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The morning after a ball is scarcely less busy than the evening which preceded it, for there is always much to be discussed regarding the events which have just taken place (and even if this is not the case, any particularly indefatigable busybody may easily endeavor to embroider or even wholly invent such incidents as will satisfy her—or his—appetite for gossip). This was the mission upon which Mrs. Bennet was engaged on Friday morning; though it was her usual habit to sit and rest upon the morning after a ball, today she was not content to remain at home, for the weather was fine, and she had not imbibed enough over the course of the evening to trouble her poor nerves this morning. Anyway, the evening, she felt, had been an eventful one, and she must dissect it immediately with the aid of Mrs. Carpenter and a few of her other friends.
(Kitty thought it rather amusing that her mother was so eager to discuss everybody else and their scandals, while the one that struck so close to home—Kitty's revelation that she did not love Mr. Price, and all that followed—remained quite unknown to her, or to anyone.)
"Should you like to go with me, my dear?" Mrs. Bennet asked Kitty over breakfast, not bothering to ask Mary, who would only have sighed and rolled her eyes. "Miss Carpenter and her brother may be at home, and I am sure you would like to talk with them; and then perhaps we may visit Mrs. Fitzwilliam, and the Harts, and the Daltons, and anybody else who might be interesting."
"Thank you, Mamma," Kitty replied, "but I am expecting a caller this morning."
"Whom do you expect?" Mary asked, looking up from her breakfast; but Mrs. Bennet's gleeful trill of "Oh, my dear!" rendered quite unnecessary any response that Kitty might have made.
In fact it was Oliver Finch who was expected, but Kitty chose not to share this with her mother, for it would surely have proved a sore disappointment.
"Of course you must stay at home, then," Mrs. Bennet went on happily. "And Mary must go along with me, for it will not do to have her glowering at him all morning."
"What?" Mary frowned. "No, Mamma, I had planned to read my book."
"Oh, Mary, there will be plenty of time for reading when we are home at Longbourn," was the cross reply. "And I would have you accompany me anyway, if only to prove to everybody that I do have another daughter, though she sits at home all the time; and besides you danced twice with Robert Hart last night, did you not, so you will be able to say so if anybody asks you, instead of shaking your head and pursing your lips as you always do."
Mary, who was shaking her head and pursing her lips now, said, "Rosamond said she may call today."
And this was true; Rosamond had promised to call, in order to speak to Kitty, upon Mary's own request; but Mrs. Bennet was not to know this, and she replied, "Well, then, my dear, we shall call at Hart House first, and save her the trouble. And perhaps we will see Robert that way, as well, before he is obliged to go see to his patients."
"But—" Mary cast a troubled look in her sister's direction. Kitty was gazing absentmindedly into her cup of tea.
"That is quite enough, Mary," Mrs. Bennet said firmly. "I desire you will walk out with me this morning, and so you shall."
Mary, being a dutiful daughter, had no choice but to acquiesce. They left soon after breakfast; Mrs. Bennet, in a flurry of excitement, kissed Kitty on both cheeks and wished her good fortune with her caller. "Perhaps things are moving more quickly even than we had hoped," she whispered into her daughter's ear, and Kitty sighed, though not for the reasons that her mother suspected.
"I shall give your love to Rosamond and Juliet, shall I?" Mary said stiffly, tying her bonnet under her chin.
"Oh, yes, thank you, Mary," Kitty said absently.
"Come, Mary," Mrs. Bennet ordered, tucking Mary's arm securely through her own, and they hurried out.
Kitty, for her part, was glad to be left alone. Her mother's chatter was doing nothing except making her nervous, for she dreaded the necessary disclosure of her feelings—or lack thereof—for Mr. Price; Mrs. Bennet had been so delighted, was yet so delighted, with the certain prospect of her daughter's marriage to such a promising gentleman, that she would certainly not be able to hide her disappointment. And Kitty could not bear to disappoint her mother. She remembered Mrs. Bennet's fury when Lizzie had rejected Mr. Collins; how might she react when Kitty reported that she wished to break the engagement which had created so much happiness?
She had not even begun considering how she ought to broach the subject with the suitor himself. The thought was too intimidating, too much of an inducement to anxiety, and as yet she had only pushed it out of her mind. He would be disappointed, as well, and likely very angry; and the thought frightened her. Besides which, Kitty was not entirely certain that he would not, somehow, be able to charm her into maintaining the engagement—his blue eyes and dashing smile had worked thus far, and there was no guarantee that their hold on her had been forever dislodged.
Indeed, some small part of her wondered if, perhaps, she had not made an utterly hasty decision. She had no evidence that Alexander had truly committed any real wrongdoing; all she had seen was a moment of weakness on his part, which may very well have been all that it was.
Or, if not—if indeed everything had been as it appeared—well—the smallest, saddest part of her wondered if really that was so terrible. She would not be the first woman in the world to marry a philanderer; no, indeed, she had heard enough vague rumors of Wickham's exploits to suppose that she would not even be the first woman in her family to do so. And yet Lydia, writing gushing letters from Newcastle, seemed perfectly happy with her choice of husband—her only complaints were that Newcastle was dull, and her children were tiring. And was not Alexander more handsome than Wickham, and more charming as well; and would not a life with him take place against the glittering backdrop of a London ballroom, rather than the gray cold landscape of the North? He claimed to love her, and perhaps he truly did; perhaps this was only his weakness, and was that not forgivable? Alexander spoke sweetly to her, and made her smile and blush, and even if she had begun to find him rather dull, well, that was not unusual. At least he wished to marry her.
She had never had a gentleman wish to marry her before, and, with a heart fed upon novels and poetry and tales of romance, she had longed for such an attention ever since Lydia had run away from Brighton—even before; for some little part of her had always demanded, Why not me? The marriages of Lizzie and Jane had only pressed smirkingly upon that aching part of her, and reminded her that she had no suitor. And now all of her sisters, except Mary, were married and settled, with husbands they adored (however undeservingly, in Lydia's case), and Kitty was still living at Longbourn like a little girl, dependent upon her mother and father, with no prospects besides this one. Could she not forgive Alexander his weakness, if only he would save her from youthful spinsterhood? If only he would be discreet, and not embarrass her? Then she would have a husband—a dashing, handsome husband—and everything would be easier.
But no.
For the same heart which had devoured novels and poetry and tales of romance, and had longed so achingly for a handsome prince to sweep her off of her feet and out of obscurity, would not allow her to take such a step. It was not Alexander's infidelity—if such it could be termed—which troubled her, and so it did not matter how much she rationalized it to herself. It was her own feelings: the strange feeling that she had somehow expected him to betray her, and the stranger feeling that she did not care whether he did.
Kitty's wish had never been for just the handsome prince: she had wished for the entire fairytale, and though she saw now that such a wish was quite naïve, her finer feelings must nonetheless prevent her from marrying a gentleman for whom she had no real esteem. Alexander was handsome; he was charming; and that was all. Two words which had formerly meant so much to her seemed, now, like a rather paltry description of her future spouse, and yet it was all her mind could offer. She did not love him. She could not marry him.
These unhappy reflections occupied her thoughts quite completely as she waited in the sitting-room. The house was quiet, save for the sound of the maid clearing the breakfast dishes in the next room. Kitty glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece: it was nearly half-past ten. Mr. Finch had not said when she might expect him, but certainly she had expected him by now. Perhaps he had changed his mind, and would not come at all. The thought rather disappointed her.
Another half-hour passed. Kitty attempted to read one of Mary's novels, but could not make her thoughts stick upon the page. Giving up, she stood and took a turn about the room, then another. Where was Mr. Finch? If he was not to come himself, he ought to at least send a note; she should like to go walk while the weather was fine. She picked up her embroidery, then set it down again. It was just past eleven. Where was he?
At last, she heard the knock upon the door, and the responding footsteps of the housemaid as she went to answer it; a male voice in the vestibule, and two sets of footsteps down the passage toward the sitting-room; and she straightened in her chair, preparing to greet him with a smile. The door opened and the maid stepped in with a low curtsy.
"Mr. Price, miss."
What?
Kitty froze, her smile still in place. She certainly had not expected Mr. Price to come visit her—though she dimly supposed that it was only natural, for they were engaged, and he was accustomed to calling at Henry Street whenever he pleased. But he had not said—he had made no mention of any plan—he had sent no inquiring note—
"Thank you, Hannah," she said faintly, as Alexander came into the room, bowing to her with a smile. The maid curtsied again and left. For a brief, panicked moment, Kitty wished nothing more than to call her back again, so that she would not be alone with Alexander.
"Hello, my love," Alexander said, dropping easily into the chair across from her. "I thought I might surprise you today; I did not see as much of you as I would have liked, last night."
Kitty, unable to look at him (for she must do it, now; she must tell him; she could not wait; it was not fair to him), only nodded.
"In fact I caught a glimpse of you as you were leaving," Alexander went on, "and I thought you looked rather out-of-sorts."
"I was tired," Kitty said weakly.
"I am sorry to hear it," he replied. "I only thought I might call upon you today, and be certain that there was nothing which I had done—or which you thought I may have done—which may have upset you. I would not wish for you to be upset, my darling, when it is within my power to prevent it."
There was an odd tone in his voice.
Kitty, a little startled, met his gaze. Why, he knows, she thought, shocked, with a sudden flash of clarity. He knows I saw him with the girl, or he thinks I may have, and he is trying to—what? Placate me? Convince me it did not happen?
For a moment she was furiously angry, and then it faded again, as fast as it had come. What did it matter? She was suddenly very tired, though it was only a few hours past breakfast.
"I was a little upset," she said, carefully, "that you would not sit with me, after we danced."
An unguarded relief bloomed in his eyes, before he quickly masked it with a smile. "I am sorry for that, my beauty," he answered, "though you know, of course, why I could not. It would not do to have everyone looking at us, and talking about us; gossip is the greatest killer of love."
"Yes, but—"
"At any rate it will not matter for much longer," he said, leaning forward and taking her hand in his own. "Do you remember what I said to you last night, my love? If you wish it, we can be married within a fortnight; I have heard from my friend, the rector, who would be happy to perform the ceremony in Town. Everything is prepared, you see. I could not wait any longer to be joined with my darling, and so I pushed and hurried everyone else along; and now I wait only upon your word."
"Well—"
"And after we are married," he went on, taking her other hand and smiling at her (and his eyes were really so blue), "we may sit together at any ball, and dance together, and dine together, and not care what anybody else says about it. Would that make you happy, sweet one? For that is all I wish: to make you happy."
Kitty hesitated.
The clock chimed to mark the quarter-hour.
"Alexander," she said.
"I love you, Katherine," he cut her off, smoothly. "Do you love me?"
She could not ask for a more fitting introduction to the conversation. Biting her lip, pulling her hands from his (which was not difficult, for her palms had begun sweating profusely), turning slightly away so she would not have to look directly at him, Kitty said very softly,
"Well, that is the trouble, Alexander, for—for I do not really think that I do."
She held her breath. The words sounded cruel to her ears even as she said them, and she wished, for a moment, that she could take them back. But she did not. The room was suddenly very still and very silent.
"I beg your pardon," Alexander said, after a lengthy pause. His voice was flat and cold.
"I am very sorry," Kitty burst out, all in a rush, "and I know it is unkind of me to say so now, but I am afraid that—"
"You told me you loved me."
"Yes," Kitty said wretchedly, "and I thought that I did. But last night, Alexander, when I saw—well, it was even before that—it was when you proposed, and I was so happy at first but then I was so confused, and afraid, and I did not know why. And now I think it is because I do not truly wish to marry you, and I am sorry that I ever told you I would, but I cannot."
To her shock, a smile broke over his face, and he rose from his seat to sit beside her and put an arm about her shoulders. Kitty stiffened and tried to pull away, but he held her tightly.
"I see what the trouble is," he said, his voice kind. "You are merely nervous, because I have said that we may be married so soon, and now you feel as if the world is spinning too quickly. It is only natural for a young lady, about to be married, to have such little moments of anxiety. You need not be sorry for these thoughts, my dear; I am not offended by them, and I will never hold them against you. I understand very well."
"I am not sorry for the thoughts," Kitty retorted, rather annoyed now. She pulled away from him to stand. "I am only sorry for having made you believe that I loved you, when in fact it was not true. It was wrong of me, but I did not do it a-purpose. I was fooled as well."
He stood as well, and they faced each other. "Be wary there, Miss Bennet, lest you say something you will regret later."
"I am already regretting everything," she returned, glaring at him. "I am very sorry to hurt you in this fashion, but it is all true. I do not love you and I cannot marry you. It is good, at least," she added, more gently, "that nobody knew we were engaged; this way we shall not have to make any awkward explanations. You have not even written to Papa yet—you told me last night that you had not. And so our separation shall be as painless as possible, under the circumstances."
Alexander was frowning now, a dark frown that sent a little thrill of disquiet along her spine, though she did her best to ignore it. "I am afraid you are mistaken, my dear, for there shall be no separation. You do not know what you are saying; this is your nerves speaking, and it changes nothing between us."
"It is not my nerves; I have told you it is not! I have spent the past week—"
"Encouraged by your spinster sister, no doubt, the little grimalkin who despises me because I dare to enjoy myself; and that shrew Rosamond Hart, and that idiot Oliver Finch—am I correct in my thinking?"
"Not at all," she insisted, becoming tearful with frustration. "I have thought all by myself, and reconsidered everything, and I—"
"It has taken you two months to fall in love with me, and yet one week is enough time for you to reconsider everything? I cannot believe it. You have been speaking to someone; you have been fed some pack of lies which has turned you against me."
"Who would wish to turn me against you?" she demanded, wiping bitterly at her eyes.
"I can think of a few names."
Kitty took a deep, shuddering breath. "It does not matter," she said. "I have spoken to no one, and have decided everything on my own, even if you do not believe me. Do you think this is what I wished—to hurt you and make you angry with me? Do you not think I would marry you, if I could? But I cannot, Alexander, and I am sorry; I cannot, I cannot love you!"
"I do not believe you." His expression was dark with fury.
"You must."
"No; I do not. We will be married within a fortnight, as planned, and you will put all of this behind you. You are being very stupid just now, my love."
"I have told you—"
"You promised you would marry me," he interjected easily. "You gave me your word. In business, my dear, that is called a verbal contract, and it cannot be broken. You may ask your friend Theodore Hart about that. I will not be denied what I am owed."
Kitty stormed away from him. "You are being horrid," she declared over her shoulder, "and I am glad I have realized my mistake now, if this is what I should have been married to!"
"Lower your voice, Katherine—we don't wish the housemaid to hear," he said contemptuously. "Shall we talk further about the wedding arrangements? I am sure that will lift your spirits."
Kitty's hands curled into fists, and she took a deep breath. "I think you ought to go," she said, as firmly as she could, though her voice was still wavering and tears still stained her cheeks.
"I don't think I shall. I cannot leave you like this," he said, his voice a mockery of its usual tenderness, "when you are so distressed. It would be cruel of me."
"Go," she demanded, turning back to face him. Alexander leaned lazily against the mantelpiece, watching her with a smirk that made her wish, more than anything else, to hit him. His face did not look so handsome to her now.
"You are very fortunate, you know," he said calmly. "I am acquainted with a great many beauties, who possess wit and vivacity to spare, and would be honored to have my attention; and yet I chose you, a plain little country-lass. How many gentlemen may be counted upon to make the same choice?"
She was white with shock and rage. Why was he speaking so to her?
"Calm down, my dear, lest you strain yourself. Take a seat, and rest for a moment." He came toward her, catching her wrist in his hand, and pulled her back toward the settee.
"Leave me alone," she snapped, resisting. His grip tightened roughly, and her natural contrariness reared its head as she dug her heels into the carpet and pulled away from him. "Do not touch me. I want to you to go."
"Be easy, sweet one. I will not hurt you." But his voice was not comforting.
"Leave me alone," she repeated, pulling away from him with a sudden violent energy that dislodged his grip; she staggered backward, catching herself on the back of a chair, as he stumbled. He straightened himself again and glared at her. Kitty moved quickly so that the chair was between them, and returned the glare. "I have said that I want you to go, and if you do not then I will scream and—"
She did not know how she would have finished the sentence, but it did not matter, for at that moment the door opened again and the maid entered with a curtsy. "Mr. Finch," she announced, glancing confusedly from Kitty to Mr. Price.
Oliver Finch, coming into the room and bowing, paused for a moment upon seeing the other gentleman standing by the settee. The door swung shut behind him as Hannah made her hasty escape.
"Have I interrupted something?" Mr. Finch asked quietly.
"In fact you have, Finch," Alexander cut in smoothly, before Kitty could respond. "I believe Kitty has told you, against my advisement I must add, how matters stand between us; and so I ask that you, as a gentleman of discretion, leave us alone for the moment. We are merely having a small disagreement, of the sort usual between young couples."
"I was speaking to Miss Katherine," Mr. Finch said, gazing at Mr. Price. That gentleman's eyes narrowed.
"Miss Katherine is rather distraught at the moment, and does not know what she is—"
"Miss Katherine," Oliver Finch interrupted, turning dark serious eyes on Kitty, "is everything quite all right?"
Kitty had been watching them with her heart in her mouth, uncertain what she should do; this was a situation wholly unfamiliar to her, and she felt as though it were all quite unreal, as if she were watching a play or reading a novel. Mr. Finch's address startled her, and she glanced at him.
"No," she said, feeling the tears begin again, "no, he will not go away, though I have told him I cannot marry him and I have asked him to leave, and he will not—"
"As I said," Alexander said, loudly, "she is distraught, and does not entirely know her own mind. I was only encouraging her to sit and rest for a moment."
"That is kind of you," Mr. Finch said wryly, "but to my ears, she sounds quite sure of herself."
"You do not know her as I do; and anyway, this is nothing to do with you. As her betrothed, it is my duty to see that she is quite comfortable and—"
"I do not think you are betrothed any longer."
Alexander fixed Oliver Finch with a forbidding glare, and Kitty was suddenly very glad that she was not alone with him anymore. "You are an ass, Finch," he bit out, "and you have a most unfortunate habit of sticking your nose where it does not belong."
"I am afraid your presence is no longer desired," Oliver said, speaking very clearly, as he took a few slow steps forward.
"You have no right to—"
"You should go, Mr. Price."
"I will not be ordered about by some half-wit country preacher!"
Oliver looked down at him, and it suddenly became clear, to everyone in the room, that Mr. Finch was in fact rather a good deal larger than Mr. Price. Alexander was not a short man, but he was thin; Oliver was at least two inches taller, and his shoulders were broad and strong where the other's were narrow. That there would be no contest, should the matter actually come to blows, was very much apparent. The thought seemed to occur to Alexander, for he took a few steps backward, and swallowed hard.
"I am in love with her," he said, a wheedling tone creeping into his voice.
"That is not my concern," Mr. Finch replied gravely. "Nor, I think, is it Miss Katherine's concern, any longer."
"You cannot burst in here and—"
"I did not burst in; I was expected. And now it is time for you to go."
"She—"
"Goodbye, Mr. Price," Mr. Finch said, in a tone which brooked no argument.
"Kitty," Alexander said, turning to her with wide eyes, "are you to allow this hulking imbecile to throw me out of your house, as if I am so much refuse? I, the man who would be your husband? I love you, Kitty; I love you more than anything, and I only want to marry you and make you happy!"
"Perhaps," Kitty said, feeling rather weak-kneed, "but I am afraid that marrying you will not make me happy; and anyway I am not certain I believe you anymore."
He stared at her, his expression quite unreadable, and looked as though he were about to say something else; but Mr. Finch took another step forward and Alexander put his hands up, as if in surrender, and skirted around the other gentleman toward the door.
"I did not take you for a liar, Miss Bennet," he tossed bitterly over his shoulder. "Nor a trifler."
This was so unjust that Kitty spun on her heel and opened her mouth; but she could think of nothing to say. It was not entirely necessary, at any rate, for Oliver Finch strode across the room very quickly and caught Mr. Price roughly on the shoulder, turning him round without any effort.
"I am certain, sir," he said, his voice quiet as ever, but without its usual diffidence, "that some urgent matter of business has arisen which requires your immediate return to London. It is perhaps for the best, as I think you will find life in Bath rather unpleasant henceforth. Miss Bennet is possessed of many excellent friends here, who I am sure will not be pleased to hear how you have deceived her."
"I don't know what you mean," Mr. Price said coldly.
"Indeed? Well, you will find out before very much longer. Goodbye, Mr. Price."
Mr. Price afforded Kitty a last, long glare, which she met as evenly as she was able. He looked as though he wished to speak; but with a glance at Mr. Finch he seemed to think better of it, and left the room in a huff, slamming the door behind him so hard that the glass in the windowpane rattled. They waited a moment in a tense silence, listening to his footsteps along the passage. Then the sound of the front door slamming broke the spell, and Oliver Finch looked at Kitty anxiously.
"Are you quite all right, Miss Katherine?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," she said faintly. She took a step out from behind the chair, upon which she had been leaning; but the strain of the past several days, and more pressingly of the past several minutes, caught up with her all at once, and she staggered sideways. The last thing of which she was aware, as the black fog rushed over her mind, was a startled exclamation and a hurried movement, and the feeling of strong arms catching her.
It took some time, after Kitty had revived, for her to stop crying; these were helpless sobs, with nothing behind them but a need for release. Mr. Finch, red with embarrassment, sat uncomfortably beside her on the settee, making vague comforting noises and offering her a glass of brandy which he had acquired from the housemaid. Kitty was glad to have him by, for though he had not Mr. Hart's skill at soothing tears, he was nonetheless a warm friendly presence when she would rather not be alone. Besides which, she found his awkwardness somehow rather endearing.
After her tears had tapered off and she had drained the glass, he asked, haltingly, if he might speak to her upon the matter which he had broached the previous evening.
"Is it to do with Mr. Price?" she asked dully.
"I am afraid so," he answered. "Would it pain you to hear of him? I do not wish to cause you any further distress."
Kitty shook her head. "I think I should like to hear it," she said softly. "Or, I shouldn't like to, but I think I ought."
He hesitated for a long moment, but finally began, with a last plea that she would stop him if his words gave her pain. This is what he told her:
Mrs. Price and Miss Price had indeed come to Bath two years ago (he said), and had spent a Season in James Street, not far from where the Fitzwilliams lived now. Mrs. Price was at first too ill to go out very much, or spend much time in the public rooms, and Miss Price, who was sixteen or seventeen at the time, spent most of her days tending her mother; but as Mrs. Price began to improve, the young lady was able to spend more of her time out of the house, and he had the good fortune of making her acquaintance.
"Mr. Finch," Kitty sniffled, "this story is taking rather a long time to tell."
"Forgive me, Miss Katherine," he replied seriously, and went on.
He found her an amiable young lady, though she never seemed particularly at ease in company; and as he was scarcely more generally sociable than she, they were naturally drawn together, and over time established a friendship. Miss Price was good-natured, but quiet, and always seemed rather preoccupied. He assumed that it was her mother's health which worried her, but one evening, as they walked together in Sydney Gardens, she quite suddenly confessed to him that she did not know how they were to live after they left Bath. They had come for the sake of Mrs. Price's health, and their funds had been quite depleted by the rental of their lodgings in James Street; she did not know what they were to do next.
Mr. Finch said nothing, for he did not know what there was to say. He could not know, then, whether she was speaking the truth, or merely playing upon his sympathies; though it troubled him to think anyone could be so callous, he had enough experience of the world to take each word with a grain of salt. They walked on in silence, and at length Miss Price, perhaps sensing the turn of his thoughts, told him that she had no desire for charity, and was not asking him for any of his own money.
"It is only that I find you an excellent listener," she said, and asked if she may tell him more of her history, and perhaps have his advice as to what may be done. He agreed.
They had once lived very well indeed, she said. They had a fine house in Chelmsford, and her parents were much in love; she and her brother were always very fond of each other. Yet, as they grew older, her brother had grown rather wild and willful. Sent away to school, he had spent money carelessly, and had written home often to request more. When he returned to Chelmsford, it was to find his father deathly ill; and yet he had remained more concerned with the world and its amusements than with the suffering of his family. Whatever affection he had had for his mother and sister seemed quite evaporated, and he spent little time at his father's bedside.
The elder Mr. Price, distressed at the loss of his son, hoped to reclaim him, and so he made a grave mistake. In composing his will, he established the younger Mr. Price as the sole executor, leaving him in charge of the family's entire estate. Though Mrs. Price and Miss Price begged him not to do so, the old gentleman held firm. He had faith, he told them, that the responsibility would force his son to outgrow his childish thirst for amusements, and take his rightful place in the world as a gentleman. Miss Price had no such faith, but could hardly tell her father so, as he lay dying.
Indeed, when at last the elder Mr. Price passed, his wife and daughter found themselves proven all too correct in their unhappy predictions. The younger Mr. Price continued to spend money haphazardly: he had a penchant for making poor investments, and for gambling in less lawful ways as well, and within two years they were obliged to move out of their fine house and sell their fine things. This would not have been such a trial, Miss Price said earnestly, if only her brother had shown some remorse; but he seemed quite untroubled by their difficulties, so long as he had enough money to entertain himself. She took to reproaching him, then begging him, but had only succeeded in incurring his displeasure. Mrs. Price fell ill, and in a last act of spitefulness, tired of their chastisements, Mr. Price extracted enough money from his accounts to send his mother and sister to Bath for a Season, and then warned them never again to contact him and ask for money; the money was his, and he would spend it as he pleased. He moved to London, and did not speak to them again.
And so now they were in Bath, Miss Price had concluded miserably, with no thought as to what they could do next. They had no more money, and from what she understood, her brother was not much better off; his careless spending had begun to catch up with him, and debts were beginning to mount. They had not heard from him since they had been in Bath, and she did not expect to. If one thing yet remained of the brother she had known in childhood, it was his obstinacy. She did not know what he would do for money, but she was quite certain he would not share it with his mother and sister.
"After Miss Price and her mother left Bath," Mr. Finch said, "I did not have much further cause to think on the matter. At the end of the next Season, however, Mr. Price appeared here. I did not realize at first that he was the brother of the young lady I had met, but before long I grew rather suspicious. His—his friends, the ones he stays with here, are of a rather unsavory character, though he makes himself agreeable to everyone; besides which, there was some talk, that first year, of a young lady in London—the daughter of an earl, who had been engaged to him and who had abruptly been removed to her family's country house."
"Rose did not tell me so," Kitty breathed, stricken.
"I do not believe it is the sort of rumor which Rosamond would know," Mr. Finch admitted. "No one of our general circle is much acquainted with Mr. Price, nor with his friends. I heard the story from my eldest brother, who had heard it from several of his solicitor friends in Town; apparently the young lady's family was considering legal action, though I do not know what could have been done. One of Rowland's friends was in fact the solicitor who had drawn up the elder Mr. Price's will, and could confirm that that part of the story was true."
"But the rest of it—"
"The rest of it, I admit, may be true or false," he replied. "I have only Miss Price's word to go upon, and you have only mine. But I had—as you have, if you will forgive me—the evidence of Mr. Price's character, which has never struck me as particularly genuine. I am afraid," he added, with a very small smile, "that I am in the habit of distrusting those who smile too easily, and are too eager to compliment and praise. Perhaps it is only envy on my part."
Kitty was suddenly reminded of her father's laughing description of Mr. Wickham, a very long time ago now: He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably. She pressed a hand to her head, which was beginning to ache.
"But if he is such a man as you suppose him," she said softly, though she could hardly doubt it, given the evidence of her own eyes and the sinking feeling in her stomach, "what on earth should he want with me? I am no one; I am no earl's daughter, or anything close. Papa is not even a knight."
Mr. Finch reddened. "I do not wish to be indelicate," he said, carefully. "But it is—well, it is generally known that your two eldest sisters are fairly recently married."
"Yes, but—" His point struck her, and she sank back into the settee. "Oh."
And now she was remembering Mr. Price's first words to her: Are you indeed the sister-in-law of Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley? And he had always seemed so eager to visit Pemberley, and to be acquainted with her brothers—but not until they were married, of course…and Kitty had been so stupid. Of course he had set his sights upon her. Young ladies of fortune were carefully watched—he had even acknowledged the fact once; a rare prize indeed was the country girl of no name or family who was yet equipped with not one, but two rich brothers-in-law, and traveled quite unsupervised. And of course he had not wanted anyone to know that they were engaged, for had she not told him that she was related by marriage to Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mrs. Hart, either of whom might write to their cousin Mr. Darcy? They were his only concern; he did not care for gossips or prying eyes or anything else; he had only wanted her unwatched until they could be married, lest any of her well-connected relations try to interfere. And Kitty, with no one else to look after her but a doting mother impatient to see her wed, had been so easy, so eager to be flattered and charmed and loved…
Oliver Finch was watching her with trepidation, as though at any moment she might swoon again. "This conversation cannot be easy for you," he said sorrowfully, "and I am so sorry to cause you distress; you must know that. But I thought I ought to tell you, for I believe I am the only one here to whom Miss Price ever spoke of the matter."
"Why have you waited so long?" she asked faintly. He blushed.
"I did not—I did not think you would listen before," he answered. "We were not well acquainted, and it would have been very forward of me. Besides which, I wished to write to Miss Price, and ask first if I might share her story with you. I did not want to do her an injustice."
This caught Kitty's attention. "You write to her?"
"Not regularly, no. But after our conversation, I was able to connect her with a friend in Cambridge, who found her a position as a governess there; and I kept the address."
She regarded him with wide eyes. "You are a very good sort of person, Mr. Finch."
He gave a little smile. "You are kind, Miss Katherine."
They sat in silence for awhile, Kitty reflecting carefully over everything which had occurred and everything which she had been told, and by turns cursing herself for her idiocy, and congratulating herself on a narrow escape. She still felt rather faint, as though nothing which had taken place was quite real, and she might wake from this dream at any moment.
It was better, somehow, to be hearing Mr. Finch's recital after she had already broken the engagement, even coming so swiftly on the heels of such a distressing scene, for there was none of the pain and disbelief of hearing her beloved ill spoken of (as must have afflicted the poor earl's daughter, banished to the countryside for her indiscretion). Mr. Price himself had done an excellent job of destroying whatever sympathy or affection for him might have lingered within her; the insults he had offered her, the arrogance and unkindness of his manner, had only proven to her that she was choosing a-right in separating from him. The little flashes of his dark temper which she had seen before had, she knew now, been only glimpses of the real thing. Listening to Mr. Finch, she felt only the satisfaction of hearing confirmed every doubt she had had, and feeling justified in her anger and distrust; yet this mingled, of course, with the deep humiliation and painful regret that she had ever been so deceived in the first place, and had not taken the warnings along the way for what they were.
Mary was quite correct, Kitty thought ruefully; she was silly, and shallow, and vain, and perhaps it served her right—perhaps all of this was only what she deserved for her stupidity. But she could not be so any longer. She had always wished to live inside of a novel, and now she was: now she was freshly escaped from the sort of scandal which made excellent reading, but terrible living. It was hardly the thrill she had imagined.
One question still nagged at her, and eventually she put it to Mr. Finch. "What did you mean, that he would find life in Bath very unpleasant? Lord knows there is nothing I can do to him, whatever anyone says about women being scorned."
Mr. Finch met her eyes. "Miss Price has authorized me to make her account public," he said. "I am certain he would not be so popular here, if his nature were more generally understood."
Kitty bit her lip. "Miss Price is charitable," she said carefully, "but I am selfish, and I do not want my account made public. Papa would never forgive me, or let me out of the house again, and Lizzie and Jane would be so disappointed, if only they knew how close I came to—"
"Pray, be easy," he entreated. "I do not think it necessary to tell how he has—treated you. I think his treatment of his mother and sister will cause censure enough. And who can say? The story may travel back to London, as such things often do; and he may find life there rather unpleasant, as well."
Kitty smiled in spite of herself. "I did not think it entirely proper, for clergymen to spread gossip."
He returned her smile with a smaller one of his own. "There will be no gossip. It is only a matter of having a conversation with one or two people, with the understanding that absolutely everything I say is in the strictest confidence. I have lived here long enough," he added, rather drily, "to know how these things work."
Kitty laughed, and it was a great and surprising relief to do so.
They sat comfortably for another long moment. Kitty could scarcely remember when Mr. Finch's silences had irritated her so much; now she was glad to have him quiet.
"Mr. Finch," she said, after awhile, "you said that Miss Price was a governess?"
"I did."
"And do you—" Kitty bit her lip. "Do you think she is happy?"
He gazed at her for a long moment. "I think she is content," he said at last.
"And her mother?"
"I understand she is much improved. She has married again, to a widowed gentleman in her daughter's neighborhood."
"And the earl's daughter, I imagine, has married someone wonderful," Kitty said thoughtfully, "as shall Miss Price, I hope, if it suits her to do so. And I am sure I shall do the same, although not for a long time; I am quite sick of being in love. Well, that is good, at least."
"Is it?"
"Well, yes," she said. "For at least Mr. Price did not manage to ruin anybody, you know. Not completely. Everyone has survived, and has gone on to other things, and is probably the wiser for it, somehow."
Mr. Finch was regarding her curiously. "That is an admirable view to take, Miss Katherine."
Kitty blushed a little. "Well," she said modestly, "one must find the silver lining."
He nodded, a faint smile playing about his lips.
"And," she added, suddenly feeling very self-conscious, "I have been very remiss in thanking you, for I do not think I have done so yet. Thank you, Mr. Finch—for arriving when you did, though you were later than I thought you would be; and for ridding me of Mr. Price, and for telling me the truth, and for catching me when I fainted. You are an excellent friend—better than I deserve, I am sure."
He blushed, and looked away from her. "You are not so undeserving as you think, Miss Katherine."
"Indeed I am, for I have been unkind to you before," she said sadly, "and you have only ever done good things for me. Is there anything I may do for you? —Any brave deeds you may need performed?"
Mr. Finch smiled. "Not just now, Miss Katherine; but should a need arise in future, I will alert you."
Kitty considered this. Perhaps, she thought, there was something she might do for him; perhaps she might speak to Rosamond on his behalf, and acquaint her friend with the heroic nature of her unassuming suitor, and so turn that tide in Mr. Finch's favor.
She was thinking how best to go about the matter when there was the sound of the front door opening, and they both froze, glancing at each other; but the voices in the vestibule were female, and the footsteps in the passage quick and light. The door to the sitting-room opened again, and Mrs. Bennet, catching sight of a male figure seated beside her daughter, beamed.
"Mr. Pr—oh," she said, for it was not the gentleman she had expected. "Hello, Mr. Finch."
"Mrs. Bennet," he responded quietly, standing to bow. "Miss Bennet."
"Hello, Mr. Finch," Mary said warmly; for any gentleman who was not Mr. Price had a natural advantage in her estimation.
There was a long awkward pause. Kitty was not at all certain how she ought to acquaint her mother—and sister, for really Mary had a right to know—with the events of the past hour or so; and Mrs. Bennet was eager to ask her daughter whether Mr. Price had called, and if so what news he had shared, but could not do so with Mary and Mr. Finch present; and Mary had no talent for small-talk.
"Did you enjoy the ball last night, Mr. Finch?" Mrs. Bennet asked at last, resigning herself to being agreeable for a few minutes, until their company could be got rid of.
"I did indeed."
"I saw you dancing with Miss Hart—twice, was it not? I am very observant, you know."
He blushed. "Miss Hart is a very able dancer."
"We called upon her earlier this morning," Mrs. Bennet reported, "and I must say that I have never seen her in such excellent spirits. She laughed at everything, and could scarcely keep the smile from her face. If this is your doing, sir, I congratulate you." She winked at him.
"If it is my doing," he said, his face even redder now, "then I am glad. But I am sure the credit is due elsewhere."
"Nonsense; there is only one thing which can make a young lady laugh and smile in that particular way, and we all know very well what that is. I will not say any more just now, for I understand Kitty likes me to be discreet about these things. Only know that there are a great many such events taking place these days; I had never thought autumn a particularly favorable season for romance, but it seems I am proven wrong!"
Mr. Finch looked as though he wished to sink into the floor, and Kitty hurriedly endeavored to change the subject.
"Did Mrs. Carpenter have anything to say, Mamma?" she asked.
"Oh, nothing very interesting," Mrs. Bennet said dismissively. "Miss Carpenter has set her sights upon the younger Mr. Morgan, and as they danced twice last night, well, that was all Mrs. Carpenter wished to discuss. She is sure they are soon to be engaged, and so her conversation was very dull. I cannot abide these women who only ever wish to talk about their own children, and cannot see how tedious everybody else finds it."
Nobody had anything to say to this, and after another awkward silence Mr. Finch, clearing his throat, rose to take his leave.
"I shall walk with you to the door," Kitty said, rising as well. Her mother gave her a questioning glance, which she ignored, in favor of walking with Mr. Finch into the vestibule and watching him put on his coat.
"Thank you," she said again, softly. He looked up from his buttons and gave her the widest smile which she had ever seen from him.
"It was no trouble," he replied. "I am only glad that I was able to help. I admire your composure, Miss Katherine."
"I am not so composed," she said, with a nervous little giggle. "I fainted, after all; and I am sure I cried for longer than was strictly necessary."
"Yet you do not seem—you do not seem as though you will be pining for him," he said carefully, "which is what I meant."
"Lord, no." Kitty waved a dismissive hand. "I am very good at falling in and out of love. Or I have been; I do not think I will be any longer. It does not seem so amusing to me now."
"That is wise."
"Yes, but it is wisdom which has come too late," she sighed, "as is always the way, I find. Anyway, Mr. Finch, I am really—I am really very grateful to you. I do not know what I would have done—well, I probably would have screamed, but your way was much better. I think he was really frightened of you."
"I would not have struck him. It would not befit a clergyman to do so," Mr. Finch said stiffly.
"No, but I am sure he did not know that."
She watched Mr. Finch finish his top two buttons and, when he went to bow to her, instead surged forward and put her arms lightly about his shoulders. He stood, shocked into stillness, and then gave her a tiny awkward pat upon the shoulder.
"Thank you again," she whispered, standing on her toes to speak into his ear. She released him, and they stepped away from each other, both blushing.
"It was no trouble," he repeated, not meeting her eyes. "If there is anything else you need—anything I may do for you—"
"You have done enough," she said warmly. "Now I must only think of repaying you."
"Please, do not trouble yourself."
"You are too polite, Mr. Finch," she giggled. "If we continue telling each other how appreciative we are, and how much we should like to help one another, then you will never leave; you will be trapped here forever. I shall not keep you any longer. Thank you again, and do not tell me it was no trouble," she added, grinning, as he opened his mouth, "and I hope to see you again very soon. You are always most welcome at Henry Street."
He looked as if he wished to say more, but after a brief pause merely bowed, and smiled at her (how had she ever thought Mr. Price's smile so appealing?), and went out into the bright sunshine.
Returning to the sitting-room, Kitty's revived humor began to fade as she felt again the fatigue of the morning's events. She was exhausted, and still a little stunned; and now she felt the added anxiety of telling her mother what had occurred, and facing her inevitable disappointment. She thought it was a matter which must be approached delicately, lest Mrs. Bennet fall into one of her nervous attacks, which seemed to trouble her most frequently when she was receiving unwanted news.
That good lady looked up impatiently when Kitty came back into the room. "Whatever was Mr. Finch doing here, my love?" she demanded, without preamble. "Why does he come to Henry Street, and not go to Hart House? He must know that we can have no use for him; and I am sure that Miss Hart would have been glad of his company this morning."
"He was—"
"I only hope he did not interrupt your morning with Mr. Price," her mother went on, paying her no attention. "You ought to have had Hannah say you were not at home. What a strange man! I do not know why he is determined to spend so much time in company, when it is clear that he does not enjoy it."
"Perhaps he is forced to do so by his fond mother," Mary offered wryly. Mrs. Bennet frowned at her.
"You sound far too much like your father when you speak so, Miss Mary. At any rate I am sure I do not know why he should have come here, of all places. And to outstay Mr. Price, who was invited and expected!"
"In fact I had invited—"
"It is incomprehensible; I can see no sense in it. I hope he and Miss Hart are to be married soon, for she has such lovely manners, and perhaps her influence can improve him somewhat."
"He is truly—"
"What did Mr. Price have to say to you, my dear?" Mrs. Bennet resumed, more sedately. "I hope it was good news—oh!" She glanced at Mary. "I am sorry, my love; I forgot that you had not said anything to Mary."
"About what?" Mary demanded, looking from one to the other. Kitty, rather overwhelmed, sank into the arm-chair behind her.
"May I tell her? I suppose I must, now," Mrs. Bennet chirped. "Mary, your sister is—"
"I am not engaged to Mr. Price!" Kitty burst out, forgetting that she had resolved to be subtle and delicate. "At least," she added, at a more regular volume, "not anymore."
The look upon Mrs. Bennet's face would have been comical, had Kitty not felt quite so wretched: she was the picture of shock. Her mouth moved, but she seemed entirely unable to find the words. Mary, however, had no such difficulty.
"You were engaged to him?" she demanded, whipping her head around to glare at her sister. It was by far the least threatening glare which Kitty had received today, and so she did not quail at her sister's anger as she might have ordinarily done.
"I was," she said, not quite calm, but doing her best to sound so.
"And you are not anymore?" Mrs. Bennet cried, her voice shrill.
"I am not."
"But how on earth—"
"Mamma, he is not the man we thought!"
"How could you have been such a fool?" Mary exclaimed, her face going red.
"I do not know," Kitty said desperately, "but I am not anymore, Mary; that is what I am trying to tell you!"
"He is a shallow, vapid, thoughtless—"
"He is worse than that," Kitty said, "though he is very good at hiding it; even you must admit, Mary, you never suspected him of anything truly bad! Nor you, Mamma, nor I; but the way he spoke to me this morning, when I told him I did not love him—"
"Why did you tell him so?" Mrs. Bennet shrieked.
"Because I did not!" Kitty shouted, leaping to her feet. "It is all I have been thinking about, ever since he proposed, only I did not recognize it! I thought I loved him, Mamma, because I thought he loved me—he was so kind to me, and so charming and wonderful, and of course I was convinced because it was just like the fairy-stories—and then it became real, do you see? He asked me to marry him and everything became real, and all of a sudden I could not bear it anymore!"
She was tearful by now, and breathing heavily; her mother and sister were staring at her, shocked into silence by her outburst. Kitty scrubbed impatiently at her eyes. She was very tired of crying. She was very tired.
"I could not have married him," she said in a low voice. "I did not love him."
She sank into the chair again and buried her face in her hands. There was a long stretch of silence.
"Oh, Katherine," Mary breathed.
"You should be glad, Mary," Kitty said, with an improbable laugh, "for I think I finally understand what you have been talking about, when you say I ought to behave more seriously, and not allow myself to become carried away."
"Oh, Katherine," Mary said again, sadly.
Mrs. Bennet had been silent; but now she shifted, and sniffed. "And so you broke the engagement?" she asked, her tone unreadable.
Kitty raised her head and met her mother's eyes, though she could see nothing in them. "I had to, Mamma," she said miserably. "It would have been a torment, being married to him; not only because I did not love him, but because he was so unkind to me this morning—and then because I understood why he wished to marry me. It was not because he loved me, Mamma. He told me as much; he told me very plainly that there were many better women, prettier and cleverer and better, whom he would rather marry instead of a plain little country-lass—"
"He said what?" A flash of fury lit Mrs. Bennet's face, startling both her daughters.
"That there were—"
"He referred to my daughter as a 'plain little country-lass'?" Mrs. Bennet demanded, gaining volume. "He told her that there were better women he might marry? He dared to speak so to my child?"
Kitty stared at her; whatever she had expected, it was not this. But at least her mother's anger was not, for the moment, directed at her, and so she offered, "He said I was fortunate that he had chosen me."
"He said so?" Mrs. Bennet screeched, raising herself to her full height. "The impudent man! It was his good fortune, my girl, not yours, that you agreed to marry him at all; and we are well rid of him, if this is how he speaks of my daughter! The arrogance! I cannot abide arrogance in a man, girls, for it is a most unattractive quality; and I cannot believe we were all so deceived by him!"
"I was not deceived by him," Mary interjected, more out of habit than spite. Mrs. Bennet ignored her.
"I cannot blame you, Kitty; one cannot be expected to marry a man who thinks so little of her! I shall not even favor him with the word 'gentleman,' no indeed, for he is nothing of the sort! How dare he! What abominable pride! I hope you did not listen to him, my dear; I hope you did not take him at his word! There are no better women than my daughters, and I am sure we may find a thousand gentlemen more worthy of their hands than this Mr. Price, as he calls himself! I shall tell everybody how hard he has treated my daughter, and then he will not be so welcome at every assembly, I warrant!"
"Please do not, Mamma," Kitty broke in hastily. "There are—there are other things which we may say of him, which will do greater harm to his name; I do not wish anyone to know that we were ever engaged."
"And so you should not!" Mrs. Bennet fumed. "You are quite right, my dear; we shall have nothing to do with him! It will be as though we have never heard the name, and if anybody asks us, then we will deny the connection altogether! 'A plain little country-lass' indeed! I cannot believe the nerve of him!"
"What do you mean, Kitty," Mary asked, "that there are other things we may say of him?"
Kitty bit her lip. Mary was regarding her curiously; Mrs. Bennet, too, had at last fallen silent, and her every feature expressed her expectation.
"Well," Kitty began at last, choosing her words with care, "that is why Mr. Finch came to call."
The evening was quiet at Henry Street.
Mrs. Bennet, having heard Kitty's tale, had renounced Mr. Price entirely, and declared herself disgusted with him. She could never abide feeling that her daughters were ill-used: she had been appalled when Mr. Darcy had insulted Lizzie at that first Meryton assembly, had been enraged when Mr. Bingley had left Jane to go to Town, and had been aghast when Mr. Wickham had convinced Lydia to run away with him (though Lydia had seemed so delighted by the affair that her ire had soon faded). Mr. Price, however, she considered the worst of the lot; for while all of the others had ultimately redeemed themselves by marrying her daughters and making them happy (and rich—except in the last case), it did not seem as though Mr. Price had any intention of doing so. Besides which, Lizzie had laughed at Darcy's insult and Jane had at least disclaimed any unhappiness in the face of Bingley's abandonment; but Kitty's suffering was so readily apparent that Mrs. Bennet considered Mr. Price as tantamount to a murderer, and swore to tell everybody of his villainy.
Mary, as was her wont, felt a little self-righteous thrill upon hearing that she had been quite correct in her feelings for Mr. Price—not, of course, that she had suspected him of abandoning his family to the poorhouse, but certainly she had never believed that he was a completely respectable gentleman. More than this, however, she was glad of her sister's rescue, though a little hurt that Kitty had not thought to trust her with her confidence; and she could not suppress a certain amount of worry. Mary, who for all her thought and study had no great genius for reading people, wished she knew better what was passing through her sister's mind. One moment Kitty smiled and spoke easily, and the next she was inattentive to anything save her own thoughts.
And what were these thoughts?
It was hard for Kitty to say, exactly. She was too fatigued to spend much time in self-reflection; instead she merely let her thoughts and feelings wash over her.
There was relief, of course. There was anger and bitterness, not only directed toward Mr. Price but also for her own foolishness. There was a certain sadness: for there had been a brief shining period in her young life where love and affection seemed a happy constant, and where everything had seemed as though it could only be better; and now that was quite ended. No longer had she flirtations, or moments of tenderness, or proofs of devotion, to look forward to—and though she would not have wanted any from Mr. Price now, even if he had offered them, she could not help missing the feeling of being loved (or, at least, of believing that somebody loved her). There was a worry that she could not trust herself as she once had. She had been so sure of Mr. Price—at least until he proposed to her—and she had been so misled. How, then, could she ever again know that her feelings were not the result of deception and vanity and wishful thinking?
And there was something else, too, which nagged at her: some feeling of loss, not of any person or thing but of something far more difficult to name. The world, as she looked at it now, did not seem quite so easy or friendly or amusing as it once had. Certainly there were still good things (for Kitty, even under the direst circumstances, was an eternal optimist), and certainly there had always been bad things; but never before had the bad things seemed so close, or the good things so few.
"Kitty?"
Kitty, who had been supine, gazing absently at the ceiling, glanced over at her sister. Mary was sitting up in bed, combing through her hair with her fingers in a manner that made it stick out all over the place. Despite her inner turmoil, Kitty could not suppress a smile.
"Kitty," Mary said, hesitantly, "I am very sorry that—that you have spent this week so distressed. I wish you had felt able to share your burden with me. Rosamond has hinted that the way in which I speak to you is, perhaps, less helpful or comforting than I may intend, and I am sorry that I have never invited your confidence in a way that you felt you could trust. I would only have you know that, if you should ever like to speak to me upon anything which troubles you, I would be happy to listen, and not...lecture."
A sudden rush of affection overwhelmed Kitty. She rose from her bed and went to her sister's. Mary was startled by the unexpected embrace, but soon relaxed.
"I am only thinking very seriously just now," Kitty replied, "about what is to be done next, and how I shall regard the world from now on. I do not think my solemnity will last, but you may rest assured that I have quite had my fill of flirting, and being wooed, and all that sort of thing, for the time being. I am sure I shall never be as serious as you would like, Mary, but it is good to know that you love me in spite of it."
"Of course I do," Mary replied, red-faced. "Though I am glad to hear that you are more willing, now, to devote your mind to more serious pursuits."
"Thank you," Kitty said, beaming at her. "And I love you, even if you are as somber as a churchyard, and a bluestocking besides; but I was glad to see you laughing with Robert Hart last night, and enjoying yourself even though you were in a ballroom."
Mary frowned at her, but there was no real ire in it. Kitty, laughing, returned to her own bed and flung herself down upon it.
"Anyway," she said, rolling over to look at Mary again, "now that my own romance has come to naught, and I have no interest in pursuing any others at the moment, I may turn my hand to helping you with yours."
"There is no romance to speak of," Mary replied, her accustomed irritation seeping into her tone, "for Robert and I are not in love, as I have told you a dozen times," and Kitty grinned. It was good to hear Mary annoyed with her, rather than concerned and careful.
"That is what you say," she singsonged, "but at any rate you have no choice in the matter, Mary, for Mamma will not be easy until at least one of us is married, and it does not now look as though I will be the first."
Mary harrumphed, and pulled her blankets over her. "Goodnight, Kitty."
Perhaps, Kitty thought, as she shut her eyes, the fact that the good things in the world were so rare, only served to make them more important.
Her last reflections, however, were not particularly philosophical in nature; they were not upon Mr. Price, or the events of the day, or the disorder of her mind, or even upon Mary and Robert. Instead she was thinking of Mr. Finch, and wondering how best to convince Rosamond of his manifold perfections—for, after all, it was the least she could do for him.