In the days that followed, Kitty found herself glad indeed that her engagement to Alexander Price had never been made public. However quiet and retiring he was in company, Mr. Finch had not hesitated in making known that gentleman's true disposition (she guessed he was helped along by his own four sisters, who were not much known for their discretion); before the end of the week, Miss Price's account of her brother's cruelty was on everybody's lips, embellished in some cases to include hushed references to actual crimes, and often accompanied by some personal evidence the speaker had of the gentleman's bad nature—some insult he had given, or debt he had failed to repay, or young lady to whom he had stood too close in an empty corridor.
It reminded Kitty a little of the public turnabout that had followed the news of Lydia's seduction, when everybody in Meryton, who had been so happy to welcome the amiable Mr. Wickham into their drawing-rooms and dining-rooms, suddenly declared that they had never liked him at all. This time, however, the Bennets were fortunately spared the distress of having their name in any way connected with the scandal. For her part, Kitty could not fully disbelieve all of the appalling stories of her once-betrothed. His behavior at the Assembly Rooms, let alone his final moments with her, had proven his character well enough.
Mrs. Bennet, though too prudent to make explicit her personal experience of Mr. Price's wickedness (or, rather, her daughter's personal experience)—for what would that do to Kitty's prospects?—was nonetheless among the most vocal in denouncing the gentleman as the worst sort of villain. "I believe he fancied Kitty, once," she said to Mrs. Carpenter, "but she would not have him; she was too clever to be taken in by his looks and his graces, and so was I, for that matter!"
"What a lucky escape," Mrs. Carpenter replied comfortably, safe in the knowledge that her own younger daughter was presently accepting the attentions of a much less infamous gentleman.
Mr. Price himself had, as Mr. Finch had advised, vanished entirely from Bath. Whether he had departed immediately after the unpleasant scene at Henry Street, or whether he had only made his escape once his unpopularity began to spread, was not known; but Kitty was glad to have him gone, in any case. She did not think she would have been able to bear it if he had continued to stay there, and she had been obliged to see him in company; in this way, it was perhaps fortunate that he was such a villain as to be driven from society, rather than merely a gentleman who had proven unsuitable but was yet welcome in polite company. But no; Mr. Price would have been barred from every drawing-room if his absence had not made it a moot point, and as many of the families presently living in Bath had friends or connections or even homes of their own in London, there was, as Mr. Finch had hinted, a fair chance of Mr. Price's infamy being known there, as well.
In the midst of all this outrage, Kitty was grateful for the quiet goodness of Rosamond Hart. Her friend would have been justified in reminding Kitty how she had warned her against Mr. Price even in the face of Kitty's obstinancy, and in boasting of her own astuteness, given the rumors that now swirled through Bath; and yet, upon their next meeting, Rose said nothing on the subject until Kitty herself, feeling as though the air ought to be cleared, tentatively ventured his name.
"Yes, I have heard some unpleasant things," Rose replied calmly. They were sitting at Hart House, enjoying cakes and cups of tea. "I cannot believe all of it, of course, but certainly I suppose he must not be the gentleman everyone seemed to think."
Kitty bit her lip. "I am glad I am not marrying him, after all."
Her friend smiled at her. "So am I."
"I cannot believe I was so deceived by him," she went on, for though Rosamond did not know that they had actually been formally engaged, Kitty nonetheless remembered (with a hot stab of embarrassment), declaring how much she adored him, and how she could never love another.
"Everyone was deceived by him," Rosamond said. "That is why everyone is now so eager to disclaim him."
Kitty hesitated. "I do not think that you were deceived," she said at last. "Nor Mary. I ought to have listened to you both."
"It is easy to say so now," was the tranquil response, "but you could not have known the sort of man he was."
"I could have looked harder. It was only that he was so handsome, and amiable, and he said such kind things to me. I wanted so much for him to be as he seemed, and that was quite stupid of me. I am sure, if I had looked harder, I would have seen that he was not so perfect as I wished to believe."
"Perhaps; but there is no sense in regretting what cannot be undone. You know now the mistakes you have made, and you will know better for the next time."
"Yes," Kitty sighed, "if there is a 'next time.' I have quite lost my taste for flirting now. I do not think there is a gentleman alive to whom I would give a second glance."
"You are taking this all very hard," Rosamond said, with a little laugh. "But I think you are exceedingly wise," she added, "for there are a great many gentleman alive who do not deserve even a first glance, let alone a second."
There was a brief silence, as Rose took a sip from her teacup and Kitty lost herself momentarily in thought. She had never before considered quite how fortunate she was to have such a friend as Rosamond, but just now warm fondness was unfurling in her breast. It suddenly occurred to her that she would miss Rose rather a great deal when she left Bath.
She gave a little sigh, rousing herself from her reflections, and smiled at Rosamond. "Mamma will be very disappointed," she said, in a lighter tone. "It is less than a month till we go home to Longbourn, and neither Mary nor I am engaged. Perhaps you might tell your brother to speed things along, so Mamma is not too unhappy."
Rosamond laughed. "If I had any influence at all over him," she answered, "it would be my pleasure."
Talking of marriages reminded Kitty of her vow to speak to Rose on Mr. Finch's behalf, and she took a breath. She did not want Rose to know that she had ever been engaged to Mr. Price—not that she did not trust her friend's discretion, but it was simply too embarrassing—therefore, she could not relate the exact circumstances in which she had become so aware of Mr. Finch's valiant character. She would have to be subtle; this was not a skill which came naturally to her, and she had to think for a moment before proceeding.
"Did you enjoy yourself at the ball?" she asked at length.
"Oh, to be sure. I found the company very congenial; everyone was so happy to be dancing and enjoying themselves. I was sorry that I did not see more of you there."
Kitty wondered if Anne or Theodore had related to Rosamond just how Kitty had spent her evening. But it did not matter; Rosamond did not seem inclined to question her on her tears, if she was even aware that they had been shed, and at the moment there were more important matters to discuss.
"Mr. Finch tells me that you danced with him twice," Kitty said.
Perhaps it was not very subtle, but Rosamond only smiled. "I did," she affirmed. "He is a fine dancer."
"And you are such particular friends—so much in each others' confidence."
"We are friends to the perfect degree: enough that we can speak on any subject together, and be assured of an interesting discussion, and enjoy each others' confidence as you say—but not so intimate that we often grow annoyed with one another."
Kitty could not imagine Rosamond ever growing annoyed with anybody, or Mr. Finch doing so, for that matter. Though she had now seen each of them angry, such a petty thing as annoyance seemed quite impossible. "I like Mr. Finch very much," she ventured.
"Indeed? I thought you told me you found him rather awkward."
"Oh—yes, but that was when I did not know him very well. I have seen him more since then, and talked with him, and I think—well, I still think him very awkward, but I do not mind it so much now. He is a very good sort of person, you know. Though I suppose you do know," she added, with an awkward little laugh of her own, "or you would not esteem him so highly."
Rosamond was regarding her curiously. "I have always thought Mr. Finch a most worthy gentleman," she answered. "I am so fond of him. He may be reserved, but he has more real goodness in him than many of his more sociable peers."
"Always worth the trouble of making conversation," Kitty said, recalling what Rosamond had once said to her. Her friend smiled.
"Indeed."
"I think," Kitty said, hesitantly, not wishing to tip her hand too early, "that he is the sort of gentleman who might make any young lady a very worthy husband."
"Oh, undoubtedly," Rose concurred, giving her an inquisitive glance, which Kitty ignored.
"And of course," she added, "he is very handsome. I do not think I have ever seen a handsomer gentleman. Do you not agree?"
"To be sure. He is one of those few gentlemen whose exterior may be said to match their interior."
Kitty was pleased by this, and by the fact that Rosamond had said she was 'so fond' of Mr. Finch. If anyone was to deserve such a paragon of a gentleman, she thought contentedly, it would be Rosamond, who was herself so good and amiable. "I know he is only a younger son," she said conversationally, "and not a viscount or anything like that; but I understand his living in Larkhall is a very good one, and I am sure any wife of his would live comfortably. I wonder if he has given any thought to the matter."
"Of taking a wife? I should imagine he has given it some thought, for he is of the age where gentlemen at least begin to think of such things."
"Do you know if he has anyone particular in mind?" Kitty did her best to keep her tone quite casual, but there was an eagerness in her eyes which betrayed her.
"I could not say," Rosamond replied, glancing away. She did not blush, as a lesser maiden might have done, but the glance was telling enough, and Kitty thrilled inwardly.
"Well," she said with great satisfaction, thinking she had done enough for today (it would not do to be too explicit), "I am sure that whomever she is, if she exists, she is the most fortunate young lady in Bath."
Rose met her eyes again, and smiled. "I am pleased you have come to like Mr. Finch, Kitty," she said. "You are both such good friends to me, and it makes me glad to know that you are friends to each other, as well."
Kitty had nothing to say to this, and merely smiled and looked down at her lap.
"At any rate," she said brightly, raising her head after a moment, "it seems too long since we had a wedding in Bath; someone ought to get married, if only so people can talk about something besides horrid Mr. Price. If it is not to be me, and I know it is not, then it ought to be Mary. Are you certain you could not talk to Robert?"
"I am certain it would be in vain," Rose replied, laughing.
"That is too bad. Then perhaps you ought to get married, Rose, if only to provide him with an example."
Rosamond, to her surprise, did blush this time, and averted her eyes; though it was only for a moment, and she recovered her composure admirably, Kitty knew she had seen it. "Even if I had received an offer," Rose said lightly, "I would not care for a wedding just now. I have always wanted to be married in the spring."
"Oh, to be sure," Kitty agreed. "Who would wish to be married in a coat and scarf, without even any fresh flowers on hand? I think spring weddings are the best kind, though I like summer weddings as well. Imagine being married in the summer, Rose, with a bouquet of—" she laughed—"roses."
Her friend wrinkled her nose. "Oh, no, not roses. I cannot abide them."
"No indeed? How silly of you!"
"It is strange, I know; but for so long everyone has assumed them to be my favored flower, and as a result I have rather grown to resent them. I suppose it is some perversity on my part.—You would look pretty with a bouquet of roses, Kitty, but I think I should like to have peonies or sweet peas."
Their conversation soon drifted into the realms of romantic imagination so common among young ladies, even ones so sensible as Rosamond Hart or so presently set against marriage as Katherine Bennet; and before long Mr. Price, and Mr. Finch, and any other gentlemen who might have cared to intrude as the subjects of their dialogue, were quite forgotten.
Another week passed, bringing them nearly to the middle of October. Kitty, to her disappointment, had no more opportunity to speak to Rosamond alone and so build upon her initial favorable discussion of Mr. Finch; every time she called, her friend seemed to be already engaged in entertaining either Mrs. Hart, or one of the Miss Finches, or Mr. Finch himself (a sight which warmed Kitty's heart) or, once, Lord Adlam (a sight which certainly did not).
At any rate, Kitty did not have as much opportunity as she would have wished for long visits at Hart House. The lateness of the hour—there was only a little more than a fortnight before they would leave Bath forever—had startled Mrs. Bennet into spending as much time as she could husband-hunting for her girls. Where once she had two daughters all-but-married, now she had none: Kitty's betrothal had proved a disaster, and Mrs. Bennet could find no hint that Mary and Robert had formed a similar arrangement.
Where Robert was concerned, Mrs. Bennet's hands were tied: it certainly would not do to try and shift Mary's focus onto someone else, for Robert's interest in her had been, to Mrs. Bennet's mind, a hard-won victory. She would merely have to wait, and hope that before long it would occur to the foolish young man that he was wasting time, and that Mary would not forever be comfortably within his reach. This was not a course of action which pleased her. She constantly did her best to cajole Mary into dropping hints, and behaving coyly, and dressing in Kitty's prettiest gowns, and employing all those other tricks which had ultimately secured Mrs. Bennet her own husband. It was to no avail; she had never met a girl so stubbornly modest and unromantic as her own daughter. That Mary was clearly growing annoyed with her advices, only served to feed her own displeasure at the situation.
But Kitty, Mrs. Bennet felt, could surely manage to secure an engagement or at least an attachment within a fortnight. When they had arrived in Bath, after all, Kitty had fancied herself in love with every gentleman she saw, and had danced every dance at every ball, and had flirted and giggled and charmed for all the world. Why should she not now, relieved of one suitor, merely find another? It had only taken her a week or two in Bath to fall in love with Mr. Price, and though the Season was now long ended, gentlemen were still plentiful.
To that end, Mrs. Bennet began seeking out the company of whatever eligible gentlemen she could:
Though she, like Kitty, acknowledged that Oliver Finch belonged heart and soul to Rose Hart, his elder brothers were yet unattached; and so they spent an evening at the large house on St. Stephen's Road (where, to Kitty's disappointment, they did not find the youngest Mr. Finch, for he was at home in Larkhall).
When that did not answer, Mrs. Bennet betook them to the Wolfes' for an evening of cards; but Charles Wolfe spent the entire evening staring hopelessly at Miss Turner, and Kitty did not appear to mind his inattention.
Finding the handsome Mr. Sanburne at a dinner-party hosted by the Fitzwilliams was an unexpected boon, and Mrs. Bennet was even more pleased to see him seated by Kitty at the table; but here they did find Oliver Finch, who was seated to Kitty's right, and she spent the entire evening talking to him, despite her mother's meaningful gestures.
The Seabrooks hosted a private ball at their house in Queen Square, and here Kitty danced with Mr. Archer and Mr. Turner; but Mr. Archer stepped hard upon her toes, and Mr. Turner only wished to talk about hunting.
Even young Mr. Carpenter, Mrs. Bennet thought, might do very well; indeed that would be preferable, for his mother was such a particular friend of hers. But Kitty found him unbearably dull, and told her mother as much.
"Well, my dear," Mrs. Bennet exploded, "I do not know what you wish me to do. Are you certain you could not fall in love with any of them?"
"I am certain, Mamma," Kitty said, sadly.
"This is unaccountable. Do you not remember, child, when we came to Bath, and you fancied all of these gentlemen excellent matches for you? And yet now you tell me you do not like any of them?"
"They are all quite amiable," Kitty sighed, sounding rather miserable. "But I do not think I could marry any of them, and be happy."
Mrs. Bennet eyed her severely. "I hope, my girl, that you are not still pining for Mr. Price."
"Not at all," Kitty protested.
"I should hope not; he is not worth a second thought. But all of these gentlemen are very amiable, and come from decent families and have good fortunes, and nobody has been telling any terrible stories about what they get up to in London. And several of them are quite handsome, and you used to like them all very much. I cannot understand it. The wise thing to do, my love, would be to choose the one you like best and simply make up your mind to fall in love with him; for we leave Bath in less than a fortnight, now, and you know there is nobody worth your attention in Meryton, and your father may never let you out of Longbourn again. If you wish to marry, this is your best chance."
Kitty bit her lip, almost tearful, and looked away. "I am sorry, Mamma. I simply have not the taste for being in love anymore."
She was sorry; for while it was one thing to tell Mary and Rosamond that she was abandoning her pursuit of love and romance, it was quite another to come face to face with the truth. She had half expected that, once she was again facing a handsome young gentleman across a dinner-table or dance-floor, all of the guardedness which Mr. Price had engendered in her would fall away, and she would again be happy to laugh, and flirt, and gaze at him (whoever he happened to be) through her eyelashes. She had not really thought that the attentions of a gentleman would ever leave her unmoved, or that their eloquent compliments would ever irritate her, or that she would ever be thankful that she was not a great beauty, who must endure such notice incessantly. Never before had she found gentlemen so uninteresting, and it concerned her.
She mentioned the problem to Mary one evening, as they were preparing for bed.
"I thought this was what you wanted," Mary said, confused. "Did you not tell me that you had no interest in falling in love?"
"Yes, but I did not think I really meant it," Kitty replied, half-embarrassed and half-exasperated. "I mean, I suppose it is all for the best; but I am beginning to worry that perhaps I am still pining for Mr. Price. I was very much in love with him, you know, before…" She trailed off uncertainly.
"I do not think you are pining for him," Mary said, resisting the urge to lecture her sister on the folly of saying things one does not mean. "From what I understand, though perhaps I am mistaken, the mention of him does not make you sad or regretful; you only ever seem angry when you talk about him."
"But how do we know that that is not pining?"
Mary regarded her seriously. "If he returned and said he wished to marry you, would you agree?"
"Certainly not! Do not be vile, Mary."
"What if," Mary said, choosing her words with care, "what if he had never said such unkind things to you; what if Mr. Finch had not made you aware of his true nature—what if, indeed, his true nature was quite as he presented it? Would you, then, wish to marry him?"
Kitty thought for a long moment. It was not, really, a question she had asked herself. "I do not think so," she said, at last. "No. I would not. I did not tell you—or anyone—but I had made up my mind not to marry him even before I saw him that morning, or spoke to Mr. Finch; why, even when we danced at the Assembly Rooms that last night, I thought him dreadfully dull. And even if I had not seen—no. No. No, I would not marry him even if he were everything he seemed."
She had grasped, dimly, at this thought, but never before had it come to her so clearly, and she certainly had not said it aloud. To do so now gave her a startling wave of relief, and she smiled at her sister.
"That was a good question," she said.
Mary gave her a small smile in return. "Thank you. But, to return to the point: I do not think you are pining for him. I think you are only, as you told me—even if you did not mean it—uninterested in love and marriage at this time. And it is good, Katherine," she went on, her voice regaining its accustomed pontificating tone, "for I have never thought you truly ready for marriage. You seem to possess a very idealistic view of the married state, as I have said before, but I hope that this experience has relieved some of those notions, and made you more aware of the duties and difficulties that one must necessarily endure as a husband or wife."
"Oh, Lord, yes," Kitty said, pushing down her irritation with the lecture, for really Mary made a fair point. "I shall know, now, never to accept an offer from someone merely because I find him handsome."
"That certainly is progress," Mary said, drily, and Kitty laughed and hit her lightly with a pillow. The assault stunned Mary, who had never in her life engaged in any behavior that could be called playful; and the look of shock upon her face was so amusing that Kitty laughed some more, and did it again.
"But you know what I mean," she resumed, giggling, when Mary sniffed and refused to return the attack. "I shall only ever accept a proposal from a gentleman when I can be really, truly assured that he is decent and kind, and will not be horrid to me or anyone else."
"And when he has proven to you the depth of his mind," Mary added seriously, "and when you can affirm that he spends his time in good and useful employment, and when you have established that your views of the world are, if not matching, at least compatible."
"Yes, but I shall have to be in love with him, as well," Kitty said thoughtfully. "It used to be that that was the only criteria, that and the handsomeness, but now we have a whole list. I suppose that is why I cannot care for any of the gentlemen Mamma wants me to like; I do not know any of them well enough to be in love, even if they are all handsome and amiable. Perhaps if I came to know them better—but we do not have time for that." She groaned and flung herself down upon her pillow. "I shall die an old maid, Mary."
"You shall not," Mary responded, smiling in spite of herself. "On the contrary, I am sure that, equipped with your new understanding of love and relationships, you are far better suited to making a good match than you ever were before."
Kitty looked up and smiled at her, rather touched.
"If one of us is to die an old maid," Mary added wryly, "it will be me," and Kitty laughed and shook her head.
"Not at all, for you have Robert, do you not? I am sure he will propose soon, and you will return to Hertfordshire as the soon-to-be-Mrs. Hart, if not the actual Mrs. Hart."
Mary bit her lip. She had not told anyone of the agreement between herself and Robert, though Rosamond seemed perfectly aware of how matters stood; she supposed either Robert had told her, or Rosamond's sisterly intuition had made any disclosure unnecessary. But Kitty had been honest with her; and, if she were honest with herself, she rather wanted to share her news (even if it was not really news) with someone.
"Robert will not propose before we leave Bath," she said, quietly. "We have agreed upon that."
Kitty, startled, sat up and folded herself into a position of expectation. "You have agreed?" she asked, interested, for if she had ever expected anyone to have an understanding with a gentleman, it would not be her older sister. Mary nodded, suddenly a little embarrassed.
"We have discussed the matter in detail," she said stiffly, "and have agreed that, while we would each prefer to marry the other over anyone else, neither of us is, at the moment, ready to be married."
"So you are engaged."
"Not engaged," Mary protested, blushing, "nothing so formal. I suppose you may say we are—attached—that is, we have acknowledged that our matrimonial interests lie only with each other. But for now we do not wish to act upon these interests, and we plan to wait until we are both ready to wed."
"How long will you wait?"
"A few months—a year—perhaps a few years. Until one of us informs the other that we should like to re-evaluate the state of our relationship."
"Lord!" Kitty laughed. "You make it all sound so orderly."
"We are fortunate enough to enjoy a relationship based upon honesty and transparency."
"Yes, but do you not think it rather dispassionate? You have not even said that you are in love with him."
"There is no need."
"But if you plan to marry him—"
Mary was blushing hotly now. "There is no need for such a romantic declaration; we each know perfectly well the feelings of the other. That is the advantage of such forthrightness. We know that we are well-suited to a life together, not only in terms of our values and our characters but in terms of what will make us happy. We do not need to—"
"Do you love him, Mary?" Kitty asked, grinning, her head cocked to one side. Mary, her face redder than she thought it had ever been, rolled her eyes and did her best to seem unconcerned.
"Really, Katherine, this is quite unnecessary."
"It is a simple question. I think if you are planning to marry a gentleman, however far into the future, you ought at least be able to say that you are in love with him."
"There is no—"
"If you can't even say it to me," Kitty reasoned, "how will you ever say it to him? And I think it quite unfair to oblige your husband to go through life without ever knowing that you love him. You may call that silly and romantic, but I think it perfectly essential."
Mary heaved a great sigh of annoyance. "I think you are missing the point, Kitty."
"I think you are," Kitty retorted good-naturedly, "for it is one thing to approach marriage very sensibly and practically, and it is quite another to take all the passion out of it. Perhaps I have been looking at it too romantically, but I think you are regarding it too logically."
Her sister glared at her.
"Do you love him, Mary?" Kitty asked again, with an air of innocence.
There was a long pause, during which Mary would not quite meet her sister's eyes; and then, at last, ducking her head, she murmured, "Yes."
"I did not hear you."
"Yes," Mary repeated, irritated now, "yes, Kitty, I love him."
Kitty beamed at her. "There, now!" she cried. "Is that not much better? Now you have said it aloud, to yourself and to me, and now someday you will be able to say it to him without stammering or blushing or otherwise looking foolish. And, since I know now that you love him, I give you my permission to marry him, whenever it suits you both."
"I was not aware that I needed your permission," Mary muttered.
"Of course you do," Kitty replied carelessly. "One cannot marry if one's favorite sister does not approve of the gentleman."
"If that were the case, then you would never have accepted Mr. Price," Mary replied, but she regretted it the moment she said it, for Kitty's smile dropped and her eyes went wide. "Oh, Kitty," she said, feeling wretched. "I did not mean that."
Kitty gave a little shrug and a half-smile. "I don't mind," she said. "It is quite correct, anyway; I said so to Rose, that I should have listened to you and to her, and she said this means I shall know better for next time. And I shall, Mary," she added, looking very serious. "The next time I think myself in love with a gentleman—if ever it does happen again—I shall be sure to consult you. I think you are very good at seeing what I cannot: you did not like Mr. Wickham, and you did not like Mr. Price…and the only gentlemen in Bath that you do like, that is, Mr. Finch and Robert Hart—I think they may be the only worthy gentlemen in the city. Single gentlemen," she corrected herself, for really she did like Theo Hart, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was so amiable.
Mary gave a little laugh. "There are probably plenty of other worthy gentlemen, but I have not met them, or am too exacting to see their virtues. Anyway I am sure I am not so reliable as you seem to think."
"That is true," Kitty conceded, "for you liked Mr. Collins. But you were very young and foolish then."
"I was not! I never—"
"And anyway he isn't bad," Kitty went on, ignoring her sister's protests; "he is merely tedious, and rather embarrassing in company. No, Mary, even with such evidence against you, I think you are far better than I am at choosing gentlemen to like. And so, if I ever fall in love again, I shall submit to your guidance, within reason. After all," she added mischeviously, "you are the only one of us who knows what it means to be really, truly in love."
Mary hit her with the pillow this time, and Kitty was so startled that her sister had time to hit her again, and a very brief battle took place—much pleasanter, and punctuated by laughter, than any of their battles had been in the past.
The prospect of a dinner-party at Hart House pleased both of the Bennet sisters, Mary because she would see Robert and Kitty because she would see Rose (and see Mary and Robert together, which would surely be very amusing, given what she now knew). Mrs. Bennet was less enthusiastic, because Robert certainly would not propose during a family dinner-party, and because it was unlikely that there would be anyone in the company with whom Kitty might fall in love: the elder Mr. Hart was married, Robert belonged entirely to Mary, and Dr. Hart, while single and certainly genial, was rather older than Mrs. Bennet would have liked for a prospective son-in-law. Only the thought that the Harts might have invited some other friends, preferable eligible gentlemen, gave her any comfort.
In fact the Harts did invite three single gentlemen, although, to Kitty's mind, at least two of them were ineligible. Upon their arrival, the Henry Street family found both Mr. Finch and Lord Adlam in the sitting-room, where they were, to Kitty's astonishment, having an apparently friendly conversation together. (What poise was exhibited by Oliver Finch under such duress as must be caused by an interview with his rival!) Captain Finch, the middle brother, was the only other single gentleman present besides Robert; he was escorting his youngest sister, who was Juliet's age. Colonel and Mrs. Fitzwilliam made up the rest of the party.
"There is Bertram Finch, at least," Mrs. Bennet whispered in Kitty's ear; "If you are seated by him, my dear, I beg you will make what you can of it. He is a second son, it is true, but he is a particular friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam's, and is said to have excellent prospects."
Kitty had always found Captain Finch perfectly agreeable, but, as she by now expected, she could not manage to work up any interest in his excellent prospects.
It did not matter, at any rate, for Kitty was seated by Oliver instead of Bertram. This suited Kitty perfectly well, though she was distressed to see that the place by Rosamond, at the farther end of the table, was claimed by Lord Adlam. This she thought rather cruel of her friend, though she knew it could not be intentional; was poor Mr. Finch not only to be seated so far from his dearest love, but also to watch helplessly as the unworthy viscount wooed her? She regarded them disapprovingly. Rose ought not smile so broadly, she thought, nor should the viscount look so obviously pleased by the situation. That was bad form.
"How good of Lord Adlam to join us here in Widcombe," she remarked rather bitterly, turning to Mr. Finch. He looked at her with surprise.
"I understand he is a rather frequent visitor to Hart House."
"Is he?" Kitty asked, with faux sweetness. "It is rather far from the Royal Crescent, is it not?"
"Not such a difficult distance."
"I have never had the honor of talking much with his Lordship," Kitty said, taking care to keep her voice low, "and so I cannot pretend to have an opinion of him."
Mr. Finch's eyebrows were nearly to his hairline. "I think him very good-natured," he replied carefully.
"Do you?" Kitty's heart melted. "How charitable of you, Mr. Finch!"
"You see, Oliver?" Theo Hart put in, from Oliver's other side. "Now that you are officially a man of the cloth, any little act of yours may be taken as the highest charity. I told you it would be so. You can do no wrong, anymore."
Oliver Finch's lips twitched. "It seems so, Theodore."
"Though it would be better if you were a soldier, like your brother; then you would be not eternally charitable, but eternally dashing."
"Are you a friend of his Lordship, Mr. Hart?" Kitty asked, leaning forward to look at Theodore.
"I believe I would count myself as such," Theo replied, "for he has certainly spent enough time courting my goodwill—two Seasons, is it now, Robert?"
"And a little more," Robert agreed, looking up from his conversation with Mary, "for he has stayed several months past the Season this year."
"So let us make that three years."
"Your arithmetic is incorrect."
"I am not worried about it.—Three years of courting my goodwill, Miss Katherine, certainly makes him my friend. Though I wonder, sometimes, if he has some ulterior motive in seeking my approval." He nodded to the other end of the table, where Rosamond was laughing, her hand pressed lightly to her mouth. She looked very fetching, and Lord Adlam did not appear unmoved by the sight. Kitty bit her lip.
"He is a very decent fellow," Robert remarked.
"Yes, but he will need some training up; for he has only ever had sisters, you know, Robert, and so we will need to show him what it means to have brothers. He will have to stop being so polite to us, for one thing."
"Oh, stop," Kitty gasped, unable to look at Mr. Finch. "You speak as if everything is quite certain."
"She is right, my dear," Anne Hart interjected, smiling at Kitty. "Let us talk of something else."
Theo concurred, and asked Robert and Mary about the last concert they had attended, and the conversation moved onto more general topics; though Kitty and Oliver were both quite silent. Kitty dared a glance at him. He was looking stonily at his plate, lifting measured forkfuls to his mouth without expression. Her heart sank. She hoped she was not too late to sway Rosamond's opinion—for how then would she repay Mr. Finch for the service he had done her? They ate in dull silence, plunged into dissatisfaction with the evening, while everyone else around them talked cheerfully. At length, however, Mr. Finch endeavored to break the ice.
"Miss Katherine," he said, in a low voice, "I wish to ask how you are feeling since—since our last meeting."
"Oh," Kitty said, surprised and pleased, "I am very well, Mr. Finch. I was not at first, but now everything is much better."
"I am glad to hear it."
"It helps, you know," she added softly, "to hear everyone else speaking so ill of him. I know as a clergyman you will say it should not help, but it does."
Mr. Finch smiled briefly. "As a clergyman, perhaps I should say so; but as a person who lives in the world, I may agree that it is often satisfying to hear justly abused the object of one's aversion."
"I believe I have you to thank for that satisfaction," Kitty said, as quietly as she could.
"It was no trouble, Miss Katherine."
"I promise I shall repay you." And she would, she thought with grim determination. Surely, if she told Rosamond the complete story of Mr. Finch's heroism, her friend could not then prefer Lord Adlam, even if she thought Kitty a fool for ever putting herself in such a situation.
"That is not necessary. I consider it among the duties of—friendship." The gentleman was blushing very hotly. "If I may presume to call myself your friend."
"Oh, Mr. Finch," Kitty said warmly, "of course we are friends. Did I not say so, that day? I think rescuing—that is," she corrected herself, suddenly aware that they were not alone, "I think what you have done for me, is quite equal to three years of courting my goodwill. Do you not agree?"
"I am thankful to have been spared that effort."
Kitty giggled. "Mr. Finch," she said, "I am not sure if you know, but it is only a fortnight now, or perhaps a little less, before I must go home to Hertfordshire. Did you know that?"
"I did not, Miss Katherine."
"Well, it is true; and do you remember at the ball, when you said you would write to me so I could tell you if you were any good at it? I think you were only joking then, but I think I would truly like it very much if you were to write to me at Longbourn."
Mr. Finch was smiling at her. "I would be glad to do so, if it would really be agreeable to you."
"Most agreeable," she assured him. "I have never had a correspondent before—well, I suppose I have, but only my sisters. I think, if I had a friend to write to, in such a place as Bath, that I would be much more faithful about writing when I should. There is nothing else to do at home, anyway," she added, a little glumly.
"Will you miss Bath very much, when you go?"
"Oh, to be sure. I have enjoyed myself here as I never do at home. There are more places to go, and things to do, and of course so many more people to see. I have such excellent friends here: Rose, and Juliet, and their brothers, and you, and your sisters, and so many others. I have friends at home, too, of course, but—it will not be the same."
"I suppose not."
"At least, when I read your letters, I may feel as if some part of me is still in Bath, going to the Assembly Rooms and the Pump-Rooms and so on."
He gave a little laugh. "I fear you are grossly overestimating my social schedule. I am sure I do not spend nearly enough times in the public rooms to satisfy you. I will be careful not to write letters of sermons, as you have requested, but several of them may very well be about sermons, for that is my employment. I apologize in advance."
"Good and useful employment," Kitty murmured, not really meaning to, and not sure why she did. He blinked at her.
"Pardon?"
"Oh, it is nothing," she replied, blushing a little. "Only something Mary was saying. Well, I will forgive you talking about your work, if you promise not to forget to include some news, and to tell me all about the balls and assemblies you do attend."
"I will make it my first object. I am looking forward to this," he said, rather shyly.
Kitty immediately felt very fond of him. She sent another glance down the table. How could Rose be so blind to what was before her?
After the meal had ended and the ladies and gentlemen had separated—the ladies to the sitting-room and the gentlemen to Dr. Hart's study—Kitty made a beeline for Rosamond's side. Her friend, eyes sparkling, was engaged in a quiet conversation with Mrs. Hart and Mrs. Fitzwilliam, but gladly made her excuses and stood to take a turn with Kitty.
"I am so glad you could come tonight," Rose sighed happily, tucking her arm through Kitty's. "I have not seen enough of you lately."
"I must speak with you," Kitty said, doing her best not to sound too urgent, for she did not want to alarm her friend, but hoping nonetheless that she sounded sure of herself.
"Why, of course." Rosamond turned to her.
Having gained Rose's attention, Kitty was rather stymied. She did not know how exactly to proceed. "I think," she began, slowly, "that there is something you may like to know, before you—make any decisions."
She hoped this was clear enough; but it did not seem to be, for Rose's brow furrowed and she did not respond.
"Mr. Finch is the most excellent gentlemen I have ever met," Kitty burst out, and then immediately blanched, remembering the company. Fortunately, Miss Finch was seated on the other side of the room with Juliet.
"Why, Kitty," Rose laughed, "this was not what I expected."
"I know you are his friend, but I do not think you can be entirely aware of how good he is," Kitty persisted, though at a lower volume. "He has done something for me which—"
"Rose," Mrs. Fitzwilliam called, "won't you play for us?"
Several of the other ladies immediately seconded the appeal, and Rosamond, with an apologetic smile to Kitty, was soon cajoled into taking the seat at the pianoforte. Kitty, disappointed, sank onto the settee.
Rosamond played very well. Kitty had known this before, for Rose had played once or twice when they were at Pemberley, but she had forgotten how talented her friend truly was. The song was beautiful and liquid, and Rose's fingers moved expertly over the keys; yet all Kitty wished was for it to end, so she could finish their conversation and so do Mr. Finch the good turn he deserved.
Once the first song had ended, however, Rosamond was persuaded by her friends to begin another; upon finishing that, she offered the seat to Mary, who took it with pleasure, the audience sufficiently small and familiar to heighten her eagerness, rather than her nerves. Kitty knew Rose well enough to know that her friend would not speak during a song (even though they were only in a sitting-room and not in a grand concert hall, she thought with some annoyance). Mary, too, played a second song, and then, indulging her vanity perhaps a trifle too much, a third; and once that had ended, the gentlemen came in to join them, and Rosamond's attention was claimed by her other guests, and Kitty's opportunity was lost.
Well, she thought resolutely, it only meant she would have to try again.
Mary was pleased when, as the gentlemen entered the sitting-room, Robert immediately sought her out and took the seat beside her on the piano-bench. Their conversation at dinner had been very general, frequently interrupted by the people seated around them, and she was glad to have some time alone with him. "So that was your playing I heard as we came down the hall," he said, smiling at her. "I knew it was not my sister, but I have never heard you play, before, so I could not be certain."
"You must have heard me play," Mary objected. "Why, that has long been my primary object in coming to Hart House."
"Yes, but I am rarely here when you arrive; and by the time I join you, if I am able to do so, you have usually progressed to the 'conversation with Rosamond' stage of your practice—a crucial stage, I am sure."
"Most crucial," Mary agreed, smiling. She had expected to feel rather awkward in his company, given her discussion with Kitty, but was pleased to find that it was not so. And indeed nothing had really changed, she reflected with satisfaction. It was only her awareness of the situation which had expanded, and in a most positive direction. "But if indeed this is the first time you have heard me play," she went on, rather shyly, "I should like to know your opinion."
"I think your practices have served you well," he replied, "or else you have a natural talent; I cannot say. And you seem to appreciate the song, which may not be technically helpful but is certainly enjoyable to hear."
Mary flushed with pleasure, running her fingers absently over the silent keys. "That is more the case since I have come to Bath," she admitted. "When I first began to play, I used to think only of technical proficiency; but since we have been going to concerts, and I have seen firsthand how much a passion for the art of the performance may help one to develop one's skills, I have done my best to focus as much upon the beauty of the music as upon the technical aspects."
"I think that is key, in developing any craft or skill: one must be able to enjoy oneself, or the activity is fruitless."
"I would have disagreed with you most strongly, once," Mary said thoughtfully. "But now I begin to think that the idea has merit. Certainly, one may be more inclined to diligence when one enjoys the practice—and even more so when one has been able to witness the love of the craft which is possessed by true artisans. I have been fortunate enough to have several such opportunities, which is down to your own generosity, and that of your family."
"Well, I am glad that you have been able to build your craft," Robert said, "and I am glad of any part my family and I may have had in your doing so. I shall miss sitting with you at concerts."
Mary looked at him with surprise. "I am sure that is not so. My presence at your side can make little material difference; it is not as though we spend the time engaged in conversation."
"I suppose you are right. Well, then, I shall not miss sitting with you at concerts; but I shall miss walking with you in the intervals and after the performance has ended, and hearing you talk about how well you enjoyed it. You are always more animated, then, than at any other time. It makes me happy to see."
He turned to her, and their eyes met. For the moment everything seemed very quiet, and Mary's heart began to beat faster without her knowing why. There was a mad instant in which she thought he might lean forward—
But Robert glanced away, and Mary was suddenly quite aware that they were surrounded by friends and family and the gentle murmur of conversation. She sat back, red-faced, and glanced over her shoulder. Kitty, sitting across the room with Juliet and the two Finch brothers, was grinning at her; Mary dared not look at her mother, and hoped Robert did not, either.
"At any rate, we need not say our goodbyes just now," Robert was saying, with studied carelessness. "There is still time before you leave Bath."
"Indeed," Mary agreed, attempting to match his tone. "And, of course, once I am at home, you may write to me."
"That I certainly shall. And who is to say that you will never come to Bath again? Rose will be sure to invite you to stay at Hart House, or wherever she may be living in the future."
"I am not certain my father would give his consent."
"No indeed? Then we shall all be obliged to descend upon you in Hertfordshire. I hope you will not mind."
The thought in fact made her smile a little. "We should be glad to have you all at Longbourn, if you would not mind traveling so far."
He snorted. "I would not mind it; you know very well how tired I am of Bath. And I am sure Rose would not mind it either, for she has always wished to see more of the world. I cannot speak for the others. Anyway it is sure we will meet again, whatever contrivances we may have to employ."
"We must meet again, at least once," Mary said, hesitantly, her voice low. "Do you remember—"
Robert met her eyes seriously. "Of course I do. You will let me know, will you not, if your feelings change?"
"Only if you promise the same."
"I do."
This seemed to be all they could manage for the moment, and they both turned away from each other, blushing.
"But now we are speaking again as if it is our last meeting," Robert said. "Let us talk of something else. What have you been reading lately?"
Mary told him, and a new conversation was begun, which had nothing to do with marriage or love or anything of the sort.
This lasted until the Fitzwilliams stood to took their leave, and everyone else, exclaiming with real surprise at the lateness of the hour, followed suit. The Bennets were among the last to leave, and bid their hosts a very fond farewell as they pulled on their coats and gloves in the vestibule. Kitty saw, with great displeasure, that Lord Adlam had not yet even put on his coat, or given any other sign that he was ready to leave; it seemed that he had taken it upon himself to remain even after everyone else had gone, and she wondered at his rudeness in doing so.
It was cold outside, and so the family was glad to climb into the coach—only slightly warmer—and shut the doors against the night wind. The ride home to Henry Street was not long, and the horses trotted quickly through the dark city streets, allowing the passengers brief glimpses into brightly-lit houses as they passed by. Every scene they passed seemed warm and genial and intimate: families sitting around dining-tables, children kneeling in window seats, even one house in which a few young couples were dancing and laughing together as some unseen musician played a reel.
The sights lit, in Kitty, a flame of love for Bath, and a startling, very real sadness at the prospect of leaving it behind forever. In Mary, however, the momentary visions of these happy lives made her suddenly nostalgic for Longbourn and Hertfordshire, and all the comforts of home, which had for several weeks been far from her mind.
Mrs. Bennet was not so thoughtful as her daughters. "Well, my girls," she sighed, "at least it was an enjoyable evening, if not a particularly productive one. I am sorry you were not seated with Captain Finch, Kitty. His brother can be no use to you."
"It is all right," Kitty replied, tearing her gaze from the window. "Mr. Finch is amiable, at least."
Mrs. Bennet sniffed, as though not quite in agreement with this, and turned to Mary. "And you, my dear," she said, rather frostily, "I know I can expect no news from you. I hope you enjoyed the company of your friend, for it seems that is all he will ever be."
"We are more than friends, Mamma," Mary replied absently, without meaning to. She was remembering her conversation with Robert at the Assembly Rooms, and the conversation with Kitty which was now only a few days ago; certainly it was not entirely accurate to refer to Robert as merely her friend.
Mrs. Bennet, her frosty manner forgotten, gave a gasp of delight. Kitty's head swung around and she stared at her sister, half-gleeful and half-astonished at Mary's candor.
"More than friends, my dear?" Mrs. Bennet repeated, with great significance in her tone.
"Yes," Mary replied, and then, realizing what inferences her mother must be drawing, turned hurriedly and did her best to correct the misinterpretation. "That is—I should not say that we are so much as—"
But her mother was not listening. "How long I have waited to hear you say so, my love!" she crowed. "You do not know what a trial it has been for my poor nerves! I thought, back in September, that there was something—but then I could not find any further hint of it, and so I was quite prepared to give up entirely, my dear—but this! More than friends! And indeed you two did sit rather close tonight, my love, which I thought rather unbecoming at the time but now, of course, it is all to the good! Why, my Mary has formed an attachment! I shall have another daughter married before the new year!"
"Probably not so soon," Mary interjected, helplessly.
"Well, before the spring, then. Do you think we ought to invite him to Pemberley for Christmas? But no, he will probably want to be at home with his own family. That will be something for you to discuss, when you are married, for his family are all very pleasant but certainly Christmas at Hart House cannot be nearly so agreeable as Christmas at Pemberley.—But of course you have some time before you must decide such things. Did you know of this, Kitty my love?"
"Well, I—" Kitty blushed, and looked wide-eyed at Mary, uncertain what her sister wished her to say. Mrs. Bennet took her hesitation as assent.
"You did! Why did you not tell me, child? But I suppose you were saving it as a surprise, and indeed it is a lovely one! Oh, my dear! I must say I was beginning to think it would never happen; and now here you are! More than friends! And what fine timing, coming so soon on the heels of Kitty's disappointment!—Forgive me, Kitty dear, I do not wish to upset you. But really this is such wonderful news, when we have all been so low of late! Oh, Mary, how happy you have made me!"
Mary gaped feebly at her. She knew, of course, that she ought to disabuse her mother of the notion that she was actually engaged, for it was unfair to everyone involved. She had always preached honesty and levelheadedness; and now, when she had an opportunity to do as she advised others to do, she faltered. For shame! she scolded herself inwardly.
But truly—Mrs. Bennet had been low of late, angered by Mr. Price's betrayal and frustrated by Kitty's failure to find another suitor and, of course, by Robert's failure to propose. This was the happiest she had looked in nearly two weeks, and Mary, her feelings as a daughter momentarily overruling her feelings as a reasonable person, could not bring herself to disappoint her mother a second time.
And what did it matter? They were to leave Bath soon, and Mrs. Bennet would be happy for a fortnight. Certainly, once they were home at Longbourn, Mary could invent some excuse for breaking off the engagement, or at least for postponing the wedding until the thought of being married stopped making her stomach twist in fretful knots. And they were engaged, in essence, she told herself. Simply because they had not said so (had, in fact, said the opposite, but she ignored this) did not mean it was not true. Robert was the only gentleman she could ever imagine marrying. What was that, if not basically an engagement?
"I am glad you are happy, Mamma," she said, weakly.
Mrs. Bennet's happiness manifested itself in rapid, elated chatter, which carried them all the way home to Henry Street.