Author's Note: I'm so, so, so sorry for the incredibly long lapse. What has it been, like six months? Real life intervened in a massive way and forced me to take a hiatus from this story in favor of the other tasks that make up the life of a soon-to-be college graduate (two thesis projects, three term papers, four excruciating required classes, finding a job an apartment and a roommate in that order, applications for just about everything, decisions about grad school and a hefty dose of senioritis, to name a few…).
As I sort of mentioned in my first author's note, my life is probably at its most hectic right now, because just about everything in it is changing or about to change. And in addition to worrying questions of self-definition and anxieties about the future in an increasingly uncertain world, there are also a lot of practical issues to consider. Like, how am I going to find a job when experienced, loyal, longtime workers are losing theirs every day? How can I afford to maintain myself on the crappy salary that I'm probably going to start out with? Please, God, don't make me have to move back in with my parents! (Just kidding, Mom and Dad! I love you! Go Packers!)
Anyway, all of this is a very long-winded and whiny way of saying that I'm sorry for the delay, but it was really unavoidable and I hope you'll all forgive me. And thank you so unbelievably much for the kind and encouraging reviews I've been getting! I cannot express how happy it makes me to know that people are entertained by this little story. Everyone reading has been incredibly patient—I'm overjoyed to report that I haven't gotten any of those awful bullying reviews that I sometimes see on other semi-dormant stories—"You better update you stupid bitch" and so on. You guys are all way too classy for words and I'm not sure I deserve such gracious, well-mannered readers! Thank you so much for reading (even if you don't review!) and I hope the horrible wait was at least a little bit worth it!
Disclaimer: Not mine.
There are few things that can create more anguish and anticipation in a young lady than a ball. For the Miss Bennets, currently of Henry Street, Bath, the days leading up to the gathering at the Wolfes' were fraught with the sort of tension which arises when one object is desperate to go in one direction, and the other is digging in its heels most dreadfully.
"I shall not enjoy it in the least," was Mary's constant refrain. "I detest balls; I loathe them; they are bad enough in Hertfordshire, but here in Bath, where the entire hall shall be so crowded and we shan't know anyone—"
"We shall know the Harts," Kitty retorted, "and the Fitzwilliams; and Mrs. Wolfe herself invited us. Besides, I cannot see why you are so concerned about knowing people—it isn't as though you will dance with anybody, or even speak to them—you will sit in the corner all night long, looking miserable!"
"She certainly will not," Mrs. Bennet interjected, aghast. "I shall not see a daughter of mine sitting down for an entire ball—not even Mary; it is too much to be borne. You will dance with Mr. Robert Hart, Mary," she added, more kindly, "for he will surely ask you."
Kitty laughed aloud at this, and Mary went rather red.
When they were not bickering, the Bennet ladies were concerning themselves with all things sartorial, as is natural when one is faced with a ball. Because it was the first ball they were to attend in Bath, Mrs. Bennet had decided that there was no cause to purchase new gowns just yet, for nobody here had seen their old ones; but of course there were adjustments to be made. Kitty had interrogated Rosamond and Mrs. Hart on the gowns they were to wear, and reported her findings to her mother with all the importance of a military scout. Lace must be removed; sleeves must be lengthened at least an inch; gloves must be dyed in a complementary color, rather than a matching one. The fashions of Bath, which Kitty and Mrs. Bennet viewed as necessarily superior to those of Meryton, were to be respected.
Mary was shooed from the scene after one too many loud remarks on the foolishness of caring so much for appearances, and attempted to seek solace in her books, but she had no place to read them. The bedroom she shared with her sister was strewn with ribbons, bonnets, gloves and shawls; it was entirely unlike her bedroom at home, which she had always kept very tidy. The sitting-room was of course where Kitty and Mrs. Bennet had established their temporary tailor's shop, and she could not sit in there without being in someone's way. The dining-room was very small, and looked out over the street, so there was always a great deal of noise from passing carriages and pedestrians. The small bit of garden that belonged to the house was not well tended; its plants were all dead or dying, and the beds were very much overgrown, so that it served only to remind her of the green meadows and pretty groves that she missed so sorely.
"I should like to go for a walk," Mary announced on the afternoon before the ball. Mrs. Bennet looked up impatiently from lengthening a hem (Kitty had grown half an inch over the summer, to her mother's disgruntlement).
"Who has time to go for a walk?" she demanded crossly.
"I have," Mary replied. "I have heard that there are several fine parks in Bath, and I should like to go walk in one."
"You may not go by yourself; you will become lost; and neither of us cares to go with you."
To her horror, Mary felt the faint pricklings of tears in her eyes. "But I have nothing to do," she pressed. "There is no pianoforte to practice upon, and I am too distracted to read in this house."
"Oh, Mary," Mrs. Bennet cried, waving an irritable hand. "I daresay you are straining my nerves worse than ever; surely you can find something to do, and leave us in peace. We are working most diligently, as you can see, and I might add that we have had no help from you!"
"I am no good at needlework," Mary replied sulkily, but her mother's attention had returned to the gown in her hands, and Mary was again ignored. She returned to her bedroom, where she attempted to disregard the mess about her, in order to write a lengthy letter to her sister Jane, in which she detailed all her various mistreatments.
The day of the ball dawned misty and cool, to Kitty's dismay and Mary's secret delight; but by the late morning, the sun had broken through the clouds. Kitty was far too excited to eat more than a few bites of her breakfast, while Mrs. Bennet spent much of the day wondering aloud if her fluttery nerves would carry her through the evening. Mary sulked, as was her wont when faced with the prospect of a night spent in a hot and crowded room, surrounded by people she did not know and did not care for, with her books miles away and nobody to invite her to the pianoforte.
To Kitty, it seemed as though the day dragged on far longer than it ought; but finally it was time to begin pinning hair into place, stepping carefully into stays and petticoats, and carefully applying lotions and perfumes. Kitty wriggled so much in anticipation that Mrs. Bennet, who was arranging her hair, was obliged to deliver a sharp tap on the shoulder.
"Be still, my love," Mrs. Bennet ordered, "or I shan't be able to make this pin sit right; and if your curls all come tumbling down in the middle of the dance floor, and scatter pins all over, I shall not be held responsible."
Kitty, horrified at the thought, sat very still.
Mary was dressed far earlier than her mother and sister, which was hardly unusual or unexpected, and was obliged to wait at least a quarter of an hour before Kitty at least appeared at the top of the stairs and began making her way down, at which point she shrieked that she had forgotten her brooch and dashed back again into the bedroom. Mrs. Bennet emerged a moment later, and was nearly in the vestibule before realizing that she was wearing the wrong gloves, and hastening up the stairs. At last, however, the three ladies were ready to step into the hired carriage.
"My dear girls," Mrs. Bennet remarked, casting a favorable eye upon her daughters as they settled themselves, "I daresay you are both looking quite pretty; neither of you shall ever be as handsome as your elder sisters, you know, but you are both in very good looks tonight, and I hope you shall not go without partners."
Kitty flushed happily. Indeed she did look rather becoming, in her cheerful yellow gown, with her hair wound into a chignon and a few curls framing her face prettily. Her excitement had lent a sparkle to her eyes and a blush to her cheek, and her heart fluttered eagerly at the thought of dancing her promised dance with Mr. Price.
Mary heard her mother's words with rather less satisfaction. Her own dark blue gown was very simple, as she preferred it, and she had arranged her hair much the same way she always did. She thought she looked plain as ever; though of course she did not mind, for she cared nothing for appearances. She had no expectation of dancing with anybody—she hoped she would not—she wanted only to find a quiet corner where she could sit, unobserved and unbothered, until she could finally go home.
The Wolfes' home, located near Victoria Park, gleamed with the light of hundreds of candles. Despite the early hour, several carriages lined the streets, and others were pausing momentarily to allow passengers to disembark. Catching a glimpse of the commotion, Kitty felt her heart beat faster, and could not keep a wide smile from her face.
"Look, Mamma!—Is that not Colonel Fitzwilliam?" she cried, turning to her mother. "And that must be Mrs. Fitzwilliam beside him; Lord, I should not have recognized her in that cape! She looks very pretty, does she not?"
"Very pretty, my dear," Mrs. Bennet agreed magnanimously.
"Then those must be her cousins all round her. And there are Mr. Lloyd and Mrs. Lloyd—what a pale little thing Mrs. Lloyd is! And there is Miss Dalton, and, oh, I am afraid her gown is quite ugly!"
"Perhaps she has no taste for fashion," Mary sniffed. "Perhaps her mind is engaged upon more sensible matters."
"Well, but it really is very ugly: the poor creature! Miss Haverstock is waving the largest fan I have ever seen—I imagine she thinks herself very grand!"
The carriage stopped, and after some hurried rearranging, the ladies clambered down onto the cobblestone street and joined the throng of people meandering toward the doors. There was a momentary crush as they waited to enter; then, a wave of heat and a swell of sound, and they were inside.
The vestibule was bright and busy. A large chandelier, brilliantly lit, cast a warm golden glow on the faces of the guests; there were candles in every window and more in the sconces along the walls. Mrs. Bennet pushed her way through the crowd, proferring general good-natured apologies as she did so, and her daughters trailed in her wake. They were received genially by their host and hostess, though Mrs. Wolfe made the unfortunate mistake of addressing "Miss Katherine" as "Miss Caroline," which Kitty readily forgave because they were really only very lately acquainted. They were directed into the ballroom, where Mrs. Wolfe promised they would find the dance already begun, and (she added with a wink) plenty of eager young gentleman hoping for pretty partners. Mrs. Bennet needed no further encouragement to steer her girls in the suggested direction.
Kitty's smile had not faded since they left the carriage, and only grew larger as they entered the ballroom. Couples whirled across the admittedly small dance-floor (it was only a town-house, after all), stepping adroitly to a merry tune. Those who were not dancing were occuping the chairs and couches lining the walls, or else hurrying by on their way to and from the parlor, where tea and cakes and even ices were being served. A pair of young ladies scampered past, hand-in-hand and giggling madly, reminding Kitty very much of the adventures she used to have with Lydia when the regiment was in Meryton; more sedate ladies rustled by in their fine summer silks, laughing over the sound of the music. Gentlemen stood in small groups around the room, talking earnestly and good-naturedly, and occasionally one of them would break away from his friends to approach one of the seated ladies. Kitty fairly beamed with pleasure. Here was what she loved: talk and laughter, music and dancing, and a great many people to look at. She gazed eagerly about the room.
"Well, girls," Mrs. Bennet declared, eyeing the assembly with satisfaction, "let us find a seat, and I am sure you will be dancing before long." She began shepherding her daughters toward a cluster of vacant chairs.
"It is very hot," Mary complained, but nobody heard her over the sound of the music.
The Bennets had not been seated for very long before Mr. Price emerged from the crowd and approached them. Kitty, fanning herself, felt her heart leap.
"Mrs. Bennet," Mr. Price declared, giving a deep bow. "Miss Bennet; Miss Katherine. I would express a hope that you ladies are well this evening, but you all look so exceedingly lovely that it would be quite superfluous."
Mrs. Bennet, whose heart had already been softened toward Mr. Price by his handsome face and well-cut waistcoat, smiled benevolently. "Sir, you are too kind!"
The last notes of the reel resounded, and the dancing couples faced each other across the floor, laughing and applauding. There was a moment of relative quiet as the musicians prepared for the next tune, and the dancers made their way back to their seats.
"I believe the cotillion is next," said Mr. Price, smiling at Kitty. "Mrs. Bennet, I do hope it will not be too hard on you if I claim Miss Katherine—for, you see, she has made me a promise."
"Oh—of course!" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed delightedly, turning to her blushing daughter. "Kitty, you silly creature, what a fine joke, never to say a word!"
The silly creature in question only beamed at her as charming Mr. Price led her onto the slowly filling dance floor.
"There, you see, Mary?" Mrs. Bennet declared with deep satisfaction. "I did say you girls would not go without partners!"
"I have not had a partner yet, Mamma," Mary reminded her dully. "And I don't see anybody here who is likely to ask me."
"Well," replied Mrs. Bennet significantly, casting a shrewd glance about the room. "The Harts have not arrived yet, after all."
Kitty, facing Mr. Price across the small dance floor, smiled giddily. She had noticed one or two other young ladies glancing at Mr. Price, and took great pleasure in the fact that he was hers for this dance, at least, and—her heart was beating wildly—probably for at least one more later on. She sighed happily as the musicians struck the first few familiar notes of the cotillion, and extended her hand. Mr. Price took it; his own hand was very warm. They began to move in the first steps of the dance.
"Miss Bennet," Mr. Price began, "you have spent nearly a fortnight in Bath, now; however have you filled your days?"
"Why," Kitty exclaimed, "the same way anybody does: I go to the Pump-room, and I go to the shops, and I visit friends."
"Which friends do you visit?"
"Oh, Miss Hart, usually, and sometimes Mrs. Fitzwilliam. Do you know Mrs. Fitzwilliam? She is my cousin, almost, for her husband is the son of Mr. Darcy's uncle—or perhaps his aunt. I'm afraid I don't remember."
"A family connection, at any rate," Mr. Price agreed. "And is not Miss Hart almost your cousin, then, by the same logic? Her sister-in-law is a de Bourgh by birth, and niece of the late Mrs. Darcy."
"Why, I suppose that's true," cried Kitty, laughing. "I declare I never thought of it! I shall have to tell Rosamond; she will be so amused." She gazed up at him. "What a great deal you know about the Darcys, Mr. Price!"
"Indeed," the gentleman replied, after a pause. "I have made rather a study of our historic families; I have always found them fascinating."
"So have I," Kitty declared, "though I never thought to study them." She laughed suddenly. "I certainly never thought I should belong to one!"
She was briefly afraid she had offended Mr. Price, for he gave her a rather searching look as they separated and moved through another figure, during which conversation was limited; but when they rejoined, he was smiling at her more brilliantly than he ever had before.
"And are you happy, now that you find yourself one of the peerage?" he asked airily.
"La! I shouldn't place myself so high," Kitty giggled, "and indeed nothing has really changed, except that sometimes we go visit finer houses than we did before, and occasionally I am introduced to young ladies whose fathers are lords or barons."
"Such as young Mrs. Hart?"
"Yes," Kitty replied dismissively, "but you wouldn't think it to look at her; that is what I mean. It isn't nearly so exciting as I should have thought! I imagine," she continued thoughtfully, "that it would be more interesting if I had a famous name and a great fortune, like Miss Darcy—she is my age, you know."
"And I have heard," Mr. Price said, with a confidential air, "that she is exceedingly well-guarded, and almost never allowed to attend balls or assemblies, or meet anybody new, because her brother fears so for her name and her fortune; should you enjoy that?"
"Certainly not," Kitty answered, though rather hesitantly. Mr. Price seemed to notice her hesitatation, and rejoined gallantly,
"I am glad to hear it; for if you were kept behind tall walls and locked gates, we should never have met, and I should have regretted that very much."
"Indeed you should not," Kitty responded, warming to the conversation as it returned to more familiar territory. "How could you have regretted what you never could have known?"
"I am sure," Mr. Price said solemnly, "that even if we had never met, I should have been dimly aware that I was missing something—I may not have had a name for it, or even an idea of what it could be, but I should instinctively have known it was not there, and it would have made me sad."
Kitty flushed with astonished pleasure. "You are talking a great deal of nonsense," she replied coquettishly.
"You wound me, my dear Miss Bennet."
They passed the remainder of the dance in similar fashion, and when the song ended and they faced each other across the floor, Kitty felt as if she were floating. She knew for certain that she had never seen such a handsome gentleman. Mr. Price's blue eyes were even bluer against the black cotton and gold buttons of his coat, and a single lock of his dark hair had fallen gently over his forehead during the dance. Kitty found herself itching to brush it away, and blushed deeply as he offered her his arm.
"I hope this will not be our only dance of the evening, Miss Bennet," Mr. Price said gallantly, steering her smoothly through the crowded hall.
Kitty gave him her prettiest smile. They reached the chair where Mary still sat, and after a few more pleasant words, a curtsy from Kitty and a bow from Mr. Price, they parted.
Even Kitty was not silly enough to go into raptures in the middle of a crowded ballroom, where anybody might see her; but once Mr. Price was out of earshot, she could not help gripping Mary's arm and giving the faintest little squeal of delight, which fortunately went unheard over the music and voices that filled the hall.
"I see you enjoyed yourself," Mary muttered, attempting to extract her arm.
"Oh, Mary, I am sure I am going to marry him! I know I have said it before, but now I am really and honestly certain—he is the most perfect gentleman! Do you know, he very nearly told me right out that he is in love with me!"
"Then he was very forward," her sister replied severely, "and I daresay very foolish as well. This is only your second meeting."
"I beg your pardon; it is our third," Kitty corrected, with a great deal of dignity.
"That is hardly enough time to fall in love."
"Of course it is! It is enough time for true love, which is based upon instinct and feeling. A minute is enough time for true love."
"Instinct and feeling are not enough to sustain a marriage," Mary said. "Both parties must be reasonable and logical; they must be compatible in every way possible, and compatibility is not determined by immediate attraction. It can only be developed over time, through serious and thoughtful conversations, in which views and opinions and values are shared and discussed. Only when a lady and a gentleman are in absolute harmony on all such points should they begin to consider marriage."
"Lord," Kitty sighed, feeling some of the fire, ignited by Mr. Price, doused by her sister, "I would not endure your version of marriage for anything. And I don't see what you know about it, anyway—you've never so much as spoken to a gentleman who wasn't married or a direct relation."
"Of course I have," Mary snapped, rather red in the face.
"Where is Mamma?" Kitty demanded. "I am sure she will be happier for me than you are; she understands all about falling in love."
"She went to fetch an ice. She was complaining about the heat."
"Oh, look!" Kitty cried, no longer interested in her mother's whereabouts. "Here are Mr. Hart, and Mrs. Hart, and Rosamond and Robert, and, why, that must be their sister! What a dear little creature—she is so fair!"
The youngest Miss Hart, whose golden curls matched her sister's, was clutching Robert's arm tightly and gazing about the ballroom with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Kitty, who enjoyed feeling worldly and encouraging, was immediately fond of her, and felt a great motherly urge to take the pretty child under her wing.
It was not very long before Mr. Hart spotted the Bennet sisters, and steered his family in their direction. The two parties met merrily, with a great deal of exclamation over the loveliness of each lady's gown, and the pleasantness of the decorations, and the skill of the dancers. The gentlemen managed to locate enough free chairs to seat the entire group, and soon Kitty was seated happily between the Miss Harts, laughing and chatting. It was almost, she thought vaguely, like being at a ball with Lydia again; certainly, it was more enjoyable than sitting alone with Mary.
"I have only danced one dance," she confessed, upon Rosamond's asking the expected question. "It was with Mr. Price—he had already requested my hand at the gala, and so I was bound to dance with him; and I think he shall probably ask me again later." She looked about warily, then leaned forward, clasping Rosamond's hands and speaking very close to her ear. "I am certain he is grown very fond of me," she whispered, beaming.
"That is only fair, since you are already so fond of him," Rosamond teased, and Kitty was relieved to see none of the disapproval that had lingered in her friend's eyes after they had left Sally Lunn's. Nonetheless, she deemed it wise not to talk too much about Mr. Price, or Rosamond should think her far too keen.
"Is this your first ball, Miss Juliet?" she asked kindly, changing the subject. The youngest Hart sister, whose eyes had been fixed upon the swirl of the dance floor, turned to her excitedly.
"Indeed it is not, but I have only ever gone to the Assembly Rooms before," she said breathlessly. Her voice was rather thick, as the cold which had kept her from the gala had not entirely dissipated. "I think I prefer private balls like this one—they are so grand!"
"This is Julie's first season 'out,'" Rosamond explained, looping an affectionate arm about her sister's waist. "I am beginning to think we should have kept her in the schoolroom for another year—balls and parties have been her only concern all summer!"
"La, that is not so troubling," Kitty exclaimed, "for they are my only concern all the time."
Rosamond laughed.
"I am not so silly as you say, Rose," Juliet protested, turning earnestly to her sister; "I have spent at least an hour reading each day, and I have not neglected my poetry. You and our brothers would keep me in the schoolroom forever, but I am sure I must have some life experience if I am to become the most eminent lady poet in Britain by the time I am twenty-one."
"Then you have only six years in which to gain all of the life experience you require, and so I suppose I must concede, and allow you to enjoy yourself," Rosamond replied cheerfully. "Only remember to dance no more than two dances with a gentleman, or he shall fall madly in love with you and everybody will talk—and then you will have to break his heart, or be obliged to marry him. Is that not so, Kitty?"
"Indeed it is," Kitty affirmed, "but if you do have to break somebody's heart, I daresay it would make an excellent poem—much more exciting than those dull Greek and Latin verses that one always hears recited."
Young Miss Hart, after giving a slight sneeze which was muffled in her handkerchief, declared herself particularly taken with this idea, and turned her attention again to the ballroom, in search of someone who might conceivably fall madly in love with her.
Robert Hart had taken the seat at Mary's left, as she had rather hoped he would; for the older Mr. Hart was at her right, and she found him far too disposed to laughter for her taste. It would be refreshing, she reflected, to enjoy some sensible conversation in a ballroom. Yet she was rather disappointed, for Robert immediately turned to her and—rather than engaging her in a discussion of theology or philosophy, or inviting a skilled criticism of the inane music typical of a ballroom—asked if she were liking Bath any better, now that she had spent a fortnight there.
"I am not," she replied stiffly. "I do not like Bath, and I do not think I ever shall."
Mr. Hart nodded. "I thought I would ask," he said, "in case anything had changed."
There was that tone again, in his voice, that suggested he was teasing her.
"I suppose, then, Miss Bennet, that you must hate a ball."
"I do not hate a ball," Mary said. "It is a very strong word, and I do not consider such a topic worthy of strong feelings. But I do believe a ball to be a waste of time."
"Because your time could be better spent in solitary reflection and self-improvement?"
"Yes," Mary replied uneasily, for now she was quite certain he was mocking her. "And also because a ball does not live up to its stated purpose, in my estimation."
He did not reply, but when she turned to him, he was regarding her with interest. She took this as a signal to elaborate, and went on,
"We attend balls in hopes of making an ideal match—of negotiating a marriage, as it were." She blushed a bit, for she had never before used the word "marriage" in conversation with a gentleman, but pressed on. "Yet how can one determine if another person is a proper choice when interaction is limited to such a shallow means? All one learns from dancing is whether or not one's partner is a good dancer and possesses that useless skill of making pleasant conversation over loud music. My eldest and youngest sisters fell in love upon a dance floor, and while it has ended happily for Jane, I am sure Lydia will come to regret her choice. Even Kitty—she has met a certain gentleman three times, and now that they have danced she is convinced that they are meant to marry."
It struck her, as she finished, that this last sentence was perhaps rather imprudent. Mr. Hart's eyes flitted to Kitty for a moment, but his attention returned to Mary.
"What would you have, in place of a ball?"
"A quiet room," Mary replied immediately. "Without card-games, or a dance floor, or any other form of distraction. If music must be provided, it should display technical excellence and intellectual value; no cotillions or reels. Furthermore, it should be quiet enough that it does not interrupt conversation. For conversation, true, meaningful conversation, is what one must have, when selecting a—a husband. Or wife," she added, feeling rather embarrassed and not at all certain of the propriety of the subject matter.
"And so dancing is completely superfluous," Mr. Hart remarked. "But do you not think, Miss Bennet, that one may base a marriage upon mutual enjoyment of an activity in addition to compatibility in conversation?"
"This is where we disagree, sir," Mary reminded him. "For you believe people require amusement, and I believe they require constant self-examination and a thorough understanding of their own values and principles, in order to live as well as they can."
"Ah, yes," Robert replied, smiling slightly. "This is where we disagree. And so you do not dance, Miss Bennet?"
"Not generally," Mary answered scornfully. In spite of herself, however, her heart began to beat rather more quickly.
"But I understand your sister does," Robert went on. "Look, now: your sister is losing Rosamond to Finch, and Juliet to Theodore."
Indeed, Mr. Finch had appeared, and Miss Hart had risen to take his arm for the coming dance. Miss Juliet had been summoned by her eldest brother, and had taken the seat beside Mrs. Hart, listening closely as her brother spoke to her. This left Kitty sitting alone at the other end of the circle of chairs, looking wistfully at the couples moving toward the dance floor.
"You will forgive me, Miss Bennet," Robert declared, giving her another small smile. "But as a gentleman, I must not oblige any lady to sit down in a ballroom when she so clearly wishes to be dancing. Excuse me."
And, to Mary's astonishment, he rose from the seat beside her and approached her sister. Kitty accepted his invitation happily, and the two made their way onto the dance floor.
Mr. Hart was not Mr. Price, but Kitty nonetheless had a soft spot in her heart for him as the first gentleman she had fallen in love with in Bath, a full fortnight ago. His conversation was agreeable, and he was a fair dancer, though he had an unfortunate habit of glancing at his feet. Kitty was pleased, as they danced, to catch a glimpse of Mr. Price in another corner of the room, watching them.
"I am sure you must be very used to such grand events," she remarked, beaming at her partner, "but I confess I am not so accustomed to town dances as to country ones."
"Are they very different?"
"Why, everyone is so elegantly dressed," Kitty exclaimed, "and there are so many people, and we have not yet danced a reel—we dance a great many reels in the country!"
Robert smiled. "We dance our fair share of reels in Bath; fear not, Miss Katherine, you are not so out of place as you may think."
"Oh! I don't feel out of place," Kitty assured him, "indeed I think I could live quite happily in Bath forever, if only Papa would let me stay! The only thing that could be better than Bath is London itself—" And here she remembered again that Mr. Price was the owner of a house in Town, and lost herself briefly in happy memories of their earlier dance together.
"You are very unlike your sister, then."
"That is what everybody says," Kitty giggled. "Mary is not at all like the rest of us—like my sisters and me, I mean. She does not enjoy any of the things an ordinary person enjoys; all she cares about is her dull books and sermons. It is very kind of you, sir," she added, gazing up at him, "to humor her the way you do; she is not particularly agreeable in conversation, I know, but you don't seem to mind it at all!"
"On the contrary, I think her rather interesting," Robert replied.
Kitty laughed. "Lord! I believe that is the first time anyone has thought so—poor Mary! But I am sure she enjoys speaking with you, even if she won't admit it, and it is good of you to be a friend to her, for she hasn't many others."
"At any rate, Miss Katherine," Robert interjected gently, "I did not ask one sister to dance merely in order to speak of the other; tell me how you enjoyed the Sydney Gardens gala on Thursday, for I was unable to attend."
Kitty happily described the beauty of the gardens and, with less expertise, the splendor of the music. The remainder of the dance passed pleasantly, and while Kitty did not regret having fallen out of love with Robert Hart (for he was really rather quiet, and not nearly so gallant as Mr. Price), she was pleased to find him an agreeable companion.
Mrs. Bennet had returned to her seat by the time the dance was ended, and beamed upon the sight of Kitty and Robert arm-in-arm as they left the dance floor. "How well you dance, Mr. Hart!" she cried effusively. "And you, Miss Hart," she added, for Rosamond and Mr. Finch had returned as well. "I declare I could find no more charming couples! I believe there is to be another quadrille, and then we are to go in to supper. Is not the quadrille your favorite dance, Mary?"
Mary, who had been paying little attention to her mother, looked up in horror at the sound of her name. "No, it is not," she insisted, alarmed, but Mrs. Bennet was not to be deterred.
"I hope you are not so very tired, Mr. Hart, that you must sit down again," Mrs. Bennet said sweetly, addressing the younger Hart brother. "My dear Mary would not admit it, but she has always loved the quadrille above any other dance, and I am sure she would not refuse such a handsome partner."
"Indeed?" Robert met Mary's eyes with a hint of a grin. "Miss Bennet gave me to understand that she had no desire to dance."
Mrs. Bennet shot her daughter an exasperated glare, before turning a sunny countenance upon Mr. Hart again. "She is only modest, sir. She would not want to seem forward."
Kitty burst out into giggles, which she quickly stifled with her hand. The four Harts were watching their brother with amusement. "In that case, Miss Bennet," Mr. Hart said, after a pause, "I should be honored if you were to dance the quadrille with me."
"Oh—I don't—" Mary swallowed. Her mother was glaring at her, and Kitty's face with turning red in her attempts to restrain her laughter. She swallowed again. "Of course, sir."
The musicians struck up the opening of the quadrille, and Mary took Robert's extended arm. She could feel the hot blush staining her cheeks and face, and was certain she had never been more furious with her mother.
"There, you see, my dear," a satisfied Mrs. Bennet remarked to Kitty, as the pair took their places on the dance floor, "one must take control of a situation, in order to achieve one's ends."
"Lord, Mamma," Kitty replied, "I thought I should have died laughing!"
The problem with dancing was not only that it was inane and frivolous, though of course these things were true. The problem with dancing was that it was not something one could properly practice alone, in one's small tidy bedroom, or study in a book, or learn by means of diligent application and self-control. Consequently, Mary—who was very, very rarely asked to dance at any of the neighborhood assemblies in Meryton—was not a very good dancer.
"Forgive me, Miss Bennet," Mr. Hart remarked, as Mary stepped hard on his foot for the third time, "but you are not a very good dancer."
Mary looked up at him, shocked. "That is very direct."
"Excuse me. You seem to me like the sort of young lady who appreciates honesty, and I am the sort of gentleman who is accustomed to being honest. Besides, is it not also somehow liberating? I realize that you are not a very good dancer; you realize that I realize that you are not a very good dancer; and so you can stop trying so hard."
Mary was still rather put out, but did admit that it was easier to dance when she was not attempting to make Mr. Hart think she was good at it. Anyway, she thought, Mr. Hart was hardly the most accomplished dancer in the room; he kept looking down at his feet. She gave up trying to remember all of the steps her sisters had endeavored to teach her, and instead did her best to imitate what the couples around them were doing.
It seemed strange to her that this—dancing with a gentleman—was what her younger sisters had always swooned over. The way Kitty talked about balls and dancing was almost as bad as the way Lydia talked about balls and dancing: with plenty of giggles, and shrieks of delight, and blushes, and declarations that they were positively in love with whichever partner had most caught their fancy. Every man they danced with was the handsomest or most charming man in the world, and they always described the way their hearts had raced so till they were lightheaded. It had always sounded, to Mary, quite silly and shallow.
She was pleased to note that she was suffering from none of these idiotic symptoms. To be sure (she cast a critical eye about the room) Robert Hart was the only gentleman she would have cared to dance with. And yet—her heart was not racing, her palms were not sweating, and she did not feel in the least danger of falling into a swoon. She wondered, idly, what all of the fuss was about.
"I apologize for my mother's boldness," she said, in order to make conversation. "She has been determined to see me dance all evening. Perhaps now she will leave me in peace."
"Well," Mr. Hart replied, smiling, "I am pleased to be your sacrifice to filial duty."
"Thank you."
They danced in comfortable silence for another moment, before Mr. Hart spoke again.
"I am sorry that you are not enjoying Bath, Miss Bennet, although you have outlined all of your reasons to me and one or two of them seem quite sensible."
"They are all sensible," Mary said, rather annoyed.
"Perhaps this is a question you have already considered," he went on, as if he had not heard, "but if not, I hope you will do so. How, in your estimation, might your experience of Bath be improved?"
It was not a question Mary had considered directly, but she did so now. "I suppose," she said, slowly, "if there were a pianoforte in our lodgings, I should not feel so much as if I were neglecting my practice. And if—" She bit her lip. "If I were not obliged to spend every day indoors, with Mamma and Kitty, I imagine I should be somewhat happier."
Robert looked down at her. "My sister-in-law, Anne, is from Kent," he said. "She was raised on a very large estate there—Rosings Park."
"Yes," Mary interjected, for she had heard Mr. Collins speak lavishly of Rosings Park and all its glories, the former Miss de Bourgh included. She dimly remembered having felt some vague sense of jealousy at the way her cousin had praised the beauty and goodness of Lady Catherine's daughter.
"I have never been there, of course, but I have heard her talk about it, and it sounds quite beautiful. I understand she used to enjoy walking in the woods and fields very much, and I believe she struggled, when she and my brother were first married, with life in a city—even such a small one as Bath. I imagine you feel much the same way; except perhaps it is easier for you, Miss Bennet, as you are not here forever, and will go home in a few months."
"Perhaps," Mary answered, but she was doubtful.
"Anne has taken to walking in Carlton Gardens every evening, and it seems to ease her mind somewhat. Of course, she walks with my brother, since they are married, but you are not so unfortunately bound. I believe there are a few parks fairly close to Henry Street—Green Park cannot be more than ten minutes' distance, right along James Street. You might enjoy walking there."
"Thank you," Mary replied, looking up at him. The expression on Robert's face was one of honest sympathy, and she felt some of her irritation with him lessen.
"And as to the pianoforte," he went on, smiling at her, "this invitation may not be entirely proper when I am the one extending it; but if anyone objects, you may inform them that it comes from Rosamond. We have a perfectly serviceable pianoforte in our parlor which you are more than welcome to use, if you ever feel compelled to travel all the way down to Widcombe."
"Thank you," Mary said again, giving him a smile. "Indeed your sister has mentioned to me that I may practice upon the instrument, but—I thought perhaps she was only being polite."
"That is likely, but that does not mean she is insincere. Your sister visits Hart House fairly often; you are always welcome to join her."
"That is very kind of you."
"It is not particularly kind of me; I am almost never 'at home,' and it is Rosamond's instrument. But she will not mind."
"Well," said Mary, rather disgruntled, "I suppose it is very kind of her, then."
"Miss Bennet," Robert went on, solemnly, "I am sure you shall never enjoy Bath, but perhaps, this way, it shall be a little more bearable."
Mary was not at all certain that a park and a pianoforte would make Bath any less repugnant to her; but she was too polite to say so, and they continued dancing—neither very talented, but tolerably in step with each other.
Supper was uneventful, except that they were joined by the Fitzwilliams and by several of Mrs. Fitzwilliam's cousins. Their table was a merry one, and very full; and Kitty, who had always enjoyed being part of a large, merry party, did not think she could be any more content.
She was to be proven wrong, however; for upon their return to the ballroom, Mr. Price located her and asked her to dance with him again. She accepted with supreme delight, for though she had expected the invitation, it was infinitely gratifying to receive it when surrounded by friends who could look with satisfaction upon her good fortune.
"Miss Katherine has been asked to dance three times already this evening," she heard Juliet complain to her siblings, "and I have only danced once, and then it was only with Theodore."
Theodore Hart's exclamations of wounded dignity were the last things Kitty heard as she was led away from the circle of chairs.
"I confess, Miss Bennet, that though I have danced with one or two other young ladies this evening, I found their company quite dull when compared to yours," Mr. Price told her, smiling, as they faced one another across the floor. Kitty felt the blush rise in her cheeks, and regarded him shyly through her eyelashes.
"You do me too much credit, Mr. Price; I am sure I am hardly as clever and engaging as some of the other young ladies here."
"Lord! I don't care for cleverness; that is neither here nor there. No, Miss Bennet, you have about you a refreshing sincerity, which I admire. I believe sincerity to be one of the most important virtues a young lady can possess."
"I suppose that comes from being a country girl," Kitty replied coyly. "I have heard that many of the young ladies in Town are very artful."
"Indeed they are, and I cannot stand it. No, Miss Bennet, I have decided that you are the only dance-partner I shall enjoy while I am here in Bath; and I am sure I shall miss you very much when I leave."
"Oh! I hope you are not leaving very soon," Kitty declared, regarding him with alarm.
"No indeed; not for some months yet; but I must leave eventually," he said with a laugh. "There is always some business I must take care of in London. Besides which, Bath is not nearly as interesting in the winter as it is in the summer, and I always enjoy the spring Season in Town."
"I envy you," Kitty confessed. "I have never been to London in my life, except once or twice to visit my aunt and uncle in Cheapside, and papa has never let us go for the Season. I imagine it is very glamorous and exciting; do you receive a great many invitations?"
"Oh, a great many," the gentleman replied carelessly, "so many that I certainly cannot accept them all; and then there are the subscription balls at Almack's—I make a point of attending at least one every Season, for it is the best place to meet new acquaintance."
"I should dearly love to dance at Almack's," Kitty said wistfully.
"You would enjoy it, Miss Bennet; it is much more exclusive than places like the Assembly Rooms here in Bath, but always full nonetheless. And then there are the card-parties, and dinner-parties, and music-parties, and all the other types of parties one must attend—it makes me quite tired to think of it!" But he was laughing.
Kitty's head was spinning, and she regarded Mr. Price with some awe. Certainly she had known before that he lived in London; it had been one of his chief attractions; but to hear him talk about it was even more captivating than she had imagined. To think that one could grow tired of subscription balls and dinner-parties! Bath and its amusements suddenly seemed quite inconsequential to her, and thoughts of London filled her mind.
"Why, you shall be so busy that you will forget all about me," Kitty exclaimed, and blushed a moment later, for it sounded very forward. But Mr. Price was merely smiling at her.
"I could never forget about you, Miss Bennet," he said, rather softly, and Kitty's blush only grew hotter.
Kitty was beaming when Mr. Price returned her to her friends after the dance, and was not at all certain how she could manage to sit placidly in the ballroom for another hour or so without bursting with happiness. She was sure that someone should see the look upon her face and immediately guess that she was completely in love, and then she should be teased mercilessly. But, to her great fortune, she was not the center of attention upon her return, for Rosamond had been dancing as well, with a very handsome young gentleman whom Kitty had not met, and her siblings were sufficiently distracted.
"My dear sister," Theodore Hart said solemnly, as Rosamond's partner bowed and made his exit, "I could not see very well from this distance; was that young Lord Adlam you were dancing with?"
"Indeed it was, Theo," Rosamond replied patiently, "as you know perfectly well, for he greeted you quite politely when he came to ask for my hand, and again when he escorted me to my seat just now."
"How odd," Mrs. Hart remarked, smiling, "for I remember you telling me only last spring that he found you terribly dull."
"I am sure I never said so, Anne," Rosamond returned, her brow furrowed.
"That was more than a year ago, Anne," Robert chimed in. "Certainly he does not find her dull now; we have seen proof enough of that all summer."
"It is not my fault he asks me to dance at every ball," Rosamond said, giving her twin a dark look.
"And will continue to do so," Anne put in, "for I understand he is to spend the entire winter in Bath.
"A titled lord staying in Bath out-of-season!" Theodore exclaimed with mock astonishment. "Why ever should he do such a thing?"
"For his health, of course, Theo," Robert answered. "He must have a very difficult complaint, which obliges him to take the waters all year round."
The brothers and Juliet broke into laughter; even Mrs. Hart was smiling and squeezing Rosamond's hand affectionately. The Fitzwilliams seemed equally amused; but Kitty, noticing that Mr. Finch was seated beside Rosamond, thought it was rather unkind of the Harts to tease her about another gentleman when the one at her side was so much in love with her.
It would have been highly improper for Mr. Price to ask Kitty to dance a third time; but she could not help wishing he would, for it would have made the rest of the ball far more endurable. Instead, however, she was obliged to sit between her mother and her sister, rising only to dance a Scotch reel with Theodore Hart and a second cotillion with Colonel Fitzwilliam. She found both gentlemen highly agreeable dance partners; but they could not compare to Mr. Price, and even as she whirled about the dance floor, she found her eyes seeking out her preferred partner. She saw him, a few times, sitting with his friends, and once he caught her eye and smiled at her. Her face went so red that Colonel Fitzwilliam, concerned, asked if she felt quite well.
Even if she could not spend the rest of the evening with Mr. Price, however, Kitty managed to enjoy herself. The company was engaging, the music was cheerful, and the tea and cakes available in the parlor were delicious. It was not until the ballroom began slowly emptying, and the Harts rose to take their leave, that Kitty realized how tired she was.
"Lord!" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, casting a glance at Mr. Hart's outheld pocketwatch. "I should not have guessed it was so late—I feel as though we have just finished supper! I suppose we must go; what a very agreeable evening! Collect your things, girls. Kitty, do not forget your shawl."
Kitty cast a last glance about the ballroom, but it seemed Mr. Price had already gone. With a sigh, she turned to nudge Mary, who had been dozing in her chair for the last half-hour.
"I am quite sick of hearing you talk about Mr. Price," Mary said wearily, as she and Kitty dressed for bed. Kitty, who had been discussing her favorite topic since they climbed into the carriage, only laughed.
"You will understand, Mary, when you have fallen in love," she declared wisely.
"I am sure I will not," Mary replied.
"La! Perhaps not," Kitty said agreeably. "But do you not think Mr. Price the most perfect gentleman you ever saw? He was so kind to me, Mary; he told me he should miss me ever so much when he returned to London."
"He does not know you well enough to miss you," Mary answered irritably. Kitty seemed not to hear.
"I daresay we were the handsomest couple dancing this evening. I know I saw several young ladies watching us, and they looked quite jealous. I do not think anybody has ever been jealous of me before!"
Mary, already in bed, chose not to reply. Kitty pulled the myriad pins from her hair in contented silence, before finally tying her curls behind her.
"Well," she sighed, falling onto her pillows, "I am sure I shall sleep for a hundred years; but was that not the loveliest evening of your life?"
There was no reply from Mary. Kitty, lifting her head to look over at the other bed, found her sister already asleep.
"I do not know why you are so tired," she muttered to herself, "for you danced only one dance, and I danced five." But she could not help smiling, for Mary looked quite peaceful, with one hand flung carelessly over her forehead and the other clutching the blanket. Raising herself onto her elbows, Kitty leaned over and blew out the candle.