Author's Note: This is a disappointingly tiny update, for which I apologize. I'm in the process of moving to a new apartment and will be starting grad school in a few weeks, but I wanted to give you all something to nibble on, as it might be a little while before my life is settled enough for me to write a full chapter.
Kitty, waking in her own familiar bedroom, forgot at first where she was; but her confusion lasted only a moment, as she rose and drew her warm dressing-gown about her and stepped into her slippers. The hour was early—too early for breakfast—but she could hear the faint sounds of the pianoforte drifting up the stairs, and determined that she could not be the only one awake.
Yet, despite the newfound closeness between herself and her sister, Kitty did not want company just now. She went quietly down the stairs and, avoiding the breakfast-room where Mary was at her practice, slipped out the front door. The air outside was cold, and she drew in a sharp breath. The weather could not be so different at Longbourn than it had been in Bath; yet autumn seemed to have a stronger hold here, and Kitty tugged her dressing-gown more tightly about her shoulders as she stood looking out over the drive before her.
It was a fine prospect. The grass was pale in the early morning light, and glimmered with the frost that lay upon it. Leaves of red and gold, tumbled about by the wind, were tinged faint silver with frost; the trees, still clinging stubbornly to some small portion of their coverings, stretched boldly up into the pink sky. The sun, freshly risen behind the house, cast a cheerful light over the entire scene. Kitty, taking a deep breath, could smell the familiar smells of autumn in the country: clean cold air, and distant warm smoke. A slender fox, with a furtive glance over its shoulder, stole across the grass and into the hedgerow.
After a sojourn in Bath that had been filled with so much activity and excitement—and disappointment—Kitty found Longbourn peaceful, more so than she had been expecting. Indeed, standing here in the morning air, Kitty felt every moment as though she would awake from this dream and find herself at Henry Street again, with the sounds of the city outside her window. She yawned.
For the moment, it was rather comforting to have nothing to do besides stand here and look out over the lawn. And yet she longed for the noise and activity of Bath: sitting in the Pump Room, walking along the Avon, shopping in Milsom Street, bathing in the Roman Baths, dancing in the Assembly Rooms. There was so much music in Bath, she thought wistfully, and so many faces and voices; there was always something new and interesting to entertain. Even if not every experience was a happy one, they were all worth something. She thought of her first morning in the city, standing upon the corner of Henry Street and watching all of the people rush by, and a wave of yearning overwhelmed her. The months until Rosamond's wedding suddenly seemed to stretch on into eternity.
But she quickly recalled herself. It would not do to spend the next months pining for what she could not have; though the Kitty of three months ago might have considered this a perfectly reasonable course of action, she could not now support such foolishness. There were things to be done, she reminded herself sternly: she must finish her letter to Mr. Finch, first and foremost. Later she would be obliged to receive calls from the Lucases, no doubt, and likely a few other local families who would be eager for news from beyond their little patch of countryside; and perhaps she and Maria would walk into Meryton, and she could see what was new in all the little shops. It would all be very agreeable and pleasant and simple, as life at Longbourn had always been. And if it was not life in Bath, well, she would endeavor to make the most of it—for it was still life, after all.
Thus resolved, Kitty turned and went back into the house.
Mary had risen even earlier than her sister, and had of course hurried downstairs to the battered family instrument. Rosamond had been so good as to lend her a few sheets of music, which she was eager to attempt, and she spent a very productive quarter-hour working her way through a piece of Scarlatti.
As she played, however, she grew vaguely aware of a feeling that something was missing. It was a very dim sense, barely noticeable; and yet she found herself turning to glance over her shoulder, or pausing when she would not otherwise have paused, or finishing a piece only to find the silence of the room disconcerting. At length, it dawned upon her: she had grown so accustomed to playing at Hart House that she was rather unused to the experience—once so natural to her—of playing in a room all by herself. Mary had come to expect Rosamond's quiet encouragement, her enjoyment of Mary's selections, her calm presence. Even the simple act of finishing a piece and looking up to see her friend smile had become a habit. Having never had such an opportunity before, Mary had not before known how agreeable it was to play for an appreciative audience, even if it was usually only an audience of one.
She frowned. With such a realization weighing upon her, practice suddenly seemed less appealing an occupation than it had before; was this how it was to be, now? Was she to be unable to devote herself to her music as she once had, for missing her friend? Indeed, as she sat there, Mary suddenly felt all the unhappiness of her situation: no longer to discuss music with one who knew and loved it as she did, no longer to attend concerts in the company of enthusiastic friends, no longer to have the luxury of practice without her mother or father disrupting her…
Suddenly dissatisfied, Mary lifted her fingers from the keys and sat back. Though she had acknowledged, when leaving Bath, that she would surely miss the company of her friends, this was the first time she truly felt their absence.
It was at this moment that Kitty came in, red-cheeked from the cold, her slippers wet from standing in the frost. "Good morning, Mary," she said brightly, but her eyes did not quite match her tone.
"Good morning. Perhaps you should go dress; you will catch a chill walking about like that in this weather."
"Yes, perhaps," Kitty agreed, absently toying with the keys of the pianoforte. Mary leaned forward and began carefully organizing the sheet music, having concluded that she would have no more practice this morning.
"But it is very strange," Kitty burst out suddenly, sitting down hard upon the piano-bench, "not to be there anymore!"
"I should have thought that two days' journey would provide sufficient transition, both mental and physical," Mary remarked dryly, though a little part of her could not help agreeing. Kitty sighed.
"Perhaps it ought to have been sufficient, but I declare it is not. Do you not feel rather odd, being at Longbourn again after so long?"
"It is only natural to feel somewhat unsettled after a lengthy stay away from home," Mary said.
"I don't see what you know about it," Kitty replied, with a sideways grin, "for you have never been away from home for more than a few weeks, and then only to visit Lizzie. But I am sure you are right. In a few days it will all be very ordinary again, and then it will be Bath that seems like a dream."
"Indeed. Are you not glad to be home, Kitty?"
"Oh," said Kitty, "I suppose I am."
It was not a particularly forceful response, and Mary turned to her in some concern. Seeing the look upon her sister's face, Kitty shook herself and smiled.
"I am glad to be home, Mary," she assured her. "It is only—I rather feel as if I would be gladder to be home, if I had not ever gone to Bath. Do you see what I mean?"
"I think I do," Mary replied hesitantly.
"I mean," Kitty went on, as if her sister had not spoken, "that now that I have seen more of the world, and been a part of it, I do not think I can be so content to sit here at Meryton and let it all pass me by. Everything here seems much duller and quieter than it did before, though I know Meryton cannot have changed very much. I used to think our village the center of the world, except for London of course, but now I think it rather insignificant. Is that not horrid of me? But I cannot help it."
"You are only tense from the journey, I imagine," Mary soothed. "Before long we shall all return to our usual rhythms and routines, and everything will fall into place again. You will soon find as much to please you in Meryton as you ever did."
Kitty smiled, though she was not convinced. "Anyway," she said, "I must not mope, and nor must you (for I am sure you must be missing Robert very much by now), or Papa will never let us go to Rosamond's wedding."
Mary wished to refute the charge of her missing Robert, though indeed Kitty was not far wrong, but had not the opportunity. Their mother bustled in at that moment, followed swiftly by Hill, who began laying the things for breakfast.
"Why, girls!" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, startled. "I had not expected you to be awake so early, not after such a long journey. Indeed I had thought to stay abed myself, for I hardly slept a wink last night (the carriage ride gave me such pains all up and down) but I awoke at dawn this morning, and simply could not shut my eyes again, for I had so many things upon my mind.—Tell me, my dears, what do you think of this happy news of Jane's? I thought she looked rather flushed when she greeted us yesterday, and I was not at all surprised to hear the announcement. It is a mother's intuition, you know. Have you been practicing, Mary? It was very good of Rosamond to lend you her music; let us hope that she retains her good nature even after she is married and made viscountess, and can have no more care for any of us."
"I am sure Rose will not neglect her friends once she is married," Kitty replied, moving to help Hill. Mrs. Bennet, who had settled into a dining-chair, eyed her doubtfully.
"Oh? But wealth and title can have an odd effect upon a person," she remarked. "It is all very well for Miss Hart to be amiable and kind, when she is only a physician's daughter and is obliged to please everybody, but Lady Adlam may not be nearly so conscientious. But we will not think of that now. Indeed, girls, you must take extra pains to remain in her good graces, for think only how many excellent barons and dukes she may introduce to you! How would you like to have a title, Kitty?"
"Oh, Lord, I shouldn't care for it," Kitty replied. "Not if it meant I had to have a husband, as well." She laughed, and Mrs. Bennet frowned.
"You will change your mind, my girl, once you see the fine house of which your friend shall be mistress," she sniffed. "Or houses, I should say, for I am sure there is more than one. And you, Mary, how should a title suit you?—Though I know no title shall please you as well as Mrs. Hart, but I am afraid you must give that up entirely. You have only yourself to blame, you know."
"I know, Mamma," Mary replied patiently, sliding Rosamond's music carefully into its sheath.
"I am sure you will grow to be an old maid," Mrs. Bennet sighed, though it was too early in the day for any real vitriol, "and once your father and I are dead and the Collinses have thrown you out of Longbourn, you will be a great burden upon all your poor sisters."
"We shall bear it as best we can," said Kitty with mock solemnity, looping an affectionate arm about her sister's shoulders.
"I do not know why you should be so merry, Miss Kitty," her mother said sternly, "for if you continue as you are, turning your nose up at every gentleman who crosses your path, then you shall be an old maid right alongside her. You are lucky that Jane and Lizzie are so well married, for Lydia could not support you, and then you would have nothing to do but starve in the poorhouse."
"What's this?" Mr. Bennet demanded, coming into the room. "Talk of old maids and poorhouses so early in the morning? I declare I shall not have it, not before breakfast. Give us some toast and butter, my dear, and then you may make all the grim predictions you like."
Mrs. Bennet pursed her lips, but was obligingly silent; and the family sat down to breakfast, their first together in nearly two months.
Kitty's letter to Mr. Finch was finished soon after breakfast, though she was a little disappointed with it, for it did not consist of much: just a short description of the uneventful journey home, with a brief mention of her family's happy news, a wistful passage musing upon what she had left behind her, and a hesitant, vague, rather jumbled attempt at comforting him in the wake of Rosamond's engagement. She felt particularly awkward as she penned the last part, for she and Mr. Finch had never actually discussed his relationship with Rosamond, and she had the sense that he thought his feelings and hopes better hidden than they were. So she wrote only, If there has lately occurred anything which might cause you pain, I hope that the pain will be of short duration, and that you will take comfort in knowing you have at least one friend who shall always offer sympathy—far away though she may be just now!
Well, she thought, regarding the hastily-scrawled paragraph, she had never claimed to be an excellent writer.
After this it was short work to pen a cheerful note to Miss Diana Finch, in which she enclosed the letter to that lady's brother with a quick explanation of the circumstances, and a request that she might pass the letter along at her convenience. And then her correspondence was done, and she sat glumly at her writing-desk, reflecting upon how little news there was to share in Meryton. (Though it was a little unfair of her to expect any news, given that she had yet been at home for less than a full day.)
Fortunately, she was not obliged to sit so forever. Lady Lucas and her two youngest daughters called shortly thereafter, and were shown into the drawing-room in varying attitudes: the lady attempting to prove, with dignified kindliness, that she bore her more fortunate neighbors no ill will for spending two months in Bath when she had had no such opportunity; and Miss Maria and Miss Henrietta (the latter only very lately 'out') wide-eyed with envy and admiration, eager to hear every piece of fashionable gossip which was offered.
"I am so glad you enjoyed yourselves, my dear Mrs. Bennet," Lady Lucas said graciously. "I was sure you would. My William and I spent a Season there, you know, before the children were born, and I thought it a most agreeable place, though of course nothing to Town."
"I am sure it must have changed a great deal since you were there," Mrs. Bennet replied, with an air of indulgence. "As it is now, I could not imagine enjoying London any better than Bath. London is so crowded, it is really quite unpleasant, and the streets there are never as clean as they ought to be. In Bath one may walk anywhere without fear of the dirt."
"Were there a great many lords and ladies?" Henrietta Lucas asked Kitty breathlessly.
"Oh, yes, I suppose so. Certainly the ballrooms were always much fuller than they are here," Kitty said, with a careless little laugh. "It was rather a crush at times."
"That is the unforunate thing about Bath," Lady Lucas agreed sagely. "Everyone talks so much about the Upper Rooms, but as I remember they are rather uncomfortable for dancing."
"Kitty did not seem to mind it," Mrs. Bennet said affectionately, tucking a curl behind her daughter's ear. "Indeed she danced every dance at every ball, did you not, my love?"
"Oh, did you really?" Maria gasped. Kitty shrugged modestly.
"There were several gentleman who would not stand up unless it was with her," Mrs. Bennet continued, smiling, "and one in particular who was very fond of her—very fond indeed—though unfortunately she was obliged to break his heart."
"It would not have been a good match," Mary interjected, looking up from Emma Courtney to glare at her mother. Kitty cast her a grateful glance. She had rather hoped that the day would pass without any mention of Mr. Price.
"Ah, yes," Lady Lucas said, "I believe you mentioned him in one of your letters. How unfortunate that he proved unsuitable."
"Unfortunate for him," Mrs. Bennet said, a little flustered. "Kitty can do much better—indeed there is more than one young gentleman who is greatly looking forward to our return. But poor Mr. Price really was very heartbroken, and in fact he left Bath soon after. It seems Kitty was the only thing holding him there."
This sounded very impressive to the Miss Lucases, who sighed and stared, dazzled, at Kitty; but Lady Lucas was rather more shrewd than her daughters, and merely raised an eyebrow. Kitty, faltering, flushed and looked away.
"And are you to return?" Lady Lucas asked, charitably changing the subject. Mrs. Bennet, back on solid ground, beamed.
"We certainly hope to. The girls' particular friend, a Miss Rosamond Hart, is soon to be wed—to a young viscount of our acquaintance, by the name of Lord Julian Adlam, perhaps Sir William is acquainted with him?—anyway she has very kindly invited us to her wedding in the spring. We should not miss it for the world."
"How pleasant."
"I have never even gone to Bath once," Henrietta Lucas moaned jealously. Kitty could not suppress a smile.
The ladies' talk soon turned to other matters, for Mrs. Bennet was eager to share with Lady Lucas another source of triumph—that is, that she was soon to have a fourth grandchild, when her friend so far had only one. But the Miss Lucases had not heard nearly all they wished to hear of Bath, and consequently it was not very long before the younger ladies requested permission to walk into Meryton together, and see what was new in the shops.
"I am afraid it will be a sore disappointment to you, Kitty, after the pleasures of Milsom Street," Mrs. Bennet sighed, "but certainly you may go, if only you will be home before it is too late. Walk along with them, Mary; the exercise will do you good."
Mary needed no further excuse to escape from the idle gossip that was to pollute the air of the sitting-room; though the walk to Meryton would scarcely provide more sensible conversation, at least she would be in the open air, and so she cast her book aside and went to don her coat and bonnet.
It was rare that Kitty had the opportunity to feel superior to anybody—least of all the Lucas sisters, whose father, a knight, was what passed for gentry in the neighborhood of Meryton. Kitty and Maria had always been particular friends, being of the same age and similar temperaments, with similar taste in amusements; but in spite of this long friendship, Kitty could not help enjoying the supremacy which was lent to her by having just returned from a fashionable holiday, when Maria had never been anywhere more fashionable than the drawing-room at Rosings Park.
"Is your friend really a viscountess?" Henrietta asked.
"Not yet," Kitty admitted. "But she will be, before much longer. And she has already invited me to stay in Town with her for a Season. Her husband's family has a very fine house there."
"Oh! I beg you to take me with you," Henrietta gasped.
"But come, Kitty," Maria pressed, "you must tell us more about this gentleman who was so much in love with you. Was he very handsome?"
Out of the corner of her eye, Kitty saw Mary cast a glance in her direction. But she was determined not to betray any distress, and so she replied, "Everybody seemed to think so. There was hardly a young lady in Bath who was not half in love with him."
"And yet he chose you," Maria sighed, and though she undoubtedly did not mean any insult, Kitty could not help remembering Mr. Price's admonishment to her: I chose you, a plain little country-lass. She shuddered involuntarily. Fortunately it went unnoticed.
"He did seem very fond of me," she said, doing her best to sound nonchalant. "But I found myself unable to return his regard."
"Did he propose to you?" Henrietta demanded.
"Well—" She hesitated, and Maria squealed.
"He did! And you had to turn him down, because you could not love him as he loved you. Lord, Kitty, how romantic! Why, it is like something from a novel!"
"Oh, it was nothing so exciting," Kitty replied, embarrassed.
"Indeed it was not," Mary said firmly, with all the authority of an elder sister. "In fact it was rather distressing for Katherine at the time, and I am sure she does not wish to discuss it any longer. No one likes to dwell upon unhappy memories."
The Lucases fell silent for a moment, suitably chastened. But the peace could not last, for three of the young ladies in the party possessed dispositions ill-suited to silence, and at length young Henrietta, with a sly glance in Mary's direction, said, "Mamma had a letter from your mother, Mary, which said that you had formed an attachment of your own."
Mary colored immediately in spite of herself, and pursed her lips, but could not think of a properly dampening response.
"Yes," Maria added, giggling, "you must tell us all about this Mr. Hart, for we have been dying to hear of him—the gentleman who could catch your attention must be a rare one indeed!"
"To be sure," Kitty interjected wickedly. "He is a very singular gentleman, and she is as eager to tell of him as you are to hear of him. Is that not so, Mary?"
Mary shot her a withering glare. "I hardly think Mr. Hart would care to be the topic of this discussion, were he aware of it."
"But Mr. Hart is not here," Maria singsonged, "and so you may speak of him as much as you like. Is he handsome?"
"I hardly know," was the stiff reply. "I find him pleasing enough, but I cannot say whether you would. Such matters are primarily subjective, I find."
The others groaned, and Kitty shook her head impatiently. "That is not the way to speak of one's beloved," she scolded, "and so it seems I shall be obliged to speak of him for you. He is quite handsome, Maria; he is tall and fair, with lovely gray eyes, and a kind look about him. And he is exceedingly amiable, though rather quiet, and very clever. He is studying to be a physician. He reads a great many books, and he and Mary have long serious discussions together which seem dull as death to anyone else, but seem to bring the two of them a great deal of pleasure. There, Mary—have I done well?"
"Better than I might have done," Mary said wryly, and Kitty laughed.
"Of course my sister will not say much," she said, with a confidential air, to Maria and Henrietta, "and you may think she does not care a thing for him; but in fact they are passionately in love, and plan to be married someday, though Mamma does not know it."
"A secret engagement!" Henrietta breathed, her eyes round as saucers. "Lord, Mary, I should never have expected it of you."
Mary merely shook her head, and cast her gaze out over the surrounding countryside.
"Secret engagements and broken hearts," Maria said, in a rather wondering tone. "We simply must make Papa take us to Bath, Henny, or we shall both die old maids. There is no romance to be had in Meryton."
Mary rolled her eyes.
"That is not so," Kitty said sympathetically, though she could not entirely disagree. "There is always the chance of a new rector, or someone's handsome cousin coming to stay, or some such thing; you must not give up hope just yet."
"That is easy enough for you to say," Maria sighed, "for you are to have a Season in London, as the particular friend of a viscountess.—But there! Do you see that bonnet, there in the window of Hall's? That is new in, and I think it very fine; how do you like it, Kitty?"
Kitty pronounced the bonnet "most charming," charitably omitting the fact that it looked quite dowdy compared to some of the concoctions she had seen on the streets of Bath. With such sartorial matters to distract the young ladies, all talk of romance and attachments was dropped in favor of bonnets and ribbons and the new winter fabrics in at the draper's, and a very agreeable afternoon was passed in Meryton by all except Mary who, by the time they left the first shop, began to wish that she had stayed at home with her book.
They were only a small family party that evening; and as Mr. Bennet declared, at the top of the meal, that he did not care to hear any more about the wonders of Bath and its society and amusements, they were able to enjoy a peaceful supper, without further talk of Mr. Price or Mr. Hart or any other such subjects, pleasant or unpleasant. Kitty, for her part, was rather glad—though she had enjoyed boasting of her exploits (with some exceptions) to Maria and Henrietta, she had also found that talking of Bath only made her miss it more. Mary, too, was glad to have other topics of conversation; only Mrs. Bennet sat and stewed for the entirety of the meal, wishing very much to embark upon some Bath anecdote which would not interest anybody except herself.
But it was not to be; their conversation over dinner and in the drawing-room afterwards consisted of family matters, and the Meryton gossip which Lady Lucas had shared, and other such local topics. It lent a pleasant snug flavor to the evening, and even Kitty began to feel less like a stranger returned from a long journey, and more like a young lady comfortably at home. She contented herself with working upon a bonnet which she had begun months ago and abandoned.
"Look at our girls, Mrs. Bennet," her father proclaimed, warming himself before the cheerful fire. "Mary sits and reads, and Kitty sits and works, and there is nary a cross word between them. I know not what witchcraft you wrought upon them during the course of your holiday, but I blame you for the surplus of quiet evenings which we shall be forced to endure. How could you take our interesting children, and replace them with these sensible strangers?"
"Mr. Bennet, how can you talk so?" his wife scolded. "I have done nothing amiss; indeed, if anything they are worse now than they were before, for Mary has given up the only prospect she shall ever have and Kitty has declared herself uninterested in ever finding a husband. I quite despair of them, for all the trouble they give my poor nerves."
"Your poor nerves may be suffering, my love, for which I am heartily sorry; but mine are calmer now than they have been since—why, since Lizzie and Jane married, I think."
"What do your nerves matter?" Mrs. Bennet demanded crossly. "The girls shall die old maids, that is certain, and be troublesome to everybody."
"If they do intend to die old maids," Mr. Bennet said mildly, "I shall not mind it—not if we may spend all our remaining evenings in such agreeable fashion, without giggles or tears or silly little spats. And after all, wife, you and I may not live very much longer; and after we are dead, the girls are their own lookout, and we need not trouble about them any longer."
This was too much for Mrs. Bennet, who let out a wail of distress and threw down her embroidery, and could only be comforted by the swift arrival of Hill with the tea. Mr. Bennet, rolling his eyes, excused himself to his library; and the young ladies of the house retired soon thereafter.