The inhabitants of Pemberley awoke to find the grounds covered with a fresh white blanket, a sight which delighted them all, but particularly little Sophia, whose nurse barely managed to have her fed and dressed before she raced, laughing, out the door. The younger people, once they had breakfasted, were happy to follow the child's example; nobody in the party was yet old or grown-up enough to remain unmoved by the sight of fresh snow.
And so the Miss Bennets' first morning at Pemberley was spent walking and talking along some of the cleared paths that wound through the grounds, admiring the sight of the white-coated branches and laughing when they found that they could not even spot the lake, so buried was it beneath the new snow drifts.
"If ever we do find it," Lizzie said cheerfully, "and can manage to get it cleared, then perhaps we may have some ice-skating before the New Year. Dawson tells us that the ice is grown thick enough."
Kitty's heart leapt at this, though Mary hoped that she would not be obliged to don skates.
"I fear I shall be very clumsy upon the ice," Jane laughed, pressing her gloved hand to her belly. Mr. Bingley smiled at her.
"I shall support you, my love, or sit by your side and watch the others, if you'd rather."
Jane returned his smile, and tucked her hands more securely into the crook of his elbow.
At length, however, the walking-party had grown cold enough that even the clear blue sky and the glitter of sun upon the snow began to lose their charms, and they all repaired indoors. There they found a crackling fire awaiting them, and a hot pot of cider, and Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, the former occupied with a book and the latter delightedly dandying Sophia upon her knee.
"How wet you all are!" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, laughing, as the walkers removed their snow-covered coats and unwrapped their scarves from about their necks. "Take some cider, my dears, and sit by the fire for a time. Is it very cold outside?"
They assured her that it was not, and eagerly helped themselves to cider.
The days passed swiftly at Pemberley, slipping easily from mornings in the sunny breakfast-room to evenings by the fireside.
Mary spent long hours in the library, poring over the Darcys' ever-expanding collection of books; though once she had regretted that there were not very many sermons to be found there, now she found unexpected delights in the books of poetry and fiction that filled the sturdy shelves. (She could not help thinking, from time to time, how much Robert would appreciate the opportunity to browse the library with her—she had unearthed an assortment of antiquated medical texts in one corner that he should surely have liked to examine.)
The Darcys' ball was to be held upon Twelfth Night, so the Fitzwilliams would be in residence as well; and so Kitty took it upon herself to teach Georgiana all of the fashionable dances she had learned in Bath, and one or two country-dances that were particular to Hertfordshire. It was not a difficult task—Georgiana danced well, and learned quickly, and with Mary providing the music, the two young ladies were soon able to dance very fluently together.
"I only hope that my partners in the ballroom possess your ability, Kitty," Georgiana remarked cheerfully, as they moved smoothly about the steps of the quadrille, "or I shall be quite out of my depth."
"It is a sad truth," Kitty said, "that no gentleman ever dances so well as a lady; but I think you shall be all right, Georgiana, for you dance very prettily, and I shall be surprised if your skill cannot mask your partner's lack of it."
Georgiana laughed at this, and she and Kitty spun once more, before curtsying very solemnly to one another and collapsing into chairs on opposite sides of the fireplace. They were in the music-room, and Lizzie sat upon the chaise, Sophia watching the dance excitedly from her lap.
"I shall be surprised," Lizzie said, "if my sisters are not the jewels of the ballroom; between the three of you, you shall have the females of Derbyshire in such dreadful fits of envy."
Sophia clambered down from her mother's lap and began to step and twirl upon the floor in imitation of her aunts; Kitty laughed, and clasped the child's hands to spin her gently. "They may envy us all they please, but Mary and I have no thoughts of stealing their beaux; it is Georgiana who shall be breaking hearts all evening."
"Oh, no," Georgiana said with a blush, "I am sure that is not true."
"If I am no longer required," Mary said, standing from the pianoforte, "I think I will go see if the post has come."
"I shall walk with you," Lizzie said. "Kitty, Georgiana, may I ask you to look after Sophia for a moment?"
The aunts were happy to do so, and set about teaching Sophia as many of the steps as she could manage, which was in truth not very many, for she was only a very young child; and Lizzie caught up Mary's arm as they left the music-room together.
"I have wanted to talk to you," she said, their footsteps echoing in the wide hallway, "for some days now, but I have not found an opportunity."
"Is something the matter?" Mary asked, concerned. Her sister smiled and shook her head.
"Not at all; it is only that I have noticed a difference in our sister Kitty, and in yourself, which intrigues me. It seems your time in Bath has wrought some changes in you both."
"Indeed," Mary said, rather uncertainly, "the experience was most stimulating."
"I think it must have been," Lizzie agreed, "for you, Mary, have smiled and laughed and talked more agreeably than I have ever seen you do before. And Kitty suddenly appears quite grown-up to my eyes; I can scarce believe that she is the same silly girl who used to follow Lydia about so helplessly. She is so much more composed and sensible than she was at our last meeting. Even the prospect of a ball is not enough to reduce her to giggles."
"It must be quite a relief to Mr. Darcy," Mary said, drily, and Lizzie gave a little laugh.
"Indeed I think he is pleasantly surprised to find Christmas at Pemberley so much quieter than he had expected. But come, Mary, you must tell me what has happened to bring about these changes. Kitty has hinted, of course, that the influence of Robert Hart and his family has had a most pleasing effect upon you, and truly I think it so—that is, I think the effect pleasing, though I cannot speak as to its cause. But in Kitty's case—" She shook her head wonderingly. "I had hoped her manners would improve, once she was separated from Lydia. But this is more even than I had imagined."
Mary bit her lip. She was well aware that Kitty did not want their elder sisters, nor their father, to know anything more of Mr. Price than Mrs. Bennet had already related; and though she knew that a large part of Kitty's growing-up, as Elizabeth termed it, had come about as a result of that disappointment, she also knew that, its better consequences aside, the memory of that gentleman and all that had occurred in connection with him still brought Kitty no small amount of pain.
Yet she did not like lying, nor, frankly, was she much good at it. "I think," she said, glibly, "that you are right—that it is to do with being separated from Lydia, and having nobody to giggle and gossip with. And whatever Kitty says about Robert Hart and myself," she added, "it cannot be denied that she spent almost as much time in the company of that family as I did; and Miss Hart is a most calm and rational creature. I think her influence must have helped to curb Kitty's folly."
Lizzie did not look entirely convinced, but she did not say anything else, and they walked in companionable silence to the study, where the mail had been set neatly upon Mr. Darcy's large oak desk.
There was a letter for Kitty from Louisa Finch, which surely meant a note from that lady's brother as well. "Kitty will be pleased," Mary remarked, looking through the other letters. She was happy to recognize Rosamond's clear, fine script on the front of one envelope, and the thickness of the parcel said plainly that a letter from Robert was included within.
"It is rather mortifying," Elizabeth declared, laughing, "when the guests of a house receive more interesting mail than its inhabitants. Now that you are all here at Pemberley, there is nobody in all the rest of the world who cares to write to me."
This was not entirely true; for Elizabeth, in the few short years which she had spent as mistress of Pemberley, had become a popular and admired member of her husband's circle, and not all of the letters upon the desk were letters of business. Kitty would probably have recognized the names, or at least the titles, of some of Lizzie's correspondents; but Mary only smiled and curtsied and excused herself to go and read her letters.
Kitty was pleased when Mary handed her the envelope in Miss Finch's hand, and tore into it with alacrity. It was the first letter she had received from Mr. Finch since she had come to Pemberley, and her own eagerness surprised her. She had not realized how much she had missed him, and for a moment she reflected upon the absurdity of missing someone who was not even really there to begin with.
But she dismissed the thought, and read the letter over once quickly, and then again more slowly, taking the time to think over the news from Bath which was related, and enjoy the cleverness of the gentleman's phrasing, and think on how she might begin her reply to him.
The letter itself need not be reproduced here, for though it was quite long, truly there was nothing in it that was so very profound: it concerned mostly matters relating to their mutual friends, and one or two remarks upon the Christmas season (he, of course, would spend much of the holiday at church, and the rest of it paying calls to the families of his parish), and a very heartfelt enjoinment that Kitty should enjoy a most charming and blessed Christmastide with all her family. As a curate, wrote the gentleman, I suppose my mind ought to be upon the Christian significance of the holiday, and indeed such reflections are never very far from my thoughts at this season; but I must confess to you, Miss Bennet, that this year Christmas Day has seemed to me as little more than a mark upon the calendar denoting how much closer we are to the spring, when you and your family may return to Bath, and I may have the honor of your company and the pleasure of your conversation once again. But I shall end this thought here, for fear of waxing unforgivably poetic, and simply take the opportunity to remind you how gladly your return is anticipated in more than one quarter.
This paragraph, penned in what seemed to Kitty to be a more hesitant hand than the rest of the letter, lit a small comfortable flame in Kitty's breast, to which she carefully paid no attention.
As the holiday drew closer, the days grew busier: there were preparations to be made for the ball, and for the arrival of the Fitzwilliams; there were calls to be paid to the other families of the neighborhood; there was the Christmas pudding to be made (for Mrs. Bennet, despite being able to keep a cook of her own, had always kept the tradition of making the dish herself, and her girls were always glad to help her); and in the evenings there were songs to be sung and games to be played.
"What an amusing season!" Mrs. Bennet declared warmly, on the evening of the twenty-third, after the young ladies had sung for them. "I declare there is no time of year which I like better. And how glad I am, my dears, that we are all able to be together!"
It was indeed an agreeable scene: the young ladies grouped prettily about the pianoforte, the married couples seated together on couches about the fire, and Sophia curled happily between her grandparents.
"It is good indeed, Lizzie," Mrs. Bennet continued, "that you did not move away to some far-flung place when you married, as did your poor sister Lydia. Newcastle does seem dreadful dull, does it not?"
"I am sure Lydia is capable of enlivening whatever environment she finds herself in," Mr. Bennet put in, with a warning look at his wife over Sophia's head. Elizabeth's attention was upon Georgiana, and there was some hint of concern in her features, though Kitty could not think why that would be.
Mrs. Bennet frowned. "However lively our Lydia may be," she retorted, "it is no good being lively all by yourself, and I am sure the company up there must leave a great deal to be desired. Mr. Darcy," she said, turning to that gentleman, "do you not think you may invite Mr. and Mrs. Wickham to spend Christmas at Pemberley next year?"
Mr. Darcy's face darkened, and suddenly it seemed as though the room was rather colder than it had been before.
"I am afraid that is quite out of the question, Mamma," Lizzie put in hastily, laying her hand gently over her husband's. Mrs. Bennet pursed her lips.
"I do not see why that should be so," she said, a plaintive tone to her voice, "for they are family as much as the rest of us, and I do long to see my poor Lydia again. And Wickham—for you know he is such amusing company. You used to be quite fond of him yourself, Lizzie, when he was in the regiment at Meryton. And now he is your brother, though you seem determined to forget it."
"I confess I once though him agreeable," Elizabeth said, and there was great emphasis upon the word once. Georgiana, to Kitty's eyes, looked rather pale, and was staring down at the keys of the pianoforte with what seemed great concentration.
"I am sure Lydia would not care to make the journey, Mamma," Jane interjected. "It is a long way from Newcastle, especially in such a season, and travel is always difficult with small children. It should be most terrible if they were to meet with some unfortunate accident upon the road."
Mrs. Bennet appeared to consider this, and Mrs. Darcy cast a grateful look at her sister.
"Well," Mrs. Bennet said at last, "it is a shame that we may not have a larger party for Christmas; and I am sure Lydia and Mr. Wickham would make us all very merry if they were here. But perhaps by next year Kitty will be married to somebody of high spirits, and they will come to spend Christmas at Pemberley, and that will give us all a great deal of cheer."
Of course she did not mention Mary, whose prospects seemed, to Mrs. Bennet, rather bleaker than they had ever been before.
"I am very cheerful as it is," Mr. Bingley put in, doing his best to sound so, "though I imagine I might be even more so if my young sisters would sing for us once more, for they do it so charmingly."
Mary and Georgiana obligingly struck up a festive duet upon the pianoforte, and Kitty turned the pages for them, and the young ladies sang as sweetly as they knew how. And though there was some inequality of talent among the three of them, in fact their voices sounded rather well together.
Kitty went to bed that night feeling oddly unhappy, though she could not immediately say why. It was not only due to the tense scene in the drawing-room: that had held little mystery for her, for she had always known that Mr. Darcy quite despised Mr. Wickham, and she herself was well enough aware—more aware even than her own mother, it seemed—of the impropriety of Lydia's marriage, and how naturally Mr. Darcy might object to inviting such a couple under his own roof, in-laws or no. She did not know why Georgiana should be concerned with any of it, but she supposed it was that young lady's natural gentleness of spirit which had been distressed by the thought of Lydia's misfortune. And she had not been entirely surprised by her mother's bringing up the subject in such a fashion; it was the sort of thing which Mrs. Bennet was liable to do, particularly where her favorite child was concerned.
No; Kitty's unhappiness stemmed from some other cause, some faint malaise in the back of her mind, which made her feel, now, out of sorts with the company and amusements which had previously seemed the epitome of all happiness.
She undressed with a furrowed brow, helped by one of the maids. The hour was rather late, for they had sat long in the drawing-room; and though she considered going to talk with Mary for a little while, in truth she suddenly felt very tired. The room was warm, the fire crackling gently, the moon outside the window casting a pale blue gleam upon the soft snow. Kitty climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up to her chin, and leaned onto her elbow to blow out the candle. The room fell into darkness, and something continued to worry indistinctly at her thoughts.
It was not until she was almost asleep that the cause of her strange dissatisfaction came to her. Mrs. Bennet's conjecture that Kitty would be married by the following Christmas—her supposition that Kitty and her unknown husband would come to spend the holiday at Pemberley—it had reminded Kitty once again of Mr. Price, and how eagerly he had spoken of Christmas at Pemberley. And of course there had been a time when she had imagined that she would be married by this Christmas, and that their usual family party would be made larger and merrier by the addition of her handsome husband. Kitty felt the now-familiar hot wash of shame over her, and squeezed her eyes shut. Was she never to be free of Mr. Price? Was every stray word to assail her with unhappy memories? Was she doomed to eternally relive her shame?
She turned onto her other side, and attempted to think of something else, but it would not do. Her head was full of him, now—his voice, his face, his laughter—as it had been on so many nights in the little room at Henry Street, when these recollections had brought a happy blush to her cheek and a delighted sparkle to her eye. But now all she could think of was her own foolishness, and her humiliation, and all of the little things he had said and done that should have given her some hint as to his villainy, but instead had enchanted her, the stupid little girl that she had been.
At last Kitty groaned, and sat up. Her heart ached, and sleep would not come. She flung away the covers and went to stand before the window, feeling the cold air seep through the glass. She wished she could go and speak with Mary, but the hour was too late, and her sister was almost certainly asleep by now. Indeed, the entire house was silent and still. She was quite alone, and she did not want to be.
It was then that her eyes fell upon the letter from Mr. Finch, sitting upon the window-sill where she had sat reading it, and she picked it up. The room was too dark to make out all of the words, but she could dimly see the careful loops and lines of the gentleman's signature, and the faint marks where he had smudged the ink. No debonair love-letter, this. With an involuntary little smile, Kitty went to fetch the candlestick, and lit it again in the fireplace embers, before setting it upon the nightstand and curling herself into her bed to read the letter once more.
She dozed off somewhere on the second page, the paper falling from her hand onto the floor; and she awoke only long enough to blow out the candle.
Christmas Eve dawned pale and gray, and Kitty was tired from her fitful night. But the rest of the family seemed to be suffering no such fatigue, for the breakfast-table was agreeably noisy and everybody who came in was wished a very merry Christmas.
"Last year, at this time," Elizabeth said, over ham and toast, "I am afraid I was rather lax in my duties as mistress of Pemberley, for Sophia was only two weeks old and my duties as a mother were then the larger concern. But this year Mr. Darcy and I shall take the sleigh after breakfast, and visit all of our tenants. Georgiana, I know, shall join us, for she has always done so; but perhaps my younger sisters would care to come along."
Mary's eyes lit up, and she eagerly agreed. "This, we must not forget, is the true meaning of Christmas," she proclaimed, "not the festivities and amusements which we so often associate with the holiday, but kindness between fellow men."
"And women, in this case," Lizzie added, smiling. "Kitty, will you join us?"
Kitty cast a doubtful glance at the gray skies beyond the window, which looked very cold; but she had little desire to spend much time in her mother's company at the moment, even with her father and Jane and Mr. Bingley there as well, and so she agreed.
They set out after breakfast, the three Darcys and the two Bennets, settled cozily into the large sleigh, which ran more easily along the snowy landscape than any of the carriages. The day was not so cold as it had seemed, but the heavy clouds to the west held the promise of snow, and Kitty tucked herself securely against Mary's shoulder. "I shall require you to block the wind," she told her sister teasingly.
"I shall endeavor to do so, but I fear you overestimate my solidity," Mary replied, and Kitty laughed.
It was in fact rather pleasant, though Kitty was very glad of her scarf and hat, and of the woollen carriage blanket that covered them. She was seated between Mary and Georgiana on one bench, and Lizzie and Mr. Darcy sat facing them, buried beneath their own layers of blankets and coats. Between the wind and the noise of the blades cutting through the snow and ice, there was no conversation to be had; but it was agreeable simply to watch the white landscape rushing by, dotted here and there with snow-covered trees and bushes, and every so often spotting a plume of smoke rising from somebody's chimney.
Kitty had never realized quite how large the Darcy estate was, and so she was surprised at how far they were obliged to travel before they slowed to a stop before the first house. It was a picturesque little stone cottage, and looked very snug and warm, with curtains in the windows and a green wreath upon the door.
"These are the Wilsons," Georgiana said to the Miss Bennets, as they disembarked; "they have lived here at Pemberley since my grandfather was master."
The Wilsons proved to be quite a prodigious brood, with a great many children and cousins nestled under one roof, and Mr. Wilson greeted the Darcys merrily. Kitty was surprised at Mr. Darcy's good humor, for he smiled and laughed very readily; and she was even more surprised when Georgiana spoke quite easily to the younger members of the family, and even knelt down on the floor to play for a moment with a pair of young towheaded twins presently busy about a game of jacks. There was no timidity to be found in her friend, and for a moment Kitty felt as though she was looking at quite a different young lady.
Mrs. Darcy, who was holding the family baby at Mrs. Wilson's urging, introduced her sisters; and the Wilsons immediately declared them the prettiest girls they had ever seen, "excepting Miss Darcy, of course," and inquired very solicitously after their health, and said many other kind things, to which Mary and Kitty could only respond with smiles. And then Elizabeth called all of the Wilson children to her, and presented each of them with a small gift—some little toy or trinket which was immediately exclaimed over by every member of the family. Kitty was quite impressed that Lizzie had not forgotten anybody, given the many children who crowded about her. Truly, she thought, filled with sisterly pride, Pemberley could not ask for a better mistress.
They made many other calls of a similar nature; everybody was pleased to see them, and happy to be introduced to the Miss Bennets, and eager to wish their landlord and his family a most pleasant Christmas, and inquire after little Sophia. Mr. and Mrs. Darcy knew everybody by name, and had toys at hand for all of the children, and cold pies and other presents for the adults; and they remembered those among their tenants who had suffered misfortune over the past year—a death, or an illness, or some other sorrow, and to those families they offered condolences and sympathy and particularly generous gifts.
"This is always my favorite part of Christmastide," Georgiana confessed to Mary and Kitty, as they made their way back to the sleigh after visiting a young couple celebrating the recent birth of their second child.
"As it should be," Mary agreed, smiling at her. "One must never underestimate the satisfaction that comes from doing good, and seeing good done. And it is clear that your visits bring great happiness to the families of the estate. This, as I said, is the truest celebration of Christmas: acts of generosity and compassion can only honor the season."
Kitty glanced back over her shoulder, at the young wife who still stood in the doorway of her cottage, her infant daughter asleep against her shoulder. The woman smiled at her. Kitty turned away to climb into the sleigh, and pulled the carriage blanket gratefully over herself. When she looked again, the woman was gone.
The morning had turned to afternoon by the time they returned to Pemberley, and snow had begun falling, tentatively at first and then with increasing steadiness as they came up the path toward the house. "I hope there is tea awaiting us," Lizzie declared, laughing breathlessly, as they disembarked; "I shall require some fortification before services tonight, if I am to go out into the cold again!"
There was tea awaiting them, and chocolate besides in celebration of the holiday. But Kitty found that she had no desire, at that moment, for company; she was in a queer, thoughtful mood, not quite irritable but neither particularly sociable. And so she turned her steps away from the drawing-room, in which the rest of the family sat, and went instead to the music-room. There she sat for quite awhile, lost in thought.
"Oh," Georgiana said, coming suddenly into the room, "forgive me, Kitty; I did not know you were here. I hope I am not disturbing you."
Kitty gave herself a little shake to rouse herself, and smiled at her sister-in-law. "Not at all," she said. "I only wanted a bit of quiet."
"Then I shall go," Georgiana promised, "as soon as ever I can; I only came to fetch a piece of music for your sister Mary."
"You needn't go," Kitty said, for now that Georgiana was here, she found she did not mind the company so much after all. "Come, sit by me, if Mary can spare you for another few minutes."
Georgiana conceded that Mary probably could, and sat beside Kitty on the couch before the fireplace. There stretched a long moment of silence.
"Are you well, Kitty?" Georgiana asked at length, looking at her friend in some concern.
"Oh, yes," Kitty said distractedly. "I was just thinking about something, but I could not say now what it was. Do you ever have such moments, Georgiana?"
"Indeed I do," Georgiana replied. "And very often I feel as though I am on the verge of some wonderful idea or discovery, and then somebody speaks to me and breaks the spell, and I cannot remember what I was thinking of. I hope I did not cause you such an annoyance."
Kitty gave a little laugh. "Not at all—I do not think I was thinking of anything very philosophical. That is more Mary's talent than mine. In fact," she said, "I am afraid I have the unfortunate habit of thinking as little as possible, and so I am really a very stupid sort of person."
"That is not so," Georgiana protested, frowning at her.
"No, it is," Kitty said, and though she had not thought of him once that day, it suddenly became clear to her that Mr. Price still weighed very much upon her mind, "I cannot tell you the whole of it, but you may rest assured that I have done some very foolish things, rather wicked things too, which nearly cost me a great deal, and would have made me most unhappy, though I did not see it at the time. And so you see I am really very stupid after all."
Georgiana bit her lip, and regarded her friend with a furrowed brow, and worried eyes. There was another stretch of silence.
"Kitty," Georgiana said, finally, "though I do not know quite what you are talking about, I think—I think that your ability to know that whatever you did was wrong, and foolish—I think that that speaks very well of you, though you do not see it."
"Yes," Kitty said, in tired exasperation, "now I can see what was wrong, and all of the mistakes I made. Now I cannot stop thinking of it, and loathing myself for it, and it all makes me so very miserable. Now that it does me no good, it is all I can think about."
Her friend smiled softly, and rather sadly, and laid a gentle hand over Kitty's own where it rested on the couch. "You are not the only young lady in the world," she said, quietly, "to suffer from regrets. I myself—" But here she paused, and glanced away. "I myself have done things which I ought not to have done," she continued, steadily, after a moment, "and made poor decisions. And there was quite a long time after the fact when it was all I could think about, and I was most desperately unhappy, and thought myself the worst, the most selfish and thoughtless and—and stupid of creatures. My education had taught me everything that was right, and yet when I was tested, I chose everything that was wrong; and for this I thought I should never forgive myself. Indeed I did not think myself worthy of forgiveness."
Kitty stared at her, at sweet, gentle Georgiana Darcy who did not look capable of ever doing anything but what was good and proper and true. Her friend blushed under her scrutiny, and glanced away again.
"But I did come to forgive myself," Georgiana went on. "For I came to understand that it is human nature to err, and to misstep; and it is only through these missteps that we may come to know ourselves better, and to resolve to do what is right in the future. Indeed," she added, gaining strength, "I think it is only by occasionally doing wrong that we may know at all what is right."
For a moment Kitty was reminded of Rosamond—You know now the mistakes you have made, and you will know better for next time—and it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps her friend's words had carried a greater weight than she had realized at the time.
"There are times," Georgiana was saying, "when I still think of—of those moments, when I came close to such a fatal step, and I begin to feel all the shame of my fault once again. For it is right that the recollection should give me pain. But now I need only remind myself how much I have learned since then, and how much stronger I am now, and the pain begins to abate."
Kitty sat back in her seat, thinking.
"And," Georgiana said, smiling at her, "I came to see, too, how little I had understood my own good fortune. It is only by coming close to losing everything, that we may grow to appreciate what it is that we have. I had never before realized quite how good a brother Fitzwilliam is to me: how loving he is, and compassionate, and forgiving. Nor had I realized how blessed I am in my friends and family. The bad parts of one's life serve best to throw the good parts into relief, and I had long taken the good parts so much for granted. You have a great deal of good in your life, Kitty, and I hope that whatever misfortune you have suffered will help you to see it more clearly."
And suddenly it all was very clear. She could see her father, doing his best to be more attentive to his daughters, his pride in his children ever growing; she could see her mother, rising furiously to her defense upon hearing of Mr. Price's insults, wanting only comfort and security for her girls; she could see Mary, earnestly endeavoring to provide comfort and sympathy and, when she thought it helpful, illumination, even if in the form of some dull lecture.
There was Rosamond, serene and unselfish and understanding far more than Kitty had ever quite realized; and Robert, clever and thoughtful, whose greatest wish was to be of service to those who needed him; and Theodore and Anne, unexpectedly kind and consoling; and sweet Juliet and generous Dr. Hart, who had welcomed the Bennets so warmly into their circle of friends. There were Lizzie and Jane, determined to protect her from the censure of the world and steer her upon a sound and proper path. There was Georgiana herself, gentle and sympathetic. There was little Sophia, who loved her aunts so wholeheartedly.
And then, in her mind's eye, Kitty saw again the smiling young woman at the door to the cottage. And she thought of Oliver Finch, who was even now paying his Christmas Eve calls to his parishioners, the collar of his coat turned up against the snow and the cold but the warmth of his smile and the sincerity of his good wishes never fading.
The small comfortable flame in her breast leapt higher, and indeed everything was very clear. And Kitty took a deep, sharp breath.
They attended Christmas Eve services at the little church in Lambton, for though there was a chapel at Pemberley, the Darcys preferred to attend holiday services alongside the rest of their community. It was a pretty little church, but Kitty's head and heart were too full of other things for her to pay much attention to the sermon. She felt rather guilty about this afterwards, as they were leaving the church and greeting all of the Darcys' friends, yet she could not bring herself to feel too upset; for a great wonderful happiness consumed her, and a love and thankfulness for everybody around her, which she imagined must have been what the rector was trying to accomplish, anyway. (She thought that she might have paid him more attention had he been rather younger, a curate instead of a rector, with dark hair and dark eyes and broad shoulders.)
There was a fine dinner to be had that evening, with meat and cheese and cold pies and fresh bread. Afterwards they lit a roaring Christmas fire, and Mary and Georgiana played a great many songs, every so often enlisting Kitty to sing with them; and there were games and a great deal of happiness and amusement. Kitty's spirits were higher now than they had been since she had come to Pemberley—indeed, she thought, since her return from Bath. They even had a dance, though there were hardly gentlemen enough; Kitty danced with Mr. Bingley, and Mr. Darcy, to everybody's surprise, danced with his sister, who laughed and demonstrated for him several of the new steps Kitty had taught her.
It was a merry evening indeed, and everybody went to bed very satisfied, and rose early upon the next day for more festivities.
Christmastide passed quickly, as it always does, in a warm rush of music and laughter and good cheer. They visited many of the other families in the neighborhood, and were visited in turn, and for a time their social agenda was almost as full in Derbyshire as it had been in Bath. The lake was cleared, and they had an afternoon of ice-skating, joined by several of the children of the estate, followed by tea and chocolate in one of the drawing-rooms.
The Fitzwilliams arrived on the twenty-ninth: the Colonel and his wife, with whom of course they were already well-acquainted, and Lord and Lady Hornsley, his parents, and Lord Thomas Fitzwilliam, Viscount Courtenay, his elder brother. (This was the gentleman to whom Mrs. Bennet had referred when she spoke of "the earl," for though Lord Fitzwilliam was not an earl yet, he certainly would be one day—and that was a better prospect than many gentlemen might boast.)
The Darcys greeted their cousins with all of the fondness and affection which was to be expected, for the Hornsley House and Pemberley families had always been intimate. Kitty, too, was glad to see them, for she considered Mrs. Fitzwilliam a remarkably agreeable person for a married lady.
Mrs. Bennet was all a-flutter in the company of such high titles, though she was glad to see that Lord Fitzwilliam, who was perhaps thirty or so, was at least as handsome as his brother, and seemed to be quite as amiable. But her discomposure caused her to guard her tongue more carefully than was her usual habit, for which her family was all very grateful, and she could not quite bring herself to make any of her accustomed hints or implications regarding Kitty and the viscount. Somehow it was rather more difficult to wink knowingly at a gentleman who would someday be an earl, than it had been to wink at Mr. Price or Mr. Hart.
She was disappointed that Kitty, upon introduction to Lord Fitzwilliam, afforded the gentleman only a curtsy and a smile and a brief exchange of civilities, before excusing herself to sit with her friend Mrs. Fitzwilliam, and hear the news from Bath. This seemed, to Mrs. Bennet, rather a reprehensible lapse in judgment on the part of her daughter, and she made a mental note to address the matter with her later, when they were alone.
But in fact she would have no opportunity, for with the addition of the Fitzwilliams to the party, Pemberley became very busy indeed.
It seemed as though there were people to be found in every room, sitting and talking, or eating, or playing whist or charades, or cooing over little Sophia, or otherwise entertaining themselves. Mary found the multitude of relatives rather alarming, and so spent a full day sequestered in the library, where nobody—save perhaps Mr. Darcy, who was otherwise engaged as host, and Mr. Bennet, whose company was often claimed by his wife or elder daughters—would think to come during the festive days of Christmastide.
Her retreat from the family circle helped somewhat to soothe her temper, which was always tested around this time of year. It was not that Mary did not love her family, for of course she did, but she did not always enjoy having them so very present, so very much. Yet she had found Pemberley more agreeable this time than she had upon her last visit; having taken the trouble to make friends with Georgiana, and of course having already grown more intimate with her sister Kitty, she had found more amusement and pleasure in the house than she might have expected a year ago. She dimly recalled Kitty, when last they were under the Darcys' roof, exhorting her to be more pleasant to Georgiana and Rosamond (who was then visiting with her brother and sister-in-law); she recalled more vividly her own scornful response, which now seemed so silly to her. Why had she ever thought that eschewing a worthy friendship—two worthy friendships—would serve to improve her mind and soul?
If Robert Hart were here, she reflected, he might have some clever, cutting response to her hypothetical query; or he might say something quite thoughtful and profound, which would cause her to stop in her tracks, and think very hard. But he was not here, however much she might like him to be (and though she was not, as Kitty seemed to think, pining for his company, nor dying for love of him, there were moments when she rather thought she might like to see his face or hear his voice).
At any rate, she was glad to have a day by herself.
But whatever equanimity was restored by that retreat was soon destroyed, for Twelfth Night, the day of the Darcys' ball, arrived all too soon. It was a very large affair, for everybody in the neighborhood had been invited and, Twelfth Night being a night of particular festivity and celebration, everybody in the neighborhood had agreed to come, and the event was looked forward to with a great deal of anticipation.
"I am rather afraid that I shall forget all the steps of the dances you taught me, Kitty," Georgiana fretted, staring at herself in the mirror. The three young ladies were dressed and perfumed, their hair curled and pinned.
"You shall not," Kitty promised, leaning over her shoulder and grinning at her. "Indeed I think you shall be the envy of the everybody else, as Lizzie says, for you are a fine dancer and you are likely to be the most beautiful young lady in the room. If you do not receive half a dozen proposals by midnight then I shall be quite shocked."
Indeed Georgiana did look very beautiful. It being winter, gowns of white were the present fashion; Miss Darcy's, in fine silk, was adorned with stylish accents of expensive-looking lace, while Kitty, in muslin, wore a green ribbon round her waist, and Mary was dressed as simply as her sisters had permitted.
"You flatter me," Georgiana retorted, smiling at her. "In fact I do not know that I shall be asked to dance at all; I am not much acquainted with any of the gentlemen below. But I do not think I should mind sitting down for the duration of the ball."
"I will sit with you," Mary offered, "for I do not intend to dance."
"Nay, nay," Kitty cried, laughing, "you cannot both abandon me; I am determined to see both of you dance at least once, and I am sure you shall not want for partners. Come, now, or they will begin to think we intend to stay cloistered in here forever."
And so the three young ladies descended, and found in the ballroom below a most agreeable assembly, practically a crush; and Elizabeth presiding over it all, with a competence and elegance which surprised even her fond sisters.
Miss Darcy's Christmastide decorations had been supplemented by gold and silver papers, and a great many candles, and many other glittering trimmings, which imbued the scene with a certain magic. Everybody was in their finest dress, some with little sprigs of holly tucked into their hair or pinned to their coats and bodices in celebration of the holiday. The music, fast and merry, poured from one end of the room, and several couples already twirled and spun upon the dance-floor. Kitty watched delightedly as one brave young squire, finding himself caught beneath a bundle of mistletoe alongside a pretty maid, bashfully claimed his kiss from her.
Whatever Mrs. Bennet had feared, there was no shortage of gentlemen in the room, and indeed Georgiana had not long been seated before her hand was shyly requested. She blushed very red, and cast a wide-eyed glance in Kitty's direction, as she was whirled away. (Kitty was interested to see Mr. Darcy watching his sister and her partner very vigilantly, a stern cast to his features, and she wondered if Lizzie had had a great deal of work to do, in convincing her husband that Georgiana was ready to be "out.")
It was not long before Kitty, too, was asked to dance, and even Mary soon found herself upon the dance-floor, without much idea as to how she had got there. Her partner was very agreeable; but she found that he danced far better than she did, and she found herself rather longing for Robert's clumsiness, which so well matched her own. She said as much to Kitty, when they met over the punch-bowl in the dining room.
"I thought you did not intend to dance," Kitty teased. "But I know what you mean, my dear Mary; the last gentleman I danced with was most amiable, and had a great many interesting things to say, and it only made me think how much I prefer when my partner allows me to be the more talkative, as Mr. Finch always does."
"Mr. Finch?" Mary repeated, raising an eyebrow. Kitty's cheeks were already pink with exertion, but Mary could have sworn they darkened further, and her sister smiled at her.
"Have you tried any of the little cakes?" she asked carelessly. "I think them very good. I have eaten three already."
Mary squinted at her, but Kitty would not say anything more, and so she was obliged to admit defeat.
The rest of the ball continued as such balls often do: with a great deal of noise and merriment, and fast and slow dances, and other such jollity. The food was excellent, the drink as strong as it ought to be, the music expertly played, the dances gaily performed. Conversation was light and sparkling and, in some quarters, rather witty. Kitty was glad of the opportunity to dance and laugh, and meet a great many new people; Mary was less comfortable amidst the noise and the press of warm bodies, but comforted herself with the thought that, the next time she danced, it would be at Rosamond's wedding, and Robert would be her partner. (And he would only oblige her to dance one dance.)
The last of the guests left as the moon was beginning to sink in the sky, their breath forming soft clouds in the cold air as they said good-bye. Mary had retreated to her bedroom quite a bit earlier, falling asleep the moment her head hit the pillow, despite the strains of music which carried up the stairs to her room; even Georgiana, who had done her best to remain awake and assist Mrs. Darcy with her duties as hostess, had long dozed against the back of her chair, and had to be gently shaken awake by Lady Hornsley. Thus the Pemberley party, in varying states of alertness, bid the guests a very fond farewell, and traipsed up the stairs to their separate quarters, too weary even to do anything more than bid each other good-nights, and merry-Christmastides.
But Kitty, upon reaching her bedroom, did not retire immediately; instead she went and sat upon the window-seat, thinking distantly on everything and nothing, or perhaps not really thinking at all.
She did not rouse herself from this reverie until the sky had begun to lighten almost imperceptibly, and faint streaks of pale gray had begun to appear along the horizon. It was still some hours from sunrise, but it was very late indeed, and Kitty suddenly felt all the exertion of the past several hours. She undressed, leaving her gown thrown haphazardly over the back of a chair, and crawled into bed; and there she fell into a deep, dreamless, happy sleep.