The following morning brought sunshine and a cool breeze from the north. Having been out so very late the night before, the ladies did not take their breakfast until mid-morning; and then it was a quiet affair, Mrs. Bennet insisting, as was her custom on the morning after a ball, that her daughters keep their noise and chatter at a minimum in deference to her tired nerves.
Kitty's spirits, however, could not be so easily restrained. Mr. Price had promised to walk with her into town, and every noise in the street made her heart flutter with anticipation. She imagined his step upon the stair outside at least a dozen times during breakfast, and upon retiring to the parlor immediately took up her favored place by the window. In this way she was able to tell of his coming a full half-minute before he was actually admitted to the house, and had ample time to give the appearance of working industriously on a piece of embroidery, so that he should not think she had been waiting for him.
Mrs. Bennet afforded the gentleman all the welcome of a favorite son, or rather son-in-law, for such indeed she had begun to fancy him; and his request for Miss Katherine's company on his walk to the Pump-room was greeted with lavish pleasure. "What an agreeable scheme!" the fond mother exclaimed, patting her hair and beaming. "It would indeed be a shame to spend this beautiful day indoors. Of course Kitty can be spared; go, go, my love, and enjoy yourself!"
Kitty readily promised to do so, and raced upstairs for her spencer. Mary, looking up from Foundations of Natural Right, was dismayed at the plain delight on her sister's face, and perceived that Rosamond's tête-à-tête with Kitty had not had its desired effect—had, perhaps, had the opposite. Concerned, she made the hurried decision to take matters into her own hands.
"Mr. Price," she said, closing her book, "may I join you on your walk to the Pump-room? Mamma is right—I should not like to waste this fine weather."
Mr. Price, as a gentleman, could not very well refuse; but he did not have to, for Mrs. Bennet immediately cut in,
"My dear, should you not prefer to read your book? Perhaps you may take it to the park this afternoon, and so enjoy the sunshine."
Her words were amiable, but her gaze was warning. The assiduous Mrs. Bennet was determined to prevent any unnecessary interaction between Mary and Mr. Price until Kitty was safely married to the gentleman, or at least steadfastly engaged. Mrs. Bennet was quite certain that if anything could drive the gentleman away from her younger daughter, it was prolonged exposure to the elder, with all her sermons and lectures; no lighthearted gentleman, with a house in Town and friends in Bath, could be pleased with such a tiresome sister-in-law. It was a good thing charming Mr. Wickham and cheerful Mr. Bingley had never spent much time with Mary, she felt, or things might have turned out quite differently.
But Mary was not to be so easily daunted. "Nay, Mamma, I should much prefer to go to the Pump-room, and I cannot go there alone—it is quite unheard of."
"You and I shall go later, then, my love. I am sure Mr. Price does not want to be shepherding the Miss Bennets all over Bath."
Mr. Price was obliged to protest that it was no trouble, though indeed his words lacked the ring of sincerity. Kitty came down then, in a cheerful green spencer, and happily took the arm he offered her, unaware of the danger threatening her idyllic morning stroll. Mary, bracing herself, played her final card.
"But I should like to go now, Mamma, and not later, for—" She took a breath. "For Mr. Hart said he would spend the morning in the Pump-room. I should not like to wait much longer, for fear of missing him, and if Mr. Price and Kitty are to walk there now, I do not see why I may not."
Her mother's narrowed eyes immediately widened. Mary had never before made such a clear statement of her interest in Robert Hart. "Oh," Mrs. Bennet said, significantly, with a knowing smile. "Oh, well, my dear, that is quite a different matter. Of course you may go, if Mr. Price does not mind."
"Mamma!" Kitty cried, horrified, even as Mr. Price claimed perfect happiness at the idea.
"Oh, hush, Kitty—you heard your sister, did you not? You are very kind, Mr. Price," Mrs. Bennet added, smiling at him. "Run and fetch your shawl, Mary, for this cold wind makes me nervous."
Mary hastened upstairs, ignoring her sister's glare as she did so.
It was a less merry party than anticipated which set out from Henry Street a few minutes later: the two Miss Bennets on either side of Mr. Price, one clinging to his left arm with an air of romantic abandon and the other holding his right in a very perfunctory manner, staring grimly ahead. The gentleman, who for his part had looked forward to a morning spent with the pleasant sister, could not entirely hide his disappointment at sharing it with the unpleasant one; but he rallied admirably, consoling himself with the thought that at least, once they reached the Pump-room, Miss Bennet could be politely foisted off on the unsuspecting Robert Hart.
(This, of course, was to prove his second disappointment of the day, for indeed Robert had never said anything of going to the Pump-room and was not to be found there, as Mary knew perfectly well. She disliked lying to her mother but, she reminded herself, in this case, the ends justified the means.)
"I hope you enjoyed the ball last night, Miss Bennet," Mr. Price said, in an attempt to make some conversation.
"I rarely enjoy balls and parties, sir," Mary replied tonelessly. "I prefer more rational amusements."
"Oh, Lord," Kitty interjected with a huff. "You must ignore her, Mr. Price, for I am sure she is only nervous about seeing Robert."
"Katherine," Mary said, in a warning tone, but her sister merely gave an impatient toss of the head.
"Why, Mary, you act as though it is some great secret! Mr. Price knows all about it, and he has ever since we were all at the Assembly Rooms together, for he could see it himself; and Mamma has been telling everyone besides."
"And what, pray, has she been telling them?" Mary demanded, her stomach sinking, though she thought she might be able to guess. Kitty laughed.
"Why, that you and Robert Hart are in love, and soon to be engaged."
Mary's face went very red, and Kitty laughed louder. "There, you see, Mr. Price, she is blushing!"
"And a very fetching blush it is," Mr. Price said smoothly, smiling at Mary. It was something of a relief to him, to see the stone-faced young lady reduced to a blushing girl. Mary, however, only narrowed her eyes.
"There is no such attachment existing between Robert Hart and myself. I find him agreeable, and I believe he finds me so; but there has been no talk of love between us, and I doubt very much that there ever will be."
"That is what Jane once said about Mr. Bingley," Kitty giggled. "You may protest all you like, Mary, but I will not be fooled; I saw you dance with him last night."
"And I saw you dance with Mr. Carpenter. Will you claim that you are in love with him?"
"No indeed," Kitty said, with a coy glance at Mr. Price. "My thoughts on that matter tend in quite a different direction."
Mr. Price returned the glance with a certain amount of tenderness in his looks. Mary, seeing this, was disgruntled, no less because she herself had inadvertently provided the opportunity for the exchange. "When do you return to London, Mr. Price?" she asked pointedly.
"Not for some time, Miss Bennet," the gentleman answered, with great good humor. "I imagine I shall remain in Bath quite as long as you do."
"Then we are very fortunate," Mary muttered.
"Indeed we are," Kitty sighed happily. "For then I will always know that I have someone to dance with—will I not, Mr. Price?"
"You do me a great honor, Miss Katherine," Mr. Price replied. "Indeed I think it is the truest form of friendship, to find some other person who shares one's interests and passions, and is glad to serve forever as a dance-partner. Do you not agree, Miss Bennet?"
"I do not," Mary said stiffly. "True friendship is more than shared interests and dancing together; it is the meeting of true minds, and the ability to hold discussions of great worth and significance, in order to improve one's understanding. That is a far rarer thing than you seem to think it, Mr. Price, and there is a very good quote from Mr. Fordyce on the subject: 'By entering into any company that tempts, engaging in any friendship that offers, or accepting of almost any creature that happens to court them, it is well known what mischiefs—'"
"Lord! Mary! You will bore us all to death," Kitty cried. "Nobody has any mind to listen to your sermons, now or ever, and you would do well to put Mr. Fordyce aside, for I am sure we do not care what he has to say on any subject."
"I remember an uncle once sending my sister a volume of Sermons to Young Women as a Christmas gift," Mr. Price remarked. "It proved to be quite misguided as a gift, for I do not think she ever looked at it."
"That was a failure on her part," Mary said severely. "It is an important text, and most young ladies would do well to read it through at least once, if not several times."
"But you also think most young ladies would do well to give up dancing, and going to parties, and laughing and talking and meeting new people," Kitty said. "Really I think the world would be a very dull place indeed if you had your way, Mary, and I am happy to state that I have never read a word of Fordyce or any of his friends. Do you not agree, Mr. Price?"
"I am sure Miss Bennet has many very valuable ideas," Mr. Price answered diplomatically, offering Mary his most attractive smile as an appeasement. "But I confess, a world without dancing and laughing is not one in which I would choose to live. I am of a temperament that must be entertained."
"Then you, more than anyone, ought to restrain yourself," Mary urged, "and give up your entertainments in favor of quiet study and contemplation. As it is you can only live a very shallow life, without enjoying any of the benefits of deeper thought, for you will always be distracted by some triviality. You must train yourself to do without all those things that amuse you, in order to make full use of your time in the world."
"How dreary it all sounds," Kitty groaned. "Do you talk this way to Robert Hart, Mary? It is a wonder he ever fell in love with you."
"Robert Hart is not in love with me," Mary snapped, but she was ignored.
"Is this the sort of talk which would make you fall in love with a lady, Mr. Price?" Kitty went on.
"I am afraid not," Mr. Price replied, laughing. "Perhaps it is a symptom of my shallowness, but I am of the firm conviction that wooing ought to be done with tender speeches rather than moral instructions."
"I am of your mind, sir," Kitty said, looking up at him through her lashes. "I much prefer pretty words to sermons."
"Then it is fortunate that I am not a clergyman," the gentleman replied, smiling down at her.
Mary sensed that she was again losing control of the conversation. "What is your profession, Mr. Price?" she demanded. He turned to her as if he had forgotten her presence on his arm.
"I am fortunate enough to have the means to live quite independently," he answered, after a moment, "and to invest a certain amount of capital in various ventures in Town. I am sorry," he continued merrily, "that I cannot claim some profession more interesting and attractive to a young lady—I am no dashing soldier or sea-captain—or physician," he added slyly. Mary ignored this.
"Then how do you fill your time, sir?"
"Mary," Kitty hissed, "you are being very impolite just now."
"It is no trouble," Mr. Price assured her, laughing. "I am sure I seem very idle to your eyes, Miss Bennet, but I confess I often wonder where all my hours have gone. I visit friends, and attend parties and assemblies, and travel from London to Bath and back again; and somehow the time disappears. Is it not a strange thing?"
"Not very strange," Mary said dismissively. "It is easy to appear very busy—even to feel so—when in fact one is accomplishing nothing at all."
"Mary!" Kitty gasped. "You must forgive her, Mr. Price, for the nearer we draw to the Pump-room, the more unkind she will become. It is only because she is anxious about seeing Robert, and when she is anxious she grows irritable."
"I am not offended," Mr. Price answered. "Miss Bennet has offered me many very worthy criticisms, and I am aware that her judgment is quite useful, being the result of much thought and study."
Yet he quickly turned to Kitty, and said something to her in a lower voice that purposefully excluded her sister; and Mary gritted her teeth at the happy blush and pretty smile that bloomed on Kitty's face as a result of this private address. Mr. Price appeared quite determined to enjoy his time with Kitty, even if it meant putting up with Mary as well, and Kitty was clearly more than willing to accept the gentleman's attentions. Matters between them, Mary realized now, were more serious than she had thought; it was no surprise that Rosamond had seemingly been unable to coax Kitty away from her suitor; and while Mr. Price had said nothing very offensive or alarming, she still could not bring herself to approve of a gentleman who displayed such pride in his own shallowness.
But there was nothing to be done for the moment. Mr. Price was telling Kitty about a card-party he had attended once in Town, and she was responding with peals of laughter at every appropriate interval, and they seemed to have forgotten Mary. She could think of no way to reinsert herself into the conversation, nor could she think of anything to say that might definitively change Kitty's opinion of the gentleman. Indeed, thus far he had offered her nothing more than good humor and polite responses, even when he spoke in disagreement with her, and Mary was obliged to admit that—however frivolous and foolish he might be—Mr. Price was indeed remarkably charming.
They reached the Pump-room before very much longer, and Kitty, reading through the visitors' book, announced with some dismay that Robert Hart was not listed among those currently in the room.
"No, indeed?" Mary replied, not bothering to feign much disappointment. "He must have come and gone already."
"He has not been here today," Kitty said, her eyes still scanning the page. She looked up and regarded her sister with an accusatory glare. "In fact I remember him saying once that he works with his father on most mornings. It would have been quite strange to find him here, I think."
Mary made no response. The pretense had been for Mrs. Bennet's benefit, after all, and not her sister's. Kitty's attention returned to the book after another moment.
"Oh, but Mrs. Hart is here, and Mrs. Fitzwilliam with her. Perhaps you may sit with them, Mary, for I know you have no taste for promenading." She took Mr. Price's arm again and smiled up at him. "Shall we go in?"
Anne Hart and Constance Fitzwilliam were indeed seated together near the pump, talking agreeably over cups of mineral-water. Their pleasure at meeting the Miss Bennets and the following invitation to join them left Mary with no choice but to accept. She took her seat between the two married ladies, in a very ill humor indeed, as Kitty and Mr. Price politely claimed their intention of walking for a few minutes, and made their way toward the long line of ladies and gentleman who were strolling cheerfully up and down the room.
"Is that not Mr. Alexander Price with whom your sister is walking?" Mrs. Hart asked. Mary frowned.
"It is. Are you acquainted with him?"
"Only a little. Theodore knows him through a common acquaintance, but we do not meet very often."
"I have met him once or twice," Mrs. Fitzwilliam chimed in. "Only in company, and only briefly, but he strikes me as a very amiable sort of gentleman."
Mary, having no desire to take either of the women into her confidence regarding her feelings about Mr. Price, agreed that he was amiable indeed. At this point the conversation shifted to more general matters, and she was able to sit silently and watch her sister promenade as the ladies' chatter washed over her.
Kitty's first object, upon at last finding herself alone with Mr. Price, was to apologize for the presence of her sister on their morning walk.
"Mary is very disagreeable, I know," she sighed, "and it was very good of you to humor her as you did. I do wish Mamma hadn't told her she might come along with us; I am aware you had no wish to walk with her, and I am afraid she made everything very awkward."
"I confess that I had looked forward to a morning alone with you," Mr. Price admitted, "but certainly there was nothing to be done.—And now we are here together, and we may talk as we please, without any sisters or mothers to interfere." He smiled at her, a teasing smile that made his blue eyes crinkle, and Kitty could not help returning it.
"What will we talk about?" she asked.
"That is a question indeed. Have you any preference in the matter?"
"None at all, so long as it is something pleasant and agreeable, and has nothing to do with books or sermons."
"Then you do have a preference—but it is one that is easily met, and furthermore it is one I share. Perhaps we may begin simply. Have you had any news from home, or from your sisters?"
"Nothing to report," Kitty replied dismissively, but she embarked on a catalog nonetheless. "My friend Maria Lucas is to go to Hunsford after Michaelmas, for her sister is expecting again; I don't envy her, for Mr. Collins is tedious as anything and Lady Catherine is hardly pleasant company either, but Charlotte is all right. Miss Bingley is come to Netherfield for a month, and I am glad I am not the one who must entertain her, but of course my sister Jane hardly minds her at all. Lydia writes that the weather is grown very cold up North, and she wishes very much to be invited down to Longbourn for the winter, with Wickham and all the children, but I am sure Papa will not allow it."
"Indeed? Why is that?"
"He—disapproves of her," Kitty said cautiously, wishing again that she had not mentioned Lydia. But then she looked very hard at Mr. Price, and there was nothing in his expression except curiosity and a hint of sympathy. She hesitated for a moment, and then decided to press onward—for, indeed, if she could not trust dear Mr. Price, then whom could she trust? "Lydia's marriage was very sudden, and it was something of a scandal, for she and Wickham ran away together to London. They never even had a wedding—not a proper one—because the important thing was that they were married, and it didn't matter how. That is what Lizzie says, anyway, and Papa says we mustn't talk about it, and we must never do as she does. That I understand, for I know it is wrong to run away with a gentleman, but what I don't see is why it matters now. They are married and settled, and everything is all right."
"Perhaps your father fears that your own prospects might be damaged by your association with your sister," the gentleman suggested. "I imagine there are many men who might not wish to marry into such a family."
Kitty bit her lip. "Are you such a man, Mr. Price?" she asked, doing her best to sound coy, but her voice betrayed her honest concern. Mr. Price fixed her with a steady gaze, and at length gave a little smile.
"Indeed I am not," he replied. "And any man who might pass you over for such a trivial reason, I regard as a fool. Your sister's wildness has nothing to do with you. Your virtues and merits are your own, and they are numerous. Besides," he went on, "it is slander indeed to suggest that the sister of Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley is not a lady deserving of great admiration."
Kitty paid little attention to this last part. "What virtues and merits are those, sir?" she asked instead, grateful that the conversation had returned to comfortable ground.
"Shall I list them? The most obvious is your good nature. I know you are charitable because you danced last night with the tiresome Oliver Finch, though you could not have enjoyed it. You are generally cheerful and amiable, and enjoy a great variety of amusements. In addition, you dance exceedingly well and I have never seen you look anything but lovely, in any setting. I can continue, if you wish."
"No," Kitty laughed, blushing, "I think that will do for now. You will have another month or so to add to the list, if you like, and more if Papa says we can stay."
"Perhaps I ought to write these things down, and have a set of compliments ready on hand for whenever I may need them."
"You mustn't! That is what my cousin Mr. Collins does, and he is the dullest man in the world, and makes a fool of himself at every opportunity. No, I much prefer our conversations to be unpracticed."
"It is enjoyable, is it not? I must confess, my dear Miss Kitty," he went on, in a lower tone, "that I have found in your company a sort of—natural intimacy, which I have never before experienced. We seem to be exceedingly well-suited, if it is not too forward to say so."
"It may be forward," Kitty answered, very red now indeed, but smiling unabashedly, "but I do not mind."
"I am glad. Do you think we may spend more time together today? We could go to Sally Lunn's for a cup of tea, if you like."
"I would love to," Kitty replied warmly, but then caught sight of Mary again, sitting dourly with Mrs. Hart and Mrs. Fitzwilliam, and frowned. "That is—if Mary will let us alone. I am sure she will not go back to Henry Street if I ask her, and I should not like her to come along. She will spoil everything."
Mr. Price followed her gaze with some concern. "Do you think it possible that she will stay here with her friends?"
"They are not her friends," was the swift reply. "Mary has no friends of her own, for she is so dull and sullen all the time. They are my friends, mine and Mamma's. She will not stay with them."
"Perhaps she might like to invent some ailment, and go to visit Robert Hart at his father's practice," Mr. Price suggested, with a little smirk.
This seemed, to Kitty, quite unlikely; but it did provide her with some food for thought, and the matter of dispatching Mary did not seem nearly so difficult as it had a moment ago. "I have not been to Sally Lunn's since my first week in Bath," she remarked cheerfully. "That is where we first met—do you remember?"
Mr. Price affirmed that he did remember, and the pair were lost in happy reminisces for a moment, as they took a few more turns about the room. The Pump-room was scattered with ladies and gentlemen in groups and couples, promenading or sitting and talking along the walls. There was a long line at the pump, and Kitty recognized a few acquaintances. Shawls, spencers and light coats were in abundance; clearly Mrs. Bennet was not the only one concerned about the cool wind which had arrived this morning. Kitty wondered how the Pump-room must look during the Season; she longed to see it full and bustling, as Rosamond and Mrs. Hart claimed it so often was. She wondered if, after their marriage, Mr. Price could be induced to spend a Season or two in Bath. He could certainly afford it, she reasoned, and he appeared to like the city a great deal. Visions of herself in a fashionable spring ensemble, making a grand entrance at the Assembly Rooms on the arm of her handsome husband, filled her head, and she tucked her hand a little more securely into the crook of Mr. Price's elbow.
'But then perhaps,' she thought, 'after I have lived in London for a time, I won't care a thing anymore for Bath.'
The thought was an enticing one, and she turned to regard her companion with a brilliant smile. A comfortable silence had fallen on them, but she broke it now with a request that Mr. Price tell her more about life in London.
"What would you like to know?" he asked genially.
"Oh—anything," she replied. "I have never been, you know, or at least hardly ever, so anything you can say about it is fascinating to me. What do the ladies wear there?"
"I have no eye for the subtleties of ladies' dress," the gentleman laughed. "I have heard that Town-women are particularly fashionable, but I confess I can discern no great difference between the gowns I see here and the gowns I see there."
"Are the ladies there very beautiful?"
"No, indeed," he replied, "at least, if I am obliged to judge by my present company. I imagine there are some beauties in London, but they fall short of your own example."
"Compliments again," Kitty sighed, but she was beaming. "Is everybody there very bold and daring?—Do they say shocking things, and engage in outrageous behaviors?"
"Oh, yes. It is only one scandal after another, and a great deal of the social life there is based upon the exchange of gossip."
"I imagine there is some gossip about you," Kitty giggled, feeling very bold and daring indeed.
"If there is, I should be the first to admit its veracity," Mr. Price said, with a confidential air. "I am rather a wicked man, Miss Kitty; I feel it only fair to inform you of the fact."
Kitty was delightfully scandalized.
They returned to their friends after a few more turns, and spent some time engaged in pleasant conversation, mainly concerning the ball of the previous evening. Kitty was pleased that Mrs. Hart did not appear to share her sister-in-law's prejudice against Mr. Price, for she spoke to him very civilly and agreeably, and Mrs. Fitzwilliam was friendly and lively, as was her wont. Only Mary abstained from the conversation, sitting ramroad-straight against the back of her chair and looking very bored indeed, and not a little bit cross.
At length, however, Mrs. Fitzwilliam stood to take her leave, explaining that she had one or two errands to take care of in Milsom Street; and Mrs. Hart stood with her, stating an intention of stopping at Hart House. This was the advantage Kitty had hoped for, as it allowed her the opportunity to turn to Mary and exclaim,
"Why, is that not ideal, Mary? Anne is going to Hart House, and you may go with her—for you have not gone in some days, and I know you should not like to neglect your practice."
"I would not mind some company on the walk," Mrs. Hart admitted, giving Mary a little smile.
"You need not worry on my account, Mary," Kitty continued sweetly, "for Mr. Price will see me home directly."
This was of course precisely why Mary did worry on Kitty's account; but she was torn. It was true that she had not practiced for more than a week, weather and social engagements having kept her from Hart House, and she was afraid that she might already have suffered for it. Yet she was unwilling to allow her sister such an opportunity to fall further in love with the detestable Mr. Price. She wavered.
"Really, Mary," Kitty said after a moment, "you must make up your mind, for I am sure Anne wishes to go. Mamma will not miss you, and I am sure you would rather practice at Hart House than sit at home all day. It is so much more productive."
This was also true, and Mary, with a bad-tempered sigh, at last agreed. And so Mrs. Fitzwilliam set off for Milsom Street, and Mr. Price and Kitty not for Henry Street—as Mary believed—but in fact for Sally Lunn's, and Mary and Mrs. Hart for Hart House.
The walk was not a very long one, but Mary was glad to have Mrs. Hart by, for she had never made the trip to Hart House alone, and knew only that to get to Widcombe, one must at some point cross the Avon; and this being a very vague and unhelpful direction, Mrs. Hart's geographical self-assurance was comforting. Bath had not lost its mysteries for Mary—quite the opposite, in fact, for though she could find her way to Green Park and now Henrietta Park as well, everything else was beyond her ken. She still longed very much for the wide green fields of Hertfordshire, where one could see where one was going and how to get there.
They did not speak much as they walked. Mrs. Hart offered a comment on the cold weather, and Mary agreed with her, and that was the extent of their conversation for several minutes. At length, however, Mrs. Hart remarked,
"You seemed to enjoy yourself at the ball last night, Miss Bennet; at least, you and Robert looked to be quite deep in conversation when I saw you. I am glad that the two of you are getting along so well."
Mary's patience was already worn thin by the events of the morning, and so she might be forgiven for the irritable manner in which she replied, "I can assure you, Mrs. Hart, that I am not in love with your brother-in-law, nor is he with me, and we have no plans to marry, and I wish very much that people would stop saying such things for they are quite groundless."
Mrs. Hart looked at her askance. "You are very quick to refute a statement that has not been made."
"I apologize," Mary answered, her indignation ebbing at the honest surprise on Mrs. Hart's face. Now she merely felt ill-mannered and awkward.
"I meant only that you and Robert seem to be friends, and I believe it does him good, for he has not many female friends. It is difficult for a single gentleman to be friends with a single lady in Bath, you know; everyone comes here to find a husband or a wife, and consequently every meeting between a man and a woman is watched very closely, no matter how innocent."
"So I have found," Mary remarked drily. "Kitty and Mr. Price have been teasing me quite incessantly; it is inconceivable to my sister that anybody could like a gentleman without being in love with him."
"Many people find it a strange idea."
"And now," Mary went on, feeling a strange relief in unburdening herself to a willing—or at least captive—listener, "I have learned that Mamma has been telling everyone of her acquaintance that we are soon to be engaged, though I am sure I have given her no provocation to do so. Indeed I have been very careful to correct her mistaken ideas at every opportunity, but she has not listened to me. She is fully confident of a marriage that will never happen, and I am sure she will be hurt and angry when we leave Bath in the fall, for she will claim that I have failed her by not marrying Robert Hart—never mind my own wishes."
Anne smiled. "Your situation reminds me very much of my own, Miss Bennet, when I first came to Bath. My mother, too, was then very certain that I should become engaged to a certain gentleman, though my interest in him was purely friendly. She was furious when he announced his engagement to someone else, and even more furious when I freely gave him my blessing."
"But I do not think Robert is likely to become engaged to anyone else," Mary said hurriedly.
"No indeed," Anne laughed. "He is a worthy gentleman, and I love him very much as a younger brother, but I do not believe Robert would be happy to marry just now. He has two more years to do so, according to his sister's schedule, and I am sure he will want to take advantage of them."
"Miss Hart keeps a schedule?"
"Well—not a true one—but she did tell me once that she would like to have Robert engaged by the time they are twenty-two, so that she might pursue her own romances without an overprotective brother at her back."
"That is rather officious of her," Mary said sternly. "Marriage is a serious commitment, and ought not to be determined based upon schedules; one must not marry until one is quite ready, in thought and feeling, to do so. In fact, Robert and I were speaking of it just the other day—"
But she fell silent, feeling this line of thought was unwise. Mrs. Hart said lightly,
"I do not believe Rose is serious; she rarely is, when she says such things."
They walked on for a few minutes more, in a silence that was slightly more comfortable than it had been.
"Though I suppose," Mrs. Hart said after a time, in an unexpectedly teasing tone, "you would not know if Robert were in love with you."
"I am sure I would be quite aware if that were the case," Mary said stiffly.
"Indeed you would not! He is a Hart, after all, and the entire family is quite adept at concealing their true feelings. Theo did not let on that he loved me until long after I had given up hope; and nobody can tell what Rose thinks about Lord Adlam, for all her smiles."
"I would hope that if such feelings were to arise, Mr. Hart would feel comfortable in expressing them to me."
"Is anybody comfortable in expressing such feelings?" Anne sighed, though she was smiling. "Love is the most private and painful of matters. Often it feels safest to suffer in silence, than to risk exposing oneself as vulnerable."
"But that is nonsensical. Surely it would be most beneficial for both parties if the matter were to be addressed clearly and logically, with each party providing a detailed description of their own feelings toward the other. In that way, any suffering might be reduced or even eliminated, if the second party is inclined to reciprocate. There can be no vulnerability where there is reason."
"You make it sound very rational," Anne laughed. "But you forget that love often impairs sense and reason, and such a logical discussion may be quite out of the question."
"It is when we separate our emotions from our reason, that we tempt disaster," Mary intoned. "Love is a serious matter, and should only be addressed seriously. A commitment made out of passion cannot act as a solid foundation upon which to build a future."
"Then," Anne said, "if you were in love with Robert, I suppose you would tell him directly."
"Certainly. It is only fair, in order to maintain a relationship of equals, that each party knows where they stand with the other in emotional terms. Otherwise some hurt may be caused unconsciously, or some resentment may build."
"Miss Bennet," Mrs. Hart replied, smiling at her, "I wish very much to live in the world you have described. It seems a very sensible, reasonable place, and not nearly as untidy as the world around us."
Mary's mind, however, had taken another turn, and she asked abruptly, "Do you think Robert Hart is in love with me?"
She was half-fearful of the response, for despite all her talk of logic and sense, she had no experience in the matter and could not put aside some worry that, if she were to be tested, she might find herself less levelheaded than she hoped. But Mrs. Hart said,
"I do not.—I do think that he likes you a great deal, and finds your company more interesting than that of any other young lady; but as to love, I should not say so. He has not that desperate look about him."
This was an honest relief to Mary, and she rebuked herself for the worry of a moment earlier. After all, she reasoned, she was hardly the sort of young lady to have a gentleman secretly in love with her: she was not beautiful, and though she was accomplished, she had not the charm which might set her accomplishments off to greater advantage. Indeed, she was far too serious and plain to have inspired any clandestine devotion, and with Mrs. Hart's reassurance, she felt safe again in the knowledge that her own great romance—should it ever occur—would be perfectly overt, lucid and unadventurously conducted.
They arrived at Hart House before very much longer, and were greeted cheerfully by the Miss Harts, who were enjoying a cup of tea with Mr. Burke and his brother and sister. "What a merry party we shall be now," Miss Juliet said happily, offering the plate of cakes to Mary.
The party was indeed very merry, though Mary held herself somewhat apart from its merriment; she was, after all, not much acquainted with the Harts, and hardly at all with the Burkes, and their ease with one another was daunting. She was glad when the Burkes took their leave, laughing and calling many farewells as they did so. Their absence left the room a little quieter, at least, and Mary—who had thus far restrained herself, recognizing that everybody else wanted to talk—glanced longingly at the pianoforte.
"Go, go, if you like," Miss Rosamond laughed, catching Mary's look. "You will not disturb us."
Mary thanked her, and gratefully hurried to the instrument. Miss Rosamond had already set the collection of sheet music atop it, to Mary's delight. It had indeed been too long since she had played, and she spent a very brief time practicing her scales, before launching into a Scarlatti that was quite new to her, and rather difficult.
She was careful, however, to play quietly enough that the Harts might have some conversation. "Did you enjoy the ball, Rose?" was Mrs. Hart's first question, and her sister-in-law smiled.
"Very much! It is always agreeable to spend an evening surrounded by so many friends."
"And admirers," Juliet chimed in, grinning.
"As to that," Rosamond returned good-naturedly, "I believe it is more your territory than mine, little Juliet, for I daresay I spotted one or two gentlemen who looked quite devastated for love of you. You must take care not to look so charming at every assembly, or I will begin to grow envious. I am the elder sister, you know, and by rights I ought to receive the first proposal."
Juliet blushed, and rebuked her sister for teasing.
"But indeed it was an excellent ball: the music was lively, the food was appetizing and everybody danced."
"Is that your standard, then, of a good ball?" Mrs. Hart asked, laughing.
"Yes—and, of course, it ended when it ought to end, instead of running on nearly until dawn, the way some of these private balls tend to do. You know I cannot abide staying up all night, when I am too tired to dance any longer."
"Indeed, you are quite particular on that matter."
"And the wine was good. And those, I believe, are all the components of a successful ball: good food, good music, and good wine, and a knowledge of its own mortality. No, don't laugh, Anne," though she was laughing herself, "I am quite serious. I have given this matter a great deal of thought."
"I can see you have, but I cannot say whether it does you credit," Anne teased.
"I should say not. I ought to have been thinking of more consequential matters—as I am sure Miss Bennet would agree," the young lady added mischievously, "if she were not so occupied with Mr. Scarlatti."
Miss Bennet was indeed too occupied to respond, but gave Miss Rosamond a small smile over her music. There was something rather heartening about the young lady's good spirits, and she could not bring herself to lecture as she otherwise might have done.
"And now we shall all be without entertainment," Anne said, though her tone was lighthearted, "at least until Wednesday, when I hope Theodore and I will see you all at the Assembly Rooms."
"Indeed you shall, but you must come to dine with us before then."
"But not tomorrow," Juliet interjected impishly, "for we have been invited to dine with the Adlams—all of us are to go, even me."
"Even I," her sister corrected gently.
"How pleasant," Anne said, rather cautiously. Rosamond looked at her and smiled.
"You need not be afraid of offending, Anne; I know what you wish to say."
"I would not be indelicate," was the reply, and Mary, sensing that she was the cause of all this discretion, bent her head slightly and focused her gaze on the keys before her, in hopes of seeming less obtrusive. She saw, out of the corner of her eye, Anne Hart give her a quick glance.
"His Lordship seems to have a marked preference for your company," the lady said. "Of that I am sure you are aware."
"Very much so; and so is everyone else, as Theo made plain last night. But if you intend to ask, has there been talk of anything more than preference—that I am afraid I shall not answer."
"I cannot understand your reticence, Rose," Juliet complained. "If I had a titled lord in love with me, I should boast about it to everyone."
"Then you would be rather unwise," Anne laughed. "For it is always those who boast who are most unpleasantly surprised.—But it is unaccountable of you, Rosamond, for I am very much in the mood to hear some gossip, and you insist upon remaining ever prudent and secretive."
"Well," Rosamond replied cheerfully, "I should not like to be unpleasantly surprised."
From here the conversation shifted to other matters, and Mary, having missed several important keys during her eavesdropping, made a conscious effort to concentrate more carefully on her practice.
Mrs. Hart left before very much longer, bidding the sisters a very fond farewell, and the room fell silent, with the exception of Mary's playing. Juliet took up her writing-desk, which had lain abandoned beside her on the settee, and began to scrawl very busily; and Rosamond took up a book, and settled onto her favored chair near the pianoforte. They passed a half hour in this peaceful manner, though Mary's misstruck notes occasionally jarred the stillness (it was indeed a very difficult piece of music).
At length, however, Mary's sense of decorum hinted to her that she might be imposing, and she finished her practice with a final scale—for exercise—before replacing the music in its sheaf and standing.
"Are you going so soon?" Rosamond asked, looking up at her placidly. "I was enjoying that; you were growing much more comfortable with the piece near the end."
"Thank you, but I do not wish to impose. I am sure you have other things to do."
"Well, but I hope you begin your practice with that piece next time, for I cannot wait to hear it once you have mastered it." Rosamond stood to show her out. "Will we see you at the Assembly Rooms on Wednesday? Robert said he had invited you."
"Yes—that is—I hope so. I have not yet mentioned the matter to my mother."
"I am sure she will give her permission," Rosamond said, rather mischievously, as they walked to the vestibule. "She seems eager for you to spend time with us."
Mary gave Miss Hart a glance, but the lady had directed her own gaze to the hallway behind them. "Where are you going, Robert?" she called, and Mary's heart gave a quick stutter as she turned to see the younger Mr. Hart sloping toward them, pulling on a light coat as he did so.
"I have a call in town—hello, Miss Bennet," he said, with a bow. Mary curtsied awkwardly. "I did not know you were here."
"Miss Bennet came to practice."
"Yes, but I am going home now."
"To Henry Street? That is convenient, for my appointment is in Kingston Road. It joins Henry Street," he explained, with a little laugh, at Mary's look of incomprehension. "Just beyond your door, in fact. Shall we walk together?"
Mary agreed with pleasure, and after a final farewell from Miss Hart, they set out from Widcombe together.
It was rather uncomfortable, after spending the morning deflecting accusations about her romantic affairs, to be faced with the gentleman whose name had been so unjustly connected to hers; but Mary, seeing in Robert Hart no sign of the "desperate look" Mrs. Hart had mentioned, nor any other signifiers that his feelings ran deeper than friendship, was soon able to relax and enjoy his company. After all, she thought, it did not matter how others interpreted their relationship, so long as its nature was perfectly clear to the two of them.
Yet she could not bring herself to mention to Robert how her mother had begun boasting of their marriage. She supposed it would have been most reasonable to offer him some warning, but she did not think she could mention the matter without feeling very foolish indeed.
"Do you think the cold weather will stay?" she asked instead. Robert looked at her with a raised eyebrow.
"The weather, Miss Bennet? I seem to recall your rejoicing that our friendship had allowed us to move beyond such basic pleasantries. Would you not rather discuss some theory or philosophy—perhaps Foundations of Natural Right?"
"Indeed I was reading it only this morning," Mary said. "But I had to put it down, in order to walk with my sister to the Pump-room."
"Forgoing study for pleasure?"
"Certainly not—forgoing study for duty. My sister was to be escorted by Mr. Price, and I did not think it proper for them to be walking alone together."
"But look now, Miss Bennet, you and I are walking alone together, and you seem quite unconcerned."
Mary waved an impatient hand. "That is a different matter. You are not a shallow coxcomb who insists on simpering to me and plying me with false smiles, and I am not a silly girl who hangs on your every word with undeserved devotion."
The gentleman gave a startled laugh. "You are very severe upon your sister, my friend, and even more so upon her escort."
"It is warranted, I assure you," Mary said bad-naturedly.
"How has Mr. Price incurred your displeasure?"
"As I said: by being shallow, and far too agreeable, and encouraging my sister in her romantic foolishness. I cannot imagine his intentions toward her are anything good, and so it was vital that I act as chaperone this morning—for I would not have abandoned Foundations of Natural Right if I did not deem it very necessary. I find it too fascinating."
This last was an untruth, for indeed Mary had not even managed to read beyond the first pages. The text was very dense, and while such a book might not have bothered her in Hertfordshire, there seemed to be too many other things to think about in Bath and she could not bring herself to focus upon the theory. Mr. Hart, however, replied mildly,
"Do you? I find it very dull, though that is no surprise; I knew it would be, when I bought it."
"Then why did you buy it?" Mary asked, with a little laugh despite herself.
"I suppose because I thought it fit."
"I do not take your meaning."
"Well, I mean that I am the sort of person who would read such a book, and the book is of the sort that a person like myself would read. Do you see?"
"I confess I do not."
"Do you not think, Miss Bennet, that very often, people like you and I—and you may interpret that phrase however you please—do such things simply because it seems as though we should? It is the sort of thing everyone would expect us to do, and so we do it: reading difficult texts, disapproving of balls and assemblies, holding very serious conversations."
"Then you believe that we present a false front to the world, and are dishonest about our true feelings; we say whatever will please those in front of us." Mary frowned at him. "That is unfair."
"But it is not what I mean. There is no dishonesty involved. We simply cannot always separate ourselves from others' perceptions, and so we read books that are boring and do our best not to enjoy ourselves, because it is easier than contradicting what is already thought of us."
"That is laziness, sir."
"Perhaps, but a very innocuous form. Imagine, Miss Bennet, if you were to laugh and smile at a ball, and dance seven dances—you would face astonishment from all quarters, and would be pressed to explain yourself, and your friends would be very smug to find that you were not so different from them, and would tease you. Is not simpler to behave as you always have?"
"But I should never dance seven dances."
"Well, then," Robert said, with a little smile, "let us take a different example. You complained when Rosamond asked you to read The Italian, and made a great show of disapproval, but I believe you were interested in it—and you certainly had more to say about that book than the one you are reading now. Why did you not simply admit that you enjoyed reading it, though it is a novel?"
Mary could think of no reply.
"I will tell you, Miss Bennet," her friend continued, smiling at her. "It is because you are not the sort of person who reads novels. You are the sort of person who reads Foundations of Natural Right—or that is how you are thought of."
"Perhaps you have chosen ill in becoming a physician," Mary exclaimed, after a long pause. "Perhaps you should have followed in your brother's footsteps, rather than your father's, and become a lawyer."
Robert laughed. "Certainly not. I cannot speak at such impressive length as Theo can; this conversation alone has quite exhausted me."
"But do you mean to say, then, that my disapproval of Mr. Price is also an affectation?" Mary pressed. "For that is what you are suggesting: that 'people like you and I' possess an unconscious affectation."
"In that, we are no different than anyone else," Robert said. "Everyone wears a certain mask. Ours is merely that of staid intellectual."
"I suppose it is preferable to some others," Mary agreed drily.
"Indeed; imagine if we were obliged to be agreeable and sociable, and have dull pleasant conversations with everyone.—As to Mr. Price, Miss Bennet, I really believe that you do not like him. You speak of him with a certain contempt, without rationalizing your opinion of him in moral or theoretical terms, and so your words ring very true."
"That is a relief. I should hate for you to think me false in all things."
They had reached Kingston Road by this point, having come along Manvers Street, and Robert turned now to face her. "I do not think you false at all, Miss Bennet," he said, smiling at her. "I merely think you human."
Mary was again left without a reply. She looked at him for a long moment, and tentatively returned his smile.
"Can you find your way from here? Henry Street is the next cross street"—he pointed with a long arm—"and you will take a left there, and you will very soon come upon your doorstep."
"Thank you; I believe I shall manage."
"I have enjoyed our walk, and I hope I have not offended you mortally."
"No," Mary said, "not at all," and she found that she meant it, to her surprise.
"That is good. And I will see you on Wednesday, for I hope you have not forgotten our engagement."
His choice of words made them both blush, and he gave a little cough. "For the concert, I mean. I am looking forward to it very much."
"Yes, I will ask Mamma directly. I am sure she will agree."
They stood in silence for a moment more. "Well," Robert said finally, giving a little bow, "my patient awaits. Goodbye, Miss Bennet, and give my compliments to your family."
Mary curtsied, and bid him farewell.