Author's Note: First of all, I just wanted to thank everyone again for all of your reviews. I feel like I don't do that enough. It really makes me so happy to hear from everybody, with your conjectures on where things are going; sometimes you guys come up with ideas that I like better than mine, or you see things in the story that I wasn't even aware I was writing. Pretty cool! So thank you all so much, especially those brave souls who have reviewed every chapter (and those incredibly brave souls who followed me here from Miss de Bourgh!).
While I don't usually respond to reviews in-story, mostly because I don't like to take up story space, I did get a couple of direct questions on the last chapter. I'd like to answer them real quick, and since I honestly cannot figure out how to send a private message (is that the saddest thing ever, guys?), I'm going to answer them here. I'm sorry! Just read on if you're bored!
Elvira26: I was in English Lit major in college. One of the classes I took (in London, actually) was on 18th century British fiction, during which I had to read Pamela —Rosamond's opinion of it is a much gentler phrasing of my own—as well as The Italian, among others. Most of the books mentioned can probably be purchased somewhere on this World Wide Web, although several of them (The Broken Mirror, The Widow's Secret, Carlotta, Juliana, Olympia and Florentina) are my own invention. Tristram Shandy is particularly recommended. Enjoy!
Avanell: I've set the story in the late 18th century, as that is when Pride and Prejudice was originally written and intended to take place, though it wasn't published until 1813. I guess I just prefer the 18th century aesthetic to the 19th!
(And if anyone wants to tell me how to use the PMs, I'd appreciate it. All I see is "Outbox" and "Inbox" and nowhere does it say "Compose Message" or anything similar. Question mark? I used to be able to do it, but this "v2.0" has me all confused.)
September came quietly, bringing with it nothing more threatening than cooler nights and a few more red and gold leaves on the trees than there had been before. Yet the changing months reminded the Bennets that their stay in Bath was not permanent, and indeed that Michaelmas, and their return to Longbourn, was not so far away as it had seemed back in Auguest.
"If only we could have come for a Season," Mrs. Bennet lamented, "then we might really have enjoyed ourselves! I have heard that Bath is very different in the spring. And we would not be obliged to leave so soon, for I understand that many families come for a Season and stay into the summer. But I suppose we may have reason yet to return to Bath." She winked at Mary, who averted her gaze.
"You speak as if we are leaving tomorrow, Mamma," Kitty exclaimed, alarmed. "Michaelmas is not till the end of the month—and even so you might write to Papa, and ask if we may stay longer. Surely he would not have us come home before we are ready."
The idea of leaving Bath was particularly distressing to Kitty, for Mr. Price had only very recently begun talking of Love to her. While his first confession had suggested that he was not yet prepared to marry, his conversation of late had very much tended in that direction, and Kitty was loath to return to Hertfordshire without having seen the affair to its happy conclusion. Furthermore Mr. Price had been called away to London again, and she was obliged to spend three full days without his company; a lapse she thought inexcusable, given the looming date of her departure.
"I suppose I will ask, my love," Mrs. Bennet agreed sagely, having some faint idea of the reason for Kitty's distress, "but I cannot promise your father will agree. He is a dreadful stubborn man sometimes, you know. It was a great deal of work on my part before he let us come to Bath at all."
"I will not miss Bath overmuch," Mary said, feeling now was the time to assert herself. "It will be good to be home again."
"How brave you are, my dear," Mrs. Bennet sighed, "but you need not put on a false front for us."
Mary frowned.
"I wish Mr. Price would come home again," Kitty complained, for this was of course her primary concern at the moment. "It is unaccountable of him to stay away so long."
"London is his home," Mary pointed out irritably, her patience for the conversation exhausted, "and it is when he is here in Bath that he is 'staying away.' I do not know why he continues here when his most urgent business is clearly in Town."
"What business can be more urgent than that which holds him in Bath?" Mrs. Bennet demanded, gesturing at Kitty with a great deal of significance. Her younger daughter blushed prettily. Though she had said nothing to anybody of Mr. Price's confession, Kitty felt that her mother must have some impression of how matters stood between them, which was as it should be; if anyone was to guess at her cherished secret, surely it ought to be her own mother.
She had only yesterday received from Mr. Price a note by the morning post, which had complained again of the tediousness of the business which kept him in London, and had concluded with some very pretty verses of Shakespeare:
O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.
It did not make perfect sense, for he and not she was the one who was roaming, but Kitty did not mind; she only blushed to be called 'Mistress' and 'lover,' and thought very well of herself indeed, for having engaged the devotion of such a gentleman—not only handsome and amiable, but clever and tender as well. How Lydia would fume! She had intended to put the treasured note in her bodice and keep it by her heart, as young ladies always did in novels, but could not make it stay there and not rustle noisily whenever she moved. So instead it sat in her reticule, which she had subsequently taken to keeping always by her side. If only Mr. Price had given her a little locket, on a delicate gold chain! That would be romantic indeed. But for a first effort, she felt, the verses were certainly good enough.
Mr. Price's absence, however, lessened her enjoyment of Bath somewhat; and even the prospect of an evening assembly, given by the Daltons, could not lift her spirits, for it was to be held on the last day of Mr. Price's stay in London, and he could not attend. There would be no point in going if she could not spend the evening with the only gentleman whose company gave her any pleasure, and she thought very hard of the Daltons indeed, to be giving a party when one of their most charming and admired friends was gone away. Why could they not wait one more day?
"People are always coming and going from Bath," Mary said disinterestedly, when Kitty complained of this unfairness. The girls were preparing for bed, Kitty by carefully washing her face and combing her hair, and Mary by reading a chapter or two of Evelina. "If the Daltons were to wait until every person of their acquaintance was in the city and could form part of the assembly, they might never be able to hold their party."
"It is only Mr. Price I care about," Kitty said crossly.
"That is rather shortsighted of you." Mary peered critically at her sister, and Kitty, discomfited by the scrutiny, turned away. It would not do to have Mary find out about her understanding with Mr. Price, for she was sure to write to Papa and spoil everything.
"It is not so very shortsighted," she retorted, affecting carelessness. "He is a great favorite of everybody, and his presence would give pleasure to many of the other guests. Certainly he will be very much missed, and the mood of the assembly will suffer for his absence."
"I shall not miss him," Mary replied decidedly.
Kitty bristled at her sister's tone, but swallowed her indignation. "That is because you will be too much engaged with Robert Hart," she replied, as lightly as she could. Mentioning Robert was a certain means of distracting Mary from her disapproval of Mr. Price, and indeed it was successful this time, for Mary gave an ill-mannered "hmph" and returned to her book.
But Kitty's mind was not so easily diverted. "I cannot say I think the Daltons very amiable people," she sniffed. "He is dull and she is foolish, and Miss Dalton has almost no manners at all. I do not see why we must go."
"Nor do I," Mary concurred, in a rare moment of sisterly harmony; "there is nothing I hate more than an evening assembly, unless it is a ball."
"Indeed," Kitty agreed, though she was not listening. "It is certain to be the most boring evening of our lives. I don't imagine I shall enjoy myself at all."
Mary thought privately that Kitty was very likely to enjoy herself, Mr. Price or no, for she was the sort of young lady who was much entertained by large gatherings and loud music; but feeling disinclined to an argument, she did not say anything.
The following day was crisply fine, and Mary took herself to Henrietta Park, where she walked along the paths for a time before settling down with Evelina. She indeed found the book quite interesting, and rather more agreeable than The Italian, for it lacked many of the Gothic details that she had found so silly. But she could not lose herself entirely in the book, for at every sound of approach she would look up, her heart pounding.
She had not seen any of the Harts since her outing with Miss Rosamond on Saturday, and today was Tuesday. She was engaged to go with them to the Assembly Rooms the following evening for a performance of Haydn, and indeed she looked forward to the event; yet the thought of being near Robert Hart again filled her with both pleasure and trepidation. It had been nearly a week since she had enjoyed his company, but such a week! Her mother pressed her every day for news of Robert—had she seen him, had he written to her, had they met in the parks or the book-shop or any of the other places Mrs. Bennet had no interest in visiting? Had he called while Mrs. Bennet and Kitty were out? At every shake of Mary's head, Mrs. Bennet would frown a bit harder. But this was unaccountable of him! Why had he not called or written? What was keeping him so busy? (Mary's guesses that perhaps it was his work that kept him busy were impatiently dismissed.) When, above all things, did he plan to propose?
For the proposal had become absolutely certain in Mrs. Bennet's mind, despite Mary's protests and Robert's failure to appear at Henry Street, ring in hand, and sweep Mary to the nearest church. Mrs. Bennet looked upon the younger Hart son as quite her own possession, for he was the only gentleman who had ever been interested in Mary and she had no intention of letting him go. It was no longer a question of if, but when; there was no worry that Robert might be indifferent, no fear that he might lack the inclination to marry; there was only impatience for what must be inevitable.
For her own part, Mary was not certain how to feel. She knew that she did not want to marry him, despite all his excellent qualities—not now, at any rate—but she was not certain she would have the power to refuse him if he asked, and therefore she feared very much his asking. Her conversation with Rosamond had eased her anxiety somewhat (at least she knew Robert did not have a persistent sister in his ear, urging him to declare himself), but that young lady's unwillingness to state that Robert was not in love with Mary was a continual worry. Was Rosamond's discretion due to sisterly courtesy, or circumspection? She was his twin; she must know his feelings. Why would she not have spoken unequivocally, knowing how her denial would comfort her friend?
It was for this reason that Mary sat in Henrietta Park, attempting to read but conscious every moment of the risk that she might meet Robert Hart. She was anxious to have the interview over, if indeed it must be had, for she wanted to put her fears behind her; but she also dreaded it, for the awkwardness and unpleasant feelings her refusal must necessarily create on his side, or, if she was not strong enough to hurt him so, the agitation and grief which would be caused to herself by accepting an unwelcome proposal. Her greatest hope was that he would see the sense in her refusal, and they could resume their friendship without much interruption; but Mrs. Hart had said that love often prevailed over rationality, and she could not help feeling her hope was rather remote.
She knew she would see him tomorrow; indeed, she would spend the whole evening with him; but that was at a public concert, in the presence of his whole family, and such a setting was not conducive to passionate declarations. Yet here, alone in a quiet park with only the sunshine and the cool breeze to observe them—it was not quite a moonlit balcony, Mary thought half-wryly, but perhaps it might serve. She quailed at the thought.
And so Mary sat, looking up in alarm at every approaching footstep on the path, attempting to compose herself but finding it rather difficult. Once she raised her eyes to find a tall fair-haired gentleman walking purposefully toward her, and very nearly panicked; but as the man drew closer and she found him a stranger, she scolded herself for her foolishness. Was she a creature of sense and reason, or was she to startle like a rabbit every time she saw a man with blond hair glance in her direction? Besides, she reminded herself, she had no proof that Robert loved her, whatever Mrs. Bennet said or Miss Hart did not say. He himself had been quite silent on the subject. Yet she could not help thinking it rather unkind of Robert Hart to be so inscrutable, when only a few weeks earlier—before she had reason to fear his feelings for her—she had often looked forward to the moments she could spend alone with him. She wondered if she would ever again enjoy such peace in his company.
The question was not to be answered today, however; for though she sat in Henrietta Park for well over an hour, Robert Hart never appeared. At length she was obliged to go, her book under her arm, both relieved and disappointed.
"Did you see him?" Mrs. Bennet asked eagerly, when Mary joined her in the drawing room at Henry Street. "Was he there?"
"No, Mamma," her daughter replied dully, setting the book on the table and removing her spencer.
"How provoking! But, my dear, you are to see him tomorrow, and that is something."
"Yes; but I look forward to the concert more for the sake of the music, than the company."
"Indeed," her mother agreed sagely, mistaking her meaning, "I understand your disappointment, my love. Certainly the presence of such company will prevent Robert from speaking, and you will be obliged to sit calmly beside him, and act as though you have no expectation of him. It will be a trial, of course—but then he may very well be impressed with your composure, and that will be the final thing, you know, which will secure his love, and then he will call on Thursday and propose. And then you may go to the Daltons' on Friday as a bride-to-be, and have the envy of every young lady there!"
Or, Mary corrected silently, she may refuse him, and would go to the Daltons' on Friday only to be met with incredulous eyebrows and the sort of clucking sympathy frequently reserved for old maids; for who ever heard of a dull country girl of no family, with no beauty or charm or fortune to recommend her, rejecting the proposal of a gentleman she greatly esteemed (likely the only proposal she would ever receive, certainly the only one so agreeable) simply because she did not want to marry?
But this she kept to herself.
Mrs. Bennet had elected to make the most of Mary's evening with the Harts, and to thank them for their notice of her daughter, by inviting the entire family to dine with them before the concert; and consequently the Henry Street dining room was alight with laughter and conversation as the Wednesday afternoon sun slipped coolly into evening.
Dr. Hart had Mrs. Bennet's regard not only as the father of Mary's beau and Kitty's particular friend, but as a kind physician who was always ready to listen to Mrs. Bennet's accounts of her "flutterings and spasmings," and to provide not only sympathy but grim diagnoses, which pleased her above all things, and gave her plenty of reason to feel sorry for herself. Kitty was happy to sit between Rosamond and Juliet, talking cheerfully over trifles and resisting the strong temptation, at every moment, to seize Mr. Price's tender note from her reticule and brandish it triumphantly before the eyes of her friends.
Mary, ordinarily pleased to see Robert, felt safe enough for tonight; a family party was not the place for a proposal; but she remained anxious in his company, scanning his features every minute for some hint of his feelings, listening for double-meanings in his conversation, and thinking crossly how much easier things would be if he did not insist upon making them difficult.
Her distraction did not go unnoticed. "Is something the matter, Miss Bennet?" the gentleman asked, gazing at her seriously. "You seem uneasy."
"I am very well," Mary replied, more brusquely than she intended; and Robert, a little surprised, drew back. Mary bit her lip. "Are you looking forward to the concert?" she asked, in a more conciliatory tone.
"It promises to be an excellent performance."
"I have yet to attend one that is not excellent," Mary agreed, warming a little. "I cannot say, however, whether this is merely due to my own inexperienced taste, or whether indeed excellence is a regular feature of Bath's concerts."
"Your taste is not inexperienced. Indeed, you have an advantage over many of the other listeners, for you play yourself, and read music; therefore you know how the music should sound, when the musically illiterate only know how it does sound, and cannot tell the difference between good and bad."
"And do you count yourself among the musically illiterate?" Mary asked archly.
"It is only fair that I do, for I never learned to play. But I am quite content to let my taste be guided by you."
Mary, discomfited by the compliment, turned away and took a large sip of her wine.
"You should rather let your taste be guided by your sister," she said after a moment, her eyes on her plate, "for Miss Hart has the advantage of both playing well, and attending a great many concerts. Surely she is the true expert."
"You may be right, but I cannot willingly give her such authority over me. It would wound my fraternal pride."
Mrs. Bennet, seated at the end of the table, was watching Mary carefully, and turned to Dr. Hart in delight. "Look how closely they talk together!" she exclaimed, not bothering to lower her voice. "Does it not give you great satisfaction, sir, to see your son and my daughter in such intimate confidence? It is such a telling preamble to future happiness!"
Her words, of course, caught the attention of the rest of the table, and a silence fell. Kitty gave a snort of laughter, and hurriedly covered her mouth with her hands; little Juliet was biting her lip to keep from smiling; and Mary, her face hot, turned quickly away from Robert and twisted her hands in her lap. She could feel him fidgeting uncomfortably beside her. The back of her neck prickled with embarrassment.
"We are all most satisfied to count your family among our close friends," Dr. Hart replied diplomatically, glancing at Mary, though her face was still turned away. Mrs. Bennet was a little unsatisfied with his response—there was no need for such discretion at a small family party—but smiled and agreed politely. There was another long pause, in which Mary, giving a wary glance to her right, noticed how very red Robert's face had become.
"Who else did you see at the Pump-room yesterday, Kitty?" Rosamond prompted at last, breaking the spell. Kitty, her giggles sufficiently subsided, was happy to resume their conversation as though nothing had happened. Only Mary and Robert sat in uncomfortable silence.
"Are you to go to the Daltons' on Friday?" Robert asked after a long hesitation.
"I am. Shall I see you there?"
"Certainly."
He ventured nothing more, returning his eyes to his plate, and Mary could not think of anything else to say. She chewed and swallowed her food mechanically, and cursed her mother's thoughtlessness. Why could she not have held her tongue?
The Harts and Mary were obliged to take their leave not long after the meal had finished, and left Kitty and Mrs. Bennet in the vestibule, entreating their friends to enjoy themselves. "You may bring Mary home as late as you please," Mrs. Bennet told Dr. Hart, "for I would not have you end your entertainment early for her sake. If indeed it is more convenient for you to return directly to Hart House, and send Mary home tomorrow morning, that is quite all right. I would not put you to any extra trouble."
Dr. Hart assured the good lady that they would certainly bring Mary home themselves that night, for Henry Street was quite on their way to Widcombe, but thanked her for her consideration; and with a few more kind words, they all climbed into the carriage and set off for the Assembly Rooms.
Mary, sitting between Robert and Juliet, was glad to be away from Henry Street. Though Robert remained stiff and awkward at her side, and had not spoken more than three words to her or anybody since the incident at supper, at least they were safe for now from motherly indiscretion. Rosamond, glancing sympathetically between them, began a supremely inoffensive conversation about the weather, in which her father and sister joined her, effectively covering up the embarrassed silence that stretched between Robert and Mary.
They reached the Assembly Rooms without Mary ever being obliged to open her mouth, for which she was very grateful indeed to the tactful Miss Hart; and as the party descended from the carriage and into the throng of concertgoers, there was no more time for embarrassment. Mary took Robert's arm unthinkingly as they navigated the crowd, for fear of losing her friends. He did not glance at her or give any other sign that he had noticed, aside from drawing her slightly closer, so that she might more easily keep up. Conversation was impossible as they wove through the assembly, doing their best to follow the movements of Dr. Hart and his daughters, and the very impossibility of speech made their silence feel more companionable than uncomfortable.
Mrs. Hart had recovered from her health complaint, and she and her husband awaited them in the vestibule. The two branches of the family met merrily, and there was much talk and conversation to be had (as was usually the case in the company of the elder Mr. Hart). As Rosamond and Anne questioned Mary on Evelina, and the others drew Robert into a lively conversation about some mutual acquaintances, the awkwardness of the party began to dissipate, and Mrs. Bennet's careless remark was all but forgotten. Before very long, the doors to the Octagon Room were opened, and the party made their way to their seats.
Mary was more familiar with Haydn than with Boccherini, for his works were more generally performed, and she mentally traced the familiar notes of his Farewell Symphony as they chased each other through the air. The darkness of the music suited her present mood admirably, but she was not disappointed when the song ended and the performers struck up the opening notes of Opus 33, a lighter tune. She particularly enjoyed hearing the string quartets performed, for such sounds she could not recreate on her pianoforte; it had all the charm of novelty.
She had spoken truly when she declared that she had never seen anything but excellence at a Bath concert, and tonight's performance was no disappointment. The music cast a spell that was becoming wonderfully familiar. Mary sank into her chair, allowing her anxieties over Robert and her frustration with her mother to drift the back of her mind; she was not a young lady doing her best to dodge an undesired proposal, nor the put-upon daughter of an ambitious mamma, but a woman enjoying the thing she loved best. She clasped her hands in her lap, regarding the performers with avid eyes, and could not help her sore disappointment when, after a particularly rousing finish, the performers rose for the intermission.
"Shall we take a turn, Miss Bennet?" Robert asked, the first words he had addressed to her since they had left Henry Street. Mary nodded hesitantly, her embarrassment returning, and took the arm he offered her, but was comforted to see Rosamond take her brother's other arm quite naturally, and walk with them into the crowded vestibule.
Whether it was Rosamond's reassuring presence or the cheering effect of the performance, Robert seemed to have entirely forgotten his earlier awkwardness. He immediately embarked on a praise of the concert, with which his sister and Mary readily concurred, and asked Mary very solicitously if she were enjoying herself.
"Very much," she answered, glad for the return of his good spirits, which lifted hers as well. "I must thank your father again for his generosity; I had quite despaired of seeing any concerts while in Bath, and now I have seen three."
"There are more to come, if you care to join us," Rosamond said, smiling at her. "It is so agreeable to give pleasure to one's friends, and you are a most appreciative listener."
"I do not see how anyone could not appreciate such performances," Mary replied. "The musicians are so skillful, and the music itself so superior."
"Yes, but there are many people in Bath who would rather be in a ballroom," Robert said, with a little laugh. "To sit still and simply listen, for long stretches of time—it is something of a lost art."
"Indeed there cannot be enough said for the virtues of listening," Mary agreed. "Too many people prefer to talk a great deal of nonsense instead of listening to a shred of sense. I much prefer concerts to balls and parties. As amusements go, a concert is a much better use of time than any other."
She would have expanded upon the subject, but at that moment they were interrupted by Mrs. Carpenter, who approached them and bid the twins a very pleasant evening. "And here you are again, Miss Bennet," she added smilingly, "and I daresay you could not bear to be anywhere else—unless perhaps it were somewhere rather more private, and that is understandable! Shall I ask Miss Hart to take a turn with me?"
"On the contrary, madam," Mary stammered, glancing up at Robert in alarm, "I am quite content."
"Oh, to be sure," Mrs. Carpenter agreed; "who would not be content, under such circumstances? You need not be coy, Miss Bennet, for I know very well what it is to be young and in love. I was not always an old married lady, you know." She gave a wink which Mary found rather grotesque. "Come, Miss Hart, we must leave them alone; there can be no impropriety in their taking a turn alone together, in front of everybody."
Miss Hart resisted admirably, sensing Mary's agitation (and Robert's as well), but Mrs. Carpenter would not be denied; she seemed Mrs. Bennet's staunchest ally in the campaign to see Robert and Mary wed. Indeed, as a lady with two happily married children and two more who were sure to marry well, Mrs. Carpenter's greatest joys in life consisted of talking about her own offspring, and meddling with other peoples'. She looked forward very much to a Bennet-Hart wedding, for Mary's plainness and apparent timidity (which was in fact simple distaste for society) had endeared her to the lady. "Come, come, Miss Hart," she insisted cheerfully, "we must let them alone; they will be happier when we let them alone." So at last Rosamond was obliged to take the plump arm which was offered her and, giving her brother and Mary a very encouraging smile, allowed herself to be led away, Mrs. Carpenter chattering noisily in her ear.
Left alone, confronted so abruptly with the matter which lay unspoken between them, Mary and Robert found themselves quite unable to meet each others' eyes. Mary realized that she was still clutching Robert's arm, and hurriedly released it; too late she realized how this might be interpreted.
"Well," the gentleman said, after a moment, "let us keep walking."
They walked on together in dull silence. Mary glanced at Robert carefully, only to find him very red-faced indeed and looking rather—she could not find a word to describe his expression. He looked perturbed, but also grave; embarrassed, but also determined. Her heart sank. He looked like a man who might propose at any moment. She steeled herself for the inevitable question, and tried to mentally compose a speech which might gentle her rebuff, while also making plain the rationality behind her refusal. She could not think of anything adequate.
They walked until they had reached a small alcove, a little sheltered from the rest of the room, though still plainly visible to anyone who cared to glance in their direction. Here Robert stopped, and turned to her. Mary, reminding herself that she was a person of sense and reason, who believed firmly that matters such as love and marriage ought to be dealt with logically, raised her eyes to meet his.
"Miss Bennet," Robert began haltingly, "this is not the moment to say any of the things I must say to you; there are only a few minutes until the concert resumes, and it would not be fair of me to speak when you will not have ample time to respond."
"You are very just, sir," Mary replied, though she felt her hands were shaking. Robert gave a grave nod.
"But though we cannot do so now, it is plain that we must have a conversation. It is becoming increasingly clear to me that there are things unsaid between us, which ought to be brought into the open. Do you agree?"
"I do."
"I am afraid I cannot call tomorrow, for I will be assisting my father in the surgery all day and my time is not my own. However, I would beg of you to reserve for me a few minutes of your time on Friday, when we will meet at the Daltons' assembly. There we can at least begin our conversation, and if we find that there are other matters which must be settled as a result of this first discussion, we can arrange to speak again. Is this agreeable to you?"
"Certainly," Mary said faintly. It was by far the most dispassionate conversation she had ever had with Robert, and though she approved of his frankness and prudence upon a subject usually characterized by pointless ardor, she could not help wishing a little for some humor in his voice, or mockery in his eyes, that would remind her of the friend she knew. This, she imagined, must be how he spoke to patients: clinically and carefully. She did not find it as reassuring as she had imagined.
As though he read her thoughts, Robert gave her a very small smile and—to her shock—reached out to touch her hand gently. "Your hands are shaking," he said, more quietly. "I hope I am not—" But he broke off, and looked away. "We should return to the Octagon Room. The performance will begin again soon."
There was indeed a movement beginning towards the open doors, and Mary unconsciously took the arm Robert held out for her as they left their little alcove. Her heart was racing. She felt like a prisoner whose date of execution had been set, and though she chastised herself for this foolishly maudlin view, she could not help thinking of the Daltons' assembly with more than a little trepidation. At least now, she consoled herself, she would have a set timeframe in which to prepare a kind yet sensible rejection, which would hopefully make clear her disinclination to marry while preserving the friendship that had blossomed between them.
The task seemed Herculean.
Mary was so much lost in thought that she could not properly enjoy the rest of the concert; her mind kept returning to Robert's words, and her anxiety over the coming conversation. She wondered what he had begun to say before interrupting himself; she wondered if his proposal would be as unemotional as his preamble had been. Perhaps that would not be so bad.
Or perhaps, she thought despairingly, it would be completely dreadful. However he phrased the question, her answer would only give pain to one she esteemed above anybody else—or, in satisfying his wishes, give pain to herself. There was no other way in which to consider the matter. Someone was to be made unhappy, and though she considered an ill-timed marriage to be a greater evil than a rejected proposal (for it would certainly last longer), she could not be easy either way. And then there was her mother to consider: her disappointment and anger, her vexation at having boasted of marrying off her most difficult daughter only to see all her plans come to naught. And Kitty would shake her head and call Mary an old maid, and laugh at her; and Rosamond would of course be hurt on her brother's behalf, though she had some hint of Mary's feelings already. There would be no more invitations from Dr. Hart, no more mornings spent at the Hart House pianoforte. Mary bit her lip angrily. How unfair it was she was obliged to consider the feelings of so many other people, when the matter lay entirely between herself and Robert.
The concert ended far sooner than she wished, and Mary regretted very much her distraction. Rosamond, sitting on one side of her, looked quite charmed with the performance; but in glancing at Robert, Mary saw her own preoccupation reflected in his furrowed brow. She could not help feeling glad that it was not only her evening which had been spoilt, though she knew this was unkind of her.
The party had made their way out to the street before Mary was entirely aware of her surroundings, and waited for their carriage. Juliet was yawning, as ever; and Mrs. Hart, tucked under her husband's strong warm arm, seemed almost completely asleep on her feet. Robert was uncommunicative, focusing his gaze on the dark sky above them. Rosamond was speaking quietly with her father. Mary, remembering how enchanted she had been the last time she stood upon these stones beneath the stars, felt rather miserable.
"Did you enjoy the concert, Miss Bennet?" Theodore Hart asked, startling her.
"Very much," she replied without thinking.
"My brother and sisters tell me they have enjoyed your company these past evenings—so much so that they are considering rescinding my standing invitation, and offering it to you. I understand you are a far more agreeable concertgoer than I am."
"She does not talk so much during the performance," Juliet giggled, though she yawned halfway through her sentence.
"I have never talked during a performance," Theodore replied in mock indignation, "unless it is to expound upon someone else's rudeness in doing so. Such insolence, I feel, must not be tolerated; it is important to point it out the moment it happens, so as to make clear that it must not happen again. Do you not agree, Miss Bennet?"
Mary was a little discomfited by his address. She was indeed often rather discomfited by the elder Hart brother, for she could never tell entirely when he was joking, and if so, how she ought to respond so as neither to encourage nor offend him (she certainly could not scold him as she did Kitty). "Good manners are always important," she said, thinking it the most diplomatic response.
"Let Miss Bennet alone, Theo," Robert interjected suddenly, rather sharply. "It is too late at night for your nonsense."
"You wound me, little brother," Theodore sighed, but though he did not seem at all wounded, he obligingly held his tongue.
Mr. Hart's carriage arrived before his father's, and Mrs. Hart shook herself awake long enough to accompany her husband's bow to Mary with a kind farewell. The rest of the party waited only another minute or two before their carriage came, and they drove home in silence, for the two sisters already dozed heavily upon Robert's shoulders. Mary did not fall asleep this time, but watched the dark city pass by her window with a strange kind of sadness. Glancing across the carriage, she was startled to find Robert watching her; upon meeting her gaze, he cleared his throat and looked away.
Dr. Hart hoped that Miss Bennet would join them again, and wished her a very pleasant evening, and gave his kindest compliments to her mother and sister; and Mary declared her sincere gratitude as Robert helped her down from the carriage and walked with her again to the door of Henry Street.
They paused again outside the door, but this time there was no easy conversation or cheerful farewell.
"I will see you on Friday," Robert said at last. "Miss Bennet—Mary—" He stopped and repeated, "I will see you on Friday, and we will speak then."
"Goodnight, Mr. Hart," Mary answered.
"Goodnight, Miss Bennet." And he was gone.
Mrs. Bennet was not surprised to learn that the concert had not produced the looked-for engagement, for she had not really expected it. Nor was she alarmed by Mary's pale, anxious face and tired eyes the next morning, for she thought it quite natural that a young lady in love look rather unhealthy. She was a little vexed at Mary's reticence on the subject of the concert, for her daughter would say only that it was an enjoyable evening. But she supposed the particulars were not really important.
Thursday was spent at home, and was a thoroughly dull day. Mary was ill-tempered because she had not slept well, and Kitty was ill-tempered because Mr. Price was away. Only Mrs. Bennet was cheerful, seeing in her girls the encouraging signs of youthful devotion, and feeling quite secure that this devotion was returned.
Kitty was a little happier on Friday, when it came time to dress to go to the Daltons'; for she always took pleasure in putting on fine clothes, and besides she had a new pink muslin which would look perfect with her white cashmere shawl and plain gold necklace. But she made certain to carry her reticule with her, so that she could glance at the note inside it at intervals, and miss Mr. Price secretly and terribly. This sort of sentimental behavior, she felt, was only fitting for a fashionable girl with a dashing lover.
"Do cheer up, Mary," Kitty rebuked her sister as they dressed, taking care not to sound too cheerful herself. "I do not see why you are so glum—you will spend the entire evening with Robert Hart."
Somehow this did not seem to lift Mary's spirits. Indeed, the elder sister only gave a little sigh, and touched her forehead with one hand, as though suffering from a headache.
"But you cannot wear that!" Kitty cried, having turned around to ask Mary to fasten the top buttons on her gown. Mary was wearing her plain dark blue dress, with the high neckline and the long sleeves. "We are not spending the day in the schoolroom, Mary, nor baking bread in the scullery; you must at least try and look pretty. Whatever will Robert think?"
In fact Mary had chosen the dress specifically for its plainness, in hopes that it might prevent Robert from making his proposal. Though she had no illusions about her own charms, nor fear that by dressing well she might look too enchanting and be flooded with protestations of love from all quarters, she thought it wise to at least control whatever variables she could. The soft candlelight, the gentle murmur of conversation, the wine, the gleaming moon; all of these things would contribute to create an atmosphere far more idyllic than Mary would like. If she could subvert some of this ambiance by looking even plainer than usual, then so much the better.
But Kitty was determined that her sister would not leave the house dressed like a governess, and Mrs. Bennet, coming in to help Kitty with her hair, was similarly aghast. "Whatever are you wearing that for, child?" she demanded, staring at Mary as though her daughter had developed some hideous deformity. "You must dress immediately! What on earth has possessed you?"
"I have nothing else to wear," Mary protested, but it was no use. Kitty's wardrobe was flung open, and Mrs. Bennet rifled through its contents with enviable speed. Even Kitty, who ordinarily resented the use of her things by persons not herself, was sifting through her jewelry-chest.
"Here is a yellow silk," Mrs. Bennet declared, "or a white muslin—that would do very well."
"You may borrow my pearls," Kitty offered magnanimously, holding them aloft. "They would look pretty with the yellow."
"Only dress quickly, or we shall be late!" Mrs. Bennet urged, brandishing the yellow silk. Mary regarded her with wide despairing eyes, and opened her mouth to protest; but at last she deemed it fruitless. She seized the gown very ill-naturedly, and flung it upon her own bed with a forcefulness that made Kitty squeal indignantly.
"I do not see why I may not be allowed to choose my own clothes," Mary complained.
"We would allow you to choose if you would make better choices, my girl," her mother retorted, by now fully occupied with Kitty's chignon. Mary grumbled, but did as she was bidden.
Mary was at least quick about her toilette, for she had no vanity to speak of, and so the coachman was obliged to wait only a few extra minutes until the ladies emerged in a great bustle of muslin and silk. A silent carriage-ride brought them to the Daltons' door in Queen Square, and they joined the small stream of guests making their way up the front stairs and into the warmly lit vestibule.
Their first duty was of course to greet their hostess, but though Mrs. Dalton smiled and offered her kindest compliments to the Miss Bennets, the burden of politeness fell wholly upon Mrs. Bennet; neither of the sisters paid their hostess any attention. Kitty was gazing about the company in vexation, bitterly regretting the absence of Mr. Price and wondering how she was to be entertained without him. Mary, too, was peering into the drawing room beyond the vestibule, her fear having solidified into something resembling determination. She wished only to see Robert Hart, and speak with him, and know at last whether they would remain friends. But there was no sign of him anywhere. It was plain that the family had not arrived yet.
"There is nobody here worth talking to," Kitty whispered in Mary's ear, disgusted.
Mary could not help but concur.
Another ten minutes, however, brought the Fitzwilliams to the party, which cheered them both; Kitty was quite fond of Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who was amiable and lively, and Mary approved of the Colonel's steady character and quiet good sense. They sat in pleasant conversation for a short time, before the Finches arrived. They were a formidable sight: the two proud parents and their seven offspring, the four sisters a chattering fashion plate, and the two elder brothers laughing merrily and calling genial greetings to their friends as they entered the room. Only Mr. Oliver Finch was quiet, though the smile on his face seemed genuine.
"Does not Mr. Bertram look very handsome in his uniform?" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, regarding the middle brother admiringly.
"Indeed," Mrs. Fitzwilliam agreed, "I never think a man handsome unless he is in a red coat." She gave her husband an affectionate smile, and linked her arm with his.
It was only natural that the Finches come and talk with their cousin, and before long the Bennets were enveloped by a cheerful family party. This was all very much to Kitty's taste, and she nearly forgot to miss Mr. Price, so pleased was she with her present company. But Mary's disposition was not suited to noisy talk and jollity at the best of times, and now, as her apprehension grew with every passing moment, she wished very much that they would all be quiet. She found some solace in the presence of Oliver Finch beside her, for he asked her only whether she was well, and whether she were enjoying Bath—both questions quickly answered—before lapsing into what she considered a very welcome silence.
But her partial peace could not last. There were familiar voices in the vestibule, and a moment later Dr. Hart and his children appeared in the doorway.
"Now we shall be a merry company indeed," Cecilia Finch declared gladly. Mary, watching Robert's face—as drawn and uneasy as her own—did not think so. Anxiety bloomed in her stomach.
Dr. Hart and his elder son were immediately invited to join a game of whist which was beginning, and Miss Juliet, spying some young friends of hers across the room, hurried to join them. But Rosamond and Anne smilingly obeyed the animated summons of Mrs. Fitzwilliam and the Miss Finches, and Robert followed them, a tall grave shadow.
There were of course greetings to be made, and lively conversation to be had, but Mary was not aware of any of it; she could only hear her own heart beating. When would Robert speak to her? He had taken the place beside his sister (invoking a disgruntled glance from Mrs. Bennet), and had not yet met Mary's eyes. She reminded herself of her belief in sense and reason, and scolded herself for allowing her nerves to get the better of her. There was nothing to fear, she told herself firmly; if Robert was the gentleman she believed him to be, he would understand her feelings. But she could not help imagining the pain that would surely show in his features.
At length, their small party dissipated. The younger Miss Finches went to join Juliet and her friends, as Mrs. Bennet sought out Mrs. Carpenter and Mrs. Fielding and several other married ladies of her acquaintance. Kitty and Rosamond stood to take a turn about the room, joined by Oliver Finch, who blushingly escorted one young lady upon each arm. The Fitzwilliams and Mrs. Hart had gone to watch the whist game, and it was only Mary and Robert left alone together.
"Miss Bennet," Robert said, very quietly, "will you walk with me?"
Mary swallowed, and nodded.
"I must tell you, my dear Mrs. Bennet," Mrs. Carpenter was reporting eagerly, watching Mary and Robert's progress across the room, "that they were quite inseparable at the Assembly Rooms on Wednesday. They sat together and walked together, and during the intermission I saw them standing alone, a little apart from everyone else, talking very seriously."
"She says they are not engaged," Mrs. Bennet said critically, her own gaze following Mrs. Carpenter's. "But I imagine that shall change quite soon."
"Indeed, in a matter of minutes, if his look is anything to go by," Mrs. Carpenter assured her with a knowing smile. The two ladies sighed together in mutual satisfaction. But their other friends were not interested in the matrimonial hopes of the eldest Miss Bennet, who was not nearly so agreeable as her younger sister, and the conversation very soon shifted to matters of more common interest.
Robert led Mary out of the drawing room and into the dining room just beyond, which was deserted, though the candles were lit and the long table stood ready for supper. It was quieter here, the sounds of the party muffled, and Mary's breath sounded very loud to her in the sudden stillness. Robert, too, seemed acutely aware of their seclusion, as he paced over to the tall window which looked into the garden. She followed him. The sun had just set and there was a cool blue light on the grass and trees.
"Mr. Hart—" Mary started, thinking quite suddenly that she might as well be the first to speak her piece. But Robert had had the same thought, as he turned to her with "Miss Bennet—"
They paused, and regarded each other awkwardly. "Forgive me," Mary said at last. "Please, continue."
Robert took a deep breath and nodded, though he looked rather unsure.
"Miss Bennet," he began, with what Mary thought admirable equanimity, "I have been thinking very seriously of what I wanted to say to you. I consider you a woman who appreciates sincerity, which is fortunate, as I have not the skill for pretty speeches. I think it best that I say what I must as simply as possible."
Mary nodded, though she wished that he would stop describing how he would say it and merely say it. But she did not interrupt.
"You know, Miss Bennet, that I hold you in the highest esteem, and that I greatly value the time we spend together. And," he added, looking less composed, "I have become aware that there are certain—expectations of our relationship. A man and a woman can never enjoy a close friendship without engendering certain opinions from others, and raising very natural questions about—" He reddened. "About love, and marriage, and such things."
"Sir—" Mary interrupted hurriedly, but Robert raised a hand to stop her.
"Pray, let me finish, Mary, and then you may say whatever you like. I am not surprised that these questions have arisen among our own friends and family. You cannot be unaware of the particular attention which I habitually pay to you, which you have always seemed happy to reciprocate. But," he added, looking suddenly very unsure, "I am very afraid, and terribly sorry, that I could not think of entering into an engagement with you, at this time."
He stopped. This was not at all what Mary had expected, and she was so startled that it took her a moment to gather her wits. Robert seemed rather distressed by her silence.
"It is not due to any fault of yours, Mary," he said, a tinge of desperation in his voice. "I find your company more satisfying than that of any other young lady, and indeed if I were to marry, I could not think of anybody I would rather choose. My feelings for you—" He cut himself off. "But I am twenty years old; I have not the income to support a wife, nor, frankly, have I the desire to marry. I am too young and thoughtless to make a worthy husband. I know I have told you so, but that was before I had any thought that you might—that you might have any expectation of me. I am terribly sorry, Mary," he said again, pleadingly. "Please believe me when I say that my intention was never to hurt you, or foster any hopes which I could only disappoint."
His words were coming faster than Mary had ever heard them, and she could scarcely reconcile the composed, clever Robert Hart with this anxious figure, whose worry showed plainly in his usually calm expression. The entire situation was so absurd that Mary, who had intended to greet the situation with solemn logic, could not help giving a very uncharacteristic giggle, which she hastily smothered with her hand. Robert stared at her. She stared back.
"Are you well?" he asked dumbly.
"Do you mean," said she, instead of answering, "that you do not intend to propose?"
Robert continued to stare. "No," he said, slowly.
Mary's relief threatened to overwhelm her, and she blindly sank into the chair behind her. "May I speak?"
"Of course." He took a seat in the chair opposite hers, the window between them.
"I have been thinking very seriously as well, Mr. Hart. My mother and sister seem to count it as certain that we will marry; but as I have told you before, I cannot now see myself in the role of a wife—even," she added, a little shyly, "your wife. I have carefully considered all the many points which spoke in favor of our marriage, and attempted to convince myself that accepting you would be the wisest course of action, but ultimately concluded that it is impossible at this time. While I am aware that our habits and tempers are particularly well-suited, and that I could very easily fall in love with you if I were so disposed, the fact remains that a marriage made at my current stage of life would only be an unhappy one. I am not prepared to give up my solitude, to manage my own household, to meld my way of life to that of another. As you know, I think it highly unwise to marry when one is not prepared to do so, even if there is love in the case, and I did believe that you shared my feelings. Yet my mother's firm belief in your intentions had convinced me at last that you would propose, and I have spent the last several days hoping very earnestly that you would not."
A little smile began to quirk at the corner of Robert's mouth. "I had thought so initially; but everyone else seemed to disagree, and you were always so embarrassed when it was mentioned."
"Embarrassed for your sake," Mary corrected him. "It vexed me to have everyone impressing the idea upon us, when I knew that my only thought, given those feelings which I have already mentioned, was of refusal. I did not want to hurt you, or to lose your friendship."
"Then our worries were shared. My greatest fear, in speaking to you, was that you would not wish to maintain our acquaintance upon even the most distant terms."
Mary smiled at him, and he returned it unabashedly. "And here we are still friends; and, I should like to think, this conversation has improved the substance of our bond by obliging us to be perfectly frank regarding our feelings, and thus strengthening our understanding of one another. I was correct, you see, in believing that such emotions ought to be dealt with directly and honestly, and that such undesirable feelings as infatuation and desire ought to be left out of the question. It is only fair that each of us has a clear understanding of where we stand with the other."
"Then tell me—for I believe I have told you—exactly where I stand in your regard."
Mary's smile dropped, and she flushed. This, she thought, was a little unkind of him; but Robert was grinning at her.
"You are," she said carefully, doing her best to sound disinterested, "the gentleman whose company I prefer over any other, and the only one I should choose to marry, were I so inclined. But I am not so inclined, at this point in time."
"And you," Robert replied, "to emphasize the point, are the most interesting lady of my acquaintance, if not the most amiable. I could quite happily spend my life with you. If I wished to marry, I could look no farther. But I do not."
"Thank you," Mary said primly, choosing to consider his words a compliment.
They sat in comfortable silence for another moment, enjoying their mutual relief, before her friend murmured something about returning to the party. Upon rising from her chair, Mary was startled to find herself suddenly caught in his embrace. Robert's arms were warm around her shoulders, and she leaned against him unthinkingly despite herself. He released her after only an instant.
"That is an expression of my gratitude for your understanding," Robert explained solemnly, though there was laughter in his eyes. "I am glad we are friends, Mary."
"In the interest of fairness and uniformity," Mary replied, feeling lighter than she had in days, "I suppose I shall have to begin calling you Robert, at least when we are alone together."
"Your mother will certainly approve."
Mrs. Bennet's opinion had not occurred to Mary, and she frowned. "She will be furious when I tell her of our conversation. She has quite set her heart on our marriage."
"Then do not tell her what we have said," Robert suggested easily, looping her arm though his. "If it makes her happy to think we are in love, then let her think so. I shall continue to invite you to concerts, and dance with you at balls, and she will watch gladly. Then in a month or two you will leave Bath, and she will forget me and find some other beau for you in Hertfordshire. Though," he added good naturedly, his relief making him voluble, "I know that you will never enjoy another gentleman's company as you enjoy mine."
Mary thought privately that this was in fact quite likely, though Robert was only teasing. She also thought it quite unlikely that any other gentleman would ever enjoy her company as Robert did.
"Besides," he went on, "this does not mean we will never marry. While I feel myself unripe for marriage now, I will likely feel quite differently in time. And you have already told me that you plan to marry someday."
"I do," Mary affirmed. She was glad of his arm supporting her as they walked, for her knees still felt rather weak with lingering anxiety and relief.
"Let us agree, then, that we will remain friends for now; and every so often we will consult, and decide whether we are ready to fall in love with each other. In the spirit of dealing directly and honestly with our emotions," he added teasingly.
"I find your proposal quite satisfying."
"No, my Mary," Robert corrected her playfully, "I have not proposed; that is what we have been discussing all this time."
He then pushed open the door to the drawing room, and the noise of the assembly rushed to greet them. Nobody paid them much attention as they rejoined the party. Mrs. Bennet was ecstatic to see the expressions of naked gladness and contentment upon both their faces, and concluded that the question must surely have been asked, and the answer must surely have been given. In delight, she occupied herself until supper with mentally ordering Mary's wedding-clothes, and considering the available houses she knew of, in both Meryton and Bath, where the happy couple could set up house together.
Kitty had struggled with her determination to be bored by the evening; for however much one regrets the absence of a handsome beau, it is difficult not to enjoy the company of lively friends and acquaintances, who have no other objective but amusement, and no thought that one among them might be attempting to feel very maudlin and sad. Rosamond had talked to her so pleasantly that Kitty had gradually forgotten that Mr. Price was in London, and had responded to her friend with all her usual brightness, as they walked with Oliver Finch among the company, and stopped every so often to talk for a moment with some acquaintance or other.
This happy distraction had lasted only until Dr. Hart, who was good-naturedly beating Colonel Fitzwilliam at whist, entreated his fond daughter to join them at the table and so consolidate the family's fortunes; and Rosamond, laughingly protesting that she may very well undo all his hard work, nevertheless went to sit by her father and brother and sister-in-law. This left Kitty alone with Oliver Finch. She wished very much to excuse herself and find some more vivacious company, but she felt so sorry for the poor gentleman (deserted as he was by his dearest love) that she walked with him a little longer, and endeavored to be amiable. At least, in Mr. Finch's embarrassed silences and halting attempts at conversation, she had the luxury of missing spirited Mr. Price to her heart's content.
"Is this not a lovely evening?" she asked pleasantly.
"Indeed," he replied quietly.
"I do not think there is anything nicer than having all of one's friends together in one place. Everyone is so happy and cheerful, and glad to be together."
"It is very agreeable."
"It seems to me strange that there are not such assemblies every night," she went on, "for every time one ends, everybody is so satisfied and someone declares that we must do this again very soon, and then it is a whole fortnight until it occurs to anybody. Why do we not simply gather every evening, and sit and talk together and play cards? It would be far preferable to sitting alone at home every other night."
The gentleman made no reply, and Kitty, irritated by this seeming ingratitude for her efforts on his behalf, looked up at him. "Do you not think so?" she persisted.
Mr. Finch hesitated. "I think," he answered slowly, after a long moment, "that your standards for entertainment are rather higher than my own. I do not think it at all unpleasant to enjoy a few quiet nights at home."
"That is perhaps due to your own circumstances," Kitty said carelessly, determined to be agreeable. "Evenings at your home must be different than evenings at mine, for you have several amiable brothers and sisters, and you must always make such a merry family party. But I have only Mamma and Mary (and Papa when we are at Longbourn) and it is always so tedious; nobody says anything interesting and Mary lectures me unbearably at the slightest provocation. I always prefer other company to that of my family."
Mr. Finch looked down at her, and to her surprise she saw the hint of a smile about his serious mouth. "I have not had the honor of conversing much with your sister," he said, "but it sounds to me as though you are rather at odds with her."
"Oh, always," Kitty agreed readily. "But it is her own fault, for being so dreadfully prosy and dull, and nagging me simply because she is the elder sister and reads so many dreary books. Have your siblings never nagged you or ordered you about?"
He looked startled at the question, and there was another long silence during which Kitty wondered if he was upset by her familiarity. But, "No," Mr. Finch said at last, rather thoughtfully, "I believe I am always the one who annoys them with my criticisms. I suppose it is the lot of the preacher."
Kitty giggled. "I cannot imagine you criticizing anybody, Mr. Finch, for you are so quiet and shy. Forgive me," she added hastily, seeing him redden and look away. "I did not mean to offend you."
"I am not offended," he replied, but he said nothing else and did not meet her eyes. The friendliness between them seemed to have faded and they walked along in thick silence.
Kitty was beginning to think that she had quite done her duty by Oliver Finch, and was prepared to go seek out one of the Hart sisters or some other more engaging friend, when by a little accident her foot caught on a place where the carpet had been rucked up, causing her to trip inelegantly over its folds. She stumbled and was caught by Mr. Finch, who gripped her sturdily about the waist before she could make a most embarrassing fall, and deposited her carefully upon a nearby divan. The only casualty of the incident was her reticule, which had swung from her wrist and onto the floor, spilling its contents.
"Are you injured, Miss Bennet?" Mr. Finch asked, with an urgency that surprised her. Kitty, who despite all her faults was a very good-natured girl without pride or pretension, only laughed and shook her head.
"How clumsy I am!" she exclaimed cheerfully. "I am obliged to you for your swiftness, or I should have fallen flat in front of everybody, and been the laughingstock of Bath."
The thought made her laugh some more, though Mr. Finch was not laughing with her; having satisfied himself that she was unharmed, he had knelt to pick up her reticule. Kitty smoothed her skirts and glanced across the assembly to see if anybody had noticed her stumble. The rest of the company seemed wholly absorbed in their own pursuits, laughing and talking, and, as the hour drew closer to supper, casting hopeful glances in the direction of the dining room.
She looked back at Mr. Finch, and the smile dropped from her face. In gathering the contents of her bag, he had come across the cherished note from Mr. Price, and he was frozen, reading it with an expression of surprise and consternation.
Kitty was grasped by alarm, and had to stop herself from dashing forward and snatching the paper from his hands. Mr. Price had so emphasized his desire for discretion; and now his love-letter to her was in the hands of a gentleman who might very well carry the news to Miss Hart, who might very well carry it to her brothers and sisters, who might spread it all over Bath—and before she knew it, someone (Mary, perhaps, or Colonel Fitzwilliam) would write eagerly to Mr. Bennet or even Mr. Darcy, who would immediately insist upon being introduced to the gentleman who had captured Kitty's heart; and Kitty knew very well that Mr. Price, however flawless she found him, would certainly not satisfy the disapproving judgments of her father and brothers-in-law. He was too amiable and lively for their tastes.
(It had not occurred to Kitty—or if it had, she had chosen not to think about it—that, if she truly intended to marry Mr. Price in a grand wedding with all of her friends and family in attendance, then certainly he would sooner or later have to be introduced to her family as her fiancé. This, perhaps, was a matter to be considered later, once she had safely secured not only his love but also his firm promise.)
Her panic threatened to overwhelm her, for Kitty was not a girl who managed well in tense circumstances. "That is mine," she snapped, holding out her hand for the letter.
Oliver Finch looked up at her, startled, and immediately flushed. "Forgive me," he said, his voice equally low. "I did not mean—" He stopped. "It is from Mr. Price?"
"No," Kitty said immediately, and then "Yes." She hesitated. "It is not—it is not mine. That is, it is mine, but it is not for me—"
"I do not understand."
Nor do I, Kitty thought helplessly, but she said only "Give it to me. You should not have read it."
Mr. Finch did as she bid him, taking the seat beside her on the divan. "You are right; I should not."
Kitty was a little appeased by this, tucking the note safely into her reticule again. "And," she added, "you must not tell anybody what you have read."
There was concern in all his looks as he gazed at her. "I am afraid I do not understand."
"What is there to understand?" Kitty said sharply. "Nobody must know, or I am sure it will all be ruined!"
He hesitated, looking out over the rest of the party, before turning to her again. "There is nothing morally reprehensible in such a note," he said carefully. "Only some expressions of—of tenderness." He swallowed. "If this is truly how matters stand between you and that gentleman, why this need for secrecy? Your friends and family would be glad to know of your happiness."
"It is not so simple as that," Kitty huffed.
"Why not?"
She glared at him. "Forgive me," Oliver Finch said again. "But it does seem as though it—well, as though it ought to be simple."
"What can you know of it?" Kitty demanded, her temper lost. "It is nothing to do with you, sir, nor with anybody else, and you can have no opinion on the subject. I wish everybody would stop trying to tell me what I ought to be doing! Mary does not know anything; nor does Rosamond; and certainly I shall not be lectured by a gentleman who has attached himself to a woman who does not share his regard, and has set her sights entirely upon someone else; is that simplicity, Mr. Finch?"
She paused, face hot, a little shocked by her own unkindness; but Mr. Finch looked more startled than wounded, and said only "I am sorry to have offended you, Miss Bennet."
Kitty bit her lip. "I am sorry to have spoken so," she replied, a little quieter. "But I must—you must excuse me—" She stared out at the party, searching for some excuse to leave him, and caught sight of Mary and Robert walking together. "I must go talk with my sister," she said hurriedly. "Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Finch, and I do hope you enjoy your evening."
"Miss Bennet."
"I must go, sir," she repeated, standing swiftly, her heart pounding. "Pray do not tell anyone what you have read, and let us not speak of this again."
And without looking at him, she hurried across the room, and caught up Robert Hart's free arm with a forced exuberance that surprised not only him, but herself as well. "Good evening," she said breathlessly, beaming at Robert and her sister. "Wherever have you two been?"
Mrs. Bennet counted the evening as a triumph, for though Mr. Price had been absent, she firmly believed that Mary was now safely engaged to Robert Hart; and the question of Mary's ability to attract a gentleman having been one of her greatest worries since the marriage of her two eldest, she could not be more relieved. "Such amiable people!" she cried blissfully, as they rode home in the carriage. "Such a charming assembly! I daresay we could not have spent the evening better. Did you enjoy yourself, Mary my dear?"
"I did," Mary replied, looking more at ease than she had in days.
"I thought you would," her mother said significantly, patting Mary's arm with affection.
"So did I," Kitty put in, for though she was still rather vexed by her conversation with Mr. Finch, she had enjoyed the rest of the evening and privately shared her mother's suspicions regarding Mary and Robert.
"That is good, my love," Mrs. Bennet said; "and tomorrow I shall write to your father, and recommend that we stay a good deal later than we had planned; for I believe we shall find that there is still much for us to do in Bath."
She winked at Kitty, who giggled; and Mary, who was quite aware of her mother's meaning but no longer disturbed by it, only gave a little smile and gazed out of the window.