Though she would have liked to call upon Rosamond the next day, Kitty was disappointed to find that it was quite impossible. The day of their departure was growing ever nearer—a little more than a week, now—and Mrs. Bennet had desperately redoubled her efforts to find Kitty a suitor, and so it seemed as though the family's every moment was spoken for. Their mornings were spent making the usual round of calls to families boasting single sons; their afternoons were spent in the Pump Room; they took tea at Sally Lunn's or some other fashionable little shop; they dined out and spent their evenings in company, until at last the hour came for them to pile into the carriage and hasten home to bed, only to wake and do it all again on the following morning.
It was very tiring; and though it was exactly what the Kitty of a few months ago would have imagined as a most charming way of spending one's time in Bath, the Kitty of the present day could not help being a little irritated at her mother's efforts.
Mary was, naturally, even less enthused with the increase in the family's social schedule, but now there was an added element of embarrassment to be found at every gathering. Her mother had never been exactly discreet; yet Mary longed for the time when Mrs. Bennet had confined her eager conjectures to an audience of particular friends, or at least friendly acquaintances. Now Mrs. Bennet loudly introduced her at every assembly as "My elder daughter, Miss Bennet—though of course she will not likely bear that name for very much longer!" and, upon the natural inquiry which followed, she gleefully admitted that Hart would soon take the place of Bennet. Mary counted it as good fortune that the Harts themselves had not been present at any of these troublesome gatherings.
Yet though Mary had once found Bath's small size to be rather comforting—certainly less overwhelming than a great metropolis—she now found it greatly inconvenient, as Rosamond, on a rare afternoon when Mary was able to slip away to Hart House, greeted her cheerfully with "I understand I am to embrace you as a sister-in-law."
Mary flushed very red, and could not quite meet her friend's eyes. "I had hoped that rumor had not reached your ears."
"Then it is a rumor?"
"You know it is," Mary muttered. "I am sure you would be the first to know if matters between your brother and I had changed."
"I am sure I would," Rosamond agreed placidly, "but I wished to hear you confirm it. You are greatly outnumbered, I am afraid; though you tell me that it is not true, Mrs. Carpenter and half a dozen others have most vehemently assured me otherwise. They inform me that I am to be a bridesmaid before Christmas."
Mary gave a little groan. "I suppose I am fortunate, that we are leaving Bath before long. I am sure everyone will forget about me, and hopefully about this absurd rumor as well."
"'Absurd' is rather strong, is it not?"
"At the present time," Mary maintained, "any rumor of my marriage can only be absurd. I cannot begin to picture myself as a bride, much less as a wife or" (she gave a little shudder) "as a mother; and though you know how I esteem your brother, and how I think him the most intelligent and sensible gentleman of my acquaintance—"
"We need not go so deeply into that," Rosamond interjected, laughing. "I cannot bear to hear my brothers well spoken of. Anne takes great delight in listing all of Theo's virtues for my benefit, and it always gives me a head-ache."
"At any rate," Mary said, "you know how matters stand, and I imagine you know better than I do when the situation will change, for you always seem to know such things."
"You overestimate my powers of perception."
"I am not convinced that that is the case," Mary replied, with a small smile.
Rosamond met Mary's smile with one of her own, and did not reply. They sat in comfortable silence for a long moment.
"Well," Rosamond said at last, taking a sip from her teacup, "I shall look forward to the day when I may call you my sister, whether it is two months from now, or ten years."
"Thank you." Mary's heart lifted.
There was another companionable silence.
"I imagine," Mary said at last, blushing faintly, "that we shall not have much further opportunity, after this, to speak alone together; and so I shall take this moment to tell you how very much I have enjoyed the time we have spent together. You are the kindest friend I could have wished for, and separation from you will be among the most painful aspects of my departure from Bath."
"Then let our correspondence ease the pain however it might; and anyway, I am very confident that you will come to Bath again before another year passes."
"That is not at all likely," Mary protested sadly.
"You do not understand, my dear Mary," Rosamond said, with an elfin smile. "Your presence will certainly be required, whatever your father or mother might say."
"Required by whom?"
"By myself, of course. You may spend your autumn at Longbourn and your Christmas at Pemberley, as you please, but do plan on returning to Bath in the spring."
Mary opened her mouth to press her friend further, but at that moment the door to the sitting-room opened and Robert came in. "Oh, hello," he said, rather awkwardly, regarding the two young ladies.
His sister rose from her chair. "I suppose I ought to invent some tactful excuse," she said, "and thus discreetly take my leave; but truly I do not think there is any point. I shall leave you two alone. Good day, Mary; I am sure we will meet again before you leave."
And with another curious smile over her shoulder, she swept out of the room. Mary watched her go, brow furrowed.
"Rosamond is in high spirits today, it seems," she remarked to Robert.
"Yes, is it not annoying?" He took the chair which his twin had vacated, and took a sip from her teacup. "I did not know you were coming to call today, or I should have finished my work sooner."
"It was not a planned visit. It was only by great good fortune that I was able to slip away from Henry Street after breakfast, or I should have been obliged to spend the day in the Pump Room again. As it is I am obliged to dine with the Fords tonight, for they have an unmarried son.—Not for my sake," she added hurriedly, at Robert's glance. "Mamma is determined to see Kitty engaged before we leave."
"And is she likely to succeed?"
"Certainly not. To secure an engagement, within such a short time, is not only unfeasible but highly imprudent; a week is not enough time to know a man's character and temperament to any acceptable degree. Besides which, Kitty herself is, thankfully, opposed to the scheme—she begins to say that she will never marry, which naturally causes my mother great distress."
Robert nodded, though his expression was rather preoccupied. Mary spoke no further, uncertain of his present humor.
"Mary," he began hesitantly, after a long pause, "has there been some miscommunication between us?"
"No, I do not think so."
"No indeed? Twice this week I have been offered very sincere congratulations by people of my acquaintance, though I was not aware I had done anything to deserve it."
Mary flushed very red. Of course, she thought, if the rumor had reached Rosamond, it must surely have reached her brother. The thought had not even occurred to her.
"I have no desire to embarrass you," Robert said earnestly, seeing her blush. "It is only that I should like to have everything clear between us."
"I understand; and I apologize for any awkwardness which my carelessness may have caused for you. I am afraid that I made some small hint of our—understanding—to my mother, and she wholly mistook my meaning. I am sorry, Robert."
"There is no need for an apology."
"Indeed there is, for I ought to have corrected the misinterpretation, and did not. It was a failing on my part, and I shall endeavor to correct it."
Robert said nothing, but smiled at her, and Mary took this to mean that the conversation was ended. They sat quietly for a long moment, though it was not uncomfortable.
"What do you think you will do, when you return to Hertfordshire?" Robert asked at length, breaking the silence. Mary glanced at him.
"What I have always done, I imagine. You know very well my opinions on the subject of leisure: I think spare time ought to be occupied usefully, when one is possessed of it, and so I shall return to my books and my daily practice. I also have hopes of enjoying some very fine autumn days, when I may walk into Meryton and through the fields and woods around Longbourn. I am looking forward to it with great anticipation."
"It all sounds agreeably pastoral."
Mary smiled. "Indeed; and that is what I like best, of course."
"And are you glad you have come to Bath, though you never desired to do so?"
"Oh, yes," she responded, with Kitty-esque warmth. Robert's eyes widened, and she composed herself with a little embarrassment. "That is—while I cannot claim to love the city, as I love Longbourn and Meryton, and while I yet find its frivolity most distasteful, I have nonetheless managed to enjoy myself throughout my time here."
Robert nodded thoughtfully.
"Most especially," Mary ventured, her face hot, "with regards to yourself and the members of your family. I have just finished telling Rosamond how greatly I appreciate her friendship; and of course, Robert, you know my feelings for you, and can infer the pain I will feel upon leaving your company. I do not think—indeed, I know that my stay in Bath would not have been nearly so pleasurable nor so instructive, had I not made your acquaintance."
"And you would not have made my acquaintance," he mused, "had you not met Rose and Theo when you were at Pemberley in the autumn; and you would not have met them, if Theo and Anne had not happened to fall in love and marry; and they would not have done so, had Lady Catherine de Bourgh not brought Anne to stay the Season before last, and enlisted my father as her physician. And I imagine there is some peculiar sequence of events leading up to her Ladyship's decision to do so. Is it not strange, how our lives are all so linked by coincidence?"
"Coincidence," Mary said, her face very red indeed, "or Fate, as some may call it," and Robert laughed.
"Nay, I shall not allow that; you begin to sound like one of those novels which are too trite and silly even for my sisters to enjoy. I expected better of you, Mary. Have you no extensive theory at hand on the nature of Life and Providence, as laid out by Mr. Fordyce or one of his colleagues?"
"It has been pointed out to me," Mary replied rather stiffly, "that Mr. Fordyce and his colleagues may not be the authorities which I had heretofore considered them."
"Did Rose tell you that? Yes, I am sure she did—those words have her stamp all over them. I hope she was not unkind."
"She was very forthright."
"That is easily believable." He grinned at her. "I am sure that is a Hart family characteristic which it will not be painful to leave behind."
"Quite the contrary," Mary answered. "I have grown accustomed to receiving polite criticisms of my follies on a fairly regular basis. In Hertfordshire I may revert to a worse version of myself, led to complacency by less candid company; and you may be disgusted with me at our next meeting, and decide your interests lie elsewhere after all."
Robert gave a surprised laugh, and looked at her with wide eyes. "That, I am sure, is an impossibility. On my part, at least," he added hastily; "you may well find somebody who suits you better."
Mary thought this very gracious of him, for she was certain that if one of them were to beg off from their arrangement, it would be Robert. But she did not say so—it would only lead to another awkward conversation which would reaffirm the claims and promises which they had both already made, with no further object than her own selfish comfort. For now, she thought, unless and until Robert said otherwise, she would simply trust that they would be together one day, when it suited them both.
"What will you do, once we are gone from Bath?" she asked, changing the subject.
He raised an eyebrow at her, looking for a moment very much like his brother. "You seem to think much of the effect which your presence here has had upon my daily life."
"There," Mary replied drily, "that is the candor which I shall sorely miss."
Robert grinned. "I am only teasing, Mary. But indeed it will be rather quieter once your family has gone. Certainly I shall remain in Bath for another few months and work under my father, and then I will go away to school and take my degree, which will use up another two years at least."
"And when you have completed your training?"
"Then I will be a physician, and you may not address me as Mr. Hart anymore. I will be very particular upon being called Dr. Hart."
"I do not address you as 'Mr. Hart' now," Mary reminded him, smiling.
"No, I suppose you do not."
"Where will you be at study?"
He glanced at her. "Have I not said? I have been granted a place at St. Thomas's. It will be very different, I think, from life in Bath; at last I will be obliged to treat ailments besides gout and nervous exhaustion."
"You will learn a great deal, I imagine."
"That is the object."
"And," Mary added, with some distaste, "you will be given that great opportunity which all young people seem to covet, of making your fortune in London."
Robert gave a little laugh. "You speak as though you are not a young person."
"At times," Mary confessed, "I do not think myself one."
Their conversation continued along these agreeable lines for a little while longer, until Mary was obliged to admit that she would surely be missed by her mother, and Robert offered to walk with her up to Henry Street.
As their stay in Bath drew nearer its end, the days seemed to pass more and more quickly. Soon there was no further question of their being in company all the day; Mrs. Bennet was obliged to admit defeat where Kitty was concerned, and only hope that there would be some influx of handsome new neighbors in Meryton when they returned home.
The hours which had once been so pleasurably (for the most part) spent in the public rooms and the drawing-rooms of friends and acquaintances, were now taken up with arrangements for their journey to Longbourn. Mr. Bennet had taken it upon himself to hire the carriages; but the ladies were left to their own devices with regard to packing their trunks and finding room for the various purchases which they had made, as is so often the case, without thought to the necessity of somehow transporting them home.
In addition to these ordinary travelers' frustrations, there were final calls to be paid to all of their most intimate friends and acquaintances, and the usual promises to be made: of lively correspondence and lengthy visits in coming seasons—though the less generous tended to make this promise with a slightly sardonic lift of the eyebrow, as though suggesting that it would be quite excessive for a resident of Bath to ever purposely make a journey to the wilds of Hertfordshire. Mrs. Bennet, so as to ward off any disdain, began hinting that they would perhaps stay the next Season in London, and offered gracious hopes that she would meet her Bath friends at Almack's or some other fashionable place, knowing full well that it was quite out of the question for most of them (and, of course, that Mr. Bennet would never agree to such a scheme).
The Fitzwilliams bid them a cheerful farewell, aware that they would likely meet again over the winter, when Colonel Fitzwilliam and his parents and brother usually came to stay at Pemberley for a fortnight or so. They all spent a very happy hour in the sitting room at James Street, making conjectures over the growth of little Sophia, and expressing their mutual eagerness to see her (and her parents, of course) once again.
Their visit to the Finches' house on St. Stephen's Road was a noisy one, as the entire family had gathered to say good-bye. The Miss Finches all promised Kitty that they would write very faithfully, and let her know everything that happened in Bath, and all of the scandals and rumors which made the city so interesting. She thanked them amiably, for she knew that their offer was a sincere one and well-meant; but in fact there was only one correspondent in the family for whom she truly cared. Oliver Finch was quiet at this last meeting, drowned out for the most part by his more outspoken brothers and sisters; but their eyes met more than once, and each time they shared a smile.
Hart House was their last port of call, on the morning before they were to leave. Mrs. Bennet, supposing with unusual tact that this parting would be the most painful for her daughters, had purposely put it off as long as possible. Kitty, who had not had an opportunity of speaking to Rosamond since the dinner party, would have liked to have spent all their mornings at Hart House, and thus do all she could on Mr. Finch's behalf before she was obliged to go away from Bath and leave the diffident gentleman to his own devices.
As they were welcomed into the pleasant sitting room, however, she discovered that his own devices would certainly not be enough to help him any longer. All of the Harts were present—and Lord Adlam as well, smiling for all the world. The gentleman's excellent humor was swiftly explained.
"My dear girl!" Mrs. Bennet crowed, embracing Miss Hart with motherly fondness. "How wonderful, how truly wonderful! I never had any idea—you have kept it all very quiet, my dear! Indeed I rather thought your heart lay elsewhere; but really this is much better than I had expected! Of course you have my congratulations, and Mr. Bennet's as well no doubt, and the girls', though I am sure they will want to say so themselves!"
Mary, smiling, immediately offered her congratulations to her friend; but Kitty was silent.
The news of the engagement, apparently so long expected by everybody else and the cause of so much gaiety, had made her stomach sink unpleasantly. She wondered if Mr. Finch knew—no, she decided, he could not, for he had looked so cheerful and content when they had met the day before. Kitty's heart burned with sympathy for him. The poor gentleman! He was so good, and had done everything right; really he was the hero of the story, she thought sadly, and yet all of his virtue and kindness had come to naught. If only she had tried harder to speak on his behalf!
"You see, Mary," Rose was saying merrily, "that is why you all must come back in the spring; I should love to have you at my wedding."
"I am sure Mr. Bennet could not disapprove of that!" Mrs. Bennet cried.
Kitty scrutinized her friend. Rosamond, her hand tucked securely into the crook of his Lordship's elbow, was glowing, her eyes dancing, her cheeks faintly pink, her mouth curved with the smile which she could not quite keep from her face. Her features, usual serene and composed, were lit with lively animation, and she kept glancing up at her betrothed, who was presently the object of her brothers' affectionate harassment.
Had Rose ever looked so, when talking of Mr. Finch or walking on his arm? Perhaps he had never had a chance at all. For a moment Kitty felt very wretched indeed—but then Rosamond glanced at her and their eyes met, and it was suddenly very plain that this was all her friend had ever wanted, and this was what was right, and Kitty could not bear to be unhappy when her dearest friend was so plainly overjoyed.
And so she smiled, and hurried forward and took Rose into her arms with all the affection of a sister.
"I think you will be deliriously happy," she said, beaming at the young couple.
"I think you are right," his Lordship agreed, his gaze upon his bride-to-be. Rosamond took her hand and squeezed it gently.
"You will come to the wedding, won't you, Kitty?—If your father and mother agree," she added conscientiously. "And even if you may not, then at least say you will come to visit us when we are married and settled. Would you not like to stay a Season with us in London?"
"Indeed, Miss Katherine, we should be glad to have you at Breezewood House," Lord Adlam said politely. Kitty's heart, already slightly softened toward the young viscount by the adoring way in which he looked at Rosamond (a gentleman with such tenderness in his gaze could not be as malevolent as she had supposed him, after all), melted still further at the offer of a Season in London—and staying in a fashionable household, at that! It was everything which Mr. Price had once promised her, without the taint of duplicity.
"You are too generous, sir," she said, curtsying low. Then she giggled. "And you told me only the other day, Rose, that you could not imagine having a wedding just now!"
"In fact it is a few years before I had planned to marry," Rosamond answered, blushing modestly, "for I have always believed that I could not acquire the necessary sagacity before the age of twenty-two at least."
Kitty shook her head. "Indeed, I am sure you could not be any more sagacious if you tried ever so hard."
"As your sister would tell me," Rosamond said, laughing, "one may always endeavor to improve oneself. But anyway I have fallen in love, despite all my efforts not to. Sometimes one must simply admit defeat, I suppose."
Yes, Kitty thought, and poor Mr. Finch will have to admit defeat, as well.
But she brushed the thought away. It would not do to dwell upon what could not be changed. Her duty now, she told herself, was to be happy for one friend, and sympathetic to the other.
The Bennets passed a very pleasant hour at Hart House, and then, as it was to be their last visit for the foreseeable future and they were enjoying themselves so much, they passed another. Everybody was cheerful and determined to be amused with the present company, and consequently there was a great deal of laughter and noisy talk. Though they were there to say good-bye, it did not feel, yet, like a separation: Rosamond's wedding in the spring stood before them with the happy prospect of reunion.
Yet Kitty began to feel rather wistful as she gazed around the assembled company. She was suddenly very fond of everybody, even Lord Adlam though she hardly knew him, and the thought of leaving them behind was heartbreaking to her. She sighed heavily, and Anne Hart, seated beside her, turned to her with sympathy in her looks.
"It is never easy to leave one's friends," she remarked.
"No indeed," Kitty agreed, "even to go home. Lord! It is strange to think of being at Longbourn again; so much has happened since I left there, and I feel that I won't know what to do with myself when I return."
"Are you not eager to see your father and sister again?"
"It will be good to see them, of course," she admitted, "but I rather wish that it were the other way around—that is, that they were the ones I visited, and these were the ones amongst whom I lived. I feel as if I can bear the society here much more happily than I can bear the society of my family."
Anne laughed. "I remember feeling much the same when I left Bath," she confessed.
"And the wish came true for you," Kitty said, "for now you do live here amongst all of your friends."
"It may come true for you as well—our situations are not so dissimilar."
Kitty shook her head with a little laugh. "No," she said teasingly, "for you were leaving behind a gentleman who was very much in love with you, by all accounts, and I am leaving behind nothing of the sort. Rose says that Mr. Hart chased you all the way to Kent, but I cannot think of anybody who will chase me to Hertfordshire."
Anne blushed. "But we may see you in the spring, at least, and by then perhaps the situation will have changed—one can never tell."
Kitty privately thought this unlikely, but only smiled.
At last Mrs. Bennet, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, began to say that they could not stay much longer. Her words were greeted with protests from their hosts, but indeed there was still packing to be done and final arrangements to be made, and they must go. And so everyone rose from their seats, and there were many fond gestures and kind words shared, particularly amongst the young people.
"It will be very dull here, once you are gone," Rosamond said to Kitty.
"Not nearly so dull as Hertfordshire," Kitty sighed, and her friend laughed.
"Nay, you must create some excitement there, my dear Kitty, for I shall expect many letters from you, detailing all of your adventures—and I will not settle for dullness. At any rate you have Christmas at Pemberley to look forward to, which must certainly be enchanting. But we shall miss you here—I shall miss you, very much."
Kitty, her eyes suddenly brimming with tears, threw her arms about her friend.
"I am very sorry for all of the times that I was disagreeable," she gasped, all in a rush, "and for all of the times that I was silly and foolish, of which I am sure there have been plenty. I shall write to you every day, and I shall do everything to make Papa bring us back for the wedding, and in the meantime I hope you are perfectly happy and well."
This was all she could manage, but the two young ladies embraced tightly for a moment longer, before separating. Kitty went to bid her farewells to the others, and Mary hurried forward.
"Goodbye, Rosamond," she said, with a sudden rush of affection. "I think I shall miss you more than anybody."
Rose laughed. "You need not say so," she teased, "for I know where your thoughts truly lie; but it is good of you, Mary. I shall miss having you come to play for me each day, and attending concerts with you."
"You have been very generous, in allowing me the use of your instrument and of your concert-tickets. I am sure I have done nothing to deserve such kindness."
Her friend waved a dismissive hand. "It is always agreeable to do favors for one who is so appreciative; and the favor has been more than repaid by the pleasure of your interesting conversation. But," she said, glancing pointedly over Mary's shoulder, "I imagine your attentions are desired elsewhere just now, and so I shall bid you my final farewell—at least until we meet again."
Mary, looking over her shoulder, saw Robert glancing at them, and then glancing away with studied carelessness. An involuntary smile quirked her lips.
"Mr. Hart," she said, when she gained Robert's side. He looked down at her, smiling, though his face was a little red.
"Miss Bennet."
Mary, unaccustomed as she was to any sort of interaction with a gentleman, let alone one to whom with whom she had an understanding, was uncertain of how to proceed. She felt no need to make any final declarations—indeed, everything had already been laid out so plainly between them that it seemed quite superfluous. To engage in any other sort of conversation, however, felt far too frivolous; how could they stand discussing the weather, or any other neutral topic, under such circumstances?
Robert, too, seemed rather out of his depth, and they stood in silence for a long moment. It was not an uncomfortable silence; in fact it seemed to speak more clearly than any words might have done. Yet Mary, growing aware of her mother's gaze upon her back, eventually cleared her throat.
"I wish you well in your studies," she said carefully.
"Thank you. And I hope you have a very comfortable journey. When will you reach Longbourn?"
"By Wednesday, at the latest. It is not a long journey—only a day and a half, or so."
"Indeed, it seems quite an easy distance."
"Mary," Mrs. Bennet said, from where she was pulling on her gloves. Kitty, too, was near the door, buttoning her spencer. Mary turned to them for an instant, and then turned Robert again. He was regarding her fondly, and for a moment she felt the weight of his gaze. His gray eyes, warm and clever and thoughtful, held an infinite promise.
"Mr. Hart," she said, and curtsied.
"Miss Bennet," he said, and bowed.
"Well!" Mrs. Bennet huffed, as they climbed into the carriage. "How utterly unaccountable! He did not speak to me once, except to say goodbye, though certainly there are arrangements to be made, and indeed he has not yet even announced himself! I cannot understand it!"
"Of whom are you speaking, Mamma?" Mary asked, turning to gaze out the window at Hart House.
"Of your betrothed, of course, Mary—of Robert Hart! You say you are engaged, and yet there has not been one word of a wedding! And with his own sister's engagement announced today, why, one would think the topic might be a natural one to broach with his future mother-in-law!"
"Perhaps he did not wish to detract from the celebration of Rose's happiness," Kitty suggested. Mrs. Bennet snorted.
"Whatever he wishes, my dear, the fact of the matter is that this is the last time we shall meet for several months, and he, as a man who will be married to my daughter, has a certain duty! He behaves as if there is no engagement! I am sure this cannot be pleasant for you, my Mary, to be engaged to a man who seems not to notice that—"
"We are not engaged, Mamma," Mary interrupted.
Mrs. Bennet was momentarily shocked into silence; and then, violently, "Do you mean he has broken the engagement?"
"No, Mamma. The engagement is not broken—it is postponed, if you will."
"I will not!" Mrs. Bennet cried. "Postponed? It might as well be broken! I do not know what you think you are about, Miss Mary, but this all speaks of great carelessness on your part!"
"It would be careless to become engaged at the present time," Mary replied, doing her best to remain calm. "He is only a student, with years ahead of him before he can reasonably support a wife; and I have no desire for a husband just now. We have an understanding, Mamma. Is that not enough?"
"An 'understanding'? And what do you think will happen, in the months or years before you meet again? It is not as though he lives in our neighborhood, and so will might occasion to remember that he is promised to you, and can be watched; there are miles between you, and Bath is full of beauties, and he may well slip through our fingers before ever a word is spoken of marriage!"
"He will not," Mary said with great conviction.
"It is all very well for you to say so, my girl, but I have told all of my friends in Meryton that my daughter is engaged; and now I shall return home and have to tell them instead that in fact there is some small chance that she may marry in several years but that until then—"
"Mamma," Kitty broke in, glancing sympathetically at her sister, "Rosamond has invited me for a Season in London—after she is married, of course."
This news was sufficient to distract Mrs. Bennet from her vexation; and with only a little further coaxing from her younger daughter, she was soon drawn into a far more agreeable conversation on Rosamond's great good luck in having caught a viscount, and the generosity of her extending an invitation to Kitty, and the likelihood of Kitty, as a guest at Breezewood House, perhaps also catching the eye of some member of the peerage (for who knew what fine titles and handsome fortunes waited among Lord Adlam's friends and connections?). Mary, afforded room to breathe, afforded her sister a grateful look, which Kitty acknowledged with a nod.
The drive back to Henry Street was thus rather pleasant, as the horses trotted easily through the autumn air of Bath. It was a fine crisp day, and everybody seemed to be out in the streets and parks, intent upon some errand or amusement. The weather had grown colder, and the trees had begun to turn; but to Kitty the city looked just as enchanting as it had when she first beheld it in the summer. The white buildings were lit faintly gold with the afternoon light, and the river gleamed a brilliant blue under the clear sky as they crossed over the bridge from Widcombe.
Their last evening was spent engaged in earnest battles with their trunks (namely Kitty's and Mrs. Bennet's, for they had indulged themselves the most in all of the alluring shops along Milsom Street; but even Mary had acquired several new volumes of fiction, which seemed unwilling to fit into her trunk alongside all the abandoned books of sermons and moral essays). Supper was a quiet, uninspired affair, scraped together by the cook from the remainders lingering in the cupboard. The family sat in the drawing-room for a little while after they dined, but each was so occupied with her own thoughts and reflections that there was no conversation to be had, and everybody went to bed very early.
"Do you know," Kitty said, as she and Mary undressed, "I have grown rather accustomed to sharing a room with you."
Mary, pulling the pins from her hair, glanced at her. "Have you?"
"Yes; it was not at all the unpleasant ordeal which I thought it would be. In fact I have rather enjoyed it. Haven't you, Mary? It is nice to be able to talk together like this—it is so much cozier than our separate rooms at Longbourn."
"I suppose it does make conversation more convenient."
"I hope," Kitty ventured, after a long moment, "that we will still be friends, when we are at home."
Mary gave her sister a little smile. "We are sisters, Kitty."
"Yes, but you know what I mean. Until we had come to Bath, I thought you most dreadfully dull and irritating, and I am sure you did not like me very much either. And yet now we may talk together very easily, and we do not argue nearly so much as we once did. In fact when I think again of how we used to be, it makes me rather exhausted. It is no wonder Mamma's poor nerves suffered!"
"Mamma's poor nerves will suffer in spite of all our best efforts," Mary said wryly. "But I take your meaning. It is pleasant to enjoy a natural sisterly intimacy, where before there was only animosity."
"I only hope that our 'sisterly intimacy' does not disappear once we are leading separate lives again," Kitty said, and though she did her best to sound flip, a note of sadness crept into her voice. Mary stopped combing her hair and turned to face her sister.
"I think such a change unlikely," she said, kindly. "I take too much pleasure in your company, Katherine, to allow a distance to spread between us once again. There is a difference between separate rooms and separate lives."
Kitty smiled gratefully at her, and a companionable silence fell between them. At length, she said, "How strange, that Rosamond and Lord Adlam should be so suddenly engaged!"
"Do you call it sudden? Robert told me some time ago that he thought an engagement likely, and Juliet has been most impatient for Rosamond to make the announcement. And of course the elder Mr. Hart has long appeared certain of Lord Adlam's feelings for his sister. I can even recall Mrs. Hart making some hint to that effect."
"Oh," Kitty replied, a little crestfallen. So truly everybody had known, except for her! "Well," she said, taking on a lighter tone, "I suppose if I were in love with some member of the Hart family, I would be as well-informed as you are."
Mary flushed and narrowed her eyes. "It is hardly a secret, Katherine. In fact I cannot believe you were so surprised—you out of everyone! Has Mr. Finch not made some suggestion of the matter to you?"
Kitty started. "Mr. Finch? Why should he tell me anything about Rose and Lord Adlam?"
"It was my understanding that Oliver Finch was a particularly intimate friend of Rosamond's," Mary said, with a little shrug. "He spends a great deal of time at Hart House; I am sure he is as aware of the situation as anybody else. And the two of you seem to have developed a friendship over the past weeks, and knowing your fondness for gossip of the matrimonial variety—"
"No," Kitty interrupted stiffly, "we never spoke of it."
"Well," Mary went on, "it is good news, anyway. One likes to know that one's friends have the greatest possible chance of happiness."
Kitty made a small noise of agreement. "But, you know," she said suddenly, "it does seem rather unfair for one person to be so lucky. Rose is exceedingly beautiful, and clever and amiable, and everybody loves her so well; and now she will be a viscountess, and be prodigiously wealthy. And Lord Adlam loves her quite to distraction, from the look of things. It is all very nice for her, but I am sure that if only I did not like her so well, I would quite despise her."
"How fortunate for Rosamond," Mary teased, "that you are far enough advanced to look beyond your natural tendency toward loathing."
"Yes; you see, she is blessed with far too much good fortune," Kitty agreed with mock solemnity, and laughed.
They left Bath very early the next morning. Though Mary had told Robert that it was an easy distance, Mrs. Bennet nonetheless had a horror of long journeys, due to the effect which the rattling carriage so often had upon her poor nerves, and wished to have it over with as soon as possible.
The city was only beginning to stir as they climbed into the post-chaise; the sun was lifting in the east, and casting a pale glow over everything. The horses jogged lightly along Henry Street and turned north onto Pierrepont, carrying them alongside the Avon, which danced merrily under the North Parade bridge. A few carts and carriages shared the road with them; shopkeepers' assistants and servants walked along the footpaths, but there was no urgency to their movements, as though it were too early to be concerned with anything. Kitty pressed her nose to the window. A cool breeze rustled the treetops at the river's edge, but otherwise everything was still and quiet. They turned onto the Pulteney Bridge and crossed Henrietta Street, where most of the houses still had their curtains drawn. Mary, glancing down the street, remembered walking in Henrietta Park with Robert on a much warmer day; she thought this was the way they had come, along the street and then through the mews…
But then they were jogging faster along Great Pulteney Street, rounding the western edge of Sydney Gardens (how long it had been since they had all sat there under the stars and fireworks, and listened to the orchestra!) and passing the fine homes along Sydney Place. They caught Warminster Road, leaving the gardens behind, and that carried them east through the rows of houses and cottages that gradually grew farther and farther apart, all the way through Bathford, finally petering off into sprawling greens and fields dotted here and there with crops of buildings that were gone as soon as they had come.
The sun had risen by now, and everything glistened in the dewy morning light. Mrs. Bennet was snoring softly in her corner; Mary and Kitty shared a glance. Kitty took her sister's hand and squeezed it tightly.
"Think only how pretty this will all be in the spring!" she whispered, and Mary smiled.
The ride from Bath was much quieter than the ride to had been, for Mary was occupied with one of her novels (she did not find that reading in the carriage hurt her head, anymore) and Kitty was busily writing her first letter to Mr. Finch, as she had promised. At any rate, the carriage was not nearly so stuffy as it had been in August; the cool autumn weather was ideal for traveling, and Mrs. Bennet declared that she did not know why anybody traveled at all during the rest of the year. Despite the additional luggage, the post-chaise did not feel as crowded as it once had; their stops to refresh the horses afforded them ample opportunities to stretch their legs and enjoy the fresh air, and their two days' journey passed easily and pleasantly, with the added charm of fine October scenery along the way. Kitty, gazing out of her window at the lines of red and gold trees along the road, silently wished that they were rows of buildings in Bath-stone instead; but Mary rejoiced at the sight of so much greenery (and reddery and goldery), and felt her heart lift as each mile brought them closer to Longbourn.
What a curious feeling it is, to return home after a long absence! They had been gone for nearly three months, and it was strange—and wonderful—to turn into the old familiar lane, last seen bordered by the spreading flowers of summer and now covered by the brilliant leaves of autumn; and how strange to see the large drafty house come into view, and to see the front door open and Mr. Bennet come out into the drive, looking quite as he always had, and yet different. He was smiling, and they all smiled too, as the post-chaise drew to a slow stop and they were able to climb down.
"My dear!" Mrs. Bennet cried, hastening forward to greet her husband. "We have so much to tell you—there is so much that has occurred, and I daresay we will be able to entertain you for months, with all of the stories which we have to share! Oh, my dear, if only you had come with us! It was the most marvelous adventure—was it not, girls?"
Mr. Bennet made a show of craning his neck to peer into the carriage behind them. "Well," he said, eyeing his daughters approvingly, "I do not see any villainous husbands lurking in the shadows of the post-chaise to leap out and startle me, and so I can only conclude that the adventure was less of a disaster than I had anticipated. Hello, Mary; hello, Kitty." He embraced them both fondly. "I trust you have had a pleasant journey?"
"Dreadful, my love, quite dreadful," Mrs. Bennet sighed. "You know I cannot abide these long journeys by carriage; they play so ill upon my nerves."
"If you will only precede me into the house, my dear, you may find something of a restorative awaiting you." He bowed with mock solemnity and motioned her toward the door. Mrs. Bennet, giving a little squeal of surprise and delight, bustled away; but her husband hung behind, and proffered an arm to each of his girls as they walked.
"You are both rather quieter than I had expected," he said. "Why are you not giggling, Kitty? Or you, Mary—I have been looking forward to a long lecture on the frivolity of Bath's society and amusements. Will you disappoint me?"
"I am afraid I must, Papa," Mary replied, with a little smile. "Indeed I must give you a very bad shock, and tell you that I rather enjoyed myself, despite the frivolity of my surroundings. But I am most glad to be home."
Mr. Bennet gasped and pressed a hand to his breast. "Is this my child? Has there been some celestial catastrophe, which has resulted in a reversal of the rules of the world? Kitty, my girl, reassure your papa, and tell me you have fallen in love with some ostentatious redcoat who possesses more charm than sense, and plan to be married on the green tomorrow."
"No indeed, Papa," Kitty laughed. "There were no redcoats to be found, but I did not mind it. There was one gentleman who sparked my interest—you may have read about him in Mamma's letters—but ultimately I determined that he was quite unsuitable."
"Ah, yes, the infamous Mr. Price. Your mother seemed to have great hopes of him; personally I thought he sounded alarmingly similar to one of the sons-in-law of which I am already possessed, and I was disappointed, for I like to have some variety in my sons-in-law. I am proud of you, my dear, for not having strayed down that path."
"So am I," Mary chimed in, and Mr. Bennet glanced at her in surprise.
"Thank you, Papa," Kitty said; "Thank you, Mary. I have decided, Papa, that from now on I shall think far more seriously before I consider falling in love with anybody. Mary and I have even discussed a list of necessary qualities for a potential husband, and I shall be most insistent upon that score. I am sorry to disappoint you, but I do not think you will have another daughter married for some time."
Mr. Bennet was too self-contained a gentleman to ever be accused of gaping; but he came rather close now, as he regarded his younger child. "Upon my word," he said at last, "perhaps the carriage has deposited the wrong young ladies on my doorstep."
"Come, come!" Mrs. Bennet crowed, throwing open the window to the sitting-room. "Whatever are you dawdling for? Come inside, girls, and see what your papa has brought to Longbourn for us! I do not know why you tarry so! Mary my love, pick up your hem—it is dragging in the dust!" Her head disappeared through the window again, and Kitty giggled as Mary, disgruntled, did her best to preserve her hem.
"In this, at least, we may take comfort," Mr. Bennet intoned, "that whatever changes are wrought in the world around her, your excellent mother will always remain true to herself. But come now, children, we are dawdling."
And so, picking up their pace as they had been ordered, father and daughters crossed over the threshold into Longbourn, and the Bennet sisters were home once more.
Mr. Bennet's surprise turned out to be a very welcome one: Jane and Mr. Bingley were waiting in the sitting-room, wreathed in smiles, presently giving polite attention to Mrs. Bennet's prattle. There was much happiness in the reunion, and there were so many cheerful exclamations made—of good health, and good looks, and delight at the meeting, and eagerness to hear all the news of Bath and Meryton—that it was some time before everybody sat down again, and they were able to have some sensible conversation.
The Bingleys were of course eager to know how their sisters had enjoyed Bath. Mr. Bingley had been once or twice before with his own family, and he and Jane had recently been contemplating taking a holiday there, "Though," Mr. Bingley added, blushing, "it may be some time before we are able to do so; I understand that ladies in Jane's condition are not meant to do much traveling."
It took a moment for the statement to sink in; and then Mrs. Bennet let out a shriek of delight, and embraced her eldest child with such violence that both of the Bingleys looked rather alarmed and Mr. Bennet said "Carefully, wife!"
"How wonderful!" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, beaming. "At last I shall have a grandchild who does not live at the other end of the earth; it will be such a joy to have children at Longbourn again! Of course, Jane, your sisters will be happy to assist you in any way that they might, for they have nothing to do now that we are come home."
"Indeed we have not," Kitty agreed warmly, "and I beg you to make use of me, Jane, for I shall be most dreadfully bored otherwise."
Jane smiled gently. "That is very kind of you, Kitty."
"I am of course honored to perform whatever sisterly duties I may," Mary chimed in. Kitty giggled.
"La, Mary, you might make an excellent governess! You may wear your horrid blue gown, the one you kept trying to wear to balls and parties in Bath. Do you not think it makes her look like a governess, Jane?"
Jane opened her mouth, undoubtedly ready with some careful reply intended to circumvent the seemingly unavoidable quarrel between her younger sisters; but to her surprise (and indeed everybody's, except Mrs. Bennet's), Mary only replied, "I shall gladly teach the child literature and music, Kitty, but you must teach him how to dance."
"Yes—is not that agreeable? We shall be such dreadfully doting aunts that you will grow quite sick of us at Netherfield."
"And yet, under our tutelage, the child may well flourish," Mary said. "For Kitty lives much in the world, and I live in it little. With such influences, the child must certainly grow up to live just as much in the world as he ought."
Everyone turned to stare at her, and she blushed.
"That is how a friend in Bath once phrased it," she muttered, glancing down at her lap. At this, Kitty grinned rather wickedly.
"When she says 'a friend in Bath,' in that very anonymous manner," she informed Jane and Mr. Bingley, "she means Mr. Robert Hart. If it were our friend Rosamond or anybody else, she certainly would have called them by name."
"Let us not talk of Robert Hart," Mrs. Bennet groaned, "for the very mention of him gives me such pains in my head. Do you know, Jane, your sister was all but engaged, and yet she let the gentleman slip away? And Lord knows when she shall ever find another one!"
"Mamma!" Mary protested, and Mr. Bingley's eyes widened; but fortunately at that moment the maid came in to announce that dinner was ready, and the contentious subject of Robert Hart was dropped in favor of a fine hot meal.
The travelers were quite ravenous, for the food at the inn where they had stayed overnight had been disappointing; and anyway, though they had never thought particularly poorly of their Henry Street cook, dinner at Longbourn reminded them how much they had missed the familiar comforts of home. Even Kitty, whose thoughts kept drifting back to Bath, was happy to sit at the battered old table, covered with the reassuringly homely cloth and set with the friendly, slightly chipped plates and bowls off of which she had eaten since childhood ("Why did you not order Hill to put out the good things, Mr. Bennet, knowing that we were to have guests?" Mrs. Bennet hissed, casting a meaningful look at Mr. Bingley).
Conversation at dinner was comfortable and agreeable, covering such a variety of topics as the prospect of Christmas at Pemberley; the latest fashions in Bath; the beauty of the scenery along the way home; the likelihood of Jane's having either a son or a daughter and the naming possibilities inherent in each; Miss Hart's engagement and, very briefly, the idea of returning to Bath for her wedding; the latest letters from Lizzie, Lydia, Charlotte Collins, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, and everybody else with whom the family was concerned; and so on.
Mr. Bennet was pleased that the meal passed without any outbursts or foolish giggles from Kitty, nor any dull lectures or peevish retorts from Mary. Jane was glad to see that her younger sisters appeared fonder of each other than they had ever been before, and Mr. Bingley was delighted to enjoy a meal at Longbourn without any of the awkwardness which usually ensued—for though he had never much minded his wife's relations, nevertheless he never knew entirely what to do with himself when the sisters fought noisily, and the mother complained loudly of her nerves, and the father excused himself to his study.
The first thing Mary noticed, as she undressed for bed in her own tidy little bedroom, was the silence.
Her conversations with Kitty had become a fairly regular part of her evening routine, and though she was only separated from her sister by a wall, she rather missed the quiet camaraderie which had been bred by their nightly tête-a-têtes. But she had never noticed the constant soft night noises which had served as background to these conversations: carriages clattering by, shouts and laughter in the streets, dogs barking and, occasionally, music and voices from some nearby ballroom or inn. She had once found all of these sounds most disturbing; but now, as she combed her hair, she could hear nothing. Had Hertfordshire always been so deathly silent? Mary did not think it had ever seemed so before, but surely it could not have changed much in the three months she had been away.
Shaking her head, she picked up The Memoirs of Emma Courtney and settled against her pillow.
It was also very dark. This was what Kitty noticed, as she leaned toward the table between her bed and the bed that had once belonged to Lydia, and blew out the candle.
She had grown so accustomed to the comforting glow of street lights and the bright windows of neighbors, that as the little flame flickered and went out, the room suddenly seemed plunged into blackness. Kitty bit her lip. It was silly, of course; she was not a frightened child, but a young lady of eighteen years, who had been raised in the countryside—in this very room, in fact—and so certainly she could not possibly be afraid of a little darkness. She waited a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the faint light of the moon and stars; but there was a cloud over the moon tonight, and so she closed her eyes instead, willing herself to fall asleep. Had she not had a long journey, which by rights ought to have exhausted her? But indeed she did not feel at all tired, and after a few minutes, she sighed loudly and threw back the cover.
Mary was deeply engaged in Emma Courtney's memoirs when she heard the knock upon her door. Looking up, she met Kitty's sheepish gaze as her sister leaned into the room.
"Oh," Kitty said, "I was afraid you would be asleep."
"I thought you were asleep," Mary answered. "Is something the matter?"
"No," Kitty said, but she remained in the doorway. After a moment, Mary gave a little sigh (more for the sake of appearances than anything else) and laid her book down. Her sister took this as an invitation, and came in and sat upon the edge of Mary's bed.
"Mamma does not know Robert well at all," she began without prelude, "or she would not think he could betray you. I hope you are not worrying about that."
"In fact the thought had not crossed my mind. I have faith in him."
"That is best," Kitty said, surprising herself with a large yawn. "If you did not have faith in him, I would not allow you to marry him. La! What if you become engaged at Rosamond's wedding? That would be very romantic."
"I think it unlikely," Mary said, smiling faintly, "but if the event does occur, you shall be the first to know."
"And I shall tell you first if I ever become engaged, although I do not know when that may happen." She yawned again. "I should not like to tell Papa anything more about Mr. Price. I do not think he knows that we were engaged, and I do not think he ought to know, do you? I am sure he would be most upset, and lock me away forever."
"It would be senseless on his part, for I feel certain the experience alone has taught you enough."
"Thank you," Kitty said, touched. "Nor do I think Jane ought to know, for she does worry so about things, even when they are in the past. I hope Mamma will not tell her; though I am sure she will not, for I have an idea that she is trying to forget all about it.—Do you know what I am going to do tomorrow, Mary?"
"I imagine that you will go call on Maria Lucas," Mary replied, "and perhaps walk into Meryton."
"I had not even thought of that," Kitty said, grinning, "though it is an excellent idea, and perhaps I shall do that as well. No, I was only planning to finish my letter to Mr. Finch. I am sure he could use a comforting word just now." She gave another yawn, larger than the others, and covered her mouth with a little giggle. "Lord! I was not tired at all when I came in here, but now I am tremendously exhausted. Is that not strange?"
"It is hardly a flattering reflection upon my stimulating company," Mary said drily, and Kitty laughed.
"Well, you may rest easy now, Mary, for we are in Hertfordshire again, and there is no need to be stimulating anymore. I declare I must go to bed or I shall fall asleep right here. Goodnight, Mary my dear!"
"Goodnight, Kitty."
Kitty was gone in only another moment, leaving only silence behind her. Mary sat still for a moment, listening to nothing, and glanced down at Emma Courtney, but she no longer had any desire to read. Instead she placed her book carefully upon the night table, and leaned over to blow out the candle.
Mary lay there in the dark. And, after a few moments, she began to hear the familiar hushed hum of a country night once again: a chorus of crickets, the occasional faint hoot of an owl, a swift round of barks from the Lucas' dog across the fields at the Lodge, the rustle of windblown leaves in the trees and on the ground. There, she thought. That is what I missed. She smiled, and closed her eyes. In only another moment she, and the rest of the household, was fast asleep.