Author's Note: Okay, I understand the PM thing now. I was thinking you should be able to message someone directly from your inbox if you knew their screen name, as in an email system or Facebook, not that you had to go through someone's profile. Thank you to everyone who helped me out. Second thing I have to share: I got into grad school! Three grad schools, actually, which means I have a big daunting decision to make within the next two-ish weeks, but having surplus options is better than having none. I do apologize for being a bit late with this chapter, but this has been a busy busy month. Thank you for your patience and your reviews! I love reading what you guys have to say.
12 September 1797
Longbourn House
Meryton, Hertfordshire
My cherished wife,
I received your letter of the 3rd with great happiness, for it is always agreeable to me to have some reminder of my wife's cheerful temperament, without being obliged to hear in person all the noisy expressions of said temperament. I am glad to know that your nerves are giving you no trouble of late, as I have indeed been very concerned about them, and so has everybody else here in Meryton. Your supposition that it is the healing effect of the Roman Baths is quite likely correct; but your statement that we ought to move to Bath permanently so that you can take the waters year-round was surely meant as merely an amusing bit of hyperbole, which I shall indulge, but not answer.
I am similarly unconvinced that it is necessary for you and our daughters to remain in Bath until Christmas. This, too, must have been meant as a witticism—have you taken up that offensive Bath custom of "quizzing"? It is my opinion that your stay has already been a generous one, allowing the girls to see as much of the world as can possibly interest them, and giving them the opportunity to grow supremely sick of their Bath friends. The city can hold no more wonders for them. However, in deference to the pleading tone of your letter, I will agree that perhaps you might stay until near the end of October—another full month, Mrs. Bennet, and so you cannot claim that I am cruel and ungenerous now!
On a more serious note, my dear, I would caution you to remember my instructions to you: I will not approve of any marriages until I have seen and met the suitors myself (if such suitors there truly be; I am sure at least half of that jubilant description was invented). I remind you that you, my dove, are as easily charmed as a girl of seventeen—a trait which I much appreciated when I was pressing my own suit upon you so many years ago, but which I now find alarming when applied to the cases of our children. However gallant, however amiable, however clever are these gentlemen, you are not the best judge of their true characters. Does Colonel Fitzwilliam approve of them? Are they welcomed in society by reasonable people, and have they friends and family who can speak to their worth? I advise you to bear these questions in mind, but I also restate my earlier decision—I will have no Bath-marriages—no hasty weddings from rented lodgings. If these gentlemen are the paragons you claim them to be, they are perfectly capable of coming to Longbourn and asking me for my daughters' hands.
In all other respects, my love, I beg of you to enjoy yourself, and have your fill of the wider world, so that when you do come home, you shall be content to live the rest of your natural life at Longbourn. Keep this in mind, when you feel yourself beginning to think how pleasant it would be to hold a double-wedding in Bath: once Mary and Kitty are both married and gone from home (if indeed such an event ever occurs), you will have nobody left to parade through Bath or London or Brighton or any of those other foolish places; our life will be a much quieter one, and I shall not be induced to spend any "Season" in any place. Perhaps this will convince you to wait awhile before thrusting our daughters into the marriage state.
With great fondness,
Your loving husband,
Edward C. Bennet
Mrs. Bennet read her husband's letter with a furrowed brow. She had not thought her request to stay in Bath until Christmas so terribly unreasonable—for they were to spend Christmas at Pemberley, and there could be no point in going back to Longbourn only to leave again in a month or two for Derbyshire. That Mr. Bennet had consented only to an extra month struck her as very stingy, though this opinion was perhaps informed by the rest of the letter, which vexed her greatly.
But there was nothing for it, and with a heavy sigh, she announced to her girls that they were only to have one more month in Bath, and that they were therefore obliged to make the most of it.
Mary and Kitty were not so distressed as she imagined they might have been. Though Mary had begun to enjoy the city more in the wake of her conversation with Robert Hart, she still ached to be at home. She loved autumn in Hertfordshire—the golden fields, the changing leaves, the quiet chill of each afternoon—and while she did not mind being in Bath now, she would be glad to leave in October. It would be comforting, to sit in the parlor at Longbourn with a fire in the hearth and the leaves falling outside, and not be obliged to attend parties and assemblies every evening. (Though of course, she reflected sadly, she would miss the concerts.)
Kitty, who had seen Mr. Price happily returned from London, was reassured by the manifestation of his feelings when they were alone together: he had taken to reciting bits of love-poetry, turning every stray remark into an opportunity for some elegant compliment, promising his love and insisting that she do the same; he had even asked for a lock of her hair, which she had eagerly provided. He was so patently lovestruck that she could not help being sanguine about the future, and though she could happily stay in Bath forever, she was nevertheless confident that she could achieve her desired purpose within the time allotted, and return to Meryton as an engaged woman—if not a married one.
There had been one little incident, which had startled her out of this cheerful humor, the day after Mr. Price's return from London; but it had been a week now, and the memory had lost some of its sting. Upon his return to Bath, Mr. Price's first object had naturally been to call upon Kitty, and take her for a walk in one of the nearby parks, where they spoke to each other very tenderly, and called each other many affectionate names. "Did anything happen while I was away, my love?" the gentleman asked idly, at a break in the conversation.
"No, to be sure," Kitty replied, smiling at him. "Bath is very dull when you are not here; I do not like any of these people so well as I like you."
"Love me, you should say—for that is how I hope you feel," was the gentle correction.
"Oh indeed," Kitty agreed warmly. "I certainly do not love anybody so well as I love you, and I do not think I ever could. I was very pleased by the note you sent me—" But here she paused. "You will laugh, my love," she said, "but something did happen—it was not very important, and quite amusing to me now, though I suppose I was a little distressed at the time."
"I cannot bear to think of you distressed, even a little. What was the incitement?"
"Well," Kitty said, a little haltingly, "I was very pleased by your note, and so I took to carrying it with me, in my reticule. And the other night while we were at the Daltons', I happened to stumble, and I dropped the bag."
She paused, expecting some tender interjection from her beau, but he was only looking at her. Her stomach sank a little; she had really thought Alexander would be amused by the tale, but he did not look to be so.
"Anyway the note fell out, and Oliver Finch picked it up and read it; but I made him hand it back directly, and I swore him to secrecy. And I do not think he has told anyone else. There, my darling, you see, it is nothing so important. I do not know why you are looking at me so sternly."
Alexander Price's face was indeed very stern, and he turned away from her after a moment. "That was careless of you, Kitty," he said. "I told you I wished to keep our relationship private, so that we might be liberated from the stares and gossip which would otherwise plague us."
"It was an accident," Kitty exclaimed, a little startled by his graveness, and by the pleading tone in her own voice. "I did not mean to drop it."
"You should not have had it with you at all. I cannot deny that I am vexed by this news. I did not intend the note to be carried about like a talisman, which anybody might see; it was for your eyes alone. This is a blow to my trust."
Oliver Finch's words to her sprang unbidden to Kitty's ears, and she bit her lip. "You can trust me, my love," she promised, tears in her eyes. "I promise I shall not make such a mistake again. Mr. Finch will not tell anybody—I was very hard upon him, and told him how important it was. And I have not said anything to anybody, though you know it is so difficult for me, for having your love makes me the happiest of all girls, and I would tell the world if you said I could. But I have not; I have not told Rosamond or even Mamma, and have done everything I can to keep it all hidden from Mary and anybody else who might interfere. I promise I have been very faithful, and kept everything a secret, and I shall continue to do so as long as you think it necessary—even until we are married, if you like," she went on wildly. "Please do not be angry with me! I cannot bear it!"
Mr. Price was regarding her very seriously, but at the last words he finally gave a little smile and, glancing about to make sure they were not watched, took her in his arms. She did not think anything could have been more welcome than his embrace, and laid her head upon his strong shoulder, wearied by her emotional exertion.
"There, my beauty," the gentleman said gently, pulling her away from him a little and pressing his lips to her forehead. "Forgive me, my dear, for alarming you so. I am not angry, only a little disappointed, but that will soon pass. Oliver Finch is a fool, but a faithful one, and I have no doubt he will do as you have instructed. There are worse people who might have read that note. Be easy, sweet one. I forgive you."
"Thank you," Kitty said gratefully, brushing at her eyes. "I promise I shall not be so careless again."
"I am sure you will not," Alexander Price agreed, tucking her arm securely through his as they began to walk. "I believe you have learned your lesson very well, and you will be a model of secrecy and discretion."
The entire quarrel had lasted only a few minutes, and while Kitty had been uneasy for the rest of the day, her misgivings had faded by the time she woke the next morning. She could not suppress a strange feeling of familiarity, however; for though the circumstances were very different, and though she had indeed been at fault, the outline of the argument—Alexander's sudden anger, her own confusion and panicked apologies, and his final magnanimity—seemed somehow a much colder, quieter, more severe version of her old squabbles with Lydia. She had always seemed to be in the wrong then, too; and Lydia's shrieks and tantrums had pained her so much that she had usually capitulated even when she did not entirely think she was obliged to. How ridiculous those rows seemed to her now!
But the argument had been a week ago, and since then she and Mr. Price had spent a great deal of time together, during which he had been nothing but solicitous and adoring. She was his beauty, his love, his precious and his sweet one—at least when they were alone together—for in public, she was "Miss Katherine" and while he paid her friendly attention and spoke to her often, he did not distinguish her in any meaningful way. She had at first been much bothered by this, but bore it now with better grace by reminding herself that this was also the lot of the heroine in Carlotta, whose devoted fiancé was wanted for crimes he had not committed but who could not bear to be parted from her, and who therefore had to masquerade as another gentleman in public, and could not be seen to afford her any special attention without compromising either her reputation or his own identity. (It had been a thrilling read.)
At any rate, Mr. Price's insistence upon discretion seemed to be doing some good; for though Mary still openly disapproved of the gentleman and Mrs. Bennet still fawned over him, nobody else seemed to notice anything. Rosamond and her family were only ever polite to Mr. Price, and Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared entirely unconcerned by the gentleman's friendship with his young cousin-by-marriage. Only Oliver Finch ever looked at all troubled when he saw them walking or talking together, but he seemed to have kept his silence. Kitty felt quite sure that there were no rumors to be feared, and though she would not have minded perhaps one rumor—it is a rare young lady who does not like being talked about at least a little—Mr. Price seemed to dread the very idea, and so their safety made her happy, because it made him happy.
"There is this to be said, at least," Mary remarked one afternoon, as she walked with Rosamond in the little park behind Hart House. "They certainly cannot marry."
Having resigned herself to the fact that her criticisms of Mr. Price, when addressed to her mother and sister, would only ever fall upon deaf ears, she had taken to discussing him with Rosamond. Her friend was often amused by Mary's vehemence, but she was nonetheless an excellent listener.
"Your mother does not seem to share that view," Rosamond replied absently, tilting her head and closing her eyes to feel the sunshine on her face. Mary huffed.
"Mamma is very pleased with the situation; but there has been a letter from my father, and he insists he shall not approve of any nuptials until he meets the gentleman himself."
"And you think Mr. Bennet will disapprove of Mr. Price?"
"Any parent of sense and reason will disapprove of such a son-in-law," Mary said firmly. "Do you think your father would allow you to be courted by Mr. Price? Or your brothers, for that matter—would they be so civil to him if they thought him to have designs upon you?"
Rosamond laughed. "I am not the sort of girl upon whom anybody forms designs," she answered. "Yet perhaps you are right; I cannot imagine my father condoning such a marriage. But," she added, "that is because Mr. Price and I would not be a good match. Our tempers are too dissimilar, and I cannot see myself ever possessing any real affection for him, or him for me. Papa would not allow me to be courted by any gentleman I could not love." She stooped to pluck a gray-headed dandelion.
"My father's requirements are perhaps more stringent," Mary said. "He is already once cursed with a worthless son-in-law, and he will not be fooled by Mr. Price's wit and vivacity. There are more serious, concrete qualities which are required in a husband, and Mr. Price is lacking in all of them."
"You seem very secure in your judgment."
"I am; because I know myself to be in the right. I can see him for the trifler he is, even if Mamma and Kitty cannot."
Rosamond hummed vaguely, watching the breeze lift the downy seeds from the dandelion in her hand and carry them across the park. A few landed on the sleeve of Mary's spencer, and she brushed them away impatiently.
"Do you not agree with me?" she demanded.
"I cannot say," was the unexpected reply. "I agree that Mr. Price is hardly a serious gentleman, but perhaps that is not so terrible. Kitty seems to like him, and his behavior toward her is not unseemly. He is a bit forward perhaps, and you say he calls on your sister more often than you would prefer, but then that is not a crime. You come to Hart House almost as much as he goes to Henry Street, I wager."
"But you do not like him!" Mary exclaimed, scandalized. "You said you were concerned by Kitty's fondness for him."
"I should have been equally concerned had some young lady displayed such extreme infatuation for one of my own brothers, after only two or three brief meetings. I confess I do not particularly like Mr. Price myself, but in truth the gentleman himself never concerned me so much as the intensity of the feelings engendered by such a short acquaintance. I worry that Kitty thinks of marriage very romantically, when in fact it is a state that must be endured for the rest of one's life, and therefore requires honest consideration."
"That is very true," Mary said, somewhat appeased. "But as to the gentleman himself—"
"He has not the reputation of a scoundrel," Rosamond interjected gently. "He has friends here in Bath, who genuinely seem to like him, and he has never been accused of improper conduct. Of course I do not know him very well, nor have I any desire to; and I cannot speak to his reputation in London, not knowing his circle there; but in Bath, at least, I have only heard him spoken of as an amiable sort of man."
Mary snorted. "'An amiable sort of man'—that will do very well for my father. His greatest hope is to see his daughter married to 'an amiable sort of man.'"
Rosamond laughed. "Forgive me, Mary, for not sharing your enthusiasm in despising Mr. Price. It is a failing on my part, to be sure. Perhaps he will return to London soon, and be forgotten forever."
"And even if not, then my father will disapprove of him," Mary maintained, "and there will be no marriage. In that, at least, we may take solace."
They walked quietly for a few minutes. The park was largely empty, though Mary could not see why, for the day was fine and the weather warm. A few leaves sailed gently from their branches as the breeze sighed again, splashing little points of red and gold against the green grass. Not for the first time in her life, Mary wished she had learned to draw. It would have been a fine thing to add to her list of accomplishments.
"Do you think your father would approve of Robert?" Rosamond asked idly, breaking the silence.
Mary started and glanced at her. Rosamond's eyes were trained on the progress of a small rabbit, a few feet from the path, who was hopping gingerly from the shelter of one shrubbery to the shade of another.
Mary could not tell whether Robert had told his twin of their conversation; Rosamond had made no mention of the matter. She did not know whether brothers and sisters shared things the way sisters did (not that anybody had ever shared anything with her; but Jane and Elizabeth, and Kitty and Lydia, had always been in each others' confidence).
"I believe he would," she said, carefully, after a long moment of consideration. "Robert is of a serious mind, and possesses both intelligence and good nature."
"Yes, some of the time," Rosamond added teasingly.
She said nothing else, and Mary allowed the subject to drop. After a minute or so Rosamond asked her friend how she was enjoying Evelina, and they occupied themselves very productively until they decided to return to Hart House.
The Bennets' days in Bath passed pleasantly, if quietly. Many of the families who had extended their Season-long stay into the summer were now taking their leave of the city, even as those residents who typically traveled in the warmer months began returning home, and there fell a brief lull between balls and assemblies as everyone did their best to get themselves settled. Evening card-parties and suppers were not uncommon, but they were tranquil affairs, lacking the bustle and frivolity of summer engagements. Mary busied herself with her reading and her practice, and took long walks in the nearby parks—sometimes accompanied by Robert, or Rosamond (who in turn was sometimes accompanied by Mr. Finch), or even, on one occasion, Anne Hart. She was pleased to find the latter quite an agreeable conversationalist, if a little quixotic and perhaps a slower walker than Mary liked: certainly much improved from the wilted, standoffish creature which her sister Elizabeth had once described. Mary was even privileged to attend two more weekly concerts with the Harts, which left her glowing.
Mr. Price usually called once or twice every week, and if the afternoon was fine, he and Kitty would walk out together after sitting in the drawing-room for a respectable amount of time; and it was these moments alone together for which Kitty lived. She enjoyed her other amusements in Bath: calling upon her friends, promenading in the Pump-room, shopping and talking with Rosamond, dining out and spending evenings away from home, even taking the waters with her mother sometimes; but nothing could compare to walking beside Alexander Price on some quiet street, or in some empty garden, hearing him speak to her so tenderly and, every so often, affording him a careful kiss.
It is difficult to underestimate the effect of Mr. Price's attention upon such a young lady as Kitty Bennet: a girl who imagines herself the heroine of some romantic novel, who has dreamt of and longed for the devotion of some chivalrous knight, but has so often been outshone by her sisters—more beautiful, more clever, more lively than she—and aside from a few dances with willing officers and maybe a brief flirtation here or there, has seen all of her imaginings come to naught. For such a young lady, there is nothing so gratifying as the tender attentions of a man who is not only very charming, but remarkably handsome, and in possession of a house in Town and (according to Mrs. Bennet's sources) a very fine chaise-and-four. Alexander Price could not have approached Kitty at a better time, for having recently become the only pretty unmarried daughter in a family locally famed for its beauties, she had quite determined not to be overshadowed by the likes of Mary, and decided that she must marry soon, and better than her sisters, if she was to be happy.
And so, to hear such phrases as "I could not live without you, my dear; pray tell me you shall never leave my side," was everything she could have hoped for at such a juncture in her life.
"Of course I shall not," Kitty declared warmly, resting her head upon Alexander's shoulder. They had walked to the Bathwick Street bridge north-east of the town, and leaned now upon the railing, watching the boats downstream.
"I should like to take you with me to London, my love, and have everybody there envy me."
"I should love to go to London," was the dreamy reply. "Where is your house, again?"
"It is in Marylebone, on a little side street, but quite close to a great many important places. It is quite a plain apartment at the moment, but it would be greatly enhanced by your presence; you have so many neat touches about you, I daresay you would make it very grand."
"Have you many friends there?"
"I have enough to keep me amused. Their company is nothing compared to yours.—You look astonishingly lovely today, sweet one; even more beautiful than when I saw you on Thursday, and I thought that difficult to surpass. Is that a new dress?"
"No, but I have not worn it much," Kitty replied carelessly. "Does your family live in London, my dear?"
She felt Alexander stiffen beside her. "They do," he replied shortly.
"If I were to go to London with you, should I meet them?"
"I do not think so." His voice was testy. "I have not much contact with them. They are not pleasant people, and I would not subject you to their society."
"They cannot be so unpleasant, if they are anything like you," she answered sweetly, turning to him with a smile.
"They are nothing like me—hence their unpleasantness."
Kitty, sensing his vexation, did not press the matter further. "I should very much like for you to meet my family," she sighed happily. "My sisters would all be very jealous, for their husbands are nothing to you—not so handsome, nor so clever and amiable. Lydia would be wild with rage, for she hates me to have anything she does not."
"You are too kind, my darling—you give me too much credit. Your brother Wickham I cannot claim to know; but I should be flattered if your brothers Darcy and Bingley considered me their equal, let alone their superior."
"Oh, they are only rich," Kitty laughed, waving a dismissive hand. "Their being rich does not make them better than anybody; marriage is not about money."
She realized, with a wicked thrill, that she was already talking of Alexander as her husband—not only to her mother or herself, but to the gentleman himself—though he had made no formal proposal. She was delighted when he took up the theme.
"No indeed," he answered, turning her to face him. "Marriage is about love, and desire, and happiness, and a great many other important things—but whatever else it is about, it is not about money."
Kitty beamed, and tilted her head for a kiss. Alexander leaned down toward her; but at the sound of footsteps rounding the corner from St. John's Road, he stepped quickly away, and returned to his place on the railing. Kitty turned to regard the intruder reproachfully.
To her discomfiture, the intruder was Oliver Finch, and he was not alone. Walking with him was an elderly gentleman in a white collar, who could only have been Mr. Finch's rector. They were talking together earnestly, and Kitty swallowed her disappointment at the interruption, determined to be polite; for she did like Mr. Finch, even if he had nearly ruined things with Mr. Price, and she felt sorry for having spoken to him so unkindly at the Daltons'.
"Hello, Mr. Finch," she called, dropping into a curtsy, as the gentlemen drew close. "How are you today?"
Mr. Finch started at the sudden address, but gave a low bow at her greeting. "Hello, Miss Katherine," he responded, with what Kitty thought was unwarranted graveness; "Mr. Price."
"Finch," Mr. Price drawled, with a nod. "Out upon some parish business, I suppose?"
Mr. Finch replied in the affirmative, and introduced Dr. Blackburn, who gave a very bright smile and a bow. "It is always so agreeable to see young people enjoying the fine weather," the rector declared cheerfully. "Finch tells me he walks regularly into town—even so far as Widcombe, for which I commend him. These sunny days will come to an end far too quickly, you know, and then it will be so cold that we will take coaches and Bath-chairs everywhere, and never have any fresh air."
"Better that we should enjoy ourselves now," Mr. Price agreed. "Have you gentlemen been for a constitutional, then?"
Dr. Blackburn laughed. "No, indeed," he replied, "nothing so pleasant! We have been to a meeting at the Abbey, and are hoping to return to Larkhall in time for luncheon. Finch is grown hungry, I can tell, for his stride has lengthened to twice its normal measure since we passed Henrietta Park."
Kitty, allowing the conversation to wash over her, raised her eyes to meet Mr. Finch's; for though she could not say why, she was embarrassed that he had found her standing alone with Mr. Price—even though they had not been doing anything wrong, and anyway Mr. Finch already knew all there was to know, so there was no further damage to be done. Even as he stood silent, looking at Dr. Blackburn, Kitty felt as though he was somehow disapproving of her, and the thought bothered her more than she believed it should.
She wished very much to make some sign of friendliness between them. To this end, she looked at him steadily, waiting for him to catch her eye, and at length he felt her gaze and looked back at her. There was nothing censorious in his expression; indeed, it was carefully blank. But Kitty gave him an encouraging smile, and after a moment of hesitation, he gave a minute bow of the head and returned it, albeit rather timidly. Kitty's heart lifted.
"At any rate, we must be getting along," Dr. Blackburn said; "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Price—and you, Miss Bennet—and do be sure to enjoy this lovely day."
"We could not bring ourselves to do otherwise," Mr. Price replied graciously. "Enjoy your walk back to Larkhall."
There were a few more polite words exchanged, before the clergymen took their leave and made their way briskly along the bridge. Kitty and Mr. Price watched them go.
"I ought to have known," Mr. Price muttered darkly, "that we could not be allowed to come near Larkhall, without being obliged to suffer his company."
"I cannot see why you dislike Mr. Finch so," Kitty answered, with a nervous giggle.
"His company bores me so thoroughly that it makes me quite annoyed."
"He is quiet, to be sure, and not terribly interesting, but he is perfectly agreeable."
"He is a perfect fool."
"No, no," Kitty laughed, "you mustn't speak so; he is in love with Rosamond Hart, and she is one of my most particular friends, and so I cannot allow you to speak so ill of a gentleman who loves her!"
"All the more reason he is a fool—if he thinks himself likely to win Miss Hart, he is quite deluded. She has too much beauty to willingly waste it on a curate. She will be Lady Adlam before the spring, my dear; mark my words."
Kitty frowned, for this was alarmingly similar to a conversation they had had before; but this time, she felt, she had a right to be annoyed, and she snapped, "You certainly seem to think Rosamond very pretty."
Alexander Price turned to regard her with surprise.
"You have said more than once how beautiful she is," Kitty pressed, "and it isn't right for you to say."
"Forgive me, my love," Alexander said after a long moment; "I had not realized how my words must sound to your ears. I mean only that she is objectively beautiful—like a painting—but in truth I think it quite a cold, lifeless sort of beauty, and nothing compared to your own."
This Kitty felt to be flattery, for while she knew herself to be tolerably pretty, she was hardly a beauty when compared to Rosamond Hart. But she averted her gaze anyway, looking stonily ahead, prompting Mr. Price to elaborate:
"I have never found any charm in gray eyes. I have always found blue much more lively, and much more worth looking at. And yellow hair, while perhaps fashionable at the moment, has always struck me as rather dull to the eye—I prefer a rich brown. Besides which, she is at least an inch shorter than you are, and I consider you, my precious, to be the perfect height."
"There," Kitty replied, turning to him more brightly. "That is all I wished to hear, my love."
And so appeased, she tucked her arm through his, and began walking back toward Henry Street; for Dr. Blackburn's mention of luncheon had sparked her own hunger, and she wondered whether Mamma and Mary had already dined.
Mrs. Bennet gave her needlework a very black look, though it had done her no ill. She was quite displeased.
September was nearly gone. Leaves were falling from the trees, and while the weather had remained largely sunny, a few crisp cold days had startled the city into donning thick shawls and heavier coats. The Season was long gone, and the summer becoming an ever more distant memory; Michaelmas, the Bennets' original date of departure, had passed only the day before, and Mrs. Bennet could only be glad that they had been afforded an extra month, for as of now their stay in Bath had been, to her mind, a disappointment.
It had been three weeks now since the party at the Daltons', from which Mrs. Bennet had returned with a certainty that Mary and Robert were engaged. And yet, in questioning her daughter closely, and watching the pair of them together and evening gatherings, she could not in fact find out that any understanding had emerged between them. Mary seemed perfectly content—but she did not seem at all in love, and Robert, in his occasional visits to Henry Street, had not made any request to speak to Mary or her mother alone, or made any references (however oblique) to writing to Mr. Bennet, or going to visit Longbourn, or any of the other things which a serious suitor ought to be considering. In his conduct toward Mary, he was amiable and even fond; they sought each other out in company, and spent time together quite regularly; but there was no hint of romantic attachment. Indeed, even the pregnant tension which Mrs. Bennet had once sensed between them had vanished: a thorough dissatisfaction for an anxious mother who inspected for tenderness and found only friendliness.
Kitty, at least, seemed to be doing very well with Mr. Price; for though he was not so demonstrative as Mrs. Bennet might have wished, they nonetheless spent a great deal of time alone together, from which Kitty always returned with a telling glow. This was encouraging, and as their acquaintance was briefer than the one existing between Robert and Mary (for Mrs. Bennet, in her zeal, counted as a prelude to that courtship all of the time from their meeting Theo and Rosamond at Pemberley, nearly a year ago, when they had first become aware of Robert's existence), it would necessarily take a little more time before those matters were seen to their happy conclusion. A month longer in Bath would certainly do the trick.
But then Mrs. Bennet had never really worried about Kitty. A pleasant, attractive girl, who had always had plenty of friends and rarely sat down during a ball, Kitty had always been sure to marry eventually. Certainly it was the duty of the mother to see this accomplished sooner, rather than later, but Mrs. Bennet had always felt confident enough that Kitty was quite capable of securing at least one good beau over the course of her life.
Mary, on the other hand, was quite another case. Mrs. Bennet had always pitied those families of her acquaintance who had spinster daughters to look after. Having concluded, perhaps prematurely, that Charlotte Lucas would never marry, she had often consoled Lady Lucas with assurances that it was nobody's fault Charlotte was so plain, and that Maria and the younger girls would surely do better. But now, faced with her own potential spinster daughter, she could not even console herself with her triumphs in the cases of her other girls—for how could she look forward, with any degree of pleasure, to having Mary always at Longbourn? To spend the rest of her life listening to her daughter's sermons and complaints, and watching her grow older and plainer and more peevish?
It was not that she did not love Mary, for indeed Mrs. Bennet truly loved all of her daughters; it was that their tempers were so dissimilar, and Mrs. Bennet's understanding so limited, that there had never arisen any degree of intimacy between them. Mrs. Bennet would have preferred to have Lydia always at home, for her youngest was her darling child; or Jane, who was so good and helpful; but, more than anything, she desired to see all of her daughters married.
Besides which, Mrs. Bennet did not think it possible for a woman to be happy while she was aware that no man in the world had ever found her attractive enough to secure her. Certainly such unhappy knowledge could only produce a very bitter old maid. Thus, the good lady concluded that Mary, too, must by now be impatient with Robert Hart's inaction; however content she seemed with the current state of affairs, she could only be praying for the all-important question to be asked. Mrs. Bennet's displeasure with her daughter, therefore, transformed itself into pity; for what an objectionable situation it was, to be waiting on a proposal from a gentleman who insisted on dawdling!
She brought up the subject with Mary late one morning, while they were sitting together in the drawing-room. "Really, my love, I think it is very good of you to be so patient with Robert Hart. I am sure he will come before very long to know what he is about; but perhaps you might help him along."
Unfortunately, she had chosen to address the matter in front of Kitty, who dissolved into giggles, and the visiting Hart sisters, whose identical eyes widened simultaneously. The effect would have been rather comical, had not Mary been so mortified.
"Mamma!" she exclaimed. "I am sure I do not understand what you mean."
"You needn't be so guarded, child. We are all friends here; we can speak frankly."
"Have you not always told me I ought to speak less pleasantly, and more meaningfully?" Kitty demanded wickedly, happy enough in her own romance to tease Mary about hers. "Surely you won't object to an honest discussion of an important topic."
Mary directed a dark glare at her sister. "The topic is not an important one, and does not need to be discussed, particularly in our present company. You must remember that the Miss Harts can have no wish to hear this conversation."
"Mary is very shy, of course," Mrs. Bennet said breezily to her guests, "but I am sure you girls are as impatient as we are; is that not so? Such fond sisters must be eager to see their brother happily settled. Do you not think, Miss Hart, that you may make some hint to Mr. Hart? He cares so much for your opinion, after all."
"Mamma!" Mary cried again, her face now red indeed. "This is most inappropriate!"
Juliet had by now joined in Kitty's giggles, although she hid them behind her hands; but Rosamond appeared to take pity on Mary, and answered seriously, "I regret to inform you, Mrs. Bennet, that Robert is of a stubborn disposition, and upon such subjects does not care for anybody's opinion but his own."
"That is too bad," Mrs. Bennet sighed. "Then I suppose the burden must indeed be on Mary. You mustn't be afraid, my love, to make some little hints" (this to her daughter) "which can lead him in the correct direction. There are any number of clever contrivances a young lady may employ, without overstepping her bounds or appearing at all forward. Indeed, it was two full months' work on my part before your father proposed, and in the end he thought it all his own idea!"
Kitty burst into fresh laughter at this, and even Rosamond could not suppress a smile. Mary, burning with embarrassment, wished very much that she could disappear completely.
"You are a wealth of insight, Mrs. Bennet," Rosamond remarked. "I must remember to address myself to you when I decide to arrange my own marriage; I am sure I could not do better."
"Oh, my dear," Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, with a very broad wink, "I am sure you shall have no trouble in that quarter. Indeed, from what I hear, he is quite in love with you already."
To the surprise of everyone except Mrs. Bennet (who considered Mr. Finch Rosamond's property as much as Mr. Price was Kitty's, and Mr. Hart Mary's) and perhaps little Juliet, a pretty blush bloomed over Rosamond's features, and she glanced away. Kitty, startled at this display of maidenly coyness from her usually serene friend, wondered if there had been some development of which she was unaware; whatever it was, she hoped it was in favor of poor Mr. Finch.
"At any rate," Rosamond said, regaining her composure, "Juliet and I must away; we are to meet Mrs. Hart for tea, and as it is a rare thing these days to find our sister stirring from her own comfortable fireside, we must not be late."
"May I join you?" Mary asked rather desperately, for she knew that upon the young ladies' departure, Mrs. Bennet would persist in enumerating all of the "clever contrivances" which would propel Robert Hart into the marriage state.
"It would give us great pleasure," Rosamond said brightly.
"And I?" Kitty asked, for she had an inclination to press Rosamond for further details which might explain the mysterious blush and sideways glance. In so doing, she thought, she might find some way of speaking a good word for Mr. Finch, and so repay him for his obliging discretion regarding Mr. Price.
"To be sure," her friend agreed, with a little laugh; "We shall conquer Sally Lunn's all together, and fill the air with our prattle. Will you join us, Mrs. Bennet?"
Mrs. Bennet, who thought she might call upon her friend Mrs. Cooke, waved away the invitation, but bid all the girls a cheerful goodbye, and gave her compliments to Mrs. Hart, and encouraged them all to have a merry time; for she really did like to see young people enjoying themselves.
They set out from Henry Street and walked as briskly as they could, for there was a chill in the air. Juliet commandeered Kitty's arm and they walked a little ahead together, laughing and chattering, leaving the two elder sisters to trail behind. Mary, whose blush had not entirely subsided, nonetheless did her best to seem unconcerned with what had passed in the drawing-room. She need not have bothered, however, for upon ascertaining that the younger girls were sufficiently absorbed in their own conversation, Rosamond turned to her and said without prelude,
"Why do you not simply tell your mother that Robert does not wish to marry you? Perhaps then she would not bother you so."
Mary was taken aback, for though she was an avowed believer in honesty and candor, she was still sometimes a little surprised by Rosamond's directness.
"Has Robert told you of his intentions?" she asked, a little tartly; for it was one thing if Robert had, but otherwise it was quite an unflattering assumption for Rosamond to have made. Her friend, to her annoyance, shook her head. "Then how can you know he has no such wish?"
Rosamond gave a little laugh. "We are twins; I always know."
This reminded Mary of something which Robert had once said, and she glanced away with a frown. Rosamond, sensing her displeasure, laid an conciliatory hand on her arm. "But I am correct, am I not? You told me yourself that you had no desire to marry just now, and it is plain that Robert shares your inclination—or lack thereof. You must have spoken of it. I am glad for both your sakes," she went on, as Mary opened her mouth to reply, "and I am pleased to see that you can now stand in a room together without blushing and averting your eyes, or hopping nervously from one foot to the other. It was painful to watch. But why do you not mention this to your mother?"
Mary sighed. "Mamma thinks it unnatural for a gentleman and a lady to be friendly without being in love; and she thinks it even worse for a young lady to have no interest in husbands at my stage of life. I told her once that I was not prepared for marriage, and she—did not understand."
"What, then, shall you do? Pretend to be waiting upon a proposal that is not forthcoming?"
"It is simpler than attempting to explain things to her."
Rosamond gave a thoughtful nod. "I suppose you are right; but surely her disappointment will be all the more severe, when you leave Bath a single woman."
"It is good for us to experience disappointment now and again," Mary said decisively, "as it strengthens the soul, and improves the character. It is never good for one to have everything one wants; such immoderation leads to moral indolence and other serious failings."
Her friend, smiling, looked as though she wished to say more; but at that moment they reached the tea-shop, and any further conversation was impossible as they navigated the crowded little room to the table where Mrs. Hart sat waiting for them.
Anne looked very well, even rather plump, for someone who had once been considered an invalid; and she was already enjoying a large bun and a cup of tea. Her sisters-in-law waved away her apologies for not having waited on them as they took their seats. Kitty, who still wished to question Rosamond, unceremoniously shoved Mary away from the chair at her friend's left (into which Mary had been almost fully seated) and claimed it for herself.
"I wish to talk with Rose," she hissed, in response to Mary's outraged squawk. "She is my friend too, you know."
Mary retreated, sulking, to the other side of the table.
But there was no opportunity for Kitty to talk with Rose just yet, for Anne being the newest addition to the party, she must necessarily take center stage; and there was a great deal of news to be shared among the ladies, and questions to be asked and answered, and things to be said. The server deposited their tea and pastries before them, and for a time the conversation was very general and cheerful as everybody ate and drank, and talked and listened.
At length, however, Anne asked Mary some question regarding a concert which she and Mr. Hart had not attended, and Mary, her eyes lighting up, answered her eagerly, joined by Juliet who sat between them. Kitty, taking her opportunity, leaned in toward Rosamond just a little, and caught her eye, and said "I saw Mr. Finch just the other day."
"Did you?" Rosamond replied pleasantly. "I hope he was well."
"He was very well," was Kitty's automatic response; but then she furrowed her brow, and added "Have you not seen him yourself?"
"Not since Monday—when did you see him?"
"On Tuesday."
"Then I award you the greater claim for knowing whether he is well," Rosamond laughed.
"But you must have seen him," Kitty pressed, a little dismayed. "Has he not called at Hart House? Have you not met him in the Pump-room, or any other place?"
"I understand he has been kept quite busy with parish affairs. The curate's lodgings are almost ready for him, and he has been working closely with the rector to put everything in order."
"Well, then," Kitty said, more satisfied. Perhaps the completion of the lodgings had led Oliver Finch to declare himself at last; that would certainly explain Rosamond's blush. But, she thought, scrutinizing her friend, Rose did not now have the look of a young lady soon to be married: her features were perfectly tranquil, her complexion unreddened, her expression lacking in any hint of longing, or sentiment, or bashfulness. "Still," she added, "one would think he might make more effort to see his friends."
"Has he neglected you, Kitty?" Rosamond asked teasingly.
"Neglected me! No indeed, for he has only ever called once at Henry Street—or twice, I suppose, but the first time was very brief—and I hardly ever see him except in company; no, if he were to neglect me, I do not think I should realize it. But he ought not to neglect you, for you are such particular friends, and so much in each other's confidence. It is very unwise of him," she went on consciously, "to absorb himself so much in his work, when it might cost him such a companionship."
Rosamond, to her surprise, burst out laughing. "How severe you are!" she exclaimed. "Have no fear, Kitty, for I understand very well what it is for a gentleman to have an occupation, and I am prepared to be very forgiving, so long as the work which absorbs him is that which makes him happy. You can have no cause to be wounded on my part."
Kitty was a little encouraged by this, and would have said more, except at that moment Juliet addressed some remark to her sister, which Rosamond turned to answer, and the conversation was effectively ended.
Still, Kitty thought, as she took a large bite from her Bath-bun, it seemed she had done Mr. Finch's cause some good; and perhaps there would be no Lady Adlam married this spring, after all.
She did not think it entirely right of her, but the thought of proving Mr. Price wrong about this at least—though he was her dear, cherished, adoring Mr. Price, and she should not hurt him for anything—gave her a little thrill of satisfaction.