Author's Note: Thank you all so so so much for your patience! I guess summer no longer equals free time once you're a grown up with a job and bills to pay and everything. Ugh. Can I just go back to being a broke lazy college student, please? (No just kidding please don't make me go back to that!)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Kitty looked very smug, as she and her mother donned their bonnets in preparation for a walk to Hart House, when Mary joined them in the vestibule, wrapping a light shawl about her shoulders.
"Are you coming with us to see Rose, Mary?" Kitty asked innocently.
"Miss Hart has invited me to practice upon her pianoforte," Mary replied, ignoring the matching triumphant gleams in the eyes of her relatives.
"How very kind of her!" Mrs. Bennet fluttered. "But would you not like to borrow one of Kitty's dresses for the morning? She has some very pretty summer prints which would suit you well."
"I am certain that Miss Hart will not notice whether or not I am wearing summer prints," Mary said drily.
"It is not Miss Hart I have in mind," Mrs. Bennet answered, with a wink which made her daughter grimace slightly.
"We will not likely see Robert, Mamma," Kitty interjected. Her enthusiasm for the scheme had dampened somewhat at the thought of lending one of her dresses to Mary, who cared little for clothes and was liable to spill tea down the front or litter the skirt with cake crumbs. "He is often away, or at study."
"Well," Mrs. Bennet sighed, with some disappointment, "well, Mary, we shall see Miss Hart, at least, and you may make something of that."
"Perhaps she will be impressed with your playing," Kitty suggested, giggling, as the three ladies set forth into the world.
Mary had been to the Harts' home only a few times, for she habitually abstained from the morning calls which her mother and sister paid to their Bath friends almost every day. She had therefore only seen the house in the evenings, when Dr. Hart had once or twice invited the Bennets to dine with his family.
Despite her prevailing distaste for anything connected with Bath, Mary could not help but like Hart House. Dr. Hart was a widower, and Rosamond had kept house for her father since the marriage of her elder sister some years before; and whatever defaults Mary might discern in that young lady, she could not deny that Miss Hart managed the little household (the family and two servants) with a sensible, capable hand. The domestic upsets which were a part of everyday life at Longbourn, brought on as they were by Mrs. Bennet's frequent nervous attacks, seemed utterly unknown at Hart House.
Besides this precious household serenity, the house itself was charming. It was smaller than Longbourn, but otherwise could very easily have passed for the home of a gentleman farmer, being simply arranged and comfortable. The windows were large, affording the rooms a great deal of light; the walls were decorated with family portraits and a few drawings by the Hart sisters. There were books everywhere—stacked on tables, set on shelves, arranged attractively on the mantelpiece. Mary had never had a chance to peruse the Harts' library, but she imagined it must be a rather impressive collection, for all of the family members demonstrated a great love of reading. And, of course, the sitting room boasted the prized pianoforte, which—though not nearly so fine an instrument as the one at Pemberley, or even the smaller one at Netherfield—was nonetheless much doted on and cared for by Dr. Hart, who enjoyed music above all things.
It was with some pleasure, therefore, that Mary entered Hart House, and at a smile and a welcoming gesture from Miss Hart, took her seat immediately at the instrument and began looking through the large sheaf of music which her hostess handed to her.
"I hope you may find something there which pleases you, Miss Bennet," Miss Hart said kindly. Mary thanked her; she was already well pleased, having discovered two pieces of Haydn which she had never played before.
"I hope you will remember, my dear, that you are a guest here," Mrs. Bennet instructed, leaning close over her daughter as Rosamond moved to embrace Kitty, "and you cannot play for hours and hours as you are wont to do at home, for I am sure Miss Hart will not want you here all the afternoon; furthermore, take care to play something pleasant, for none of us are in the mood for your dull concertos."
Mary accepted this motherly advice with only a small nod, too engrossed in the Harts' musical collection to pay much mind.
Kitty and Mrs. Bennet took their seats on the settee and accepted the cups of tea which Rosamond offered them. Mrs. Bennet was eager to hear Rosamond discuss the concert she had attended with her family the previous evening—not because Mrs. Bennet was particularly interested in music, for she was not, but because she was an avaricious collector of gossip, and Rosamond, with her wide circle of acquaintance, likely knew more of the city's scandals than Mrs. Bennet could ever hope to find out on her own.
First, of course, Mrs. Bennet was obliged to feign interest in Rosamond's rapturous descriptions of the concert itself; and Mary postponed her playing for a few moments to listen enviously.
"I always enjoy Hummel," Rosamond was saying, "and am rarely disappointed in the concerts at the Assembly Rooms; but it really was particularly marvelous last night. Even Theo enjoyed himself, and he is of a far more critical mind than I am."
"Were there a great many people in the audience?" Mrs. Bennet asked hopefully.
"Oh, yes; there always are. Bath boasts a great many music-lovers, even when the Season has ended."
"So you must have seen many friends and acquaintances," Mrs. Bennet hinted.
Rosamond, discerning the meaning of Mrs. Bennet's questions, gave a smile. "We sat with the Fitzwilliams and the Finches," she said obligingly, "and saw Mr. Dalton and Miss Seabrook at the interval—oh, and Mr. Price was there, as he often is, but we only spoke for a moment."
It was at this moment that Mary, understanding there would be no more sensible conversation, chose to begin playing. The sudden sound covered up Kitty's elated gasp at the mention of Mr. Price, but could not hide the way she leaned forward, regarding Rosamond with wide eyes.
"Did he seem—was in he good spirits?" she asked eagerly.
"He seemed quite cheerful."
"Was he alone?"
"He was there with a friend, a stranger to me—a gentleman friend," Rosamond added swiftly, at Kitty's look of concern.
"What was the gentleman's name?"
"I am afraid I have forgotten," Rosamond confessed, "which is terribly impolite of me, for he was very well-mannered and agreeable. I believe my mind was too much taken up with the music to take in anything else! But Mr. Price did send his regards to you, Kitty."
Kitty gave a tiny squeal, and turned exultantly to her mother. Mrs. Bennet's face was wreathed in proud smiles.
"Do you not think Mr. Price the most amiable man in the world, Miss Hart?" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. "Kitty thinks you disapprove of him, but I am sure you could not; he is so charming and good-natured!"
Faced, as she was, with two firm, beaming advocates of Mr. Price's charms—one of whom was her elder, and not to be argued with—Miss Hart could only agree that she found him very amiable indeed, despite their only slight acquaintance.
"I am sure I shall marry him," Kitty declared, and at this Rosamond's eyebrows lifted very slightly.
"How certain you sound!" she laughed. "Why, the last time we discussed the subject, you said only that you were very fond of him; and now you are already declaring yourself engaged. Mr. Price is a happy man, to be so successful in his courtship!"
"He is a very happy man," Mrs. Bennet agreed, affectionately tucking one of Kitty's loose curls behind her ear, "and will be forever, for my daughter will make him so. Do you not think it a fine match, Miss Hart?"
Rosamond only smiled, and offered her guests the plate of cakes.
Mrs. Bennet and Kitty had other calls to make that morning, and wanted to visit the shops besides, and so their time at Hart House lasted only a half-hour. Yet Rosamond invited Mary to stay longer if she wished to continue her practice, and Mary seized the opportunity with alacrity.
"I have been out of practice for some weeks, Mamma," she argued, "and cannot be expected to make up so much lost time in only half an hour."
"I have no other plans for the morning—only some letters to write, and it would be very pleasant to listen to music as I do so," Rosamond assured Mrs. Bennet. "It is not often that I have the opportunity of listening, instead of playing, within my own home; I confess I am enjoying it very much."
Mrs. Bennet was initially somewhat hesitant to accept the offer, but privately decided that it would be more convenient to have Mary imposing on the Harts than sitting sullenly in every drawing-room they visited. Besides which, she still entertained some hope that Mary might see Robert while at Hart House, and therefore agreed that Mary could stay for another hour or so, if she was not in anybody's way.
"But you must leave as soon as Miss Hart grows tired of you," she instructed her daughter, not bothering to lower her voice. Mary flushed, and Rosamond, laughing, assured the lady again that it was no trouble. Mrs. Bennet gave Mary a significant look as she bustled down the front steps, and Kitty gave her a wide smile as she followed her mother, and then they were gone and Mary and Miss Hart were standing alone in the vestibule.
"You play well, Miss Bennet," Miss Hart remarked, as they turned to re-enter the sitting room. "Do you indeed practice every day, as you told me before?"
"I do," Mary replied. "I believe it is important for a young lady to have at least one occupation to which she may devote herself entirely, and in which she may work seriously to improve."
"And this is yours?"
"It is. I am always trying to be better." Mary gave Miss Hart a considering glance, and then added, "I heard you once or twice at Pemberley, Miss Hart, and I believe you have a fine talent for the instrument."
"Thank you," Miss Hart agreed, "I believe I do."
At Mary's surprised glance—for she understood it to be typical among fashionable young ladies, when commended for their accomplishments, to blush and dissemble—Rosamond gave a little smile. "I have never seen the point in feigning embarrassment when one truly feels well-deserved satisfaction. I play very well, for, like you, I have devoted many hours to my practice, and I am proud of the fact. There are many things which I do not do well, and ought not to be admired for; but when the compliment is bought with a great deal of work, I see no reason not to accept it. Do you not agree?"
"I do," Mary answered, feeling, of all things, rather pleased. "I despair of the wiles and arts which are frequently employed by young ladies to appear more amiable than they truly are, and I believe an honest examination of one's faults and virtues is necessary for true self-understanding and, therefore, for true self-improvement. Having accepted that you play very well upon the pianoforte, you may now consider those other things which you say you do not do well, and address your faults in those areas."
"It is a strict regimen you keep," Rosamond laughed, "to master one skill, only to move on to the next!"
"But I think it necessary, if one is to be considered truly accomplished."
"I am surprised to hear you speak of accomplishments, Miss Bennet, for it seems to me you should loathe the word."
They had reached the sitting room, and were standing by the pianoforte; but Mary, distracted, made no move to sit down. "Why should you think so?" she asked instead.
"Why, because you are so very concerned with the self—with self-understanding, and self-improvement, and self-discipline, and all of the other such terms I have heard you use. 'Accomplished' is a term employed by others; we work toward accomplishments to please and impress the rest of the world. Such a goal, it seems, must be contrary to your goal of self-understanding. Would you not rather say you learn and improve for your own satisfaction, and not that of everybody else?"
Mary, deeply surprised, could think only that Rosamond was far more perceptive than she had previously believed, but she could hardly say such a thing out loud. "Have you learned such ideas from novels?" she demanded instead.
Miss Rosamond only laughed, more loudly than Mary had ever heard her laugh before. "You are very persistent upon that score!"
"I am sorry," Mary said stiffly, realizing belatedly how her question must have sounded, "that was impolite."
"It is no matter.—Come, be seated and improve yourself, Miss Bennet. I enjoyed hearing you play before, and should enjoy it even more now that I am writing instead of talking, and more able to listen."
Miss Bennet was glad to take her seat upon the bench, and place her hands upon the instrument again. It felt somewhat like coming home, and she rested there for a moment, taking pleasure in the cool keys beneath her fingers, before she began to follow the piece of Haydn she had set upon the ledge. Miss Hart retrieved some writing-paper and a quill from a well-used writing desk and sat down to take care of her correspondence. Stillness prevailed for some time, broken of course by Mary's practice—and it was indeed practice, complete with misstruck notes and frequent stops and starts—but the atmosphere was nonetheless peaceful and surprisingly comfortable.
Mary was happy not only for the opportunity to practice, but for the opportunity to practice without listening to Kitty's complaints about the dullness of her selection, or Mrs. Bennet's complaints about the effect of the noise upon her delicate nerves, or even Mr. Bennet's decisive requests for silence in his household. Rosamond was an appreciative listener, glancing up now and then to watch Mary work her way through a difficult passage, and smiling at the more fluent sections, but making no move to speak or interrupt. Mary supposed Rosamond, as a fellow musician, must know well the annoyances of having some person attempt to talk at one over one's playing.
At length, however, Mary began to feel an ache in her hands and wrists, which she attributed to being so long out of practice; and she lifted her fingers from the keys with some regret.
"Are you satisfied with your work for today, Miss Bennet?" Miss Hart asked, seeing Mary halt.
"I am not entirely, no; but my hands are aching, for they have not been so well-used in over a fortnight, and I should not like to strain myself."
"That is sensible. I thought you sounded very well—the last sonata, in particular, was quite pretty." Rosamond rose from the writing-desk and took the arm-chair closest to the pianoforte.
"Was it not?" Mary said, with a rush of warmth, for she rarely had the opportunity to discuss music with someone who appreciated it as she did (even if she did suspect her own appreciation to be somewhat more serious than Miss Hart's). "It is one of my favorites; I have practiced it a great deal at home."
"I am glad to find another who loves Haydn as I do. My father claims that his symphonies and string pieces are more rather satisfying than his works for the pianoforte, but I confess I have always loved the sonatas quite as much."
"Have you any Scarlatti?" Mary asked keenly. "I have attempted to teach myself as many of his sonatas as I can, for of course many of them are for organs or other instruments, but I have not been able to find all of them."
"That is a great undertaking!" Rosamond exclaimed, laughing. "I have several; you are welcome to look at them the next time you come, and see if they are any of the ones you have missed."
Mary expressed pleasure at the prospect, more readily than she had expressed pleasure at any other thing she had done in Bath; but at that moment they were interrupted, as the door opened and Robert came in. He started upon finding Mary at the pianoforte, but recovered with an amiable smile and a bow.
"Miss Bennet," he greeted her, "I see you have accepted our offer at last. I was beginning to think you did not care so much for your playing as you claimed."
"On the contrary, I had no wish to impose on your hospitality," Mary hastened to assure him, but a slight quirk of the gentleman's lips hinted to her that he was teasing, and she fell silent. She could not help but feel slightly awkward around Robert Hart, ever since Kitty had made her foolish insinuations some days ago. However, she was satisfied to note that her heart had not leapt or even warmed as he walked in, and she felt no desire to embrace him or otherwise express overt familiarity and romantic affection. She regarded him quite objectively, as one might regard any other friend.
"How is Mrs. Bellefore?" Rosamond questioned, turning in her seat to face her brother. Robert gave a small groan, and sank onto the settee with every appearance of thankfulness for its support.
"She is the healthiest woman in the world, as I knew she would be, though of course she is convinced otherwise."
"She is not dying of consumption, then?"
"Certainly not; I found her striding about her bedroom, color in her cheeks and strength in her voice, having finished a large breakfast only moments before, and of course she devoted all of her vigor to telling me how very ill she was. I am beginning to think our father sends me on such calls for his own amusement."
"That is quite likely; but it may be educational, if you do intend to take on Papa's practice. Bath is a city of hypochondriacs, after all—that is what it was built for."
"Indeed. I am sure Father spends more time soothing healthy people who believe themselves unwell than he does treating actual illnesses—and that may well be my own fate."
"You will have to develop a more gentle manner, in that case, for as it is you are very brusque and prone to sarcasm, which is not at all good for tending to the anxious," Rosamond remarked matter-of-factly.
"Thank you for your criticism, my dear sister; you are eminently helpful, as always."
"That is a fine example of what I mean."
"Now you are annoying me."
"And you are impatient," his dear sister added. "So far, I am afraid to say, I am not seeing in you a particularly promising physician."
Robert responded to this by aiming a very light kick to the leg of the chair in which Rosamond was seated.
"Pray do not do that when you are wearing your boots," Rosamond said placidly, "or you will dirty the cushions, and I will have your head if you do."
Robert gave a snort of amusement, as his eyes fell on Mary again. "Excuse us, Miss Bennet," he apologized, "you cannot find any of this particularly interesting—this discussion of patients and illnesses, or the lack thereof."
"On the contrary," Mary replied, "I am wondering if you might come and treat my mother; she suffers from a nervous complaint which I am almost certain is imaginary."
Robert stared, then laughed. Rosamond, too, was laughing, and in spite of herself, Mary flushed for having made them both do so. She felt almost included in the twins' genial intimacy, and to her surprise, the thought pleased her more than she imagined it strictly should. Giving a glance to the clock on the mantelpiece, she rose to take her leave, for the hour which Mrs. Bennet had allotted her had passed.
"Are you going, Miss Bennet?" Robert asked, standing as she did.
"I am afraid I must."
"Well, wait a moment and I will walk with you—I told Juliet I would take her to Sally Lunn's for a Bath-bun, in exchange for her bringing me a book I wanted."
"I have brought you a thousand books you wanted over the course of our lives, and you have never once bought me a Bath-bun," Rosamond complained, with only mild indignation, as she too rose and smoothed her skirts.
"Perhaps not; but I will make reparations by posting those letters for you, if they are ready to be sent." Robert nodded at the writing-desk. Rosamond collected the bundle of letters and handed them to her brother, before leaving the room to summon little Juliet.
"Well, Miss Bennet, I hope you are satisfied with your practice this morning," Robert remarked, glancing idly through his sister's letters as they walked into the vestibule.
"I am, indeed; I was pleased to find that your collection contains many pieces which are quite unknown to me, and I look forward to attempting them. "
"I am glad to hear it. Did Rose talk at all about the concert we attended?"
"A little," Mary answered, rather disdainfully. "My mother was not so interested in the music as she was in the people, and so there were only a few words said about the quality of the performance."
"Do your mother and sister plan to attend any concerts?"
"I am sure they do not. Neither of them possesses any degree of interest or expertise when it comes to musical performance."
"Yet they should attend; even if they care nothing for the music, there are always a great many ladies and gentlemen present, and they might watch the crowd to their hearts' content while you enjoy the performance."
"That is an argument which may indeed convince my mother," Mary conceded wryly, wrapping her shawl about her shoulders once again, "although Kitty would be disappointed that she could not talk over the music, and she would certainly attempt it anyway. Perhaps it is better for everybody if I resign myself to second-hand accounts from you and your sister."
"Nay, Miss Bennet," Robert answered, giving a little laugh, "you must not give up so easily. If your family is not conducive to an appreciation of the musical arts, you are more than welcome to join mine."
He seemed to notice what he had said only after he said it, for he turned rather red, and added hastily, "At-at a concert, I mean. My father has several seats for a recital of Gluck and Salieri this week; I am sure Rose means to invite you when she comes downstairs."
"That is very kind," Mary answered, blushing in spite of herself, "but—"
She was unable to complete her sentence, for the two Miss Harts came down the stairs at that moment, Juliet looking very pretty in a new bonnet. "I am glad you came to play for us today, Miss Bennet," Miss Hart declared, giving her a curtsy, "but do not forget our bargain; I have passed over it this time, but next time I shall want to know what you think of The Italian."
"I shall prepare myself as best I can," Mary promised, though she had not yet opened the book. Miss Hart smiled.
"There is a concert at the Assembly Rooms on Wednesday which I think you would very much enjoy; should you and your family like to attend?" she asked. "My father has several seats." Robert gave Mary a swift glance.
"Thank you," Mary said. "I will mention your invitation to my mother; I am sure she and my sister would be delighted."
"Even if they are not, you are more than welcome to join us," Rosamond said easily. "Good-bye, then, and remember to acquaint yourself with Mrs. Radcliffe, or I shall hide all of the Haydn and Scarlatti next time and you shall be forced to content yourself with practicing the scales. Are you sun-burned, Robert? Your face is quite red.—Well, good-bye!"
With a few more words of farewell among the Hart siblings, Mary and her escorts set off from the comfortable home, and headed toward the center of the city once again.
Robert recovered from his momentary awkwardness once they reached the open air, and questioned Mary most politely on her activities in Bath since she had seen him last—a topic which was quickly exhausted, for Mary had done very little besides visiting the book-shop, and Robert had already heard an account of that event from his sisters.
"And before you ask, Mr. Hart, I still have no love for Bath," Mary added, although her tone was less cold than it had been in earlier conversations.
"You may not believe me, Miss Bennet, but my patience with the place is quickly growing thin," the gentleman replied.
"Why! How can you speak so, Robert?" Miss Juliet demanded, with an air of reproach. "Do not tell me you are going to be like Helena, and run off and leave us all behind; I like it best when all of the family is close together."
"That is only because you have never known it any other way," Robert said teasingly. "I imagine you should discover a great many advantages in having Theo and Anne halfway across the world—it would be much more peaceful, for one thing."
"But I should miss Anne very much," Juliet avowed, and her brother laughed.
"Are you thinking of leaving Bath, Mr. Hart?" Mary asked, rather keenly.
"Oh, as to that, I could not say," Robert replied.
There was a pause. Juliet was engaged in admiring a late-blooming rose bush hanging over the paving stones, and Mary was considering how to further the conversation without appearing very forward. Fortunately, she was saved the effort, for Robert declared suddenly,
"But it is provoking!"
"I beg your pardon?" There was a tone of vexation in Robert's voice which she had not heard before; indeed, she had never heard him speak with anything but perfect mildness.
"Forgive me, Miss Bennet; I suppose my difficult morning may cause me to speak with greater warmth than I ought. It is only—" He hesitated. "I have spent a great deal of time earning my medical training. I was apprenticed to my father at the age of fourteen; I have been reading, and studying, and working in my father's practice, since I can remember. And to have all this training wasted upon cases of imagined consumption, or imagined gout, or a thousand other imagined diseases—to foresee a lifetime of prescribing rest and perhaps a visit to the Baths, to those who have no real need of either but desire a treatment for every nervous flutter or feigned swooning fit—it is not to be contemplated."
He fell silent, frowning. Mary, too, was silent, somewhat struck by the honest displeasure the gentleman expressed.
"Would you rather that they were truly ill?" she asked at last. "That is wholly uncharitable, though I do not entirely think it is what you meant."
"Certainly not! I only meant—this is not why I became interested in medicine." His voice softened and he gave a slight nod toward his sister, who was walking ahead. "My own mother passed away when I was young; Juliet scarcely had an opportunity to know her, and has grown up quite motherless. She has been fortunate, for Helena and Rose have always been very devoted to her, but I believe she still feels the loss. It is a common occurence, but that does not mean it is not sad. I remember thinking, as a child, that I should like to prevent its happening to anybody else."
"That is a noble ideal," Mary said.
"And an impossible one; there will always be death, and there will always be children without mothers. But it is something to strive for, nonetheless, and it is painful to imagine such a high purpose for oneself, only to be confronted with the reality: wealthy ladies and gentlemen who have paid to be told that there is something wrong with them."
"Your characterization of your patients seems somewhat unfair," Mary said, "though I can understand your meaning. It is entirely likely, as you suggest, that you are speaking more unpleasantly than you would if you had not just attended to a particularly irritating case. However, I imagine you ought to take comfort in the fact that you are obliged to do so little, however dull it may seem. Busy physicians are never a promising symbol of a society's health."
"It is only in Bath that I am obliged to do so little," Robert replied tensely. "This is a city of hypochondriacs, as Rose says, but there is a great deal of disease in the world."
"Lord, Robert," Juliet sighed, rejoining them; she had grown tired of their slow progress and returned, impatiently, to hasten them along. "Must you speak so seriously on such a fine afternoon?"
Her brother apologized, and Juliet changed the subject to something more cheerful. Mary spoke little for the remainder of the walk.
The party reached Sally Lunn's without further incident, and Mary, politely resisting Robert and Juliet's invitations to join them for tea and a bun, made her way to Henry Street. She found the house quite deserted, for Kitty and Mrs. Bennet had not yet returned from the shops; far from being disappointed, however, Mary was glad of the quiet, for it allowed her ample time for reflection.
It was rare that Mary was the sharer of somebody's confidence. Jane and Elizabeth had forever fulfilled that role for one another, as had Kitty and Lydia, and while Lydia's marriage had removed her from the family circle, Kitty still tended to confide in Maria Lucas, or Jane, or even Mrs. Bennet, before turning to Mary. There were no young ladies in Meryton to whom Mary felt particularly attached—only a few whom she had known most of her life, and with whom she was therefore easier than with others. She had certainly never counted a gentleman among her close acquaintances.
Her conversation with Robert Hart was therefore, in some small way, gratifying to Mary, despite the plain unhappiness which Robert had expressed. It was thrilling, she realized, to be confided in—to be spoken to honestly, without the veneer of decorum or pleasantness to dilute the thoughts and ideas and emotions being discussed. She wished the exchange had not been interrupted; she wished she had been able to offer him more advice, to say something which would have proven her entirely worthy of his confidence.
Despite the brevity of the interaction, however, Mary was satisfied. Not only had Robert definitively demonstrated the seriousness and nobleness of his mind—he had also demonstrated that he considered Mary a friend, which was something very few people had ever done before.
Mary allowed herself a small smile, glad Kitty was not there to see it; for she would have made such a fuss, and declared that Mary had found her true love, when really Mary was certain she had found something much more valuable. Her eyes rested on the small bound volume that sat, patiently, on the little writing-desk in the parlor: The Italian, or The Confessional of the Black Penitents. Picking it up, Mary settled comfortably into a chair near the window, and began to read.
Her last thought, before she was dragged into the tale of Ellena and Vincentio, was that she would certainly attend Wednesday's concert with the Harts, whether her family joined them or no.
Mrs. Bennet and Kitty had enjoyed a profitable morning, and returned to the house in good spirits and laden down with gossip and packages; and when Mary, roused from her book by the inevitable flurry and noise which heralded the arrival of her mother and sister, repeated the Harts' invitation, Mrs. Bennet was positively overjoyed.
"How very kind! How very cordial!" she exclaimed, fluttering her hands excitedly. "There, you see, Mary? This is surely a compliment to you! I did tell you to secure Miss Hart's good opinion, and now you have done so; and I am sure this is only the first of many invitations to come! I may see you married before the winter!"
"We have received invitations from the Harts ever since we have been in Bath, Mamma," Mary pointed out, "and you surely cannot attribute all of those to my influence. It is far more likely that Kitty's friendship with Miss Hart is the cause of such overtures."
Mrs. Bennet waved an impatient hand. "I shall write directly and accept the invitation; and then, Mary, we must find something for you to wear, for I am sure you have nothing suitable."
Her daughter opened her mouth to object, but Kitty interrupted. "Do you think Mr. Price will be there, Mamma? I long to see him again!"
"Did not Miss Hart say he is often at the Assembly Rooms? I am sure he would not miss an opportunity of seeing you, my love."
"He does not even know she will be there," Mary interjected crossly, but nobody was listening.
"La! Then I shall wear my green crape frock with the white trim, for I have not worn it yet and it is very striking. Do you think it should look best with my white ribbon or my pearls—or perhaps my new cameo pin? And what am I to do with my hair, Mamma?"
"We shall think of something," her mother assured her.
"You ought to concern yourself less with the adornment of your person, and more with the improvement of your mind," Mary intoned. "If Mr. Price is a sensible gentleman—a fact of which I am not yet convinced—he will care little for clothes, but will place great stock in the intellect and opinions of the woman whom he chooses to marry."
"Oh, Lord," Kitty sighed, though the smile never left her face, "how naïve you are, Mary."
"Indeed, Mary," Mrs. Bennet agreed, "do you think Mr. Wickham cared at all for Lydia's intellect and opinions? And she was the first of you all to be married, and at only sixteen! Now come, child, we must look at what clothes you have brought with you, and see what is to be done."
She bustled Mary out of the room and up the stairs.
Kitty, left alone in the parlor, fell deliriously into a chair. She could not help wishing that her mother had not compared Mr. Price to Mr. Wickham, for she had grown to suspect that Lydia's marriage was not entirely what it should have been; but she could not care for that now, when she was faced with the prospect of meeting again that certain gentleman who held sway over her heart and mind—she wondered if this was how Jane had felt about Mr. Bingley, or Lizzie about Mr. Darcy. But no, she decided, for they were both too serious to know how to be in love; they had no sense of romance.
It was a pity, she reflected, that this scene of great meeting was to take place at something so dull as a concert—and an indoor concert, too, where they could not walk about as they had done at Sydney Gardens. But she was certain she could bear any amount of dullness, if it meant a few minutes with dear Mr. Price.
Wednesday came very quickly, for all three of the Bennet ladies were eager for its arrival: Mary because she delighted in the prospect of attending a real Bath concert, Kitty because her heart danced every time her thoughts drifted to Mr. Price, and Mrs. Bennet because she looked forward, with great satisfaction, to witnessing the confirmation of all her fondest hopes—that is, that her last two daughters would finally marry. For Mary to secure an evening with Mr. Hart was encouraging; for Kitty to spend the same evening with Mr. Price was even more so. And this was not like a ball, where they could only dance twice and, between one thing and another, would perhaps only converse for a few minutes; this was an entire, almost uninterrupted evening, and Mrs. Bennet could not be more delighted.
The Assembly Rooms were bustling when they arrived on Wednesday evening. Bath was, as Rosamond had assured them, a city filled with music-lovers, and the bright vestibule was humming with the sounds of chatter and conversation. Kitty thrilled at the sight of so many fashionable ladies and gentlemen, and searched the crowd eagerly for Mr. Price. She was disappointed when she did not spot him immediately; but, she reflected, the hour was early yet.
The Hart family was standing near the windows, joined by Mr. Finch. The Bennets met their friends with a great deal of eagerness—even Mary could scarce hide her enthusiasm for the evening's entertainment.
"You were so kind to invite us, Dr. Hart," Mrs. Bennet fawned, as the gentleman bowed to her and offered her a polite arm.
"Do not say so just yet, Mrs. Bennet," Theodore Hart warned her, his eyes twinkling; "the concert may be very poor indeed, and then you will not want to thank my father."
"Oh, Mr. Hart, I am sure it will not be so," Mrs. Bennet cried. "I am sure there is no such thing as a poor concert—not in Bath!"
"My husband is apt to be rather critical," Anne Hart said, smiling at Mrs. Bennet, "though," she added, turning to Theo, "I am not sure you have any right to be; you are no musician."
"I suppose your point, my love, is that it is easy to criticize what one cannot do oneself, and I confess I agree with you. The only opinion which matters, then, is that of our Rose, who has played and sung all her life."
"And done so very skillfully," Dr. Hart interjected, with an affectionate glance at his daughter. Miss Hart accepted the compliment with a smile and a pretty "Thank you, Papa," but added,
"That is not so anymore, Theo—I am not the only expert in our party. Dear Miss Bennet plays and sings beautifully. I have heard her myself, and am quite envious of her proficiency and discipline."
Mary blushed, for the eyes of the party were suddenly all upon her, and tried to think of something very wise and clever to say. But she was preceded by Kitty, who unexpectedly exclaimed,
"Discipline is a very good word, Rosamond, for Mary practices every day for hours upon hours, and is never satisfied until she can play perfectly. She is that way in every endeavor she takes up," Kitty went on, glancing demurely at Robert Hart. "She desires to do every thing perfectly. I am sure she could make any sensible man very happy, for she is so very accomplished and interesting!"
"Kitty!" Mary hissed, her face now very red. Robert looked, of all things, rather amused. Mary wondered whether he realized that this was all for his benefit; she dearly hoped not.
"Oh, indeed, there is no one in the family so accomplished as our Mary," Mrs. Bennet chimed in breezily. "She plays, and sings, and reads so many books—we are all very proud of her!"
"Thank you, Mamma," Mary mumbled. She bowed her head in embarrassment, and hoped she merely appeared modest.
Fortunately, it was at this moment that the doors to the Octagon Room opened. The subject of Mary's accomplishments was dropped as the party joined the general movement into the concert space, and Mrs. Bennet and Kitty occupied themselves with finding seats which would offer the best view of the surrounding audience members.
"I am glad you were able to join us tonight, Miss Bennet," Robert Hart said, as he took the chair beside Mary. (Mrs. Bennet, looking on, beamed at them.) "I shall be eager to know what you think of the performance."
"I am afraid Miss Hart has overestimated my expertise," Mary replied. "I have never been to a concert before, and I may not know entirely whether it is good or bad."
"Is that not an easy problem? If the music is pleasing to the ear, it is good; if not, it is bad."
"That is a simplified view of the issue," Mary answered warmly, turning to face him. "One must take into account other aspects besides the purely aesthetic. We must consider technique, skill, interpretation and other such matters. As a physician, Mr. Hart, you would not claim that everything which tastes good is physically beneficial; and it is the same with music. The more difficult passages are often the most technically important."
"Then you are not here to enjoy yourself—you are here to be improved."
"Improvement is always my first concern in any activity; but I did not say I would not enjoy myself. To attend a Bath concert in the company of friends is certainly an experience which any person must find agreeable."
Robert smiled at her, and Mary found herself smiling back.
Kitty had wanted to sit with Rosamond, but her friend had been pulled into the row ahead by Mrs. Hart, and so she found herself seated behind Mary, with Mr. Finch to her right and an empty seat to her left. There was very little conversation to be had here; Mr. Finch had made a few remarks on the pleasantness of the weather, to which Kitty had responded readily, but had soon lapsed into an awkward silence. Kitty, an envious observer of Mary's easy conversation with Robert Hart, heaved a small sigh—until—
"Your sister appears to have made a friend."
Kitty jumped, but recognized the voice and turned elatedly to regard Mr. Price, who was standing above her. He bowed. "I apologize for startling you, Miss Bennet, but I saw you sitting here and could not resist coming to speak with you. Is this seat unclaimed?"
"Oh, to be sure," Kitty replied, beaming; "Will you sit with us?"
"I would be delighted," the gentleman affirmed, dropping into the chair with easy grace. "How do you do, Finch?"
Mr. Finch gave Mr. Price an uncomfortable nod, of which Kitty took no notice, for she had immediately begun chastising her friend: "I have not seen you once since the Wolfes' ball, Mr. Price, though I have been all over Bath and seen everybody else. Where have you been?"
"I was called to London for a few days," he replied smoothly.
"Oh!" Kitty's teasing resentment was immediately supplanted by eagerness. "And what did you do there? Were there any balls—any parties?"
"One or two," he said carelessly. "However, I was primarily there on a matter of business.—But look how charmingly your sister smiles at her friend! Did you not tell me she was very disagreeable with most gentlemen?"
"Mr. Hart is exceedingly kind to my sister," Kitty said cheerfully, though she was careful to keep her voice low enough that the pair in question would not overhear. "They are forever having very serious conversations, which is just what Mary likes."
"That sounds like a dull sort of intimacy," Mr. Price remarked. "I am sure you would not settle for such a courtship."
Kitty blushed. "Well, but Mary is a dull sort of person," she confided, "and Rose tells me Robert is much the same way."
"Imagine the dreary marriage which must eventually ensue! They will read books and discuss theories for the rest of their days."
This Kitty found rather hard, for Mary was her sister, after all, and she did truly like Robert Hart, despite his tendency to smile rather than laugh; but she was saved the necessity of negotiating a response by the sound of applause, as the evening's performers took to the small stage and bowed solemnly. Any conversation was rendered quite impossible, and Kitty settled back into her seat with a little sigh, for this was the part of the evening which she did not anticipate with any pleasure.
The musicians, however, were very skillful; and while there was no more flirtation to be had while they played, Kitty found the melodies rather pretty and even thought one or two of the faster ones might be suitable for dancing. She amused herself, for a time, by imagining the sort of steps which must accompany such tunes. When that grew dull, she cast her eyes about the audience. Mr. Finch, to her left, was watching the stage earnestly; Mr. Price, to her right, was leaning back in his seat with an expression of slight boredom. Rosamond, a few seats down from her in the aisle ahead, was regarding the performers with attentive pleasure. Dr. Hart was tapping his foot, every so slightly, to the music. Mrs. Bennet was looking about the room, just like Kitty—their eyes met, and Mrs. Bennet, catching sight of Mr. Price, favored her daughter with an approving beam. Kitty could not see Mary's face, for her sister was seated directly in front of her, but she imagined it must bear an expression of rapture. She hoped Mary would not let her mouth hang open, as she was wont to do when surprised or pleased; Robert Hart would certainly not find such a sight attractive.
Before very long, however, Kitty ran out of faces to study, and she settled back into her seat with another little sigh, resigning herself to an eternal age of boredom.
The first half of the concert ended far too soon, as far as Mary was concerned. The musicians rose and the audience applauded, and Mary's heart pounded happily in her breast. Certainly, she had an ear untrained to orchestral music—her only experience was with pieces written for the pianoforte—but she had certainly enjoyed the music, and had been unable to discern any grave errors on the part of the performers. She turned to Robert Hart, and he, catching sight of her, gave a little laugh.
"I do not think I have ever seen you look so happy, Miss Bennet," he said.
Mary realized that her mouth was hanging open, and shut it hurriedly. The other members of the audience were rising to their feet, intent upon stretching their legs for a few minutes before the second half of the performance would begin. Robert rose, and offered her an arm.
"Shall we walk?"
"It is a good match," Mr. Price observed, his eyes again upon Mary and Robert. He had offered his own arm to Kitty, who had taken it blissfully, oblivious to the identical, but quieter, invitation which Mr. Finch had extended her only a moment before. "One would not expect the sister of a Mrs. Darcy to be content with a physician's son; but, after all, there is an excellent fortune there. Thomas Hart is only a physician, but he is a successful one, and I understand he has provided very well for his children."
"I am sure that is the case," Kitty replied, a little discomfited by the mercenary turn of the conversation. "And," she added, brightening, "one cannot make marriages wholly upon the basis of class and fortune; Mrs. Theodore Hart was the heiress of Rosings Park, you know, but she gave it all up for love of her husband. Is that not the most romantic thing you ever heard?"
"Very nearly," Mr. Price agreed, smiling at her. "I am glad to hear, Miss Bennet, that you are one of those rare females who prizes love and passion above fortune and connexions. I have always known myself incapable of marrying a woman who prizes material comfort over loftier pursuits."
Kitty blushed. "I do not think it is entirely proper for you to speak to me of marriage, sir," she said demurely, toying with her fan.
"Ah! And the rules of propriety must be strictly attended to," Mr. Price declared, with mock seriousness. "If those rules were broken, I might carry out some rash act—I might tell you how very lovely you look in that green crape, for example, or how charmingly that string of pearls sits upon your throat; or I might say to you that you are the prettiest and most enchanting young lady I have ever met, and I should very much like to see more of you."
Kitty's heart was beating so loudly she was sure it could be heard even over the hum of the room. "I think you are being very forward," she answered, but her eyes were dancing.
"Forgive me, Miss Bennet. I should hate to appear uncouth. Let us instead discuss the weather, or the concert, or some other neutral topic."
"I did not say your compliments were unwelcome," Kitty interjected, feeling very saucy indeed. "A young lady always likes to hear herself complimented. You must know that, Mr. Price, for I am sure you spend all of your time among the charming ladies of London."
"Their charms are nothing to yours, my dear Miss Bennet," Mr. Price assured her, smiling. "They are, all of them, such young ladies as could only be improved by your society and influence."
"I should dearly love to go to Town," Kitty sighed.
"Indeed, you should enjoy yourself there; and I am sure you would be a particular favorite of all the city before the end of a fortnight."
Kitty laughed. "No indeed, for I have been in Bath for nearly three weeks now, and I am hardly a favorite of anybody's—and Bath is only half the size of London!"
Her estimation of Bath's population was, perhaps, somewhat inaccurate; but her meaning was not lost on Mr. Price.
"That is a phenomenon which can only be attributed to a general blindness on the part of the citizenry here," he declared graciously. "London, now—London is a city which prizes beauty, and wit, and amiability, above all things; a young lady such as yourself, who possesses all those qualities in excessive amounts, should never go unnoticed in London."
His gaze was solemn but agreeable, and Kitty felt as though she could swoon. She did not, however; instead, she glanced away coyly, and her eyes fell upon Mr. Finch and Rosamond, who had joined Robert and Mary in their walk about the room.
"La, are they not a very fine couple?" she said, for lack of anything else to say. She was not an artful young lady, and knew only very little of how to accept a gentleman's compliments, and so she elected to change the subject. "I am sure the Harts will be celebrating two weddings this autumn!"
"Miss Hart is certainly very fine," Mr. Price agreed, peering at her, "but I can have no opinion of Finch's looks; I can only say that he has always struck me as a very dull, stupid sort of fellow, and I am sure Miss Hart has no intention of marrying him."
"Why! How can you say so?" Kitty cried. "Whenever we are all in an assembly, he is always beside her; and she is the only young lady in the world to whom he ever addresses himself directly, except for his cousin."
"That is proof of devotion on his side," Mr. Price allowed, "and it is not difficult to understand, for he is a man and she is lovely." (Kitty could not help frowning a little at this small admiration.) "But I have been reliably informed that there is a certain gentleman of excellent fortune and excellent family who has spent a great deal of time in Bath of late, with rather suspect excuses. Miss Hart is no fool; she knows her beauty and her charm, and she should certainly never settle for a parsonage, when there is a country estate and a house in Town at her fingertips."
"You are quite wrong," Kitty exclaimed, feeling all the insult of which her friend, fortunately, was ignorant. "Rose is a reader of novels, and as such she could not marry for money. Her feelings would prevent it."
"She is also the daughter of a physician, who has spent her life watching her father tend to families far wealthier and more important than her own, and undoubtedly feels all the inferiority of her condition. Do you think she would not seize rank and fortune when it is offered to her?" He was smiling at her, but Kitty found she could not return it.
"No indeed," she said firmly. "I am sure you would not speak so if you knew her better."
Yet this reminded her very much of something she had once said to Rosamond herself, on the subject of Mr. Price; and she returned to her seat feeling rather confused and dissatisfied.
It was therefore fortunate for Mr. Price that the second set of music began with a grand, sweeping concerto—a very romantic air, which brought to Kitty's mind images of young lovers embracing beneath willow-trees and dancing on moonlit terraces. The argument regarding Rosamond was swiftly forgotten as the music drew forth only the happier parts of their conversation: his compliments to her, half-gallant and half-wicked, and her own responses, which she was certain had been quite as flirtatious as she hoped, while not extending beyond the realm of propriety. Whatever his opinion of her friend, Mr. Price was undoubtedly a gentleman of fine wit and fine manners, and she really could think of no reason why she should not marry him.