The morning of the ball dawned bright and sunny, but cold. Immediately upon waking, Mrs. Bennet was thrown into her usual pre-ball frenzy of activity; and when the lady of the house was in such a state, it was quite guaranteed that nobody else was to have any peace.
"Up, up, girls!" the fond mother crowed, coming into her daughters' bedroom. "You must breakfast quickly, and then we shall have a look at what you each may wear tonight; for it is a very singular night, you know, and I would have you both looking your best!"
"In what way is tonight singular?" Mary grumbled, sitting up and yawning; she was of course morally opposed to slothfulness, but she had been sleeping very soundly, and nobody likes to have their rest disturbed.
"Why, my dear, tonight we shall dance at the Upper Rooms, and there will be a great many people to see!" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, giving Kitty a broad wink which made her squirm, but went undetected by Mary, who was still rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
"We have danced at the Upper Rooms before," Mary muttered. Mrs. Bennet only clucked her tongue and urged both of the girls out of bed.
The day, after they had breakfasted, was much taken up with choosing ensembles, and bathing, and arranging hair, and applying lotions and perfumes, and choosing new ensembles, and rearranging hair, and all of the other beautifying efforts to which ladies, young and old, handsome and plain, rich and poor, lend their time in varying states of enthusiasm. The only change in the usual routine was that Mrs. Bennet alone seemed at all concerned with the coming event; Kitty, her usual co-conspirator in such matters, only looked pale and perplexed, and sighed a great deal. Eventually her listlessness was enough to irritate her mother, who snapped,
"It is well you have a fine gown to wear this evening, my dear, or I am sure Mr. Price would have second thoughts about you! I do hope you shall not be so dull upon the dance-floor!"
"I am very nervous about seeing him," Kitty blurted out, all in a rush, without really meaning to. She had been keeping everything in for so long now, that she could not help letting a little bit of her anxiety escape. Mrs. Bennet softened, and looked at her tenderly.
"There now, my dear, that is nothing unusual; I remember very well the feeling."
"Do you?" Kitty asked, a tiny spark of hope lighting in her chest. Mrs. Bennet pinned a curl to the top of her daughter's head.
"Of course, for it is very different, you know, to be an engaged couple. You have not seen Mr. Price for—is it three days now, or four? You will not be quite certain how to act. I could not look in your father's eyes until our second meeting after he proposed, for I kept blushing horribly, and dropping things, and I am sure he thought me very silly."
"Was it your nerves?"
"Oh—perhaps—but more generally I think it was because everything had changed between us, and it is very difficult to keep one's composure under such circumstances. But once you have seen your Mr. Price, and talked with him, it will all be better."
She gave an encouraging smile, and pinned another curl into place. Kitty, biting her lip, longed to ask her mother if she had ever had any doubts, or a desire to break off the engagement, or simply wished to run away from everything. But she could not seem to find her voice, and at that moment Mary came in, looking very ill-tempered in Kitty's yellow silk, which Mrs. Bennet had selected for her.
"I cannot wear this," she announced. "It does not suit me at all. I will wear one of my own gowns."
"You will not," Mrs. Bennet declared, "for all of yours are far too plain, and make you look like a country-lass; and as the last time Robert saw you was with your hair in disarray and your hem full of muck, we must be sure to make a favorable impression this time, or he may well never propose."
"One might argue that, given my appearance at our last meeting, anything is likely to be an improvement," Mary reasoned, which made Kitty smile a little in spite of herself. But Mrs. Bennet was not convinced; and a fierce, if brief, battle broke out, which ended with Mary storming away to put on Kitty's white muslin and Mrs. Bennet returning, triumphantly, to the arrangement of Kitty's curls.
Eventually everybody was dressed, and there was only a little bit of panic over finding matching gloves and cloaks that did not need mending (for the Bennets had not packed very much in the way of autumn-clothes; this cold was really very unwelcome); and then the carriage was late, which made Mrs. Bennet very disagreeable, though Mary and Kitty did not mind it, and Kitty—without being quiet aware of what she was doing—even indulged herself in a fantasy that the carriage had broken a wheel, or the horse had run away, and thus they would not be able to go at all (as though such minor difficulties would keep Mrs. Bennet from taking her daughters to the Upper Rooms!). But this was not the case, and at length, the ladies found themselves in the warm carriage, watching Bath go by outside the windows. Kitty leaned her ahead against a cool windowpane and shut her eyes for a moment.
It was the first time she had ever looked forward to a ball with dread, rather than exhilaration. She thought longingly of the balls in Meryton: laughing and chattering with Lydia in the carriage, and stepping down to find herself surrounded by very elegant versions of her neighbors, and hearing the strains of music as she stood out in the road, and feeling her heart pound excitedly in her chest as she made her way through the warm noisy throng. How long ago it all seemed! She wondered if she would ever again go to a ball with all of her sisters. Probably not, all things being equal; not with Lydia in Newcastle, and Elizabeth at Pemberley, and Jane at Netherfield, and Mary likely at Longbourn, and Kitty herself—she swallowed hard—somewhere in London.
There was no more time for thought, however, as their carriage rolled to a rather abrupt halt. The roadway was blocked by other stopped carriages, some of which were very fine indeed, and by the crowd of people milling amiably toward the doors of the Upper Rooms. Kitty's heart lurched in her chest. The driver, leaning back apologetically, informed them that he could go no further, and they would have to disembark where they were.
"Well, come, girls," Mrs. Bennet said, bright-eyed. "Have you your gloves and things? Put your cloak on, Mary; why ever did you take it off? The ride was not so long—watch the door as you open it, my love, lest there be someone walking behind. Come along, girls!"
They climbed down into the road, lifting their hems above the muddy puddles, and picked their way daintily toward the doors. The two sisters followed their mother as well as they could through the swelling, chattering crowd. Mary kept glancing at Kitty, still concerned by her sister's dismal spirits, but she could not suppress a wholly alien thrill of pleasure at the thought of seeing Robert (even if it did have to be in a ballroom). Kitty herself, trailing behind Mary, felt as though she were growing heavier with every footstep. Her gown—a blue silk which she had formerly counted among her favorites—felt too small, and the cloak about her shoulders only made her itchy and disagreeable.
They gained the doors without very much trouble, and squeezed their way into the bright vestibule. All of the upper windows were open, but they did not seem to be doing much good; the space, Kitty felt, was quite suffocating. The throng of people was moving gently, inevitably forward, out of the confined space and toward the unfortunately narrow passageway that led to the ballroom doors. Everyone around them was laughing and talking, their words mostly drowned out by the spirited music which poured out of the ballroom. It was very noisy, and for the first time in her life Kitty felt no connection, no kindred warmth, for all of the cheerful, laughing, animated people about her. A breeze made the candles flicker on the chandelier and caused a few headdress-feathers to dip obligingly, but Kitty was still too hot; as she turned to pull the cloak from her shoulders, she found herself quite blocked in by other bodies, and unable to move much except to take slow steps forward. Mrs. Bennet was separated from her daughters by several sturdy sets of shoulders, and could not stop to wait for them. Kitty, feeling a sudden panic rise within her, clutched desperately at Mary's arm in front of her.
"Mary!" she hissed, "Mary!"
Her sister turned as much as she was able, alarmed by Kitty's urgency.
"Mary, I don't want to go!" Kitty exclaimed, doing her best to stay quiet, but the young ladies on either side of her looked at her askance, as though this was the most absurd thing anyone could possibly say. And indeed, Kitty thought, horrified at her own words, it was absurd; but she could not stop herself. Her heart was pounding as if to explode, and she was sweating. "I don't want to go in!"
"Whatever are you talking about?" Mary asked, her eyes wide and shocked.
"I don't want to go to the ball! Let us go out again and find the carriage!"
"Katherine, Mamma is waiting for us," Mary said, as slowly and comfortingly as she could; but she had never seen her sister so agitated, and could not keep a tremor of alarm from her voice. "And I am sure we will see the Harts very soon, and the Fitzwilliams and the Finches, and all of our other friends. And Mr. Price," she added, rather grudgingly, but nonetheless certain that this last would be a peerless inducement.
In fact it was nothing of the sort, but Kitty's momentary terror had already begun to fade, and she let out a hitching breath. "I know," she said, attempting to sound normal, and she would have said more, but at that moment the crowd began to move faster and they were carried into through the Octagon Room and into the ballroom. They swiftly found Mrs. Bennet, who had already spotted a promising row of chairs near the dance-floor, where they would be able to see everything important that was going on, and watch everybody's comings and goings.
"Is this not a fine night?" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed breathlessly. "I am sure there is nothing I like better than a ball at the Upper Rooms. I have seen Lady Dalyrmple already, and the Bathursts, and a great many others who I thought had left Bath already, or else would not come to a public ball. How well everybody looks! Have you seen any of our friends yet, my dears?"
"Mamma, Kitty is not feeling very well," Mary interjected urgently; but Kitty, who had recovered enough to be deeply embarrassed by her behavior in the vestibule, replied irritably,
"I am feeling much better now, Mary. It was only a momentary faintness. It was because of the heat in the vestibule."
Mary opened her mouth to reply that there had not been anything faint about Kitty's panicked expression, nor her trembling voice, but Kitty went on loudly,
"And I have not seen anybody yet, Mamma, but it is still rather early. Shall we go look in the Tea Room?"
Mrs. Bennet thought this an excellent plan, and they went off together, leaving Mary to save their place.
The ballroom filled rapidly, and Mary sat disconsolately by herself, watching the younger people skipping about the room under the amused gazes of their parents and elder siblings. The dancing had not yet officially begun, but the music was lively enough that several laughing couples had begun twirling and stepping in small clusters about the room, clapping to the rhythm of the song. A ball is never more welcome than in the midst of disagreeable weather, and everybody seemed glad to discard the cold gray drizzle of the past days in favor of warm candlelight, cheerful company and noisy amusement. Mary frowned. How senseless it all was!
"That is exactly the expression I expected you to wear tonight," said a voice in her ear, and Mary turned to face Robert Hart.
"I much prefer the Assembly Rooms when they are arranged for a concert, rather than a ball," she replied, but she was glad he was there.
"We are in agreement on that score, then. May I sit? My family have sent me to find seats for our party, and I am sure they could not object to these."
Mary nodded as he took the chair at her side, her worry over her sister already easing a little in the presence of his quiet good nature.
"Where is your family?" she asked.
"My father and brother have gone into the card-room, and my sisters are taking a turn about all the rooms and saying hello to their friends. The usual business of a ball, you know." He gave her a little smile and a half-shrug.
"All things in which you have no interest."
"Or, at least, in which I have less interest than I do in sitting with you. It seems an age since we last saw each other."
"In fact it has been only a few days since our last meeting," Mary replied, with a little smile.
"Only a few days since our last meeting, perhaps, but at least a week or more since we could last sit alone and talk together—that is what I meant. I have missed our conversations."
In spite of herself, Mary glowed at this small expression of preference. "Indeed, 'absence makes the heart grow fonder,'" she answered warmly. "And in this case, the deprivation has been great enough to make even a ballroom seem appealing. I confess, Robert, I have looked forward to this ball solely for the prospect of enjoying your company; of late, when we have met, it has seemed as though there are always others around to be entertained."
"Do be careful there," Robert said, giving her a sideways grin, "or you may begin to sound jealous."
She colored; but Robert had always encouraged her to frankness, and so she replied "It is no hardship to admit to some jealousy, as it is of a very harmless sort. When one has found a true friend—a rarer thing than our society would have us believe—it is only natural to desire that friend's attention and confidence, and to resent, however slightly, seeing it bestowed on others. It is human nature to seek out the things which bring us pleasure, and even more so to wish to guard them and keep them for ourselves. We are, by nature, selfish creatures; but as this is a universal affliction, I do not mind admitting to it, for it is no particular shame upon me. And it is only in the admittance of the fault, that we can begin to correct it."
"You are loquacious tonight, Mary," he teased. "You have missed me, I can tell; for you are like a full bottle that has been stopped up, and now I have pulled the cork."
Mary's blush deepened, though she did her best to look unbothered. Robert's words struck closer to the truth than he probably realized; over the past days, with her mind buzzing upon various worries, she would have greatly appreciated a simple, uninterrupted conversation with him.
"I am glad you are in the mood to talk," he went on, bumping her shoulder lightly with his in what she might once have considered a shockingly familiar gesture, but which now she found rather comforting, "as I am in the mood to listen."
"And to talk as well, I should hope," she said primly, "for however voluble I may be, I cannot be expected to make conversation for two people. Had I been content to do so, I would have stayed at home and talked to myself."
He gave a little laugh, but could not reply; for at that moment a tall, finely-clothed figure lounged over them, and exclaimed, "Miss Bennet, how good to see you!"
Mary looked up at Mr. Price. "You are very kind, sir," she said stiffly.
"May I sit for a moment?" He did so without waiting for a reply, and gave Robert a friendly nod. "Hello, young Hart. Miss Bennet, I confess I have searched all over this ballroom for your charming sister, but have not seen her anywhere. I hope you have not left her at home!"
"She would scarce be left at home, sir," Mary said, and though the words might have sounded teasing coming from any other lips, from her they merely sounded reproving. "She and my mother have gone into the Tea Room, I believe."
"Unaccountable of them, to go off and leave you here alone!" He grinned appealingly at her.
"I am not alone," Mary corrected him; "Mr. Hart has been kind enough to give me his company, which I find very agreeable, I assure you."
"I am sure you do," he replied, with a knowing gaze. "And so I will not impose upon the two of you any longer. Thank you for your assistance, Miss Bennet, and I hope to see you again later. Indeed, perhaps we may even dance together, if you would oblige me; it is a pleasure I have never enjoyed."
One of few such pleasures, I am sure, Mary thought grimly, but she said only "I am not particularly disposed to dance, sir."
"Not with me, at least," Mr. Price smiled, with another knowing glance in Robert's direction. "Others may have better fortune, I imagine. I bid you good evening, then, Miss Bennet—for the time being. Young Hart," he said, nodding at Robert again, and he was off. Mary watched him go, his tall, lean frame cutting a striking figure as he negotiated his way through the throng toward the Octagon Room. More than one young lady, and a few older ones, afforded him an appreciative glance as he passed by.
"I do not like him," she muttered to herself.
"Nor do I," Robert agreed darkly, with a venom that startled her, particularly as she had not expected him to reply at all. She turned to him him, wide-eyed, and he returned her look with a glower. "'Young Hart'? He has four years on me, if it is even so many!"
This answer was so unexpected, and Robert's expression so fierce, that Mary was wholly unable to curb a sudden fit of laughter—though she did her best, by hastily pressing her hands to her mouth, quite shocked at herself. Unlike her sisters, Mary Bennet was not particularly given to laughter. Robert's features gradually softened into a somewhat sheepish grin.
"You cannot understand, Mary," he said, "what it is to be the youngest of three men in a line. I cannot really be 'Mr. Hart,' for that is my brother; and should I think to seek professional refuge as 'Dr. Hart,' well, it is fruitless, for that name has been claimed as well."
"I understand very well," Mary answered, smiling, "for my elevation to the name of 'Miss Bennet' is a relatively recent development."
"Yes," Robert said, with the air of one exerting great patience, "but until then, you were Miss Mary, which is entirely inoffensive. I daresay nobody has ever attempted to address you as 'young Bennet.'"
Mary was helpless to suppress a grin, for he pronounced the phrase with immense disgust.
"'Middle Bennet' may have been somewhat more accurate," she offered.
"That is even worse," he said solemnly. "It is good that you are a woman. Imagine if I had a younger brother—what would anybody call him? 'Very young Hart'? 'Nascent Hart'?"
Here Mary began laughing again; and though she had come to the Upper Rooms hoping for a serious, intelligent conversation with Robert Hart, she found, to her surprise and satisfaction, that she did not mind very much when the conversation was not particularly serious or intelligent at all.
Mr. Price, of course, found Kitty without further delay. She encountered him as she was crossing the Octagon Room, having investigated the Tea Room but, unlike her mother, having elected not to sample any of the cakes or pastries, for Kitty really did not have much appetite. The panic that had seized her earlier had subsided, but she still found herself feeling tense and disagreeable, and rather lost in a way that worried her. Her mother's constant chatter in her ear, as they searched the crowd for anybody they might recognize, had only served to heighten Kitty's anxiety—for at any moment she expected Mrs. Bennet to declare "And look, my love, here is your dear Mr. Price! How delighted you must be to see him!" And she did not know what she would do then.
In fact, Mrs. Bennet was looking in entirely the opposite direction when Mr. Price did appear, and Kitty was looking down at the ground, wondering how long they might stay; and so hearing his warm greeting was quite a surprise to them both. Yet Mrs. Bennet's response was not so different from what her daughter had expected. "Why, Mr. Price!" she cried, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, curtsying very low. "How extremely glad we are to see you! How well you look! I hope you do not mind, sir," this leaning in a little closer, "that Kitty has told me what has passed between you—and I wish only to say, provided of course that Mr. Bennet gives his blessing (which he will do, of course; he could not do otherwise!), that I could not be happier; I could not be more pleased; it is everything I could have wished for my darling child! How envious her sisters will be!"
Mr. Price smiled obligingly, and bowed, and said many very pretty things in return; though Kitty noticed (or perhaps imagined) that he glanced around the room carefully before doing so, and did not look entirely pleased with Mrs. Bennet's effusiveness.
"And I understand, of course, your discretion; Kitty has explained everything to me, and I think it very wise of you. I cannot abide gossip! I am sure, when I was engaged to be married, that there was nothing more annoying than hearing everybody talk about it. It was all quite odious to me. And so I think it right of you not to give anybody the opportunity—and I am sure Mr. Bennet will agree! Why are you so quiet, Kitty? It is you Mr. Price wishes to hear, and not me!" She laughed merrily.
The primary reason for Kitty's silence was because she could not think of a single thing to say.
Every thought, every feeling, every impulse, seemed to have fled her mind completely. It was as though she were seeing only sections of a painting, which did not fit together as they ought: the blue of his eyes, the dark of his hair, the white of his smile, the black of his waistcoat. Was he handsome? She could not tell anymore, though she certainly thought he must be. She smiled, and curtsied, but only because she knew it was expected of her; anything beyond that seemed impossible. She was not even certain, anymore, how she felt. There was no dread or distaste in her, but no longing or tenderness either. A slow thick fog was creeping over her mind, obscuring all of the conflicting thoughts which had tormented her for the past several days. She could not feel anything. She looked at Mr. Price—Alexander—quite blankly, and did not know what to do.
"In fact, Miss Katherine," he said, affording her a captivating smile, "I had sought you out with a question."
"Well," Mrs. Bennet giggled, her joy having gone to her head, "we already know that Kitty's answer can only be yes!"
He smiled at her, and turned back to Kitty. "The dancing is about to begin," he went on, "and I hoped I might have your hand for the first dance."
Kitty stared at him.
"Kitty!" Her mother nudged her gently.
"Oh," Kitty said, realizing that a response was expected of her. "Yes, of course. I would be delighted," she added, with something faintly resembling honest enthusiasm.
Mr. Price seemed satisfied, for, after another careful glance about the room, he took her hand and kissed it gently. Mrs. Bennet gave a gasp of delight.
"Let us go, then, my dear," he said in a low voice, offering her an arm. Kitty took it unconsciously, and he bowed again to Mrs. Bennet, before leading them back into the warm ballroom.
The dance was indeed ready to begin. Couples were lining up along the center of the room, and those seated around the edges had fallen into a sort of expectant hush, turning from their conversations to watch the dancers. The musicians, in their alcove above the floor, had paused to rifle officiously through their sheets of music, with the air of professional showmen building suspense for the main event. Kitty, letting Mr. Price lead her to a place near the center, looked up and down the rows of dancers; there was Rosamond, who caught her gaze with a smile, standing up with Lord Adlam—where was Oliver Finch? Kitty thought, with a flash of annoyance—but then there he was, farther down the line, standing up with little Juliet, who was blushing fetchingly at him. The Fitzwilliams stood nearby, chatting pleasantly with their neighbors. There was a long pause, like an inhaled breath, and then the music began. Kitty's feet moved instinctively.
"I feel I am the most fortunate man in the room," Alexander said quietly, giving her a private smile.
"Do you?" Kitty asked distantly, wondering, for the thousandth time, what was wrong with her.
"I do indeed; for not only have I the loveliest partner, but I have the knowledge that this partner is to be mine for more than a single dance—unless, my dear, you have changed your mind."
"No, to be sure," Kitty replied, turning with the steps of the dance to face the outer edge of the room. She saw her mother and the Harts; Robert and Mary were seated together, enjoying some private joke. Since when, she thought, rather disgruntledly, did Mary smile so widely—or Robert, for that matter?
"I am glad to hear it," Alexander answered, swinging close to her again. "I was very sorry that I could not dine with you on Tuesday night. I confess I feared that our long separation might cause you to have second thoughts."
"Why should I have second thoughts?" Kitty asked distractedly.
"You should not," he said, grinning, and they spun away from each other again for a moment, before turning back. "That is what I mean. It would be cruel of you, having promised me your love, to take it away again; I am not sure I could survive such a blow."
Kitty did not reply to this. She was watching Rosamond and Lord Adlam, who moved easily together. Rose was laughing, and her partner looked exceedingly gratified at having made her do so. The sight made Kitty rather sad—but only, she told herself, because it ought to be Mr. Finch in the gentleman's place.
"But I feel certain that I should not have to," Alexander continued, "for you are too kind to do such a thing. Indeed, it is your kindness, the goodness and simplicity of your nature, which first drew me to you. You are the finest woman here, Kitty, though I know you are far too modest to think so."
They swung away from each other again, then back. "Have I told you how enchanting you are tonight?" he went on. "I would say that I have never seen you in such excellent looks—but I should only have to contradict myself upon our next meeting, for each time I see you, I think you more beautiful than before. That gown suits you exceedingly well. Indeed I think it is exceedingly unfair of you to continue to outshine Bath's beauties with your own simpler, more elegant charms."
Kitty, still feeling numb, wished that Alexander would be quiet for a moment. How had she ever found this constant prattle so appealing? Juliet Hart was talking, a little shyly, with Mr. Finch, who smiled very kindly as he replied, and it occurred to Kitty that this was likely the first time the younger girl had ever danced the first dance at a ball. How thoughtful he was, to ask her!
"Can you imagine dancing this way in London, Kitty?" Alexander was saying. "Only it will be under the chandeliers at the very finest houses in London, and Almack's, and even the Palace, on occasion. And we will dine out at every night, and meet new friends and acquaintances, and be the toast of Society."
"It sounds rather expensive," Kitty heard herself saying. Alexander laughed.
"Perhaps, my dear, but no expense may be spared; my beloved wishes to live, truly live, in London, and so we shall. At any rate, I have no fear on that account. My investments will allow us quite a comfortable living, and perhaps someday we may even have a house in the country—though we will never go there, of course," he added teasingly. "I know you could not abide to stay in the country when we have a house in Town."
Kitty made a vague sound of agreement as they spun away from each other again. She caught sight of Anne Hart seated in a chair near Robert and Mary; Theo was bent over her, proffering a cup of something and looking exceedingly solicitous, and she was regarding him with fond exasperation. Kitty felt a little ache in her chest. Her own present exasperation with Mr. Price could hardly be described as 'fond.'
"I have some hope," Alexander went on, "that the affairs which I had hoped to conclude will be taken care of by next week, and that my arrangements will be made much sooner than I had thought."
"Arrangements?" Kitty said blankly.
"Yes, my love—for the wedding," he said, lowering his voice, though nobody else could have heard them over the music and the general din. "My previous estimate was far more generous than it ought to have been. We could be married by November, if you should like; and then we can spend Christmas at Pemberley, and I could meet all your family as your husband."
November. She could be married by November. Kitty was aware of something struggling through her entombing numbness, some thought that could not quite make itself heard, and suddenly the ballroom felt very hot indeed. She shook her head and tried to focus. What was he saying?
"Do you not plan to meet my family as my betrothed?" she asked meekly.
"That would be a great pleasure, my beauty," he replied swiftly, "but I do not think it entirely feasible, with your sisters and their families spread so widely about the country. I had thought that Christmas would be the first time you were all together."
Yes, Kitty thought, that was probably true, if she was going to be married by November. What day was it now? October something, she thought. Less than a month, then.
"Anyway," he continued, "your mother has given us her blessing, has she not? And that, I think, is the most valuable thing—a mother's blessing. Though of course I shall write to your father as well."
The music swelled to a last, long note, and faded. The dancers came to a halt, clapping and laughing and talking happily. Gentlemen began escorting their fair partners back to their chairs as more couples stood and made their way toward the floor for the next dance. Kitty took Alexander's arm when he offered it, her mind still humming indistinctly. She felt rather discontented, an emotion which would have been unthinkable, a month ago, upon finishing a dance with the dashing Mr. Price. Nonetheless, as he returned her to her friends, and deposited her in an empty chair, she asked him if he might sit with her awhile.
"I do not think that is particularly wise," he answered in a low voice. "It would not do for us to show each other any particular attention, after all."
Kitty frowned, but he only bowed and smiled, and promised to call upon her for a second dance, and hurried away. She watched him go, her brow still furrowed.
"Miss Katherine."
Kitty turned. Oliver Finch was standing beside her, something unreadable in his eyes.
"May I sit here?" he asked.
"Well," Kitty sighed, "someone might as well," and, to her surprise, he gave a very small smile as he sat down.
For several moments, it seemed as though he had sat there purely by chance, for he said nothing further. Kitty's attention drifted. Several of the gentlemen in their party had wandered away, to the card-room, she imagined, though Theodore Hart remained at his wife's side and Robert was leaning across Mary to say something to Rosamond. Mrs. Fitzwilliam and a few of her cousins had risen to take a turn about the room, and Mrs. Bennet was chatting eagerly to Dr. Hart, as Juliet quietly took a sip from her father's wine-glass. It was a happy scene, and Kitty had never felt less a part of it.
"Miss Katherine," Mr. Finch said abruptly, "I wonder if I might speak to you."
Kitty, startled by the sudden address, turned to him.
"I—well—I have been thinking, Miss Katherine," he began, haltingly, "and I have a mind to discuss with you a matter which has troubled me for some time. I had not thought it my place to speak to you before, but now I think I ought."
Kitty bit her lip. "I am sorry to hear you have been troubled, sir," she said, "but I confess, I would rather not speak of serious things tonight."
His eyes widened, and he looked embarrassed. "Of course you would not," he said, glancing down at his hands. "A ballroom is not the appropriate place for such a discussion. I am sorry, Miss Katherine; I did not mean to—"
"No," Kitty said, with a little laugh, "it is not that; one can speak of anything in a ballroom; I have had plenty of serious discussions, and arguments, and that sort of thing, in between dances. No, Mr. Finch, it is only that I am—in a rather strange humor just now," she finished, softly. "I am not entirely sure what I am thinking, but I do not think I am entirely equal to a conversation of consequence."
He regarded her with some concern. "Are you well?"
"Oh, yes, I think so," Kitty replied, turning back to watch the dancers. "I am only trying to—well, trying to work something out, I suppose, though I am sure I don't know what it is."
They sat in silence for another moment. Oliver Finch appeared to be considering her words; or, she thought, perhaps he merely did not have anything more to say. One could never be certain with Mr. Finch. At length, however, he said quietly,
"I hope your humor is not so strange that you will refuse me a dance."
She glanced at him, and he flushed. The sight made her smile, genuinely, for the first time that night.
"Of course I will dance with you," she answered warmly.
"Thank you, Miss Katherine."
"And I think you ought to know," she went on, emboldened, "that I thought it exceedingly sweet of you to dance the first dance with little Juliet, when I am sure there is at least one other lady with whom you would rather have spent your time. I am sure it was the thrill of her life."
His blush deepened. "Miss Juliet is a very amiable young lady," he said, "and an excellent dancing-partner. And she did seem to enjoy herself," he added reflectively.
"Yes," Kitty agreed readily, "and do you not think she bears such a pleasing resemblance to her sister?"
Oliver Finch had nothing to say to this. Kitty caught Mary giving her a rather troubled look across the sea of chairs, and sent her sister a very cheerful smile in return. It would not do to make Mary worry any more than she already had; her sister had such a regrettable tendency to fret, and really she deserved to enjoy herself.
"Miss Katherine," Mr. Finch said, after another long moment, and then he hesitated. "Miss Katherine, since you do not wish to talk tonight, would it be—would it be at all possible for me to call at Henry Street tomorrow? I should not like to cause any inconvenience," he added carefully.
"It is no inconvenience," Kitty answered. "Perhaps the weather will be fine, and we may walk out together."
"I would like that," he replied, smiling at her.
They sat in companionable silence, watching the dancers, until a cheerful argument broke out between Theo Hart and Bertram Finch, both of whom immediately appealed to Oliver for support. That gentleman, with one last glance at Kitty, went to Theodore's aid, raising a howl of protest from his elder brother. Kitty, left by herself for the moment, sank into her chair and felt the fog returning.
The ball had only just begun, and so the atmosphere was yet sparkling with eager expectation; everyone was still happy to be there, and would not have chosen to be anywhere else. Nobody was content to sit still, and large parties or single people were forever standing to take turns about the ballroom, or to go into one of the other rooms, or to hurry across the floor and visit a friend seated on the other side, or simply to stand around the dance-floor and watch. The Upper Rooms heaved with activity, as footsteps ran up and down the stairs and along the passageways, and voices were heard in every corner.
Mary would much rather have stayed in her chair, for so much activity, and so many bodies, made her uncomfortable; having grown up in the wide fields and empty spaces of the countryside, she always considered it a little unnatural to be packed into a room with hundreds of other people. Even the public balls in Meryton had offended her in this respect. But Robert, seated beside her, was persuasive, and at length she was induced to take a turn about the room with him, and perhaps afterwards venture to the Tea Room.
"Besides," Robert said in a low voice, as they walked away together, "and I truly say this in a tone of the utmost respect—but if I receive any more highly significant glances from your mother, I may lose my head and accidentally propose to you."
"That would not do," Mary replied, trying to sound severe, but smiling in spite of herself. "A proposal of marriage is an event that must be precipitated by a great deal of thought and consideration, and should not be made merely out of a wish to avoid criticism."
"'You have been reading the wrong books. A proposal of marriage is precipitated by sleepless nights, and lonesome tears, and so on, and is only ever made in order to cure a broken heart. All of the novels are very specific."
"I will grant you greater experience in the study of such works," Mary answered, "but I will venture that perhaps those unfortunate ills are merely symptoms of, as I said, serious thought and consideration; we can both be correct, you see. When you begin weeping, and losing sleep, then we may talk further about the circumstances of your own experience, and so draw a more definite conclusion."
He gave her a crooked little smile, and offered his arm.
They did not talk very much as they made a round of the ballroom, for they were frequently interrupted. Though Robert had not the expansive friendliness of his brother, nor the easy sociability of his sisters, he was nonetheless possessed of a good nature and a pleasant temperament, and a great many people were happy to see him. They were equally pleased to be introduced to Miss Bennet; and though Mary was, as a rule, only ever stiff and awkward in new company, there was something reassuring about Robert's solid presence beside her, and she found herself, if not necessarily amiable, at least speaking with less prickliness than she might ordinarily have done.
"You have many friends in Bath," she remarked, as they walked away from one large party, who had greeted Robert with particular fondness.
"I should hope so, for I have lived here my whole life."
"That is no guarantee of friendship," Mary answered, rather consciously, "I have lived in Meryton my whole life, and could not count more than one or two people there among my friends, if pressed."
Robert glanced at her. "Perhaps your definition of the word is too stringent," he offered, after a moment.
Mary considered this. "I do not think so," she said at last. "I should not like to count as friends merely those for whom I do not feel any particular dislike; that is speaking too broadly. Nor should I like to count those for whom my feelings are generally favorable, but not greatly so, for that is removing from the word all its connotations of intimacy and fondness."
"Is that such a bad thing?"
"Of course," she answered, surprised. "Were I to count every such person among my friends, then my feelings for you would lose their significance."
She did not mean it to sound quite the way it did.
He smiled a little. "I do not think it is your feelings that would lose significance," he replied, "but the word itself; and there is no harm in that, for words are fluid, and can be used as we please. I should not consider myself particularly intimate with many of these people," he waved a hand about the ballroom, "but I like them, most of the time, and enjoy their company. What does that make them, if not my friends?"
They emerged into the Octagon Room. Two young ladies were leaning against one wall, talking very seriously together, as ladies and gentlemen ducked into and out of the doorways that led to the other rooms.
"Well," Mary said, "if I am to broaden my definition of the word, then, for the sake of tidiness, I should at least like to have some distinction between those I generally like, and those of whom I am particularly fond. What shall you and I call each other, if not friends?"
"Particular friends," Robert suggested.
Mary wrinkled her nose. "No, for that is what Kitty calls Rosamond and Maria Lucas; and you are not a young lady."
"Then I am at a loss. Perhaps you might think of something better."
They passed into the Tea Room, which was crowded and buzzed with the general hum of conversation, broken every so often by a burst of laughter from one of the tables. It was still quieter than the ballroom, however, and Mary sank happily into the chair Robert found for her.
"Should you like some wine?" he asked, "Or something to eat?"
She thanked him, and he went to procure some refreshment.
Mary sat peacefully by herself for a moment. She was enjoying the ball more than she had thought possible (though it was still only very early), particularly now that Kitty, judging by what Mary had seen of her conversation with Mr. Finch, appeared to be feeling more herself. And anyway, Mary reflected, whatever inner turmoil her sister was experiencing, she of all be people would be hard-pressed not to enjoy herself at such an event, surrounded by friends whose sole desire, at the moment, was the amusement of themselves and everybody else. Rosamond was nearby, and her presence would surely lift Kitty's spirits; and even though Mary disapproved of Mr. Price on an ethical level, she could not help admitting that he did have a talent for making her sister happy. Of course it was a very shallow happiness—not at all lasting, whatever Kitty seemed to think. But at least it was sure to pull Kitty from her strange, agitated humor.
These satisfactory reflections occupied her until Robert returned, bearing two cups of wine and a small plate of sweet rolls, the latter balanced precariously on his arm.
"They are serving ices as well," he reported, "even though it is so cold outside; but I did not fetch you one, for I did not have enough hands."
They sat comfortably together, enjoying their small repast. The wine was good, and the sweet rolls still a little warm; Mary watched Robert bite into one with a certain vigor, and the sight made her feel rather fond. They did not speak, but enjoyed an easy silence as they ate and drank. At length, however, Mary—whose thoughts had been wandering calmly, without any real object—asked,
"Robert, did you mean what you told Katherine about moving away from Bath?"
"I did. Why do you ask?"
"Oh," Mary said, not particularly certain herself, "there is no particular reason. I only wondered where you thought you might go."
Robert took a large sip of his wine. "I have not made up my mind. I have at least another year of work and study here, you know, before I may strike out on my own."
"Do you think you will settle near Bath, or go somewhere new?"
He paused thoughtfully. "I am not sure," he replied at last. "There are villages here in Somerset that could use a physician, and my family would have me stay nearby. We have been rather spoiled, for the various marriages that have taken place have not changed our family circle overmuch, which is not always the case. Even Helena and her husband talk of returning here; I think Helena would like little Isabelle to grow up among her aunts and uncles. There are some families who seem to scatter altogether once the children are grown."
"My own is such a family," Mary said. "Jane, at least, has stayed close to home; but Elizabeth is three counties away, and Lydia is all the way in Newcastle."
"And do you miss them?"
Mary considered. "I do not particularly miss Lydia," she answered, "as cruel as it sounds; I am afraid that we were never very fond of each other, and did not treat each other as we ought. I should like to see Elizabeth more often, but she at least is a faithful correspondent, and the road to Pemberley is not so difficult. Do you think you shall miss your family, if you go away from them?"
"Yes," he said immediately.
"I suppose you are all very close."
"It is not that, though I suppose we are. It is only that they are so familiar to me. Rose, in particular—we have spent our whole lives together, and though that was often involuntary (for, when you are twins, everybody seems to assume that you prefer to be treated as a single unit), we are nonetheless each very accustomed to having the other nearby. I think it would feel quite strange for me to be far away from her, even more than the others."
Mary reflected upon this for a moment. "And yet," she said, "you are determined to go, and cast away everything which is familiar to you, for the sake of making yourself useful in an alien environment, divorced from the comforts of home and family. That, I think, is very admirable."
"I think you are overstating the case," Robert said wryly. "It is not so different from what anybody else does, when they grow up—leave home and family behind, in search of their own fate. Your sisters have done so, and you will likely do so as well."
"Perhaps," she said, with a shrug. "But others tend to do so for selfish reasons: because they fall in love, or find a better living. Your reasons are remarkably altruistic."
"Or," he countered, "perhaps they are only selfish in a different way."
"Well," Mary said, taking a drink, "even if so, you will still be doing something good, and that, I think is what matters. One cannot read too critically into intentions; we have often heard that 'the ends justify the means,' and though such a statement is rather narrow-minded, there is nevertheless some truth to it. If a man gives money to a beggar only to seem charitable, he has nonetheless committed a good deed."
"You comfort me, Mary," Robert replied, with a little smile. "It is good to know that, whatever I do and whyever I do it, I shall have your approval."
Mary smiled at him, and they finished the rest of the sweet rolls together.
Kitty's second dance with Alexander, which took place about an hour later, was very similar to the first; that is, he spoke, very fluently, upon all her charms, and she listened dully. He did not seem particularly concerned by her inattention, if he even noticed it. Words came easily to him, and he did not always necessitate a reply, which was fortunate, as Kitty had none to give him, other than a few murmurs of agreement and smiles in appropriate places.
Upon the conclusion of the dance, they walked once about the room, before he again made his excuses and took his leave. She did not mind, this time, as he walked away, for in truth his company had begun to fatigue her. Mrs. Bennet, seeing her so deserted, swept over and took the chair at her daughter's side.
"How happy you must be!" she whispered, taking care that their friends should not hear them. "Think only, my dear, how it will be to be married to him! Then you may dance with him always, and sit with him besides, and be the envy of the whole room!"
"He thinks we may be married before November," Kitty said listlessly. Her mother gasped with delight.
"That is sooner even than we had hoped, my love! Are you not delighted? Is this not joyous news?"
Kitty gave an ill-bred little shrug, and leaned back into her chair. Her head still felt full of fog, though her heart had begun pounding again. Mrs. Bennet eyed her critically.
"Are you unwell, my girl?" she asked.
"I don't know," was the faint reply.
"Perhaps it is best if you sit for awhile," her mother decided. "Shall I call for Dr. Hart? He has gone into the card-room, but I am sure he would not mind if I called for him."
"No, Mamma," Kitty answered, rather annoyed, "for Dr. Hart spends all his days looking at ill people, and I am sure it is the last thing he wishes to do at a ball." Besides which, she did not say, she was grown fairly certain that her complaint was not one of physical illness, but of mental. She wondered if perhaps she were going mad.
"Well," said Mrs. Bennet, unsatisfied, "if you are certain, child. But sit there for awhile, and rest, and do not dance anymore until you are feeling better. Though I know," she added with a wink, "that you have already danced twice with the partner of your choice, and so may not wish to dance anymore at all."
"I have promised Mr. Finch a dance," Kitty said absentmindedly.
"Have you, my dear? That was kind of you."
Kitty did not say anything more, and Mrs. Bennet, at length growing tired of her daughter's silence, got up and went to sit by Mrs. Carpenter, on the other side of the room. Kitty was left alone again, for several of her friends were dancing, and the others had disappeared on various errands of amusement. She wondered where Mary had gotten to. But she did not mind the solitude; it gave her some time to breathe.
She did not know how long she sat there, gazing idly about the room. The musicians were presently playing a fast, noisy reel, which was embarked upon with much cheering and laughter; Rosamond, pink-cheeked with exertion, was dancing with the eldest Mr. Finch, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was twirling his wife expertly. Several of the couples were missing steps, resulting in much hilarity, as the musicians played faster and faster. It reminded Kitty very much of the public assemblies in Meryton, and she could not entirely suppress a smile.
At length, however, she became aware that she was rather thirsty, and went in search of refreshment. Edging her way through ballroom, doing her best not to tread upon anybody's shoe or hemline, she gave a little sigh of relief as she at last gained the Octagon Room, which was quieter and cooler. There, however, she stopped quite suddenly, and all thoughts of refreshment fled her mind.
The room was mostly deserted, except for a young couple standing near the doors to the card-room and talking with their heads very close together. The lady had her back pressed against the wall, and was giggling softly; the gentleman, leaning over her, was murmuring something in her ear. Nobody else, passing through the room, paid them any attention; they had the appearance of every other young couple who were either newly married or eager to be so; except, Kitty knew, they were not a couple, they could not be a couple, for the gentleman was undoubtedly Alexander Price. He had his back toward her—he had not seen her. Kitty took a step backwards, then, her face hot, turned and nearly ran back into the ballroom.
The dance had just ended, and everyone was milling about, returning to their friends or hurrying toward the floor for the next song. It seemed extremely crowded, and extremely hot, and extremely noisy. Kitty brushed a strand of hair from her face; her skin was warm and she wondered if she were feverish. All of a sudden, she wanted nothing more than to run, far away, and be by herself in her own bed—at Longbourn, not Henry Street—and hear nothing but silence around her. She took a deep gasp of air, then another. She had to get out. She turned back toward the doors again—but no, she could not go that way.
Almost blind to the people around her, she began fighting her way through the crowd toward the other set of doors. Her heart was pounding again, and she pushed her way past a large party, earning several very dirty looks to which she paid no attention. She could not breathe. There were too many people standing in the way—could they not see she needed to escape or she would burst?
At last, she gained the doors that opened onto the vestibule, and from there she all but raced down the little passageway toward the front doors. Her gown was clinging to her skin, slick with sweat, and the autumn air was a blessing as she burst out of the building. A few people, in cloaks and coats, were standing around the doors and talking quietly; they stared as she hurried past them, pressing her hands to her aching head and breathing in great loud gulps. She paced for a moment before the doors, careless of her gown trailing on the dirty ground; then she became aware of the stares and hastened along the building, until she found a spare bit of wall around the corner from the entryway, out of sight, and pressed her back to it, gasping for breath with her face toward the cold night sky.
She was not jealous.
That was the prevailing theme that echoed in her mind: she was not jealous. She had discovered Alexander Price—the man she was to marry—whispering sweet nothings in the ear of another girl, making her laugh and giggle and blush just as he did to Kitty herself, and she did not care. There was no flare of anger, no sense of betrayal or hurt—there was nothing, a vast blank nothingness in her mind that horrified her because, as foolish as it was, shouldn't she feel something? They were engaged, however secretly, and so should not the sight of her beloved entwined with another cause at least some hint of alarm or shock? Why was she completely unsurprised and utterly indifferent? Why was she feeling so dreadfully empty, as if everything had been drained from her in one fell swoop?
"You are upset because you are not upset," she murmured to herself, and the words made her laugh, a little hitching laugh which suddenly and unexpectedly dissolved into tears. And then it was as if the dam had broken. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed, loudly and brokenly, not caring if anybody else heard her. These were not the tears of petty hurts, childish arguments or frustrated desires; these were not the trifling tears of a young lady who could not stand to be told "no." Kitty had not cried so brokenheartedly since she was a very young child.
She did not love him. She had fooled herself, or worse, been fooled. She did not love him; and he clearly did not love her, not as he stood smiling and flirting with somebody else. How could she have been so mistaken? She had thought him so perfect, she had adored him so completely, she had been so flattered by his attentions, and she had been wrong. Everything she had thought and felt and believed had been wrong. The thought left her cold.
Heedless of propriety, she slid down along the wall until she sat on the cold stones of the street, her knees up in front of her. She knew how she must look, like a naughty child hiding from its mother, but she could not bring herself to care. Her sobs, having spent themselves, gradually petered out into thick sniffs and little whimpers that caught in her chest. She tucked her arms around her knees and rested her head on them, the silk of her gown scratching her cheek. How tired she was!
"Miss Katherine?"
Kitty looked up, startled. Anne Hart was standing over her, her face a mask of worry.
"Are you not cold, Miss Katherine?"
Kitty opened her mouth to respond, but could not find her voice. She merely shook her head and turned away in hopes that Mrs. Hart would leave her alone.
Instead, to her surprise, she felt a small, warm hand upon her shoulder. She did not look up (could Mrs. Hart not see that she had no wish for company?) but the hand remained, and after a long moment she felt it begin to rub slow circles along her back. The touch was comforting. Hesitantly, she raised her head.
"I found the ballroom rather stifling," Anne Hart said gently, meeting her eyes, "and thought it might be pleasant to take some air. Would you like to walk with me?"
Kitty nodded, still uncertain of her voice, and rose unsteadily to her feet. Mrs. Hart fumbled for a moment beneath her cloak and produced a delicate cashmere shawl, which she handed to Kitty.
"Theodore insisted I bring them both, as it is so cold," she explained, at Kitty's puzzled glance. "He means well, of course." There was a wry undertone in her voice.
Kitty wrapped the shawl over her shoulders. It was much finer than anything she had ever worn, clearly quite expensive, and she wondered if this was something Mrs. Hart had owned back when she was Miss de Bourgh.
They walked together along the side of the Assembly Rooms, faint strains of music and voices reaching them even through the brick walls. Kitty could feel Anne Hart casting troubled glances at her, but said nothing. She did not know what to say, at any rate—"Mrs. Hart, I imagine you are wondering why I am sobbing against the wall instead of dancing the quadrille inside;" or "Mrs. Hart, I am sure you think I have gone entirely mad;" or "Mrs. Hart, I swear to you that no one has died, and I am only behaving this way because I quite suddenly realized how stupid I have been"?
Mrs. Hart solved the problem for her, as they reached the far corner of the building and turned back. "Miss Katherine," she began, "I am afraid I am not very good at offering comfort; I have never had much practice. But whatever is troubling you, I would be glad to help if I may."
Kitty brushed at her wet eyes and sniffed. "That is kind of you, but I am afraid you cannot help me," she said, her voice husky from crying. "Nobody can. I have—" She took a long rough breath. "I have only come to the realization that I have made a very grave mistake."
Anne nodded, casting her eyes forward. The night was fine, though cold, and the stars hung pleasantly in the dark sky. "Well," she said, "I suppose the only thing you can do, then, is endeavor to fix it."
Kitty gave a watery laugh. "That is easy enough to say."
"Yes," Anne said apologetically, "it is, isn't it? I am sorry; I suppose that was not particularly helpful. As I said, I have not much experience in this area."
"It is all right," Kitty assured her, brushing at her eyes again. "It is nice enough to walk with you."
Anne gave her a very kind smile, and they walked quietly down to the other corner of the building. They were making their way back toward the entryway when the doors open and a tall figure emerged, looking up and down the road.
"Anne?" Theodore called.
"Here, my love," his wife answered. He hurried toward them.
"You do alarm me when you disappear so, my dear," he rebuked her, though his tone was more teasing than anything. "Father and the twins did not know where you had gone, and I began to fear that you had gone back to Kent to be rid of me. Hello, Miss Katherine." He gave Kitty a bow and a brief glance.
"I have not gone back to Kent, as you see, Theo," Anne replied calmly, "but I may consider it, if you continue to disturb my peace."
"You cannot blame me for that, love, for you knew my temperament perfectly well when you married me. But I will go back in and let you alone, if you truly wish it. Miss Katherine," he said, glancing at Kitty again and frowning, "you look as though you have been crying."
"Theo!" Anne hissed.
"Forgive me," he said immediately. "I have interrupted something. Should you like me to go?"
Mrs. Hart looked at Kitty, and Kitty realized he was speaking to her and not his wife. "No," she said, hesitantly, "it is quite all right. I do not think I am going to cry any more."
"That is an encouraging sign," he said, falling into step between them and offering her his arm. She took it, glad of its solid warmth beneath her hand. "Though you need not restrain yourself for my sake. I am not daunted by weeping; having grown up with four siblings, three of them younger than myself, I have encountered plenty of tears over the course of my life. Most of them, of course, being Robert's. I am teasing, Anne," he added, sounding rather wounded, and Kitty surmised that his wife must have pinched him or otherwise expressed her disapproval. She could not suppress another shaky little laugh.
"You shall have to warn my sister about that," she said, sniffling.
"She seems quite capable of handling the matter," he agreed. "Are you warm enough, Anne? You may have my coat, if you like."
"We are ten paces from the door, my love."
"Plenty of time to catch a chill," her love muttered. Anne sighed, but she was smiling.
They reached the entryway in another moment, and Kitty was rather gratified, as she flushed under the inquisitive looks of the small group gathered there (who had watched her run outside, and must surely have heard her sobbing), to see Theodore meeting their open stares with a punishing glare that would not have been out of place on Mr. Darcy. Even Anne looked at them archly, seemingly summoning up every inch of the de Bourgh blood within her, and the onlookers returned quickly to their conversations.
Kitty was glad that the vestibule was empty, but quailed a little at the thought of returning to the ballroom, with tear tracks down her face and her gown and hair surely in disarray. It was a relief to her, then, when Anne murmured "I am still a little too warm, my dear," and Theo obligingly steered them in the direction of the Tea Room. It was quieter there, and everyone was too much engaged in their own conversations to pay them any attention. Indeed the room was mostly empty, for it was that hour of the evening when everybody likes to be dancing, or watching the dancers. A cool breeze came in through the upper windows, and Theodore deposited the two ladies at a table before hurrying away toward the food.
"He was joking, earlier," Anne said softly, watching him go with a fond look, "but really he is very good at this sort of thing. I suspect it does come from being an elder brother."
Kitty could not imagine Rosamond, or even Juliet, requiring comfort in a fit of sobbing; but she did not reply. Instead she devoted her attention to pinning her hair back into place, and brushing the bits of dirt and dust from her skirts. The tears and flushed cheeks she could not address, but they would fade, and at least now she did not look so completely undone.
"I am the envy of the room," Theodore announced gallantly, returning to their table with two cups, "and everyone I have met wishes to know the names of the charming young ladies who entered upon my arm. I have not told them, because I am jealous and spiteful. Here you are, Miss Katherine—and for you, Anne."
Kitty took the proffered cup, and sipped delicately at it: he had brought her some chocolate. She smiled her thanks at him, and took a long drink.
"Would you like something to eat?" he asked; "there are still plenty of cakes left, and a few sweet rolls and other things."
The ladies refused politely.
"Are you certain, Anne?" he pressed. "It would be no trouble at all."
"Sit down, Theodore," his wife said, laughing. He did so, but did not look convinced.
"Perhaps, Anne, I ought to fetch you a plate," he said.
"My love, you are fussing."
"It is more than acceptable, under the circumstances. Would you like some more water?"
"I have not finished what you brought; and anyway that is the fourth cup of water you have fetched for me this evening, and while it is very kind of you, my dear, I did not in fact ask for any of them."
"I pride myself on an ability to provide a service even before it is requested."
"Nonetheless, I would not mind very much if you waited for the request."
"That will never do, as you never ask me for anything, even though I have placed myself entirely at your beck and call. I think it rather unfair of you."
"Mrs. Hart," Kitty blurted out, watching this exchange with increasing interest, "are you expecting?"
She realized as soon as she said it that the question was exceedingly impolite, and blushed heatedly; she could only blame it on her exhaustion, though certainly a natural tendency to speak without thinking was also at fault.
Fortunately, Anne Hart did not seem offended; but she was certainly surprised, and her face was as red as Kitty's own.
"Why—I confess I am," she stammered, looking down at her lap. Kitty, for the moment distracted from her misery, clapped her hands with delight.
"How wonderful!" she exclaimed, beaming. "Does your family know?"
"They do," Theo replied, taking his wife's hand and smiling at her, "but we have not told anybody else; we wished to wait just a little longer."
"Oh—I am so sorry—I should not have said anything. And I will not say anything, I promise; I am excellent at keeping secrets." She swallowed hard. "But how lovely! Dr. Hart must be overjoyed, and Juliet and the twins as well."
"They are indeed, and I am certain that our little one will be the most spoilt child in England," Theo said drily.
"Oh, yes, for that is the best thing about being an aunt or an uncle, or a grandparent. You look very well, Mrs. Hart," she said, "and very healthy."
"I wish you could convince my husband so," Anne said, giving Theo an affectionate glance.
"She cannot," Theo said cheerfully, "for it is quite impossible; it is the husband's duty to fuss and worry, and the wife's to bear his concern with fortitude. And you are doing very well, my Anne. Only a few more months of continuous irritation, and you shall be quite free." He kissed the hand he held.
Kitty, watching them, had a little lump in her throat. They were so well-suited, so plainly happy, so easy together; they reminded her a little of Lizzie and Darcy, or Jane and Bingley. How, she asked herself silently, how had she ever thought her relationship with Alexander could resemble this in any way? There was no affection there, only a compelling yet shallow attraction that, once tested, evaporated. He was charming, and handsome, and full of flattery; and how could she ever have thought that so important?
She could not marry him. She wanted what was before her: she wanted something simple, and honest, and rife with little frustrations that only made each partner more fond of the other. She did not want to spend the rest of her life receiving the same compliments over and over in different words, and talking endlessly about balls and parties and other people, and admiring her husband's profile but having nothing to say to him. Even if she had not seen him...as he was before...even if that had not occurred, the entire evening, from her dread of seeing him to the emptiness that enveloped her when she did, had been proof enough that there was nothing there for her. She did not want to look at her husband and feel emptiness inside. She had known something was not right, ever since he had proposed, and she was too tired now to blame her unhappiness upon nerves or her own foolishness. She knew what was wrong, and it was not wrong with her. She could not marry Alexander.
The thought made her start to sniffle, and she brushed hurriedly at her eyes. It would not do to begin crying again—not when the Harts were being so kind to her.
"Oh, hello, Oliver," Theodore said, looking over Kitty's shoulder.
Kitty blanched. She certainly did not wish to cry in front of Mr. Finch, with his large eyes and his serious gaze and his long silences; he would naturally try very hard to comfort her, and it would be exceedingly awkward. She brushed at her eyes again and turned to smile at him.
"Hello, Theodore," Mr. Finch returned quietly, bowing to them, "Mrs. Hart; Miss Katherine."
"Have you come in search of refreshment? Mrs. Hart was just telling me how very much she would like someone to fetch a plate for her." This time, Kitty saw the pinch Anne gave to her husband's arm. Theo grinned.
"In fact," Oliver Finch said, blushing deeply, "I have come in search of Miss Katherine. But if Mrs. Hart would like—"
"Thank you, Mr. Finch, but it is quite unnecessary," Anne assured him.
"You have come in search of Miss Katherine," Theo repeated gravely, raising an eyebrow at Mr. Finch. "How fortunate, then, that we happened to find her for you."
"We were just returning to the ballroom," Anne said, glancing at Theo.
"Indeed. If Miss Katherine does not object," here turning to her, "I shall leave her in your capable hands."
Kitty did not object, though she rather wished the Harts would not go away so soon. But Theodore rose, and gave his hand to Anne, and Oliver Finch took his chair.
"I hope you enjoy the rest of the ball, Miss Katherine," Mrs. Hart said kindly. "Do sit here for awhile, and rest."
Mr. Hart said nothing, but gave Kitty a friendly smile that made her blush a little, as he turned away with his wife upon his arm. They were gone in another moment, talking pleasantly as they went out into the Octagon Room.
Mr. Finch was, as usual, quite silent for a moment. Kitty took another long draught of her chocolate, and nearly finished it.
"I wondered, Miss Katherine, if I might claim my dance with you," Mr. Finch said at last, very red-faced.
"Oh," Kitty said, and her heart sank a little; for she was exhausted, and still a little red-eyed, and really had no desire to dance. She looked at him. His expression was very earnest, and rather determined, and she felt horribly guilty. "I am very sorry, Mr. Finch, but I—I have had a rather difficult evening, and am afraid I am rather too tired for dancing."
"Oh," Mr. Finch echoed her, looking down at the table top.
"I really am very sorry," Kitty said wretchedly. "I do not mean to disappoint you, and I know it is exceedingly rude of me to refuse you now, but—"
"It is quite all right," he said, looking up at her and attempting a smile. "Do not concern yourself. I will go; I am sorry to have disturbed you."
"Oh—wait!" she exclaimed, as he stood to leave. "I would not mind—that is—if you have no other engagement, I would be very glad of your company."
He stood awkwardly for a moment, and then sat down again. Kitty smiled at him. The poor gentleman, she thought; why is he wasting his time with me, when he ought to be dancing with Rosamond?
But she did not say this aloud.
"I am sorry," Mr. Finch ventured, after a long pause, "that you have not enjoyed yourself tonight."
"You are very kind, sir. Anyway," Kitty went on, doing her best to sound cheerful, "it has not all been bad; I enjoyed talking with you earlier, and am enjoying talking with you now."
Oliver Finch smiled faintly. "I have hardly said anything," he said quietly.
"Yes," Kitty said, "and I find it very refreshing. There are too many people in this world who are given to talk, and I may say so with authority, for I am one of them. Have I not told you, before, how much I appreciate your talent for listening? There must be balance in the world, you know, and I like talking to you, for you allow me to do almost all of the talking."
"I am afraid such a conversation must be unsatisfying for you."
"Not at all," she maintained, "for as I told you, I am given to talk. At any rate it is good to have some quiet. Did you not think this ball particularly noisy, as balls go?"
"Perhaps a little," he admitted. "But I find most such assemblies rather noisy for my liking."
"Yes, I suppose you do, for you are accustomed to the silence of a church. Usually I do not mind a little noise, but tonight it gave me a head-ache. I was not in the humor to come to a ball tonight," she sighed. "I ought to have stayed at home."
In fact, the truth of the thought struck her as she pronounced it, and she felt a stab of bitter disappointment that she had not done precisely that.
"I am sure your friends would have missed seeing you."
Kitty waved a dismissive hand. "I have hardly seen any of them. They have all been dancing and enjoying themselves, and I have been—" She hesitated. "I have been thinking, I suppose."
"Yes; you said so before. Have you come to any conclusions?"
She looked at him with surprise. His large eyes were fixed upon her seriously.
"Yes," she said decisively. "It is now only a matter of putting it into practice."
"That must be a relief for you."
"Certainly not," she replied. "The thinking is always the easiest part; it is always the doing that is difficult. Do you not find it to be so?"
"That depends upon the circumstances."
Kitty was unwilling to expand upon the subject, and so dropped it. "Have you enjoyed yourself tonight, Mr. Finch?"
"I have," he said, after a brief pause.
"Have you danced very much?"
"Yes: once with Miss Juliet, as you saw, and twice with Miss Rosamond."
Twice with Rosamond, Kitty thought triumphantly, but she said only, "And you would have danced once with Miss Katherine, if she had better manners."
"In fact," Mr. Finch admitted, smiling a little, "I am rather relieved not to be dancing. It is not my favorite activity; I always feel that I do not do it very well."
"I think you are a fine dancer," she assured him. "It is very difficult to be bad at dancing; all one must do is watch everybody else, and follow them, and make sure to go in the proper direction.—That is the part which my cousin Mr. Collins always forgets, and it always causes a great disturbance upon the dance-floor, which makes me laugh."
"Are you close with your cousin?" he asked. "You have mentioned him before."
"With Mr. Collins? Lord, no! I had never met him in my life until three years ago, and then I thought him quite ridiculous. Anyway he lives far away, in Kent, and I have never dared to write to him, for fear I should receive a hundred pages of sermons in return. Begging your pardon, of course," she added consciously. "Though I am sure any sermon you might give would be far more interesting than his. Besides, I trust that you reserve the sermons for church-days, and use letters for their proper purpose."
"And what is their proper purpose?"
"Well, news, of course. Nobody opens a letter in hopes of finding a lecture inside; one cares only for the interesting things that are happening somewhere else. And of course letters are useful for saying things which one might be too embarrassed to say in person, such as an apology, or a declaration of love, or some such thing."
"You must be a most fascinating correspondent, Miss Katherine."
"Oh, no," Kitty said, smiling. "I am a dreadful correspondent, for I always forget to write. And anyway I only have my sisters to write to, and Mary takes care of that quite well, though her letters are little tedious. Are you a good correspondent, Mr. Finch?"
"I am afraid I have not had much chance to be tested. Most of my friends and family live nearby, and as a result most of my letters are letters of business."
"How dull," she said, sympathetically. "Perhaps, after I go back to Longbourn, you may try writing to me; and I will tell you whether or not you are good at it."
He surprised her by giving a little laugh.
"I am certainly willing to try," he told her. "I trust you will be scrupulously honest."
"To be sure," she said readily. "It will be easy, for if I must tell you that you are no good at writing for pleasure, then at least I will not have to look in your eyes when I do so—that is the great benefit of a letter, after all. I am not certain I would be so honest in person. I would be most afraid of disappointing you; you have a terribly expressive face."
Mr. Finch's eyes widened.
"Has nobody ever said so before?" she asked.
"I do not think so."
"Well, I mean it as a compliment," she said amiably.
It was very comforting to speak with him, though she had not thought it would be so; it provided a welcome distraction from thoughts of Mr. Price.
The Bennets did not stay very late at the ball; for once, Kitty, upon seeking out her mother and sister, did not seem particularly desirous of dancing into the night, and Mary was never fond of staying up until all hours. They took their leave from their friends not long after midnight, before the general rush for the door began, and hurried out into the cold night to await their carriage.
The ride home was silent, save a few noisy yawns from Mrs. Bennet's corner.
"Did you enjoy yourself, Kitty?" Mary asked tentatively, as they were preparing for bed. Her sister's spirits had seemed somewhat revived when she had returned to the ballroom, but she had not spoken since they had left the Rooms.
"It was not all bad," Kitty replied honestly, too tired and drained to bother equivocating.
"Are you feeling better than before?"
"A little bit."
Mary was not fully reassured. She climbed slowly into bed, glancing over at her sister's side of the room.
"Is there anything I may do to help?" she asked carefully.
Kitty looked over at her and gave a little smile. "Not just now," she said. "But thank you, Mary. You are a very good sister."
Mary flushed, and pulled the covers up to her shoulders.
"Goodnight, Katherine," she said softly.
"Goodnight."
Kitty leaned over and blew out the candle.