Tea at Sally Lunn's had left Kitty with a warm glow in her breast as Mr. Price escorted her back to Henry Street. They were rather later than she had expected, having walked up to the North Parade and loitered for a time on the bridge, watching the passerby along the streets and the small boats along the river—but the afternoon had been so very agreeable that she could not bring herself to care overmuch.
Mr. Price appeared to share her feelings, for as they walked he remarked genially, "This is the pleasantest afternoon I have spent in a very long while. I do hope you will not object to my company again—perhaps on Wednesday morning? We might go up to Milsom Street, that you may better instruct me in the modes of the most current fashions."
"That I shall not do," Kitty laughed, "for then when I ask you if London women are the most fashionable, you will know well enough to say yes, and that will be a sore disappointment to me."
"Indeed, my dear Miss Kitty, I promise that I shall only ever judge fashion by your own standard—you are the most stylish girl in the world, as far as I am concerned."
"Today I am," Kitty agreed teasingly, "for this is a new dress, and I am very proud of it. But you would not like me so much if we were at Longbourn, for there I should be wearing some old cast-off of Jane's or Lizzie's, and I would look a sorry sight indeed."
"I cannot believe it. I imagine you would adorn a frock wrought of cotton feed-sacks with all the grace and elegance of a queen."
"A queen! Oh no, sir—say a princess, at best, for when I think of a queen I think of some austere old woman in a dark chamber somewhere, frowning at everybody and making herself disagreeable. I should not like to be thought of so."
"What do you think of when you think of a princess?"
"Why, fairy-tales, of course," Kitty exclaimed, looking up at him through her lashes. "I think of Cinderella, from the Perrault, who is so lovely and amiable, and maintains her sweet nature though she is poor and lives very far out in the country; and everybody adores her, unless they are bad themselves. And at the end of course she marries the Prince."
Mr. Price smiled down at her. "Then I must indeed call you a princess rather than a queen, for it is a much preferable image, and certainly offers a truer likeness of Kitty Bennet than my earlier analogy."
Kitty was pleased by this.
"But I must confess," Mr. Price went on, "Cinderella is not my favorite tale in the book."
"And which is your favorite? Pray do not say Bluebeard, or I shall think you wicked indeed."
"Certainly not!" The gentleman gave a little shudder. "I could never abide tales of blood and murder. I much preferred Master Cat—or Puss in Boots, if you prefer."
Kitty smiled. "That is a tale which Mary always found objectionable, for Master Cat was so deceitful. Mary always thought the princess should not have married the false marquis, but should instead have delivered him a stern lecture on the virtues of truthfulness."
"But Master Cat only deceived with the best intentions. And if a cat, of all creatures, may not be allowed some clever and virtuous dishonesty," Mr. Price added, feigning seriousness, "then I fear we live in a dull world indeed, and I wash my hands of it."
"Now you are only speaking nonsense," Kitty giggled, "and besides, I told you before that I did not wish to discuss books."
"No, of course not; for we are not Mary Bennet and Robert Hart. Shall we return to our original subject? This has been a most enjoyable afternoon, and I should like to repeat the experience sometime very soon—on Wednesday, if you are amenable to the idea."
"I am very amenable," Kitty replied gladly. "Will you come in?"
They had by now reached Henry Street, and Kitty caught a glimpse of her mother's eager face at the sitting-room window, before the curtains fell back into their original position. Mr. Price hesitated for a moment on the steps, but regretfully shook his head.
"I should not like to trespass on your time any more than I already have, Miss Kitty," he said, "for I fear you shall grow tired of my company."
He was unswayed by Kitty's protests, and merely offered her a wide smile and a low bow. "Do give my fondest regards to your mother and sister," he said, "and"—here with a gentle and unexpected press to her hand, "pray do not forget our engagement. I cannot go to Milsom Street alone; I should be ashamed to show my face." He gave a teasing grin, and his blue eyes glinted in the afternoon sunlight.
Kitty thought privately that a gentleman with such a face need never be ashamed to show it, but she only curtsied, assuring him that she should be all anticipation until their next meeting. He bowed again, and departed. She stood on the step watching him until he had turned the corner onto Stall Street, before at last giving a happy sigh and going inside.
Kitty's happiness must have been amplified in her features, for Mrs. Bennet—who was in the vestibule before the front door had closed—gripped her daughter's hands tightly and cried joyfully, "Is it done? Has he proposed?"
"Mamma!" Kitty exclaimed, disentangling herself with a giggle. "Certainly it is still too early for that; but he has said that this was the pleasantest afternoon of his life."
"That I might have guessed, for you are late in returning, yet it gives me joy to hear it said. But why did he not come in?"
Kitty waved an impatient hand, divesting herself of her spencer, gloves and bonnet, and fairly dancing into the sitting-room. "He said only that he should not like me to grow tired of him; but he will come again on Wednesday to walk with me. Oh, Mamma," she burst out, flinging herself onto the settee, "he is the most amiable man in the world, and he likes me very much—I can see that already!"
Mrs. Bennet clucked affectionately over her daughter. "I am glad to hear you say so, my love; I am glad you are enjoying yourself. It is all I have hoped for, you know, to see you married to some handsome agreeable gentleman with a house of his own in Town." She tucked one of Kitty's curls behind her ear, then gave a sudden start. "But where is your sister? Did she see Robert Hart at the Pump-room as she hoped?"
"Robert Hart was never at the Pump-room," Kitty sighed. "I am sure Mary only walked with us in order to vex us. I wish you had not let her go along."
"I am sorry, my sweet; but it seems to have done no harm." Mrs. Bennet winked. "Have you left her at the Pump-room?"
"No indeed. We met Mrs. Hart there, and she was going to walk to Hart House, and I thought," Kitty continued, over her mother's delighted intake of breath, "that it might be best of all if Mary were to go with her, and practice her scales."
"And perhaps she has seen Robert Hart there! Oh, my dear, you are so very good: not only to court your own gentleman, but to assist your sister in courting hers. I imagine you should do quite well, as I have, if you had five daughters thrust upon you and needed to find them all husbands. I imagine that should not puzzle you for an instant."
"I am not courting Mr. Price, Mamma," Kitty giggled. "He is courting me."
"That is how the gentlemen understand it, my love," Mrs. Bennet said shrewdly. "But indeed it is clear enough that nothing would ever be done about the matter if we ladies did not take some steps of our own.—And even if Mary has not seen Robert Hart, you know (though I am sure she has), she will at least have spent the afternoon with Miss Hart, and that is good. I should like very much for Miss Hart to think well of Mary, for I am sure the gentleman shall never make a proposal without the approval of his sister. And Miss Hart is such an amiable young lady besides! She is so well-mannered; you would never know her to be only the daughter of a physician. Not," she added conscientiously, in deference to the absent Robert Hart, "that there is anything ill to be said of a physician; a most respectable trade, in my opinion."
Kitty did not reply to this. In her delight at the afternoon spent with Mr. Price, she had quite forgotten about her disagreement with Rosamond. It gave her some pain, to hear her mother speak so kindly of that young lady when she herself was not certain whether she retained the right to think of Miss Hart as her particular friend. Her words to Rosamond came rushing back to her: I am not like some young ladies who are attracted to wealth and titles only… Kitty realized now, with a guilty start, that she had been rather callous, and she suddenly wished for a glimpse of Rosamond's serene smile.
But then she recalled her friend's retort—Would you be so angry with me now if you were not yourself uncertain of Mr. Price's intentions?—and her stomach gave another twist, mostly in anger but also in doubt. Certainly there was no reason now to worry that Mr. Price was insincere; his words on the topic of Lydia's marriage had put paid to that fear, and he had been nothing but honorable and gentlemanly all the afternoon. There was no hint of dissolution or duplicity in him. Yet she could not help thinking that Rosamond's distaste for Mr. Price seemed rather uncharacteristic of her friend.
Kitty shook her head to clear it. These reflections were helping nothing, she told herself sternly. Her heart told her that Mr. Price was to be trusted, that indeed he was the gentleman around whom all her half-formed, quixotic hopes had long been built, and by whose presence they were now made solid and real. Her own mother heartily approved of the gentleman, and saw no ill in him, and therefore Rose's interference, though well-meant, was in fact quite misguided. Even Rosamond Hart, she thought, a little scornfully, even beautiful, good-natured, clever Rosamond Hart with her gold hair and her winsome manner, was capable of error. One had only to look at the Lord Adlam-Oliver Finch situation for proof of that.
"…shall never have a house in Town, I suppose," Mrs. Bennet was saying, Kitty's inattention having gone quite unnoticed, "but I am sure you will invite her to visit you very often, will you not, my love? And I am sure Lizzie will have her to Pemberley, for she did seem to enjoy herself there and her society will do wonders to draw out poor Miss Darcy—she is of that age when she ought to be comfortable in society. Then of course we shall all come to Bath whenever we please, especially during the Season, and she will be able to help us find good lodgings, for that is where familiarity with the city is truly an advantage. And I daresay she will know it pretty well by then."
The young lady to whom Mrs Bennet was referring was unclear. Kitty could not imagine that her mother was still talking about Rosamond, for it was rare that she afforded much of her attention or conversation to young ladies other than her own daughters; but Kitty also could not imagine that Mary's presence at Pemberley would be at all helpful or even agreeable to 'poor Miss Darcy' when it came to facing society. Of course it was possible that a third young lady had at some point been introduced—but if so, her identity was to remain a mystery, for at that moment the maid came in and announced "Mr. Finch."
"Mr. Finch?" Mrs. Bennet hissed, all astonishment. "What in the world do we want with Mr. Finch? Sit up straight, Kitty—" and then Oliver Finch had stepped into the room, a preemptive blush painting his handsome features.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Finch," Mrs. Bennet said graciously, as the gentleman bowed. "This is an unexpected pleasure!"
Mr. Finch seemed to wince a bit at the word "unexpected," and met their eyes. "I do hope I am not disturbing you," he said quietly. "But I had a moment in between my parish errands—and Miss Katherine was good enough to invite me to call—"
Kitty had rather forgotten her goodness on that score. Indeed, the parts of the evening unrelated to Mr. Price had been quite relegated to the back of her mind. But, "And it is so fortunate you have come now," she said warmly, her heart touched by the gentleman's awkwardness, "for Mamma and I were just discussing the ball last night, and saying how much we should like to thank you for inviting us. Is not that so, Mamma?"
"Indeed it is," Mrs. Bennet agreed. "Will you sit, sir?"
Mr. Finch gratefully accepted the invitation, but very quickly the room fell into what Kitty by now recognized as a common defect of Mr. Finch's society—that is to say, a rather uncomfortable silence.
"Well," Mrs. Bennet said, after a moment, "we should like to thank you again for your invitation, Mr. Finch, and compliment you on a most wonderful evening."
"I am glad that you enjoyed yourself, but the wonders of the evening are due more to my sisters' efforts than to my own," Mr. Finch demurred.
"Then they are to be praised indeed," Mrs. Bennet said with a smile.
"Yes, and you ought to tell them to host many more balls, for I daresay that was the best one I have attended in Bath," Kitty agreed with a giggle.
"I shall certainly pass your compliments along."
There was another long silence.
"Did you enjoy yourself, sir?" Mrs. Bennet asked. "I understand these events are often more trying to the hosts than to the guests."
"Oh, I enjoyed myself very much."
"I saw you dancing with Miss Hart," Mrs. Bennet said after another long moment, oblivious to Kitty's sudden alarm. "You are a fine dancer, sir, and certainly your partner did you no discredit. Such a handsome couple!—Whatever are you shaking your head at, Kitty?"
"Nothing," Kitty mumbled, as Mr. Finch turned his dark eyes on her. There was a seriousness in his gaze that she found rather discomfiting; it was quite unlike the way Mr. Price looked at her.
"Now then," Mrs. Bennet prompted blithely, breaking another silence, "how long have you been acquainted with Miss Hart?"
"For some time now. I am fortunate to count her two brothers as excellent friends."
"And the lady herself, sir?" Mrs. Bennet hinted, a benevolent smile on her face. Mr. Finch looked down at his hands.
"I am fortunate to count her as a friend, as well. Very fortunate," he added softly, with a fond little smile that quickly disappeared. There was another stretch of silence.
"I have often thought privately," Mrs. Bennet said finally, "that there is no girl in Bath so generally engaging as Rosamond Hart. She has a smile for everybody, and a very pleasant way about her that one cannot help but like."
"Indeed," Mr. Finch agreed, "Miss Hart is exceedingly amiable, and her kindness does her credit."
"And of course she is so handsome," Mrs. Bennet added knowingly. "I told my girls myself, when we arrived, that it would be best for them if Miss Hart were to marry immediately, for certainly no man should look at my daughters with her in the room."
"Mamma!" Kitty exclaimed, feeling the impropriety of this remark.
"I believe you do your daughters some discredit there, Mrs. Bennet," Mr. Finch said, his face quite red now indeed. Mrs. Bennet appeared not to hear, but Kitty smiled at him.
"And of course the entire family is so very agreeable—nothing objectionable there. For you must know, sir," Mrs. Bennet winked, "that if there were anything objectionable about the Hart family, I should certainly have a right to object."
"I am afraid I do not take your meaning, ma'am."
"We live in anticipation of a certain happy announcement from that quarter. No, not Kitty," this was in response to the puzzled glance Mr. Finch afforded in her direction, "but my other daughter. I have reason to suspect that our name will quite soon be joined to the Harts'. And of course, sir, we all look forward to the day when you make a similar announcement, for we may then count the Finches among our extended family. It will be good for my Mary to have a sister-in-law so close—it is no great distance from Larkhall to Widcombe."
"Mamma," Kitty pressed, her embarrassment threatening to swallow her whole, "Mr. Finch can have no interest in our gossip."
"Oh, my dear, there is no harm in discussing these things among friends! We all know very well what we are about."
Kitty felt quite strongly that this was untrue, for Mr. Finch's features betrayed all his surprise and confusion—and, she fancied, pain. "When do you move to Larkhall, sir?" she asked desperately.
"It should not be very long now," Mr. Finch replied, in obvious relief at the change in subject. "There are still one or two things that must be done to the curate's lodgings before I may take residence; I am afraid the former occupant left it in rather a sorry state."
"Then it is all the more necessary that you should marry soon, sir," Mrs. Bennet exclaimed cheerfully. "These matters of décor and arrangement so often require a lady's touch, do you not agree?"
"I could not say, ma'am." Mr. Finch looked rather alarmed, as well as embarrassed.
"Well, I imagine you shall feel it so very shortly, for you have lived with a mother and sisters all your life. It is a different thing entirely to do without a female presence in the home. Miss Hart, I understand, has kept house for her father ever since her elder sister married, and I daresay Hart House is the most neatly managed home I have seen in Bath. I cannot see what Dr. Hart will do once she marries and goes away—but then," she added significantly, "a father's loss is a husband's gain, is it not? I daresay Mr. Bennet will find out the truth of that pretty soon."
Mr. Finch, his eyes wide, struggled for a reply. "You forget, Mamma," Kitty cut in swiftly, her face by now as red as the gentleman's, "that Dr. Hart has another daughter to look after him.—And do you like your new parish, Mr. Finch? I mean do you find the parishioners friendly, and the neighborhood agreeable?"
"Everyone there has been exceedingly welcoming."
"The rector must be glad to have you, I imagine."
"Yes, I like to think I am helpful to him."
Another silence fell. Kitty was doing her best to think of another topic to pursue, which would not relate at all to Rosamond Hart; Mrs. Bennet was doing her best to think of a way to reintroduce Rosamond Hart into the present conversation, and in so doing eventually steer the talk back to her happy insinuations about Rosamond's brother. Mr. Finch was looking about the room in apparent discomfort. The silence stretched painfully.
It was a great relief to at least two of them when the door opened and Mary came in, flushed with the exercise of her walk—though of course, under ordinary circumstances, Mary's entrance into any room would hardly have had such an effect. "Mary!" Kitty cried gladly, and Mary, caught off guard by her sister's exclamation and by the unexpected presence of Mr. Finch in the high-backed chair by the fireplace, dropped into an ungainly curtsy and murmured her greetings.
"My daughter has just come from Hart House," Mrs. Bennet said, beaming at the daughter in question for offering such an opportunity, and Kitty gave a little inward groan. "Did you see Mr. Hart, Mary?"
"I did," Mary affirmed, though with some reluctance. "He walked with me to Kingston Road."
"To Kingston Road! Why did he not walk all the way with you, and come in to sit? We might have been a very agreeable party then, for his good friend Mr. Finch is here, as you see. Indeed," she said, with another wink at Mr. Finch, "with Mr. Hart and Mr. Finch sitting here together, we might even have been called a family party—or a very-soon-to-be-family party."
Her meaning was quite lost on Mary, though Kitty flinched and Mr. Finch's brow furrowed. "I understand Mr. Hart was to see a patient," Mary answered, taking the seat beside Kitty on the settee.
"Oh, well, that is quite another matter, and I suppose it was unavoidable. I am not one of those ladies," Mrs. Bennet said to Mr. Finch, "who is ashamed to have her daughters connected with gentlemen who are in the trades; no indeed, though my two eldest have married so very high. I think there is great virtue in work, and a gentleman with an occupation is a worthy one. I should be proud to have a physician in the family" (Mary frowned) "just as I should have been glad to see any of my girls marry their cousin Mr. Collins—he has the parish at Hunsford, in Kent."
Kitty was helpless to suppress a little shudder of distaste for Mr. Collins.
"I am glad to hear it," Mr. Finch replied quietly, though the confusion had not left his face.
"Dr. Hart, you know, is so very respected here in Bath, and knows everybody; and I understand his son is earning an excellent reputation of his own. There can be no shame in an acquaintance with such a highly regarded family, however many Darcys and Bingleys we can count among our relations."
The gentleman hesitated for a moment. "And, of course," he said at last, "Dr. Hart is a good man: compassionate, honest and intelligent. And he has raised his children to share his virtues. There can never be shame in acquaintance with such a family, whatever their reputation or connections."
It was the longest speech any of them had ever heard from the reticent Mr. Finch, and they sat in surprised silence. "Yes," Mrs. Bennet said faintly, at last, though she did not sound entirely convinced.
"I am fully of your mind, sir," Mary said warmly. "I find that our present society places too much emphasis upon exterior virtues, and not enough upon the inner self. There are many villains who speak well and are popular in their own circle; too often the word 'gentleman' is undeserved, or taken to mean something it does not."
"Oh, hush, Mary," Mrs. Bennet said irritably. "We are in no mood for your sermons—begging your pardon, Mr. Finch," she added hastily, clearly having forgotten the gentleman's occupation.
The party spent a few more minutes in polite, if stilted, conversation; but at last Mr. Finch rose and took his leave, claiming further parish duties.
"Pray do call again, Mr. Finch," Mrs. Bennet said, more out of courtesy than actual desire. "This has been most agreeable."
The gentleman thanked her diffidently, before bowing again and hastening away to Larkhall.
The ladies sat in perplexed silence for some minutes after his departure. "What does he mean by calling here?" Mrs. Bennet demanded at last. "We are nothing to him; he ought to be at Hart House! What can he want with us?"
"I imagine he only wanted to be polite, Mamma," Kitty replied, though the question nagged at her as well. "I did invite him to call on us."
"Well," Mrs. Bennet huffed, "I hope he shall not take to doing so very often. What an awkward visit this has been! I am glad he is not to marry one of my girls; I could not bear a son-in-law of such an unsociable disposition, who has no conversation or wit and nothing to recommend him but basic politeness and a handsome face. Let the Harts suffer through his silences at every family gathering!"
"I like him very much," Mary interjected. "One can tell that there is true depth of thought behind the silence." Kitty rolled her eyes. "Besides," the elder sister continued, "Mr. Darcy is hardly any friendlier, Mamma, and you do not seem to mind him."
"That is quite another matter," Mrs. Bennet said firmly. "When a gentleman has ten thousand a year, and is married to one of my daughters, he may be as unsociable as he pleases."
Kitty could not repress a giggle at this, and Mr. Finch's odd visit was quite forgotten.
"Now, Mary," Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, turning to more crucial matters, "you must give us all the news from Hart House."
"What news can you expect me to give, Mamma?" Mary said stiffly. "We saw the Harts only yesterday. Very little can have happened in twenty-four hours that you will find noteworthy."
"You know very well what I mean, Miss Mary," her mother replied. "What of your walk with Robert Hart? Did he give you his arm, as a gentleman ought? Was he agreeable? Did you walk around one of the parks?"
"Did he flirt with you?" Kitty snickered.
"Certainly not," Mary snapped. "We walked only from Hart House to Kingston Road, for as I told you, he had an appointment. He was very agreeable, and we enjoyed a fascinating discussion of the differences between public behavior and the true self."
"Lord," Kitty groaned, "it sounds frightful. I am glad I decided not to fall in love with him."
"As am I," Mary replied spitefully, "for you would have found yourself quite out of your intellectual depth."
Kitty responded to this with a sharp pinch to her sister's arm. Mary leapt away from her with an undignified little shriek, and a battle might have begun, of the sort not seen between the Bennet sisters since their ride into Bath, but Mrs. Bennet was not to be distracted.
"Mary," she cried over the noise of the argument, "when are you to see him again?"
"Oh," Mary answered, as though recalling something. "As to that, Mamma, he has invited me to attend another concert with his family, on Wednesday evening."
"At the Assembly Rooms?" Mrs. Bennet gasped, as though the very name implied something very significant.
"Yes. It is a concert of Boccherini," Mary replied, and for the first time a smile crept onto her face. Mrs. Bennet gave another gasp, though whether the concert was of Boccherini or Haydn or Mozart would have made no difference to her.
"But of course, child, you must go! An entire evening with Robert Hart and all his family!"
"Do you mean," Kitty asked, startled, "that only you are invited?"
There was nothing very improper in this that she could see, of course; for it was a public concert and the entire family was to attend together. Yet she could not help being rather hurt that she had not been invited.
"This is a compliment to you, my love, you know; he is showing you particular consideration," Mrs. Bennet was saying. "And of course it is a proof that his family wishes to know you better—certainly we all know where that will lead!"
"You are mistaken, Mamma," Mary replied tiredly. "Mr. Hart is aware that I enjoy music and his father happens to have seats reserved at a concert. It is not a difficult leap of reason. He is showing me a kindness, certainly, but there is nothing so telling in that."
"I think it rather impolite, to invite one sister and not the other," Kitty said crossly. "Is that not rather impolite, Mamma?"
Mrs. Bennet waved an impatient hand. "Why should you be invited? Robert Hart is not in love with you, and they are not obliged to reserve seats for everybody of their acquaintance."
"You do not even like concerts," Mary said accusingly.
"But I am Rosamond's friend!" Kitty cried. Or I was, she added silently. Certainly her exclusion from the concert was proof that Rosamond was still angry with her. Her stomach churned uncomfortably.
"This is the best we might have hoped for!" Mrs. Bennet exalted. "You will spend an entire evening with him, my love, and I am sure he will make himself very agreeable and pay you every attention. And everybody in Bath will see you there with his family and make the obvious conclusion. I shall have two daughters married by Michaelmas!"
"I am not going to marry him," Mary said loudly, but Mrs. Bennet was too delighted, and Kitty too distressed, to pay her any attention.
Kitty was not a girl given to brooding, however, and it was not in her nature to worry over a problem without coming to some resolution. In the days that followed, she made up her mind to offer her apologies to Rosamond at the next opportunity; for whatever that young lady's opinion of Mr. Price, she reflected, it was not worth the ruination of their friendship. Rosamond would humbly recant her words at Kitty's wedding, by which point Kitty would have magnanimously forgiven her, and in the meantime there was no need to say any more about it.
Besides, Bath was almost dull without her friend. There was still much to do, but there was nobody to talk to. Kitty enjoyed other acquaintances in the city, but none with whom she was very intimate; her mother was an eager conversationalist, but even Kitty could grow tired of discussing her own and her sister's prospects for marriage; Mary turned her nose up at talk of balls, parties and novels, and turned every careless remark into an opportunity for a lecture; and she could not be as free even with dear Mr. Price as she could with another young lady. Life with four sisters of fairly close ages had not taught Kitty to do without the society of females her own age, and with Rose currently absent from her life, Kitty found herself longing very much to talk with Maria Lucas or even Lydia.
She had no opportunity of seeing any of the Harts for some time, however, for her days were much taken up with other amusements. The Bennets spent mornings in the Pump-room and afternoons in the shops or taking the air along the Royal Crescent. They played cards at the Greens' on Monday evening and dined with the Morgans on Tuesday, and on Wednesday morning Kitty walked up to Milsom Street with Mr. Price, where they spent several very happy hours ducking in and out of the shops, and enjoyed fresh cakes at a bakery on the corner of George Street.
"Are you to go to the concert this evening, Mr. Price?" Kitty asked, as they walked back towards Henry Street.
"At the Assembly Rooms? I am not; and I am sorry it should be so, if it means I shall miss your company there."
"Oh, I am not going," Kitty said carelessly. "But Mary is—Robert Hart has invited her."
"I am sure she will enjoy the experience."
"Yes," Kitty replied dismissively, "but the trouble with Mary is that she does not know how to enjoy it. She will spend all of her time listening to the music, and will not even notice his presence beside her, or the way his arm brushes hers when they applaud, or any of the other hundred things to which a young lady in love ought to pay attention in such circumstances."
Mr. Price laughed. "You sound as though you have been reading novels."
Kitty blushed. "I finished Carlotta only last night. But do you not agree with me, sir?"
"Of course I do. I think it vitally important that a young lady in love comport herself so, and notice all of those little things you mentioned."
They were agreeably silent for a moment, and at last Kitty mustered her courage. "For instance," she said coquettishly, "if I were in love with you, Mr. Price, all of my attention should now be given to the warmth of your arm beneath my hand, and the way our shoulders touch as we walk, and—" she laughed "—the way you are now looking down at me and smiling very oddly, as if I have said something terribly amusing."
"Not amusing," he corrected her gently, "only very very welcome."
Kitty was consumed with happiness, and leaned in toward him, blushing happily.
"Miss Kitty," the gentleman began quietly after a moment, "I hope I am not too forward, but I must speak what is in my heart."
Kitty's heart began to beat very fast, and out of some instinct she glanced around to ensure that nobody was listening; but then, she thought joyfully, why should she care? Let the world hear!
"You cannot be entirely unaware that I have developed certain—feelings for you," Mr. Price continued. "Our acquaintance is only a short one, I allow; but never before have I found myself so drawn to a young lady. I find you charming and lovely beyond all comparison, and these hours we have spent together have been the happiest of my life."
"Mr. Price," Kitty breathed, her eyes wide with delight; but she could think of nothing else to say.
"I should not like to use the word 'love'—not so very early," he went on. "I understand it is a word which has a tendency to frighten and alarm some young ladies when used improperly, and I could not stand to give you any discomfort. That word must be employed judiciously, and it is too soon. Yet I must say frankly that I admire you, most passionately; and where there is admiration, stronger feelings must surely follow."
"You do me a great honor, sir," Kitty managed after a time. "I am glad to hear you speak so honestly, for you must know that I am not entirely indifferent to you."
"It gives me the greatest joy to hear it," Mr. Price said earnestly. They had reached the corner of Henry Street, but he stopped now and turned to face her, tenderly taking her small gloved hands in his. "And may I—may I hope that this non-indifference may develop into something more?"
Her heart in her mouth, Kitty whispered "You may."
Mr. Price smiled, and his blue eyes crinkled appealingly. "We must walk on," he said softly, "or we will begin to attract attention."
They turned and walked up along Henry Street, Kitty clinging to Mr. Price's strong arm with both hands.
"If I may make a request, Miss Kitty," Mr. Price said delicately, "I should like this matter to remain private, for the time being. It would not do to have all of Bath discussing our affairs; I have always found it distasteful to parade such matters before everybody."
"Of course," Kitty swore solemnly, though she had been imagining her mother's expression upon delivery of the news. "I shall not breathe a word."
"Nor shall I. And therefore our—feelings—will be allowed to grow naturally, without interference from anybody else."
"That is best, I think," Kitty agreed. She was too ecstatic at the moment give anything but approval to anything Mr. Price said; but, she thought, the way in which he presented the matter did indeed seem sensible.
They returned to Henry Street very shortly, where Mr. Price consented to come in and sit for a half-hour with Mrs. Bennet (Mary was attempting to read Foundations of Natural Right in her bedroom). The visit passed very agreeably, though Mr. Price and Mrs. Bennet provided the majority of the conversation; Kitty was too busy reliving the past several minutes in the privacy of her mind, recalling every expression, every word, every touch of the gentleman currently seated beside her. She did not think she would ever be able to forget a moment. Her pulse was pounding; her cheeks were flushed a delicate pink, and her eyes were sparkling. In fact Kitty looked lovelier at that moment than she ever had before, though she was unaware of it; and she felt a dreadful sensation in her chest when Mr. Price rose to leave, as though something very necessary had been wrenched from her.
"I will call for you again this week, Miss Kitty," the gentleman promised, and with that he was gone. Kitty dashed to the window and watched him stroll down Henry Street, until he turned the corner of Manvers Street and disappeared from view.
"My love, you are flushed," Mrs. Bennet said in concern, once her habitual raptures over Mr. Price's handsomeness and good humor had been aired. "Are you ill?"
"No," Kitty breathed, though she felt as though every nerve in her body were afire.
"Are you certain?" Mrs. Bennet gathered her daughter to her and pressed a motherly hand to her forehead. "You feel rather warm, my dear. Perhaps you should go rest; it would be shocking indeed to be ill in Bath, when there is so much to do!"
"Perhaps we ought to call Dr. Hart," Kitty suggested, and then laughed. She did not know entirely what to do with herself—for the first time, and only for an instant, she wished she were in Hertfordshire, so she could run very fast over one of the fields where nobody could see, and thus rid herself of all the excess energy coursing through her. But being in Hertfordshire would mean being away from Mr. Price, and that she did not think she could bear.
"I hope you are not feverish," Mrs. Bennet sighed. "Go upstairs and lie down, child, so that you will be well enough to walk with Mr. Price when he calls again. Mary is only reading; she will not disturb you."
Kitty did as she was told, for she could think of nothing else to do. She fairly danced up the stairs and burst into the bedroom where Mary was hunched unhappily over Foundations of Natural Right—which was, as Robert had said, dull.
"Mary!" Kitty cried, throwing her arms about her sister's neck in a burst of affection and thoroughly alarming her sister in the process. "Are you looking forward to your concert?"
Mary attempted to look disgruntled at having her reading disrupted, but in truth she was rather glad of the interruption. "I am," she said stiffly. "It should be a most instructive evening."
"Oh, Mary, you enjoy things for all of the wrong reasons," Kitty sighed, but she was beaming. "Do not forget to pay some attention to Robert Hart, for he is your host, after all, and he is in love with you."
"He is not in love with me," Mary said crossly.
"Then he will be very shortly, I wager, for it seems to be the fashion in Bath," Kitty giggled. "But whatever are you going to wear? You cannot go in your dark blue again, for it makes you look like a governess. You must borrow one of mine; you can wear my green crape, if you like."
Mary stared at her; Kitty volunteering her clothes, particularly the ones of which she was particularly fond, was quite unheard of.
"Or my blue silk—though I suppose Robert saw me wear it at the Finches' ball, and it would not do to repeat. Besides which this is not a ball, and therefore something simpler would be best; I have a very pretty embroidered white muslin. It would be just the thing with a ribbon 'round your neck and a comb in your hair. Do not look at me so!" she laughed. "I promise it will suit you better than the pink you wore to the ball."
"Have you mistaken me for Lydia?" Mary demanded irritably, unable to think of any other response. Kitty only smiled at her.
"No indeed, but I should like to see you as happy—" she nearly said "as happy as I am," but quickly amended herself, for Mary would surely pry. "As happy as it is possible for you to be, and therefore I think we must take extra effort to make Robert Hart fall in love with you, for that will make everything better."
"There are some women whose happiness is not dependent upon their prospects for marriage."
"Now tell me," Kitty went on, ignoring her, "before I begin pulling out all of my gowns and making a great deal of clutter on your side of the room, whether you would prefer to be seen in the embroidered muslin or the green crape. "
Mary, with a sigh of resignation, chose the muslin.
The Harts called for Mary shortly after supper, though they were unable to stay for any length of time as the concert would begin soon. Her fond mother enjoined her to "be merry and cheerful, and do not talk too much, and do not forget to thank Dr. Hart for the invitation" and Kitty pressed her to "give my love to Rosamond—really—you must remember to do so." Her heart fluttered excitedly in her breast as Robert Hart handed her up into the carriage, and she met Miss Hart's tranquil "Good evening, Miss Bennet," with an unusually bright smile of her own.
"My sister sends her love, Miss Hart," she said, for if she waited any longer she should certainly forget. Rosamond looked rather surprised, but pleased.
"That is kind of her."
Mary smiled. She felt as if her dreams were coming true: she was on her way to a real Bath concert, this time unhampered by the noisy presence of her mother and sister, in the company of people who loved music quite as much as she did. There would be no embarrassing hints made in front of everybody, no ill-advised descriptions of virtues she did not possess, no hissed directions to sit closer to Robert, or bat her eyes at him, or any of the other nonsense in which Kitty and her mother were forever instructing her, no need to keep a chary eye on Kitty and Mr. Price; there would merely be music, and sensible conversation—for an entire uninterrupted evening. She gave a little sigh of relief and satisfaction, and settled back against the carriage seat.
"Are you very familiar with Luigi Boccherini, Miss Bennet?" Dr. Hart asked genially.
"Not so familiar as I would like, sir. I am afraid I am not particularly well versed in string music; I have not been to many concerts, and know only what I practice myself on the pianoforte."
"Then I wish you all the pleasure, Miss Bennet, of hearing something new and interesting. I confess there are few experiences I enjoy more."
"I am in agreement upon that score," Mary said, "and therefore I must thank you, sir, for giving me this opportunity. It is exceedingly generous of you."
Dr. Hart waved a dismissive hand. "It is always agreeable to meet someone with such an appreciation of fine music. We are delighted to have you with us."
Nobody had ever said that they were delighted to have Mary with them. She smiled at the kind doctor, and murmured her thanks again.
The Upper Rooms were teeming, for indeed the concert had long been anticipated among Bath's extensive musical set. Mary was momentarily afraid, as they stepped down from the carriage and into the crowd, that she would be separated from her party—but Miss Hart, emerging from the carriage behind her, tucked one of Mary's hands firmly into her elbow. They navigated the vestibule together, doing their best to keep close behind Robert and Juliet, who followed their father.
"Robert told me you are reading the Fichte text," Miss Hart said as they skirted around a very boisterous group of young gentlemen, a few of whom eyed Rosamond appreciatively. Mary frowned in their direction; this was a concert, not a ball. "Are you enjoying it?"
"I find it very interesting," Mary replied automatically; but then she recalled her conversation with Robert, and gazed into Rosamond's wide attentive eyes, and gave a little sigh. Perhaps, she thought, it was time to exercise one of her preferred virtues—that of candor. And certainly Miss Hart would not tease her as Kitty would. "In fact," she amended hesitantly, "I am bored by it."
Rosamond laughed, but not unkindly. "So was Robert. I had not put much faith in his opinion, but if you do not like it any better, then I suppose I should not bother with it."
"I do not think I will bother with it either," Mary agreed, gaining confidence in her opinion. She was rather proud of herself for her frankness. "I shall put it aside, and perhaps give it to my father as a Christmas gift."
"And what will you read?" They slipped carefully past a large party of elderly ladies in voluminous silks, who smelled strongly of Olympian Dew.
"I do not know. Kitty has just finished Carlotta," Mary said drily. "Perhaps she will let me borrow it."
"Carlotta! Oh, no, Miss Bennet, that will not do at all," Rosamond said decisively. "It is a fine book on its own terms, very romantic, but I do not think you will enjoy it. It has a tendency to veer into the absurd."
"So do many novels, I understand."
"Yes, but not all—and Carlotta is particularly guilty of the fault. You will think it silly, I am sure of it, for you are such a careful reader, and then you will resolve never to read novels again. We must find you something better. Anne and I had planned to visit Mostyn's this week, and I should be glad to have you join us. I am sure you will find something there that is better suited to your tastes."
"I cannot help feeling," Mary remarked, "as if I am being tutored."
"I am sorry." The young lady looked rather guilty, to Mary's surprise and (though she would not admit it) amusement. "My brothers and sisters tell me I can be rather imperious, and I suppose I am behaving so now. Of course you must read Carlotta if it pleases you."
"No," Mary answered, after a long moment of hesitation, "in this, as in most things, it is good to be guided by one more familiar with the subject than oneself. I shall be glad to hear your father's opinions of the concert this evening, for he is more knowledgeable about string music than I am; and I shall be glad to have you select another novel for me to attempt, for you know the genre better than I do."
"You are very kind, Miss Bennet," Rosamond said, as they joined the rest of her family in a somewhat quieter corner.
"What act of kindness has Miss Bennet performed now?" Robert asked, taking up his customary place beside Mary.
"She has allowed me to exert my iron will over her, by giving me the opportunity to find her another novel to read. She does not seem to mind at all that I am high-handed and even rather superior about the matter." Rosamond smiled at Mary.
Robert gave a little laugh. "It is good of her indeed, to overlook those faults; it has taken me a lifetime to do so.—May I presume then, Miss Bennet, that you have given up on Foundations of Natural Right?"
"I have," Mary admitted. "It may indeed be the sort of book which I—or someone like myself—ought to read, but I cannot bring myself to enjoy it."
"That is the problem with being people like ourselves," Robert agreed. He smiled at her, and she returned it, this time without uncertainty.
The Octagon Room was opened at that moment, and there was no more opportunity for conversation, as the entire room began to swell in a chattering herd toward the large doors. Mary took Rosamond's arm again on an impulse, and was surprised when Robert, on her other side, offered his arm as well.
"Rose may very well break off from the party and drift away into the ether," he said into her ear. "This way your security is assured."
"Thank you," Mary answered, but the noise of the crowd made further talk impossible.
They were able to find their seats without much difficulty. The performers had already taken the stage, and there were only a few minutes of gathering quiet as the audience settled into their places, before the concert began.
Mary had heard some Boccherini before, at the very few small concerts that had been held in Meryton; but those pieces had not been performed so expertly as the music she heard now. She sank back into her seat, enchanted by the first notes of the opening minuet, and allowed herself to be carried away by the music. This was what she had always longed for: excellent music, performed for people who recognized its excellence and did not merely see the event as an opportunity to gather and gossip. This was what she had always imagined when her sisters begged their father to take them to London, and this was the reason why she did not loathe Bath so much now as she once had. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rosamond captivated, her eyes large and shining; on her other side, she was aware of Robert leaning forward slightly, his gaze focused and appreciative. This, she thought—if all of Bath were this, then she could live here quite happily, and never again long for Hertfordshire. The thought took her dimly by surprise, but she did not pause to reflect upon it; her attention was only upon the music.
The long minuet was followed by a cello concerto, then a languid sonata, and the music began to blend seamlessly together. The performers clearly enjoyed their work. There was at some point a pause for an intermission, but even as Mary took a turn about the room with Robert, she could think only of returning to the concert and sensed that he was similarly distracted.
She was disappointed when the concert ended, though she was helpless to suppress her yawns as they made their way out to the street again. The night had turned cold, and the stars were bright above them. Mary thought with surprise that it must be quite late, for the moon had risen high. This was confirmed by little Juliet, who gave a great yawn and laid her head upon her father's shoulder as they waited for their carriage. Dr. Hart wrapped an affectionate arm around her.
"Theo and Anne will be disappointed to have missed this," Robert was saying quietly to Rosamond.
"Yes, but I believe Anne is finding it difficult these days to stay awake so long," Rosamond replied, her voice equally low, though she sounded amused. "I thought Theo would have to carry her home from the Finches' on Saturday."
"That is why they invented sedan-chairs, Rosamond." Robert's tone was teasing.
"Indeed? Theo is fortunate, then, that the inventor of sedan-chairs knew of his situation," Rosamond answered calmly, "for our brother is not so robust as he likes to think himself," and Robert gave a little snort of laughter. The carriage arrived then, and they climbed into it, Robert waiting to hand up Mary first, and then his twin.
There was not much conversation to be had on the way back to Henry Street. Dr. Hart pronounced the concert a particularly fine one, and everyone gave their agreement (except Juliet, who had fallen asleep leaning on Rosamond). But the late hour seemed to dictate quiet, and apart from a few hushed remarks on the splendor of the compositions and the skill of the performers, nobody spoke. Mary was rather glad of this, for her mind was still full of music and she did not want to have it disturbed. She let her head fall back against the seat of the carriage, and even dared to close her eyes for a moment.
She awoke with a start when the carriage stopped, to find Dr. Hart smiling at her and Robert opening the door. "I am so glad that you were able to join us this evening," the doctor whispered, for Rosamond had fallen asleep as well. "I do apologize for the late hour; I hope your mother has not been worrying about you."
"I am sure she has not," Mary whispered back. "Thank you again for your kindness. This has been," she added, with a sudden rush of feeling, "the most wonderful evening of my life."
"I am pleased to hear it. And next week, Miss Bennet," he went on softly, his eyes twinkling, "they will be performing a selection of Haydn. Do ask your good mother if she might spare you again."
Mary was quite astonished at this, but managed to stammer her agreement, flushing with delight, before whispering her thanks again and taking Robert's waiting hand to step down from the carriage.
"It was indeed an enjoyable evening," Robert said, as he walked with her to the front door. "I hope you will come with us next Wednesday."
"Your father is too liberal with his tickets," Mary countered, with a breathless laugh that surprised her.
"Not at all; for he always reserves spares, and we would all rather sit beside you than an empty seat. The empty seat does not make such amusing facial expressions when it listens."
Mary was too tired and too happy to take offense. "I am glad to amuse you."
"Consider it your method of repayment."
They stood facing each other at the front door. "Good night, Miss Bennet," Robert said easily, smiling down at her. "Come see us again at Hart House, for we like to have you there." He bowed.
"Good night," Mary said contentedly, giving him a curtsy. "Pray thank your father again for his generosity."
Robert strode back to the waiting carriage. Mary stood for a moment on the step, waving farewell, before hastening indoors. She had not realized how cool it was outside until she stood watching the Harts drive away along the silent street.
Mrs. Bennet was dozing in the sitting-room, awaiting Mary's return. Upon being awoken she was too drowsy to question her daughter overmuch about the evening, and asked only if Mary had sat beside Robert; she gave a tired smile upon receiving the affirmative. "I am glad you enjoyed yourself, my dear," she said, cupping her daughter's face with a fondness that surprised Mary. "That, you know, is why we truly came to Bath—so that you girls might enjoy yourselves." She yawned. "Good night, my love; take a candle up, for I am sure Kitty is asleep by now."
Kitty was indeed fast asleep, and Mary was careful to shield the flickering light of her candle with her hand as she picked her way across the untidy half of the room to her own bed. She undressed quickly, though she encountered some difficulty in removing the comb from her hair (it was not an action in which she had much practice), and slid beneath her blankets gratefully. Kitty gave a little sigh and turned over in her sleep. Mary blew out the candle and focused her gaze on the gleaming moon and stars out the window. Bath was quieter than she had ever heard it, but her thoughts still danced to minuets, concertos and sonatas. Her eyes fell shut. She felt she ought to reflect upon the evening, as was her habit at bedtime, but it did not seem so pressing now. She slept.