure that a great many more young bachelors would be present at Mrs. Wolfe's ball. She was able to leave the Pump-room with the certainty that their first morning in Bath had been a great success, and confident that both of her daughters would be married by the time they were obliged to return to Hertfordshire.
Kitty parted from her friend with only mild regret, for they agreed to meet on the following morning to go to Milsom Street, and Rosamond had agreed furthermore that she would take Kitty to her favorite shops—"A great many of which," she promised, "are quite unknown to those who only come for the Season, for they tend to keep to Milsom Street and never really explore." Kitty was elated at the prospect, for she had decided that her own clothes seemed rather outmoded in comparison with everybody else's, and she was sure that her mother would give her some money to spend for such a worthy purpose.
Mary, it must be said, was quite happy to go back to Henry Street, where she hoped to spend some time alone with her books.
If Kitty had been animated on her first night in Bath, it was nothing compared to her second. After supper, when the ladies had retired, Kitty annoyed Mary a great deal by spending several minutes dancing about the room, bumping into the wardrobe more than once and nearly knocking over the candle on the nightstand.
"You look ridiculous," Mary snapped at last, for she was attempting to read, "and you are disturbing my concentration. Go to bed."
"La! Nothing you say shall bother me now, Mary, for we have been invited to a ball, and I am sure I shall dance twice with Mr. Hart, and he shall fall in love with me. Do you not think he is the handsomest man you ever saw?"
"I suppose he is handsome," Mary admitted grudgingly, "but he is rather young to be falling in love."
"How unreasonable you are, Mary," Kitty laughed. "Young people can fall in love quite as easily as the old; why, Lydia married when she was sixteen, and the Hart twins are twenty!"
"Anyway," Mary sniffed, "I doubt he will dance with you; I daresay he has no inclination to dance. If you will recall, I conversed more with him today than you did, and I am pleased to report that he seems very intellectual, and not at all given to such mindless pursuits."
Kitty groaned, and threw herself upon her bed. "You are blind, if you cannot see that he was only humoring you, with your tedious conversation about—about sermons, or whatever it is you talked about."
Mary grew rather red in the face. "He was not humoring me, and we did not discuss sermons; but I am certain the subject of our discussion is quite beyond your comprehension, so I shall not trouble you with particulars."
"Thank you," Kitty answered, sitting up, "for I am sure it was the dullest thing in the world, and I would not hear your account of it for anything.—Lord! Mary, I am sure I am in love with him."
"You barely spoke to him," Mary replied drily.
"Of course I spoke to him; I walked with him all the way to the Pump-room, whilst you were walking with Mamma. He even gave me his arm! He is very much like his brother, is he not? What a lark it would be, to be Rosamond's sister! She is so very amiable, even if she is going to marry Mr. Finch."
"Indeed—are they engaged?" Mary did her best to sound uninterested, for she had a moral objection to gossip, but nonetheless she did like knowing things as much as anybody else did.
"Perhaps not engaged," Kitty said carelessly, "but he is in love with her; did you not see it? He could hardly take his eyes from her."
Mary was not at all certain of this, for the only times she had glanced at Mr. Finch, his eyes had been fixed firmly on the floor; but she did not have time to say anything, for Kitty's raptures had already continued:
"And only think, Mary—in a few years' time, he shall be Dr. Hart! Dr. and Mrs. Hart; how well that sounds! I think I should rather be a doctor's wife than anything, for it is such a fine title for a gentleman. Although I suppose it would be something to be a colonel's wife—or a captain's—I imagine anything would preferable to a 'Mr,' for one meets so many of those.—Do you not think fair-haired gentlemen to be twice as attractive as those with dark hair? I believe I shall always prefer fair hair over dark; not that it matters, for I am sure I am going to marry Mr. Hart. Won't Rosamond be pleased! But of course I shall not tell her until we are really engaged, for then it will be such a surprise!"
She continued in this vein for some time. Mary, exasperated at hearing the unsuspecting Mr. Hart so subjected to Kitty's silliness, at last blew out the candle, and pretended to be fast asleep, in order to make her sister stop talking.