Author's Note: Sorry for the looooong wait! It's been more than a little bit crazy—papers, projects, presentations, and my thesis deadline looming in the not-so-distant future…plus a few crises, some more major than others. But I finally have a minute to breathe, and of course I'm going to devote it to my favorite side-project.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Kitty was horrified to wake to rain on the following morning, which meant that her proposed excursion with Rosamond Hart must surely be cancelled.
"We might as well be in Meryton!" she moaned, staring miserably out the window.
"Are you surprised that they have rain in Bath?" demanded Mary, with some asperity. "We have not left England, you know. We are only some miles west of home."
The elder Miss Bennet had passed another difficult night, kept awake by the unfamiliar noises and lights of the city, and her temper was not at its most genial. Her sister, to her credit, chose not to reply, in favor of running to the window on the other side of their sitting-room, as if the weather might be different at the back of the house.
"I for one don't mind the rain," Mary continued contemptuously. "I am glad to stay in the house all day; I was not at all looking forward to another silly promenade. There is very little about Bath that interests me."
"Oh, do hold your tongue, Mary," Mrs. Bennet snapped. "Shall we not have a moment of peace from your complaints? If you would think only of the damage you are doing to my poor nerves—!"
Mary returned sulkily to her book.
It is unlikely that the Bennet ladies could have endured each others' forced society for the entire day with any degree of grace; and so it was fortunate that, shortly after eleven, Kitty crowed that she saw sun breaking through the clouds. By noon, the rain had stopped entirely, and warm sunlight was glistening on the wet streets. A note sent round from Hart House informed Kitty that Rosamond would be delighted to meet her at Milsom Street in half an hour, if it was convenient.
Mrs. Bennet made no objection, and only warned Kitty to mind the mud, and hold her skirts out of the puddles, and so the afternoon found Kitty and Rosamond traipsing happily through the streets of Bath. It was useful, Kitty reflected, to have a friend who lived in the city all the time, for Rosamond knew side-streets and shortcuts, and was able to point out sites of particular interest, in addition to her intimate knowledge of the most interesting drapers' and milliners' shops. Within the first hour of their ramble, almost all of the money which Mrs. Bennet had given Kitty had been spent for two new bonnets, a new pair of gloves, and several new ribbons.
"When we have been here longer," Kitty said decisively, "I daresay Mamma and I will each want some new gowns; and perhaps Mary as well, though she never cares how she looks. But for now I think I shall buy only the necessities."
Rosamond, who had not bought anything, agreed that this was very sensible.
Sensible or not, however, Kitty was sorely tempted. Every window they passed betrayed some new glory to be beheld: hats and head-dresses decorated with jewels and feathers; miles of ribbon in every color one could imagine; luxurious silks and satins, painstakingly embroidered; glittering lockets, brooches and pocketwatches; bouquets of flowers spilling out of their vases; rows of sweet-smelling pastries and breads; even the bookshops looked inviting. More than once, Rosamond was obliged to take Kitty by the arm (gently, as was her wont) in order to draw her from a particularly captivating window.
"It is so very unlike Meryton," Kitty exclaimed, as Rosamond steered her carefully away from a display of cameos, "where there are only two or three shops worth going into. And you can never really find anything very fashionable. We are months behind London, in the country."
"We are not much better off in Bath," Rosamond said lightly. "But we do try not to mind it much."
"I wonder you can live here, and not buy something new every day! I am sure I shall have to buy at least one extra trunk when I leave!"
She did, however, manage to retain enough money for a cup of tea and a bun, and the two young ladies accordingly directed their steps to Sally Lunn's tea-room.
The little shop was crowded, as Rosamond told Kitty it generally was; but it was only a moment before they were able to squeeze themselves (and Kitty's packages) into a table near the window. Kitty was delighted to find herself with such an excellent view of the street, for she greatly enjoyed watching the ladies and gentlemen passing by on their way to and from the Pump-room and the Roman Baths, which were only around the corner.
They had not been seated for very long before a gentleman, apparently having caught sight of Rosamond from across the room, made his way to their table. Rosamond greeted him politely, and he sat down with them before she had even given the invitation. The gentleman was introduced to Kitty as a Mr. Alexander Price, and he started at hearing her surname.
"Bennet!" he cried. "Are you indeed the sister-in-law of Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley?"
"I am," Kitty replied, a little nonplussed. "Are you acquainted with my brothers?"
The gentleman laughed. "Not acquainted—no, I don't know them myself. But I know of them, of course, for everybody does in Town. And you are their youngest sister?"
"No, I am the youngest but one." Kitty's interest, however, lay elsewhere. "Are you from London?"
"Not originally; nobody, you know, is ever originally from London. But I have been living in Marylebone for—oh—I suppose it has been four years now, and I have enjoyed every minute of it. So much happens there; there is always something to see, so many people to meet and places to go. I am of a temperament that must be amused, and my family's quiet country village was never sufficient." He smiled at her. "I suppose that makes me sound very thoughtless and foolish."
"You mustn't say so," Kitty cried, laughing, "for I am of the same temperament myself."
"Then I shall retract my statement, for I should hate to cause offense to the youngest-sister-but-one of two very respectable families; particularly when that sister is herself so very charming."
Kitty could not see what she had said that was so very charming; but it did not matter, for she was charmed. Mr. Price was young, and exceedingly handsome, with dark hair and very blue eyes, and she could not help returning his smile.
"And why are you in Bath, sir?" she asked sweetly.
"To be honest, Miss Bennet," Mr. Price replied, widening his eyes and leaning closer to her, his voice dropping conspiratorially, "I am hoping to fall in love."
Kitty blushed, but giggled.
"I hope you are not laughing at me," Mr. Price exclaimed. "I am being perfectly truthful. I have decided that I have lived long enough as a bachelor, and I am determined to fall in love."
"To find a wife, you mean," Kitty corrected pertly.
"Indeed—but I shall not marry any woman whom I do not love. There must be passion, you know, and perhaps a hint of madness, in a marriage, or it is no good. I have a great dread of spending my days making polite conversation with my polite wife, when there are so many other things we could be doing."
Kitty giggled again, rather scandalized. "You ought to have come for the Season, Mr. Price, for I understand that that is when the true beauties are in Bath."
"I could conceive of any truer beauties than the ladies at this table," Mr. Price said gallantly. "Besides which, Miss Bennet, I was here for at least the end of the Season, and I loathed the spectacle. The Season is when vulgar marriage-minded mammas thrust their silly daughters upon any gentleman they see. It is only when the city is less fixated upon matrimony, that one may have any chance of falling in love."
"That is very poetic, Mr. Price," said Rosamond, who had till now remained quiet. "But I believe your tea has been served." She nodded at the table which Mr. Price had left.
"Of course, of course." Mr. Price stood, and bowed to the young ladies. "I shall trouble you no longer, Miss Hart. Miss Bennet—meeting you has been the greatest of pleasures, and I do hope we may see each other again soon."
Kitty, blushing very hotly, replied in kind, and with another bow, Mr. Price returned to his own table.
Kitty had spent the first part of the afternoon with her mind fixed upon bonnets and brooches, but whatever stray thoughts were left over had consistently wandered to the younger Mr. Hart. She had even spent a few moments surreptitiously studying Rosamond's features, discerning pleasing traces of her handsome brother, and imagining idly the day when she could call Rosamond her sister.
However, her introduction to Mr. Price quite banished Mr. Hart from her mind. Kitty's earlier daydreams of fair hair and gray eyes were replaced by dark hair and blue eyes, and though Mr. Price, to her best knowledge, had not the advantage of an amiable sister, he did have a house in London, which entirely made up for it. Besides which, he was undeniably witty, and charming, and perhaps a little wicked, while Mr. Hart had only been agreeable; and Kitty's vanity was naturally gratified by the fact that Mr. Price had seemed far more interested in her than in pretty Rosamond. She fell out of love with Mr. Hart even faster than she had fallen in love with him, and by the end of the afternoon, she was convinced that Mr. Price was indeed the man whom she was destined to marry.
Out of some vague sense of discretion, she waited until they had left the noisy little tea-room before she broached the subject of Mr. Price with Rosamond, for she should be mortified if the gentleman were to overhear. But of course Rosamond must be questioned, and Kitty seized her opportunity almost as soon as they had stepped again into the street, and were wandering in the direction of Carlton Gardens, with the intention of calling upon Mrs. Hart.
"How do you know Mr. Price?" Kitty asked directly.
If she were a more prudent young lady, she might have posed the question casually; she might have feigned disinterest and, once the answer was received, she might have changed the subject to something else, before gradually turning the conversation back to Mr. Price. But of course Kitty was not prudent, and asked the question eagerly, without any pretense of indifference.
"Not very well," Rosamond admitted. "We possess some mutual acquaintance, and meet often enough in ball-rooms and at card-tables, but in truth I have not spent much time in his company."
"Is he often in Bath?"
"I believe he generally comes down near the end of the Season, and stays for some time."
"What does he do here?" said Kitty keenly.
Rosamond smiled. "What anybody does, I suppose—dances, and dines, and visits the theatre. I do not think he comes expressly for his health, if that is what you meant."
"Does he study—or does he have a trade?"
"I have never heard him mention either. I have an idea that he inherited money from somebody, and that is what he lives upon, but I may be quite mistaken."
"Do you think he is rich? He must be, if he can afford to come to Bath every year."
"Not necessarily," Rosamond replied, "for if he were very rich, I imagine he should come for the entire Season, when we have more society here."
"But he must be rich enough to support a wife," Kitty said with conviction, "or he would not be looking for one. Has he any family?"
"I could not say; our conversation has never tended in that direction."
Kitty giggled. "Do you think him handsome?"
"Oh, to be sure," Rosamond said mildly.
This was not the resounding affirmative for which Kitty had hoped; but, she reminded herself, it was good that Rosamond did not seem particularly interested in Mr. Price, for she could never bring herself to steal a beau from a friend.
"And what of his character?" Kitty pressed. "I mean he is obviously very clever, and very amusing, and of excellent conversation. But what do you think of him?"
Rosamond met her eyes. "It is clear that you like him, Kitty; does it matter what I think?"
Her friend's grave tone surprised Kitty. "Of course it does," she replied, though rather hesitantly.
"I do not know enough of Mr. Price," Rosamond said, after a pause, "to have a strong opinion of him, one way or another. It is true that he has always been very pleasant when we have met. But I must confess I could not approve of his conversation this afternoon; it seemed terribly forward, particularly as he had met you only minutes before."
They walked silently for several minutes. Kitty was at first taken aback, then irritated, by Rosamond's reply. "I believe you are being quite unfair," she said at last, angrily. "I think he is only honest, and of a passionate nature. I was not offended by his conversation. Anyway, manners do not matter one bit; I am sure there are some very immoral men whose manners are very gracious."
"I am sure you are right," Rosamond said, giving her a small smile. "And I did not say he was immoral; merely impertinent. But he is generally exceedingly agreeable."
Kitty was a little placated by this, and the young ladies walked on.
It would be untrue to say that Kitty's thoughts remained solely with Mr. Price for the rest of the week; Bath was too stimulating for such single-mindedness. There were calls to pay, shops to explore, and the Pump-room to be sat in. Mrs. Bennet insisted that a morning be spent in the Roman Baths, where she hoped the water might do something for her nerves; they dined once at Hart House, and twice with the Fitzwilliams; they were introduced to new acquaintance every day. The Season might be over, but Bath was hardly empty. Indeed, the weather remaining quite fine, there were still a great many people to be met with in the squares and the parks.
Amidst all these new acquaintances, of course, there were plenty of gentlemen, and Kitty was not so fixed upon Mr. Price as to be entirely immune to her own romantic nature. She fell into several passions over the next several days, picturing herself first as Mrs. Burke, then Mrs. Dalton, then Mrs. Hart (again), then Mrs. Seabrook. She decided that fair skin was exceedingly attractive in a man, but changed her mind when she met swarthy Mr. Turner; she surprised herself with a sudden fondness for red hair, produced by her introduction to handsome Mr. Archer; she began to favor green eyes over brown, but soon found that the brown eyes of Mr. Sanburne were quite as charming as the green eyes of Mr. Litton.
"You are ridiculous," Mary pronounced one evening, as Kitty swooned over her latest amour (Mr. Stepney). "You will fall madly in love with any gentleman you see, but do you imagine that any of them even remember your name?"
Kitty paid her no mind.
Yet throughout all these little imagined romances, Alexander Price lingered dimly in her mind. Without meaning to, she found herself looking for him everywhere she went: in shops and tea-rooms, in the Pump-room and the Roman Baths, in the street and in the park. Each time she was introduced to one of Rosamond's friends, she found herself wondering if this was the "mutual acquaintance" which that young lady shared with Mr. Price; and every time she entered a new house, she found herself hoping distantly that he would be there. He was rarely the focus of her thoughts, but he was never entirely absent from them.
He was, however, apparently absent from Bath—or at least the parts of Bath into which Kitty ventured. She was disappointed, but not distraught, for there were people to meet, and places to go; and so she turned her mind to the pursuit of amusement and pleasure, and all those things which a merry young lady likes best.
Mary could find neither amusement nor pleasure in the comings and goings of Bath life. She did not enjoy meeting people (particularly gentlemen) for she always found herself without anything to say, in spite of all the opinions and judgments running through her mind. Aside from Robert Hart, nobody seemed to expect or appreciate her peculiar brand of honesty. She could never seem to ask the usual questions, or make the usual remarks, and she never managed to respond well to anybody else's simple pleasantries. It was easier, she found, to be entirely silent.
As to the amusements themselves—the dinner engagements, the promenades in the Pump-room and the park, the card-parties—she was discomfited by all of them. Life in Meryton had never been so active. At Longbourn, she had always the opportunity of disappearing into the garden with a book, or taking a well-timed walk across the fields, in order to escape the usual social calls; and she could often pass a full week without being obliged to sit politely in the drawing-room with the Lucases or her aunt Philips or anybody else; but here in Bath, she had no such recourse. Every hour was spent in company, and her nerves were wearing almost as thin as her mother's.
"If I could just be allowed to spend an hour or two by myself, in a book-shop," she pleaded, "I should be very content."
"A book-shop! Whatever do you want to go to a book-shop for?" Mrs. Bennet demanded crossly. "We have engagements to keep, and calls to pay; I have no time to take you to a book-shop."
"I should prefer to go by myself," Mary repeated impatiently.
"Of course you shall not go by yourself; whoever heard of such a thing? A daughter of mine, wandering the streets alone and unaccompanied! I should be mortified!"
"And knowing you, Mary," Kitty interjected, giggling, "you would go bare-headed as well, without any gloves or spencer, and let everybody see you looking like a wild country-lass!"
"It shall not be," Mrs. Bennet said decisively. "Anyway, Mary, you have no knowledge of the city; I declare you could not even find your way to the Pump-room, though Heaven knows we have been there often enough. You have no head for city directions, and you would be lost as soon as you stepped out the door—and what would that do to my poor nerves?"
This much, at least, was true, for despite the week they had spent in Bath, Mary could not yet manage to find her way around it with any degree of success. But it was not her fault, she thought irritably, that all of the streets in Bath looked exactly alike, or that there were so many twists and turns and corners, which confused her sense of direction. She always knew precisely where she was when she was in Hertfordshire.
The most significant affair of that week was the gala at Sydney Gardens, in celebration of the birthday of the Prince of Wales. The procurement of tickets to the event had been one of Mrs. Bennet's first priorities upon their arrival in Bath, for she understood it to be one of the most well-attended gatherings of the summer. Kitty was particularly eager for the fireworks and the illuminations, and for the opportunity to promenade about the gardens in one of her prettiest summer gowns, which she had not yet found an opportunity of wearing. Mary dreaded the inevitable crowds and noise, but did rather look forward to the concert.
The gala began at five 'o clock in the evening, but of course Mrs. Bennet declared that it would not do to arrive too early, and so they did not make their entrance to the gardens until half past six.
It was a charming scene: though they were still some hours from sunset, when the illuminations and fireworks would begin, the gardens were nonetheless crowded. Ladies in fine late-summer dress meandered along the paths, some carrying parasols and others toying with their fans, many with gentlemen at their sides. There were canvas booths standing at either side of the Tavern, each furnished with simple tables and chairs enough to accommodate a party of moderate size. The Tavern itself was bustling, and a great deal of activity was to be seen through its windows and on its upper terrace. Waiters hurried between the Tavern and the booths, carrying plates laden with cold meat and bottles of wine. It seemed that many parties hoped to enjoy their suppers before the concert, which was to begin at seven, and Mrs. Bennet deeming this a sensible course, the ladies took possession of the first available booth they saw.
They ate quickly, without much sensible conversation. What words were exchanged had mostly to do with the ladies and gentlemen passing by, upon whose dress and comportment Mrs. Bennet had always something to say. Kitty was anxiously keeping a look-out for the Harts, or for Mrs. Fitzwilliam, or for Mr. Stepney, or for Mr. Price; but she was continually disappointed. By the time they had finished their supper, and the musicians were beginning their first movement, she began to fear that nobody of her entire acquaintance was at the gala—when she caught a familiar flash of gold hair, which filled her with relief. She excused herself from her mother and sister, and hurried away across the wide lawn.
Rosamond was walking toward the canal, in the company of Mr. Theodore Hart, Mrs. Anne Hart, and young Mr. Finch; and though Kitty's arrival rendered their party an odd number, nobody seemed to mind. She was greeted warmly by the three Harts, and shyly by Mr. Finch, and immediately invited to join them.
"Would your mother and sister care to walk with us?" Mrs. Hart asked politely. Kitty waved a dismissive hand.
"Oh!—no. Mary never likes to enjoy herself; and Mamma despises walking."
"Your frankness is admirable, Miss Bennet," observed Theodore Hart, laughing. "Any other girl would have claimed that her sister was engaged, and that her mother was indisposed; but you are not so false. Such candor is increasingly rare these days!"
Kitty blushed, but smiled.
"I am not sure that is strictly accurate," Rosamond said pleasantly. "I do not think candor has ever been in a very great supply; people have always lied, or otherwise deceived one another, regardless of the era."
"Why, Rose, what a little cynic you are," her brother exclaimed.
"Am I? I don't mean to be. My intention was not to make a criticism of human nature; it was merely an observation."
"And yet in making one, you make the other."
"That is cynicism," Mrs. Hart put in; "to imply that any observation of people is also a cricitism of them."
"Am I to be challenged, then, by both wife and sister?" Theodore said in dismay. "I suppose I shall have to give up the argument entirely, and leave you two to your triumph."
"That is your doing, Anne," Rosamond laughed, taking Mrs. Hart's arm affectionately. "He is never so kind to me, except when you are near." She turned again to Kitty, who had been rather lost in the conversation, which sounded like something Mary might appreciate. "I hope you enjoy concerts, Kitty, for one of the singers tonight is a Miss Watson, who is said to be very good."
Kitty readily expressed pleasure at the prospect, though she really did not care one way or the other for concerts. The company walked on, talking idly, along the canal. The Harts were well-connected—several ladies and gentlemen greeted them with nods and smiles, and one or two paused momentarily to exchange pleasant remarks—and Kitty glanced into every passing face, looking for a familiar one; yet she was disappointed.
"Rose," Kitty asked at length, as the conversation fell into a lull, "is all your family here this evening?"
"Only the three of us, and my father, who is watching the concert. My younger sister has a dreadful cold, and Robert offered to stay at home with her."
"How kind of him," Kitty said warmly, for she had momentarily forgotten that she was no longer in love with Robert Hart. To her surprise, Rosamond laughed.
"I suspect it was no great trial to him. Robert loathes crowds, and always complains that one can never hear the music at the galas, for everybody is talking over it."
"Our brother is very like your sister," Theodore Hart added, "in that he never likes to enjoy himself."
"He really is a dreadfully dull sort of person," Rose agreed.
"I must confess, Miss Bennet," Anne Hart said, "that I was quite shocked when I first heard Rose and Theo discuss their brother so unkindly; but I suppose it is all very natural to you, for you have siblings of your own."
"Oh!—it is very natural," Kitty answered cheerfully. "Scarcely a day goes by when I do not say something horrid about Mary; but really I think most of it is true. She never does anything but read and complain."
"Very like our brother, then," Theodore remarked.
They had reached the canal, and were standing on the bridge. Rosamond, looking back along the park, declared that she should like to go sit with Dr. Hart and watch the concert. Kitty had no such desire; she really cared very little for concerts; and therefore she was quite relieved when Theodore stated his intention of taking another turn through the park. The four of them set out again; but Theodore and Anne soon fell some steps behind, engaged in a quiet conversation of their own, their heads bent together, Anne's hand settled gently on Theodore's arm. Kitty knew enough of married couples to understand that they desired privacy, but wished that she had not been left alone with Mr. Finch, who had taken no part in their previous conversation and, though they were walking together, had not offered his arm or even glanced in her direction. She gave an inward sigh, but resigned herself to her present fate.
"Do you enjoy concerts, Mr. Finch?" she asked, without much hope.
"I do," the gentleman replied stiffly, his face red.
"And do you attend them very often?" Kitty pressed.
"Not very often, no."
He said nothing else, and they fell into silence. Kitty, feeling as though she had done her duty and could do no more, allowed her gaze to drift out over the gardens. The sun had not yet set, but a dusky light was beginning to gather over the shaggy tops of the trees and the rippling waters of the canal. Ladies and gentlemen moved about gracefully, the hum of their voices rising to meet the distant sound of the concert. It really was a very pleasant scene, and despite her regrettable company, Kitty could not help feeling exceedingly content.
After all, she thought, rather smugly, I could be in Meryton right now.
It was at this moment, of course, that she caught sight of a vaguely familiar form walking toward her on the path. She squinted—and indeed it was Mr. Price, looking gallant as she could have imagined, with his arm unfortunately clasped by an exceedingly pretty young woman whom Kitty did not recognize. They were talking earnestly, and the young lady did not seem able to keep herself from smiling.
Kitty's heart dropped so suddenly that it alarmed her momentarily; and she turned to Mr. Finch and demanded, without much finesse, "Mr. Finch, who is that girl?"
Mr. Finch had in fact turned to Miss Bennet in the same moment, preparing to ask her whether or not she liked concerts, and attended them often. He was startled by her abrupt question, and was unable to reply for a short moment, while Kitty (who had stopped walking) squinted along the path in the gathering twilight. At length, however: "Which girl?" he asked.
"That one," Kitty answered impatiently, gesturing. "The young lady there, walking this way. Are you acquainted with her?"
Mr. Finch gave the young lady in question a swift examination. "I should not think so," he replied at last, "though I cannot see very well in this light. Why do you ask?"
"Oh," Kitty said, faltering, as she regained her composure. "I—I thought her to be a friend of mine, but as you said, one cannot always tell in this light. I was hoping you could help me."
"I am sorry." He sounded sincere. "Shall we walk on? Perhaps you could see better if we were closer."
Kitty agreed readily. She had some hope of overhearing the couple's conversation, and also some hope that Mr. Price might see her with Mr. Finch (who really was quite handsome, for all his tediousness) and be struck by some mad jealousy. She was to be disappointed, however, for Mr. Price and the young lady gave them not even a glance, and their voices were too low to allow for eavesdropping. This, of course, was not a good sign, for a young lady and a gentleman who whisper together rarely do so without reason; and Kitty's heart sank as she walked by.
"She is not your friend, then?" Mr. Finch asked, once they were some distance away. Kitty shook her head mutely.
And now, she thought bitterly, she was hardly in spirits to attempt any more polite conversation with dull Mr. Finch. Their walk was sure to be a silent one, and very dreary, and Kitty suddenly wished that she hadn't come to the gala in the first place.
Mary had been sitting on the chairs near the musicians, watching the concert. Having eaten a good meal, and been allowed to sit quietly by herself and listen to music, she was in a better humor than she had been since coming to Bath. Her mother, having spotted an acquaintance, had left her quite alone, which had done some small wonder for Mary's spirits.
The music was undoubtedly of a finer quality than anything Mary had heard before. It was one of the honest laments of her life that despite her great and abiding love for music, her enjoyment of it should be limited to supper- and card-party performances upon the pianoforte by herself and other anxiously exhibiting young ladies. Certainly, some of these young ladies played very well indeed—Miss Georgiana Darcy leapt to mind—but Mary had always wished, nevertheless, for the opportunity to hear a true concert. It should have been her one joy, if her mother had ever persuaded her father to spend a season in Town, to visit the grand theatres and concert halls, and perhaps, if Mr. Bennet should agree, to benefit from the tutelage of some of the music-masters there. But of course this dream had never materialized.
She had little hope of attending many concerts in Bath, as neither her mother nor her sister was particularly fond of music. This was yet another point that set them apart; for Mary, having spent the past week in the close and inescapable company of these relations, was finding it increasingly difficult to believe that they were related at all. Of course she had never had much in common with her sisters, particularly the younger ones, and she had often, in those moments when she lay unhappily awake late at night, reflected bitterly that she was surely the odd sister out. Jane and Elizabeth had always been intimate; Kitty and Lydia were of very similar tastes and attitudes; and Mary-in-the-middle had no one but her books.
The music had taken a turn for the melancholy, which surely accounted for Mary's present frame of mind. The violins sang long and low, sweetly sorrowful, and the singer turned a forlorn gaze upon his audience as he held his note. Mary closed her eyes momentarily, allowing the song to wash gently over her.
"Miss Bennet?"
Mary opened her eyes and turned to face Rosamond Hart, who was perched on the seat beside her. Miss Hart's warm smile did not at all fit the mood of the song, and Mary was irritated at the girl's presence. However, she endeavored to remain courteous.
"Miss Hart," she answered, quietly, inclining her head.
"Forgive me, Miss Bennet," Miss Hart said politely. "I can see you are enjoying the music, and I have no wish to distract you. I wonder if you have seen my father? He told us he was watching the concert, but I have looked up and down the rows and cannot find him."
"I am sorry," Mary replied shortly. "I have not seen Dr. Hart this evening."
Miss Hart bit her lip, casting her eyes again about the audience. "Do you mind, then, Miss Bennet, if I sit here with you while I wait for him? I imagine he has gone into the Tavern."
Mary would really rather have been left by herself; the seats to either side of her were empty, and she had been enjoying the peace. She thought it rather pathetic that Miss Hart was unable to sit alone for even a moment while she waited for her father. But she could not very well say so to the young lady—it would have been too impolite even for Mary—and instead nodded slightly, indicating her assent. Miss Hart settled back into the chair beside her.
Mary imagined that a young lady of Miss Hart's frivolous temperament would be inclined to gossip and chatter throughout the performance, as several other parties were doing, and steeled herself to ignore the girl's overtures. However, no such overtures were forthcoming, and Mary, after a minute or so, dared to glance sideways at her unsolicited companion. Miss Hart's large eyes were directed attentively toward the stage, and she was even nodding her head, ever so slightly, to the rhythm of the violins, which had quickened again. Mary, quite relieved, returned her own gaze to the musicians.
They sat thus, in comfortable silence, for the remainder of the song and well into the next. Mary had not yet caught sight of her mother; but Dr. Hart soon joined his daughter and took the seat on her other side, murmuring a polite greeting to Mary as he did so. Miss Hart seemed quite undisposed to make conversation with her father, and Mary was soon able to forget that she had been interrupted at all.
It was not very long before the present performers ended their set, took their bows, and cleared the stage. There was to be a short intermission before the next set of musicians, which included the Miss Watson of whom Rosamond had spoken to Kitty, and in the meantime most of the audience rose in order to stretch their legs. The Harts, to Mary's disappointment, did not move; and she was obliged to make conversation, for Miss Hart turned to her and said pleasantly,
"I thought they were wonderful—I am sure Mr. Louis has never been in such fine voice."
Mary, who had never heard Mr. Louis sing before, merely nodded.
"Have you enjoyed the gala?" Miss Hart continued.
"I have," Mary replied, rather annoyed at the young lady's persistence, "at least I have enjoyed the concert.—I daresay I could do without the fireworks and illuminations, and all of those things."
"Indeed?" Miss Hart smiled. "I confess I look forward to the fireworks very much."
Mary, unsurprised, made no reply.
"Do you attend many concerts, Miss Bennet?" Dr. Hart questioned.
"There are not many to attend in Meryton."
"Do you play at all?"
"I do. I practice every day—or I do when I am home; we have not a pianoforte in our lodgings here."
"Then you must come and visit us," Miss Hart exclaimed, "and practice upon ours. I daresay my family would thank you for it; I have only three or four very favorite songs, and I selfishly persist in playing them day after day."
"Indeed," Dr. Hart said, laughing, "any variety would be most welcome."
"But how can your performance improve, if you never play anything new?" Mary demanded. "I should not call that practicing. It is like learning to read, only to read novels. One cannot better oneself that way."
"Perhaps you are correct, Miss Bennet," Miss Hart replied, with an odd elfin smile. "But I am very fond of novels."
"Mary!"
Mrs. Bennet appeared over Miss Hart's shoulder and hurried toward her daughter, only to drop into the seat at her other side. "I declare I have been looking for you all evening; I thought you had disappeared! Oh, excuse me," she added, blushing, as she caught sight of the Harts. Mary felt her own face color as her mother's loud voice pierced the murmur of conversation about them. "Why, Dr. Hart—and dear Miss Rosamond! How delightful it is to find you here! Has not this been a very agreeable evening?"
"Very agreeable indeed, Madam," Dr. Hart replied, his eyes twinkling. "My children and I always enjoy the galas."
"I am sure you do! I daresay I have never heard such fine music, nor enjoyed such amusing company. It is nothing at all like a Meryton assembly; and such a beautiful night!"
"We have been very blessed with the weather."
"Are all your children here, Dr. Hart?" Mrs. Bennet demanded shrewdly.
"Nay, only three of them—my eldest son, his wife, and Rosamond. My youngest daughter is ill this eve, and Robert offered to remain at home with her."
"How very unfortunate," Mrs. Bennet cried, looking exceedingly vexed. Mary stared at her, her blush deepening, until Mrs. Bennet realized her misstep and attempted to atone. "It is so very unfortunate that he—that they—should miss such a prodigious pleasant evening. Will young Mr. Hart be at Mrs. Wolfe's ball, do you think?"
"I imagine he shall attend with great pleasure," Dr. Hart replied calmly, unable to suppress a small smile.
"Well, then, that is something," Mrs. Bennet declared, with great satisfaction. "And I do hope he shall be inclined to dance, for my daughters have always been very great dancers."
Miss Hart met Mary's eyes with another of her peculiar smiles. Mary did not think she could be any more mortified. Fortunately, the second set of musicians had taken the stage, and at that moment began their song, signaling an end to the conversation. Mrs. Bennet settled back in her chair, looking very much pleased with herself, and Mary was glad to direct her eyes once more to the stage.
Mr. Finch had excused himself upon their return to the general vicinity of the concert, leaving Kitty quite alone, for Theodore and Anne were yet some distance behind her on the path. Kitty could not pretend to miss the clergyman's company, for indeed the remainder of the walk had passed in stiff silence, with no attempt at conversation on either side. However, she would rather not have been left by herself, for she was sure she looked quite foolish and lonesome without any company.
She went and sat, for a time, near the Tavern; but it was populated mostly by gentlemen, engaged in either serious conversations or card-games, and she began to feel rather uncomfortable. Then she walked along the path a little ways, in the hopes of rejoining Anne and Theodore, but she could see from afar that their arms were still linked and their heads were still together, and she lacked the courage to interrupt their intimacy. With a sigh, she made her way toward the concert, where at least she could sit next to Mary and look as though she belonged somewhere. She wished Robert Hart were here—she wished Mr. Price were alone—she wished Rosamond had not left her.
Upon drawing near the concert, however, she found that Mary (and her mother, and Rose, and Dr. Hart) were all seated rather inconveniently near the middle of the audience, surrounded on all sides by other listeners. It would be difficult, and impolite, to push her way into the middle of the cluster of chairs; and though it was the sort of thing which Lydia might have done without a second thought, Kitty was not so daring as her sister. Instead, she found an empty chair near the back of the audience, which she sank into with a sigh.
The concert was really very good—the singer was pretty, and had a charming voice—but Kitty was uninterested in concerts, for she only ever enjoyed music to which she could dance. She looked about idly. The dusk had gathered into darkness, and there were fewer people walking along the paths. The lanterns had been lit at the Tavern and in the seating-booths, and a few waiters still hurried here and there, carrying bottles and trays. Kitty wondered when the fireworks would start; she hoped the concert would end soon, that she might return to her mother and sister. The gardens seemed much less charming now, when she was alone and bored. Why were none of her friends here? Where were all of the acquaintance she had met over the past week? She wished she were at a ball, rather than a gala; at least then she would have something to watch.
"Miss Bennet!"
Mr. Price had materialized beside her, seemingly from nowhere, and Kitty jumped at the sudden address; but upon perceiving the identity of her company, her heart began to beat slightly faster.
"Forgive me," Mr. Price laughed, perceiving her alarm. "I did not mean to startle you."
Kitty smiled at him. She could not help it; his blue eyes were dark in the light of lamps and stars, and his good humor was infectious. Besides, he hardly gave the impression of having earlier walked with a young lady in the twilight, and Kitty began to wonder if she had been mistaken.
"When did you arrive?" Mr. Price continued, taking the chair at her side.
"We have been here since half-six."
"Since half-six! And I have not seen you? This is a tragedy," the gentleman proclaimed. "I am sure you have been hiding, Miss Bennet, or I should have discovered you before now."
"I certainly have not," Kitty returned, her spirits lifting rapidly, "I have been in plain sight, walking with Rose Hart and her brother."
"How ill-bred of them, to leave you alone! And how unwise of Mr. Hart; is he not afraid of losing your affections, by leaving them unguarded?"
"Mr. Hart? He is married!" Kitty laughed, scandalized.
"Ah—I thought you meant the younger brother."
"Robert Hart is not here tonight," Kitty said. Then, feeling very daring, she added, "And my affections are not his to lose. They are not anybody's."
Mr. Price smiled at her. Kitty did not think he had ever looked so handsome (she had forgotten, momentarily, that she had only seen him once before). "That," he said, "is indeed a tragedy."
It was at this moment that a gentleman in the row in front turned to them, and beseeched them to lower their voices, that he might better hear the music. Mr. Price, looking boredly toward the stage, suggested that they take a short turn about the grounds, before the fireworks. Kitty agreed readily, eager for more of his charming company.
There was something very gratifying, she reflected, about Mr. Price's attention; he had a way of making one feel as though they were the only person in the world of any interest. His conversation was animated, his words enthusiastic, his gaze earnest, his smile genuine. He listened well, and spoke better; he was quick to laugh. As they walked together, Kitty imagined that every other young lady envied her, and that every other young gentleman coveted her attention, for in the glow of Mr. Price's regard, she felt more charming and interesting than she ever had before. She was delighted when he offered his arm, and wondered if there were ever any couple more attractive than the two of them.
"Are all your family in Bath?" Mr. Price asked, as they walked together.
"No; only Mamma, and Mary, and myself.—Mary is my next elder sister."
"Is she married?"
Kitty let out an involuntary snort of laughter. "Lord! It is clear you have never met my sister, or you would know that she is dreadful reserved and disagreeable around gentlemen, and certainly none of them have ever cared for her. She only ever thinks about books."
Mr. Price smiled at her. "How strange it is, that two sisters should be so very much unlike. Are your other sisters more of your temperament?"
"Lydia is—my younger sister—she is great fun, and exceedingly droll, though she can be very bad-tempered sometimes. My eldest sisters are not nearly so amusing as Lydia, but they are not so bad as Mary. Lizzy, she is Mrs. Darcy now, is exceedingly clever; and Jane is of a very sweet temperament. She is married to my brother Bingley. Of course Lizzy and Jane are both awfully serious, which I think is very dull. I can never be serious for anything; I am too much given to laugh."
Mr. Price laughed, and declared himself to be the very same way.
"Have you any brothers or sisters?" Kitty asked genially. To her surprise, the gentleman's face darkened.
"I have a sister," said he, rather shortly, "but we are not on very good terms. Indeed I envy you, Miss Bennet, for the familiarity and intimacy which you enjoy with your siblings; would that I could share your felicity!"
"I am sorry," Kitty said honestly.
"You must not apologize; you must not pity me."
But Kitty could not help it, for Mr. Price's expression was so very sad. As though he sensed her pity, Mr. Price turned his face away for a moment, and would not meet her eyes. When he turned back, he was smiling again.
"And now," he continued, as though nothing had happened, "you are so blessed as to have two brothers, whom I have heard to be very well-respected in all the best circles."
"Yes," Kitty agreed, relieved at the return of his good humor. "They are both of them very well-known, and generally admired. I confess Mr. Darcy is often too grave for my liking, but I have never met such an amiable gentleman as Mr. Bingley."
"I should like to make their acquaintance," Mr. Price remarked. Kitty, feeling rather uncertain as to whether it would be strictly proper for her to arrange an introduction, furrowed her brow. Her companion noticed this, and laughed.
"I did not mean I should like you to introduce me, Miss Bennet; I am well aware that such would be quite irregular. I only meant, perhaps when I return to Town, I shall meet one of them some place or other. I have heard that Mr. Darcy occasionally stops in at my club; he has some acquaintance there. And Charles Bingley is popular with a great many of my friends."
Kitty could not attest to the truth of this, but gave Mr. Price her most pleasant smile anyway. He returned it, and Kitty, feeling warmly disposed toward the gentleman, clung a little tighter to his arm. She was very glad, now, that Mr. Finch had left her by herself.
"Miss Bennet," Mr. Price said, in a low voice, "do you enjoy dancing?"
"I enjoy it above anything else," Kitty affirmed, her heart fluttering.
"I ask, because I have heard that you and your family are to be present at the Wolfes' ball on Saturday."
"Why," Kitty laughed, "wherever did you hear so?"
"Oh, here and there," Mr. Price answered casually. "Perhaps I am dreadfully impertinent, Miss Bennet; perhaps I am far too forward; if I am, you must tell me. But if I may, I should like to request the pleasure of your hand for the first dance on Saturday." He met her eyes, looking rather anxious.
Kitty was too delighted to speak immediately. "Of course you may have my hand," she cried, cheeks blooming pink, when she recovered her voice. Then, recalling the prudence of remaining somewhat aloof, she gave a short curtsy. "I am sure it will be an honor, sir."
"The honor is mine," Mr. Price assured her, smiling again. He bowed.
"Miss Bennet?"
It was the second time that evening that Kitty had been startled by an unexpected address, and she turned this time to greet Theodore Hart, Anne on his arm.
"Oh, Mr. Hart," she cried, beaming, "is not this a lovely night?"
"Exceptionally so," he replied. "Where is your sister? Or mine, for that matter," he added.
"Rose and Mary are watching the concert; I arrived too late and could not reach their seats, and was obliged to sit alone. Mr. Price," she turned happily to that gentleman, "was good enough to rescue me, or I should have been dreadfully bored."
"The fireworks will be starting soon," Anne said, glancing at Mr. Price. "Will you walk back with us, Miss Bennet?"
"Oh, to be sure," Kitty answered readily. "Lord—I had forgotten about the fireworks!"
"How can you have forgotten about the fireworks?" Mr. Hart teased, as they began walking again. "They are the entire reason for the gala."
"I am sure that is not true!"
"Indeed it is: nobody attends to eat the food, for it is bland, and nobody comes especially for the concerts, for they are only fair. We all gather for the prospect of fireworks."
"Perhaps you do," Kitty replied, with conviction, "but I know that Mary only came because there was to be music, and Mamma only came so she could look at everybody else."
"There are exceptions to every rule; but it is too fair a night to argue."
"Then that is two arguments this evening, Theo," Anne remarked, "which you have conceded. I hope this is not evidence of some growing tendency on your part; for you do make a career by arguing. Should I be concerned for our livelihood?"
"I am sure, my love," Theodore replied, "that even if I should give up the law entirely, and devote myself to painting, or writing poetry, or some other profession in which it is impossible to make money, your capable housekeeping would miraculously procure for us a well-appointed home, and a full table."
"And now you are being foolish," Anne laughed, "and I shan't listen to you anymore."
Their affectionate conversation, that comfortable sort which is particular to married couples, combined with the presence of Mr. Price beside her, had the effect of igniting in Kitty a feeling of warm domesticity and happiness. She imagined that one day she and Mr. Price (but of course then she would call him Alexander—or even Alex) would bicker so, and walk close together in summer evenings. She was quite sure, now, that she had been mistaken earlier, for Mr. Price would not have secured her hand for the Wolfes' ball if he were in love with somebody else; and if his love for that other young lady were a secret, he would never have walked so with her in front of everybody at the gala. No; she could feel, in her very heart, that he was destined to be hers.
The concert was ending as they approached, and before very long, they were able to locate the Bennets and the Harts. Mrs. Bennet was full of chatter, for she had spent the intervening time gazing rapturously about, and gathering gossip; Mary was silent and dull, as ever; Dr. Hart was pleasant and conversational, and Rosamond cheerful, though rather disposed to speak of the concert, to Kitty's disappointment. Mr. Price was introduced to Mrs. Bennet and Mary, and received an eager greeting from the former, and a civil one from the latter.
The company sought a large circle of chairs from which to enjoy the fireworks display, and arranged themselves comfortably as the first whistle began, and the little rocket shot into the air, showering the audience with sparks like stars. Kitty gazed about herself in satisfaction. Never, she thought, had she been so perfectly content, for she was young and pretty, and she was going to dance with Mr. Price.
These happy thoughts carried her through the rest of the night, into the carriage that took her home, and at last into her warm bed.