The Miss Bennets Set Forth

by SwordSwallower17

Mrs. Bennet, determined to see her last two daughters married, arranges a holiday in Bath. Will foolish Kitty avoid the temptations of the Georgian city? Will solemn Mary ever lift her head from her books? Will Mrs. Bennet's nerves survive the adventure? Something of a sequel to "Miss de Bourgh in Bath," though previous reading is unnecessary.

24. Chapter 24

The departure of the Bennet family from Pemberley House was accomplished with the natural mixture of sadness and satisfaction brought on by the ending of a pleasant interlude spent in the company of loved ones. The sisters all bid each other very affectionate and rather tearful farewells, and Georgiana embraced Mary and Kitty as dear friends, and entreated them to return to Derbyshire as soon as ever they could. Little Sophia Darcy received a great many kisses from her departing relatives, an attention which she much enjoyed, though she was too young to understand its cause. Even Mr. Darcy, with a genuine smile, seconded the wishes of his wife and sister that the Miss Bennets should come to stay at Pemberley again soon—though Mrs. Bennet's noisy raptures over this bit of courtesy rather punctured his enthusiasm, and in the end he was not so very sorry to see them all go.

And go they did, with Mr. and Mrs. Bingley in the carriage behind, on a cold bright day near the end of January.

The journey home seemed to pass much more swiftly than its predecessor, perhaps because there were no particular delights awaiting at its end to make every mile seem longer. Mary kept her nose in her book (she had finished Emma Courtney, but Georgiana had been good enough to lend her Miss Martin's Diary and The Foreign Countess from her personal library); Kitty began writing to Mr. Finch, but found the motion of the carriage too disruptive to her handwriting and so, instead, lost herself in her own happy thoughts.

"Well," Mrs. Bennet sighed, on the afternoon of the second day. They had turned into the meandering lane that led to Longbourn, and she shook herself awake from a light doze. "Well, my dears, here we are again at last—home once more, with nothing accomplished, and no prospects, and nothing to look forward to now."

"Quite so, my love; our lives may well have achieved their peaks," Mr. Bennet agreed wryly. "We must resign ourselves to merely enduring the rest of our years, for certainly there is nothing more to be enjoyed."

"Indeed there is not," Mrs. Bennet said, with characteristic obstinacy. "Kitty has not secured Lord Fitzwilliam, though she had ample opportunity, and we all know of Mary's failures with Mr. Hart. And when are they to meet anybody new? Unless there is some miracle and we receive an influx of new neighbors with ten thousand a year each, our girls are doomed to die spinsters."

"Do not dwell upon such misfortunes, Mamma," Mary said, annoyed. "We shall soon have a niece or nephew at Longbourn, and that is worth looking forward to."

"And there is Rosamond's wedding in the spring," Kitty added, "which shall certainly be very diverting."

She did not say what she was really thinking—that her greatest joy on that occasion, aside from the natural delight of witnessing a dear friend made happy, would be to see Oliver Finch again. Though she was aware, now, of her own feelings for that gentleman, she was endeavoring to take a page from Mary's book, and maintain a degree of rationality. There was no sense in allowing her own feelings to overwhelm her, as was her usual custom; somehow it did not seem right, this time, to throw herself into her typical fits of rapture, or babble on about his perfections to Mary or her mother or, in a letter that would likely be wholly disregarded, to Lydia. Such a course would have been natural to her in earlier days, but this affection seemed somehow quieter and more complex, and she found herself enjoying the private happiness of reading his letters to herself, and coming to know and love him as a kind friend, rather than a handsome ideal.

Besides which, Kitty knew well enough that her choice of Mr. Finch over Lord Fitzwilliam, if known to her mother, would prove a severe disappointment, and so she deemed it wisest to maintain silence on the matter until she had some hint of that gentleman's feelings for her. For Mrs. Bennet would surely be disappointed to know that her daughter was falling in love with a curate rather than a lord; but if this bitter pill were followed by the news that there was really to be a wedding (and not only the idea of a wedding), then the fond mother would undoubtedly rally her spirits admirably.

"I had quite forgotten about Miss Hart's wedding," Mrs. Bennet said now, brightening. "That is something, I suppose. I imagine all of Lord Adlam's friends will attend; and Miss Hart surely shall not be stingy in introducing you to them, Kitty. And once she is wed, you need no longer have any fear of being overshadowed; a beautiful married lady is nothing to a pretty single one."

"I suppose there shall be viscounts and earls enough for Mary, too," Kitty said, with a grin at her sister, "though she shall take no notice of them."

Mrs. Bennet thought it rather more likely that they would take no notice of her, but she did not say so, for they had pulled up before Longbourn and she was swiftly engaged in berating the servants to handle their luggage most carefully, for it would be a fine thing indeed if they made it all the way home only to have their valises all broken open and their things all strewn upon their own snowy lawn.

Mary was happy to be home. She relished the peace and quiet of Longbourn after the liveliness of Christmastide at Pemberley, though she rather missed the opportunity to play duets with Georgiana (and, indeed, she missed the excellence of Georgiana's instrument, to which her own rather shabbier pianoforte could not compare). But it was good to walk, again, in the familiar scenes of her own neighborhood, and even the pastoral bustle of Meryton was agreeable to her. She said as much to Kitty one afternoon in mid-February, as they walked along the muddy path to Lucas Lodge.

"Mary," Kitty exclaimed, "hearing you talk so, I begin to think that Mamma is not so mistaken after all."

"I do not take your meaning," Mary replied, stiffly, and in some confusion. Kitty gave a little laugh.

"Why, I only mean that you are not so soon to marry as I had thought. It seemed most natural to me that you should become engaged at Rosamond's wedding, as it is the next time that you and Robert shall be thrown together again, though Mamma still thinks it so unlikely. And now I begin to think, too, that it shall not happen after all, at least not this spring. You are still in love with Hertfordshire."

Mary's brow furrowed, and she cast a glance about her—at the twisted oak tree by the side of the road, the wide fenced fields covered with melting snow, the few brave, doomed crocuses beginning to poke their heads through the last icy crusts of winter.

"I do not think you can compare my feelings for Hertfordshire to my feelings for Robert," she ventured.

"Of course not. But I begin to understand what you mean when you say you are not ready for marriage. You are content, if not happy, without him, so long as you are here—is that so?"

"Yes," Mary said. "And I have not pretended to be ready for marriage, nor to be able to predict when that readiness shall occur."

"I know," Kitty agreed. "But until recently I did not entirely know what it meant to be ready for marriage. I supposed it was only when you thought a gentleman quite perfect, and he thought the same of you, and you looked well together. But now I think it is when you see his imperfections, and he sees yours, and yet you are each absolutely necessary to the happiness of the other; and in your case especially, it is when you begin to prize his company over your peace, and you do not mind whether you are in a city or a village or the middle of a desert, so long as you are with him."

"That is perhaps a more romantic phrasing than I should have used," Mary replied.

"But I am right—am I not? And you do not yet think you could trade Hertfordshire for London just now, even to be by Robert's side, however much you love him."

Mary hesitated. "Perhaps not," she said. "And I do not think, from reading his letters to me, that Robert is prepared to take on the duties and responsibilities of married life. If we may move from the romantic to the rational, it would be unwise for us to marry at this time; he is still a student, and will not be settled in his profession for some years. I daresay even Mamma would admit that it makes little sense to set up house together on such a small and uncertain budget. It will be better to wait until Robert has steady work at one of the hospitals, or perhaps even his own practice."

"Mamma may admit it, but not happily," Kitty laughed. "And to move from the rational back to the romantic, I do think it terribly poetic, that you are so much in love together and yet separated by so many obstacles."

"Not many obstacles," Mary protested, smiling, "chiefly the obstacles of our own separate lingering selfishness, which is not yet ready to be traded for the mutual devotion of a husband and wife."

"Then I think you do right," Kitty said. "For an untimely marriage may be an unhappy one. And besides," she added, with a rather wicked grin, "I have often heard that a pleasure delayed is all the sweeter."

Mary gave her a very chastening look, which made her laugh aloud.

Her sister may have been happy to be at home, but Kitty began to feel again something like the restlessness that had plagued her the summer before they first went to Bath. Rosamond's wedding was not until May, and so there were three months to fill between their return from Pemberley and the eagerly anticipated journey.

It was perhaps most unfortunate that these three months were, as is usual, some of the dullest of the year. Snow and ice are all very well at Christmastide, for they add to the festive seasonal look of things, and make a particularly charming backdrop for celebrations of the holiday; but in January and February and March, when all the delights of the Christmas season have been sampled and there are no more holidays to make the cold seem cozy and cheerful, ill weather is nothing more than a great inconvenience.

There was little entertainment to be had. Netherfield was undergoing a great deal of work in preparation for the baby, and between the construction and Jane's condition (she was grown very round indeed), balls and parties were quite out of the question at that house. The Miss Lucases went away, in late February, to spend some time with their sister Mrs. Collins, and so even the usual distractions of visits to Lucas Lodge grew tedious; there was nobody to talk to there except Lady Lucas and the young Master Lucases, the eldest of whom had just turned twelve.

With no regiment stationed at Meryton, the gossip to be learned from the girls' Aunt Phillips was of the usual dull sort—a farmer's wife having a baby, the departure of a shop assistant for a new position in some other town, a flirtation between two young people at an evening assembly that really, in the end, did not amount to anything. Mr. Phillips did take on a rather handsome new clerk, which caused something of a stir at Longbourn—"Perhaps he might marry you, my dear!" Mrs. Bennet trilled excitedly to Mary—but in the end it came to nothing, for the gentleman was more interested in Kitty than her sister and, having been politely discouraged by her, set his sights more successfully upon a young lady from the village.

"What shall I do," Mary asked her sister rather desperately, "when you are married and gone away, and I have nobody to engage the attentions of every gentleman Mamma invites to dine?"

"Perhaps you ought to behave as Emiliana in The Foreign Countess," Kitty suggested teasingly, "and join a convent, at least until your handsome Roberto comes to rescue you."

"There are no convents in England," Mary muttered, "or perhaps I might."

Given the scarcity of news and amusements, Kitty came to depend ever more upon her letters from Bath, which provided a glimpse into a world at least somewhat more exciting than her own. Hart House seemed to be a center of activity: Rosamond wrote of dinner parties and card-parties, attended by many of Kitty's Bath friends. The Upper Rooms had not yet begun their schedule for the Season, but there were balls held there every few weeks, and concerts besides.

Oliver Finch's letters exhibited less appreciation for social entertainments than Miss Hart's, but were agreeable nonetheless, made all the more so by Kitty's developing feelings for their writer. His letters had always been long and, to Kitty's mind, interesting, but the envelopes seemed to be growing thicker as the weeks went by; whatever initial shyness had formerly stilled Oliver's pen looked to be fading, and he wrote more and more of himself—his thoughts, his questions, his interests—and of her. Their correspondence truly had the feeling of an extended conversation, one of those rare conversations which ranges upon a wide variety of topics, without sacrificing depth and interest, and leaves each of its participants with the feeling that they understand each other quite perfectly, and yet are still interested in knowing each other further, and do not feel as though they have discovered all there is to discover about each other.

This, at any rate, was Kitty's feeling regarding their correspondence, and though she liked to think so, she could not be certain that it was mutual. And so she endeavored to give no hint to Oliver of her growing feelings for him. It would not be right, anyway, she thought, to do so in a letter; that was the sort of thing which really ought to be done in person.

(Besides which, she had in her mind an image: the two of them meeting again at Rosamond's wedding, and knowing with one look all that there was to know. After the ceremony, during the party which was to follow, he would ask her to the veranda, and she would go with him. And they would be out there alone, in the moonlight—of course there must be moonlight—the scent of blooming peonies and jasmine all about them and a few stray petals floating on the spring breeze. He would turn to her, and there would be no need even of words; he would fall down upon one knee, and take his hand in hers, and she would wipe tears of joy from her eyes and say "Yes" even before he asked the question. He would beam, and stand, and take her in his strong arms. They would linger in the moonlight for a moment more, secure in the warmth of their love, and at last they would go inside and tell everybody the wonderful news. Mary would embrace him as a brother, and Mrs. Bennet would burst into happy tears, and Kitty would not let go of Oliver's arm for the rest of the evening.

Kitty may have put aside much of her yearning for romance, but certain fancies would not be denied.)

She wondered, occasionally, whether he might not still be pining for Rosamond—a thought which made her heart ache, her pain both for him and for herself. For if indeed Oliver did still love her friend (who was, after all, lovely and clever and winsome, with no known history of falling in love with handsome scoundrels), Kitty's own chances of securing his love were necessarily greatly reduced.

This was not a thought which gave her any comfort, and so she endeavored to push it from her mind.

And so this was how she passed the months between their return to Longbourn and their departure for Bath: in thinking, and daydreaming, and doing her best not to think and daydream overmuch. They were long, dull months, the only spots of brightness being the letters she received from her friends, and her visits to Netherfield to sit with Jane. As the long, cold, gray days stretched on—as dirty patches of ice and snow covered the ground long after their absence was desired—it began to seem as though spring would never come.

---

Yet spring did come: slowly, but surely, the patches of crusty ice and snow began to shrink, and the first foolhardy crop of crocuses was followed by a second, stronger set. Grass emerged from the cold mud, green and cheerful, and buds began to grow on the branches of the trees. The weather was not yet fair enough to trade heavy coats for spencers and shawls, but the days were growing longer, and warmer, and springtime in Bath did not seem so far away as it once had.

There were other changes, too. One day in early April, Kitty was awakened very early in the morning—so early that the sun had not yet risen—by a pounding on her door, and she opened it to see Mary standing in the hall, flushed and dressed only in her petticoat, though she was hurriedly pulling on her boots.

"Dress, quickly," Mary gasped, her eyes bright, "for Mamma has had a note from Netherfield—Jane's time is come!"

And indeed Kitty could hear Mrs. Bennet, in her own room, shrieking for Hill to come help her; and there was a great deal of uproar all through the house, almost as though the anticipated event were in fact taking place at Longbourn.

The Netherfield household was, ironically, a great deal calmer than that of Netherfield, for everybody there had been well-prepared for this event, and anyway there was not much to be done except in the chamber of confinement itself. Mr. Jones, the local surgeon, and the midwife both attended Mrs. Bingley, as did several maids, who stood ready to give whatever aid was needed; and for everybody else, there was nothing to do but wait, and talk, and endeavor to gain whatever clues were to be gained by listening at the door.

Mr. Bingley, pale and nervous, paced before the door of his wife's bedroom, raking his hand through his hair and making it stand up in a most comical fashion, though Kitty did not dare to laugh at him just now. Mr. Bennet, who had undergone this same experience five times before, endeavored to reassure his son-in-law as best he could, but these efforts were rather undermined by Mrs. Bennet, whose mood swung wildly between elation and agitation.

"What a joy it shall be to all of us, if it is a son!" the lady exclaimed. "To have an heir to Netherfield should make you proud indeed, sir, to say nothing of the rest of us! I declare there could be nothing better!—But what is this unaccountable delay? I am sure it ought not to be taking so long. This waiting plays most ill upon my nerves! I was never so long about it, not with any of my girls, though they were all most difficult and painful labors to be sure. With Lydia I thought sure I would not survive it."

Mr. Bingley paled even further, and sank bonelessly into a chair.

"But survive it you did, my dear, to the great relief of everybody concerned," Mr. Bennet snapped, his own nerves rather tried by the circumstances, "and so there is no need to linger on the experience any longer."

"How can you speak to me so cruelly?" Mrs. Bennet cried, "To think I nearly died for the sake of your child—"

"Mamma," Kitty broke in, with a desperate glance at her father, "let us go and look at the nursery, and see all the improvements which have been made. I have not seen it since the work began."

Mrs. Bennet was hesitant to leave the scene of the action, for she felt it her right to be the first to hear any news, and the first to gaze upon the newborn; but Kitty pressed her firmly, and Mary soon joined her own entreaties to those of her sister. A maid emerging from the chamber for a fresh pitcher of water confirmed that it would be some time yet before there was anything to report, and so at last Mrs. Bennet was persuaded to go with her daughters to the nursery, and admire all that had been done.

Indeed it was several more hours before the news finally came: Mrs. Bingley had given birth not to one son, but to two, both of them healthy and squalling as newborns ought; and Jane, too, was perfectly well, though necessarily much exhausted, and more than a little shocked by the realization that she had produced a pair of children when only one had been expected.

Mr. Bingley, hearing this, looked rather stunned, and there was a moment where Kitty thought he might faint; but he recovered admirably, and rushed to his wife's bedside. Mrs. Bennet made to follow, but her husband kept them all outside for a little longer. "Let them enjoy a few minutes alone together," he said, "for you and I, Mrs. Bennet, know very well the feelings which accompany such an event," and Mrs. Bennet, glancing rather tenderly at him, relented without another word.

But at last they went in to see Jane, pale against the pillows, her hair clinging to her face and neck with sweat and her eyelids drooping with fatigue. Despite all this she looked happier even than she had on her wedding day. She was cradling one of the infants, and Mr. Bingley, at her bedside, held the other, beaming.

"Here is little Charles," he proclaimed proudly, his wife being too tired for words, "and there," nodding at the babe in Jane's arms, "is little Edward."

Mrs. Bennet burst into happy sobs and fell into the arms of her patient husband, and Kitty felt tears pricking at her own eyes, though she wiped them away. Even Mary sniffled rather conspicuously.

The infants had been cleaned and fed, and wrapped in fresh linens. They were quite identical (though of course, except in the eyes of their doting parents, most newborns are rather indistinguishable from one another), but Kitty remarked with amusement that their temperaments would surely be shown to differ, for baby Charles regarded the world with wide, interested blue eyes, and stretched a curious hand toward his father's face, while baby Edward already drowsed contentedly against his mother's breast.

The Bennets did not stay very long, for Jane looked quite on the verge of following her son into sleep. The ride back to Longbourn was silent, though it was a happy silence. Everybody was very tired from their early morning and the stress of the day, and hungry as well, for their breakfast at Netherfield had been something of an afterthought; and so even Mrs. Bennet agreed that they could wait another day to share the news of their good fortune with the rest of the neighborhood, though she was already anticipating with delight the envy that would show upon Lady Lucas's face.

---

The birth of the twins, as much as the warmer weather, lifted the last pallor of wintry gloom that had laid over Kitty. Indeed, the world had never seemed brighter to her; the sun shone, the grass grew green, buds began to unfurl into flowers and birds sang cheerfully in the trees. She and Mary walked nearly every day to Netherfield, where they spent happy hours cooing over their little nephews and doing all they could to be useful to Jane. Indeed, their sister seemed grateful to them simply for sitting and talking with her, for she was not yet recovered enough to move about much, and any contact with the world beyond the nursery was most welcome.

"I shall miss you both very much when you go to Bath," Jane confessed one afternoon, only a fortnight before they were to go, "though I know you shall enjoy yourselves most heartily."

"Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst are coming to Netherfield next Wednesday," Mary reminded her, though she was aware that this was was not particularly comforting, "so you shall not be without company."

"And anyway, our visit to Bath is only to be a short one," Kitty said. "Papa says not more than a week, though Mamma hopes he will change his mind. And so we will be back at Longbourn before June, and will come to rescue you from your sisters-in-law."

Jane smiled at her. "I have some idea," she said, teasing gently, "that one or both of you may not return to Longbourn at all; watching your friend step into matrimony may prove somewhat inspirational."

Mary blushed, and looked away; Kitty laughed.

"Mary will say nay, and sometimes I believe her," she said merrily to Jane, "but other times, I wonder if perhaps the sight of Robert Hart will not be enough to undo all of her rationality, and induce her to marry him on the spot. What do you think, Jane?"

"I think Mary ought to do whatever makes her happiest," Jane replied, clasping her sisters' hands affectionately, "and so should you, Kitty."

"I intend to," Kitty answered, with a mischievous grin which made Mary raise her eyebrows in surprise.

As it happened, Mr. Bennet was, to his wife's displeasure, most firm upon his initial request: they would spend a week in Bath, three days before the wedding and four days after, and no more. He refused to secure lodgings for any longer period of time.

"If Miss Hart cannot manage to get herself married sometime within the span of seven days," he declared, "then there is no hope for her, but it is nothing to do with us. Our daughters shall be quite able to attend the ceremony and celebrate with their friend, which is all that they desire and, I assure you, all that is desired of them."

"But what of the other entertainments?" Mrs. Bennet cried. "What of the balls and parties and assemblies? Nobody goes to Bath at the height of the Season and only stays for a week! It is entirely unheard of!"

"They do," Mr. Bennet replied sternly, "if they have any sense of frugality; you seem to think us rather richer than we are, my dear. You are to be in Bath at the height of the Season, as you say—and lodgings for that time do not come cheaply."

"But how are we to find Kitty a husband?" Mrs. Bennet wailed. Mr. Bennet admitted himself utterly unequal to this problem, but assured his lady that she was undervaluing her skills as a matchmaker, and that she should surely think of something.

Mrs. Bennet eventually comforted herself with the thought that Miss Hart, once she was Lady Adlam, would undoubtedly make good on her promise to invite Kitty to London for a Season there, which was in fact the bigger prize; but nonetheless she began to regard the wedding as a wasted opportunity, and was not quite so satisfied at the prospect as she had been.

They left Longbourn in the first week of May, under a brilliant blue sky, though the road was muddy beneath them. Kitty's heart beat a little faster with every mile that they traveled, and Mary's did too, though she did her best to appear unaffected by the thought of seeing Robert again.

Kitty's words to Jane had given Mary pause; she wondered if, perhaps, their reunion would result in an immediate wedding, as unlikely as it had seemed to her only a few months ago. Perhaps she had underestimated the strength of her feelings, she mused; perhaps her sentimentality would be enough to overcome her natural rationality, and she would find herself casting aside all of her principled reasoning—about the imprudence of marrying on a student's salary, about her distaste for living in London, about her and Robert's youth—in favor of her love for him.

With their reunion so near, her thoughts seemed to be a bit muddled, and she decided it was best just to put the entire matter out of her mind until she saw him again. This, of course, was easier said than done; and she spent the miles to Bath endeavoring to make conversation with Kitty and her mother, so that she might distract herself from the worries and questions swirling through her mind.

Kitty, for her part, would rather not have made conversation; though she had determined not to swoon helplessly over Mr. Finch as she had over Mr. Price and so many other gentlemen—though she had determined to maintain at least some level of detachment—she found herself beset by daydreams. Her intentions had been good: she thought it absolutely imperative that she speak to Oliver at the earliest opportunity, and to that end, thought it wise to try and work out what, exactly, she would say to him (if indeed words were necessary at all; some part of her still clung to the idea that they would share a meaningful glance, and need nothing more). And so she had begun the journey with the object of composing some sort of speech in her mind, which would not alarm Oliver with its forwardness and yet would leave him in no doubt of her feelings.

Before they had gone very far, however, her thoughts had shifted into romantic reverie, of the same vein as the fantasy related earlier; and then Mary had begun talking, in a rather high-pitched and nervous tone, and so Kitty had pulled herself disgruntledly from her daydreams and indulged her sister's apparent need for conversation.

Bath had looked charming when they had arrived late last summer, with its flowers in luxurious bloom and the heavy sun casting a warm glow upon the limestone buildings; it had looked pretty in mid-autumn, as they had left, with a morning frost glittering upon the ground and brilliant leaves swirling crisply beneath the wheels of the carriage. But it was loveliest, Kitty thought, in the early spring: verdant and bustling with Season traffic, trees stretching their budded branches over the streets and flowers opening shyly against the clean limestone. Ladies in their delicate springtime prints and dainty shawls meandered here and there on the arms of gentlemen, delighting in the warm sunshine after such a long winter. Kitty's heart was in her mouth, and though she kept her face to the window, she grasped blindly for Mary's hand and squeezed it.

They had been unable to secure their old lodgings in Henry Street, as that neighborhood was more popular during the Season, and so the carriage took them across the Avon and into the neighborhood of Carlton Gardens, not far from where the Theodore Harts lived. It was also a little closer to Hart House, and Kitty's first object, upon arrival at their lodgings, was to turn her steps in that direction.

"Come, Mary," she cajoled, changing hurriedly from her traveling-clothes into something less dingy, without even bothering to unpack her trunk, "do you not wish to see Robert again?"

Mary did wish to see Robert, though the prospect of their meeting had begun to fill her with nerves, and so she allowed herself to be pushed and prodded into a day-dress—one of Kitty's, for her sister declared with a sigh that Mary had brought nothing at all suitable for an audience with a lover whom she had not seen in several months.

"I wish you would not use that term," Mary grumbled, red-faced, as Kitty examined her critically to determine whether she needed a brooch or a necklace.

"Which term?" Kitty asked, meeting Mary's eyes.

"'Lover,'" Mary replied, the repetition of the offensive word causing her cheeks to flush anew. "It is most unseemly. We are not characters in some ill-written novel."

Kitty laughed. "But he is your lover, for he loves you; and you love him; and do not be irritable with me just because you are nervous, or I shan't help you with your hair."

"I do not require your help with my hair," Mary grumbled, but Kitty was already pulling her limp brown hair from its customary knot at the back of her head, and endeavoring to twist it into something more becoming. "Anyway," she added, "Robert may not even be at Hart House when we arrive, in which case all of this effort will have been wasted."

"I am sure he will be there," Kitty said, "and even if he is not, Rosamond will notice your dress and your hair, and when Robert comes home, she will say to him, 'Robert, my dear brother, you really ought to have seen how charming Mary Bennet looked this afternoon. I have never seen her look so lovely; she was quite the prettiest one of the party. You must propose to her immediately, as a wedding gift to me, for I should dearly love to have such a winning creature for a sister.'"

She had affected a tone a good deal higher than her own for her imitation of Rosamond, and Mary smiled, despite the fact that neither the voice nor the words sounded at all like their friend, and despite the patent unlikelihood of her ever being the prettiest one of any party.

Mrs. Bennet had taken to her rented bedroom to rest her nerves, and she had no wish to stir from her chaise-lounge. Thus the young ladies set out alone for Hart House only a few minutes later, Kitty chatting amiably and Mary doing her best to listen, though her palms were sweating. The walk seemed to pass more quickly than it ought, and in less than a quarter-hour they had arrived on the familiar quiet street, and then they were walking up the path to Hart House, lined with pink and white bleeding-hearts that reached gently for their skirts. For a moment Mary felt quite panicked, though she knew it was foolish, and she grasped Kitty's arm.

"We ought to have sent a note," she said. "They are not expecting us, and Rose is to be married in three days; I am sure they are far too busy to entertain us. Perhaps we ought to go home and come back tomorrow."

"We are within three feet of the doorstep, Mary," Kitty scoffed; "I am not going home now."

And with that she climbed up the steps and rapped smartly with the door-knocker. Mary had no choice but to follow, her heart racing, even as she told herself how silly she was to feel this way.

"You are being quite ridiculous, but I understand perfectly well why that is," Kitty whispered teasingly, as the smiling maid welcomed them into the familiar vestibule. Mary did not have time to make any dignified response (nor could she think of any to make) for they were swiftly shown into the comfortable sitting-room, where they had passed so many pleasant hours.

They found there a large group of their friends; and Kitty's bravado was abruptly stolen from her as she discovered that Oliver Finch was one of the party.

She had not expected to see him, not until she had had more time to prepare herself, and her eyes went very wide—as did his. The full weight of her feelings hit her as she met his gaze, and for a moment she was breathless and her mouth was dry and she realized that this was how Mary must feel at this same moment. All of her detachment, the care she had taken to emulate Mary and remain sensible and logical, was overcome in that instant. It was not only his handsome face; it was the kindness in his eyes, the honesty in his tentative smile. His character was laid bare to her, and in looking at Oliver, she could see the gentleman with whom she ought to have fallen in love all those months ago, and cursed herself anew for her shallowness. Had she really preferred vivacity and a smiling disposition to goodness and understanding? What a fool she had been! (Besides which, she thought, Mr. Price was not really so very handsome when compared with Mr. Finch. He was rather short, for one, and the blueness of his eyes could not make up for the thinness of his face.)

"Why, it is the Miss Bennets!" Rosamond exclaimed, coming forward to greet them. She did not curtsy, but instead embraced Mary and then Kitty warmly. "We did not expect to see you for another day or two!"

"Look, Robert, does not Miss Bennet look exceedingly well?" Juliet asked cheerfully. Robert, whose gaze had indeed been upon Mary, sent his youngest sister a scolding glance; and if Kitty had had the presence of mind to do so, she would have smirked at them both.

"Indeed Mary does look very well, Juliet," Rosamond interjected, smiling at Mary, "as does Kitty, for that matter. Please, sit," this to the Miss Bennets, "We were just about to have tea, and should love for you to join us."

'We' referred to the Hart twins and Juliet, as well as Lord Adlam, Oliver Finch, Captain Finch and their two younger sisters, Mrs. Hart, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, and a remarkably beautiful lady, certainly the handsomest of the party, unknown to them, who was examining Mary appraisingly. (This lady was introduced as Mrs. Bontecou, the eldest of the Hart siblings, who had recently moved with her husband from Paris, which was his native city, to Bath, which was of course hers; and her interest in Mary was therefore explained, for she had surely caught the hint in Juliet's words.)

They all sat, and the general conversation obligingly shifted in the direction of the Bennets, as they were the newest additions to the party and therefore, for a few minutes at least, the most interesting. Rosamond was eager to hear news of Georgiana, for she and that young lady had grown quite friendly during her stay at Pemberley two years ago, and had enjoyed a periodic correspondence ever since. Mrs. Hart, who had borne a healthy daughter four months ago, wished to know how fared Jane and Mr. Bingley and their little boys. The others were glad to listen, and respond, and pose their own questions.

But it was a large enough party that they could not all speak for long upon the same topics, and as the tea was served, smaller conversations began to break out. Kitty saw, with mingled relief and disappointment, that Oliver Finch was engaged by his cousin Mrs. Fitzwilliam; she was still a little discomposed at having found him here so unexpectedly. But she turned to Rosamond, for after all she had dearly missed her friend, and noted with pleasure that Robert had crossed the room to talk to Mary, though she could not hear what they said.

"I am glad that you have come, Kitty," Rosamond said, squeezing her hand. "I had worried that I would not be able to see you much at all before the wedding, or indeed after, for Julian and I leave for Gloucestershire within a week."

"Gloucestershire?" Kitty said, "Whatever is in Gloucstershire?"

"Locksby Hall, near Lechlade-on-Thames; it is the Adlams' country seat."

"Our country seat," her betrothed interjected gently, "or soon to be." Rosamond smiled at him, and rested her hand over his own.

"The family has lived at Locksby for centuries," she told Kitty, her eyes bright, "and Julian says it is in a very beautiful part of the country—right along the Thames, and at the edge of the Cotswolds. I know you can have no care for charming countrysides," she added, teasingly, "for you have told me so many times; but you must forgive my enthusiasm, Kitty, for with only a few brief interludes, I have spent my entire life in a city."

"I shall forgive your enthusiasm," Kitty agreed, "so long as you do not forget that you also have a perfectly serviceable house in London, and one here in Bath as well."

Rosamond laughed. "I daresay you will not allow me to forget; nor have I forgotten my request that you should join us in London for the Season. I shall expect you at Breezewood House in January."

"We have a long-standing subscription to Almacks, of which we must make good use," Lord Adlam added, smiling at her. Kitty received the renewal of the invitation with delight, and thought with satisfaction that the viscount was really quite an agreeable sort of gentleman.

"Do you think your sister shall be happy?" Mary asked Robert, quietly. "I remember her saying last summer that she did not think herself disposed to marriage at the present time, and I am certain we both agree that a marriage ill-timed is a marriage ill-made."

"Perhaps she was not disposed to marriage in general," Robert replied, "but I think her feelings for Lord Adlam are more than sufficient to overcome whatever hesitation she may have had."

Mary wondered if there was another meaning intended by this, and said, "But do you think, then, that Rosamond is choosing aright in marrying now? Do you not think that, whatever her feelings for the gentleman, she ought to wait until the general idea of marriage is more agreeable to her?"

"I do not think it could be any more agreeable," was Robert's answer, "that is my point. She may not have felt herself ready before, but as she has fallen in love, her feelings have changed."

"You do not think she feels any lingering doubt or anxiety?" Mary pressed.

"I am sure she does; it is only natural. If we were to wait to take any step until all doubts and anxieties had disappeared, then we should live very stagnant lives. And I trust my sister, Mary; she has always known her own mind."

He was looking at her as he said this, and for a moment Mary felt affronted at what she read as the implication in his words: that she did not know her own mind, not so well as Rosamond apparently did. Her mouth opened with a half-formed rebuke, but then she deflated, for in truth, she realized, she did not know her mind. If Robert were to ask her, at that moment, what she wanted, she would not know—anymore—what to tell him. Half of her blanched at the thought of being married, and living in London; but the other half had missed him far more than she had realized, and wanted nothing more than to revel in the warmth of him at her side.

"When do you return to London?" she said instead, changing the subject.

"A day or two after the wedding; my plans are not yet settled, but it is necessary that I return very soon. Why," he asked, teasingly; "are you eager to be rid of me?"

"Certainly not," Mary replied, with all the composure she could muster. "I was merely making polite conversation."

"I had understood that polite conversation is beneath us. Have we not long moved beyond the need for pleasantries?"

"I understand that it is customary, when seeing again a friend one has not seen for some time, to make some small, polite inquiries into the everyday affairs of his or her life."

"And now you have inquired."

"Yes; I have fulfilled what I consider to be my duty."

"Are there any small, polite inquiries you require from me?"

Mary considered. "You have already heard how my sister and nephews fare; and Kitty told everybody about Christmas at Pemberley. And so I think your duty has already been fulfilled for you."

And it was so effortless, to fall back into easy conversation with him—easier conversation than she enjoyed with almost anyone else, save perhaps Kitty; it was almost as though she had never left Bath. Again she felt how much she had missed him, and how much she had hidden it from herself. She swallowed hard.

"Do you find your work at St. Thomas's to be as fulfilling as you had hoped?" she asked.

"I do," he replied, thoughtfully, after a moment. "It is certainly different from my work in Bath."

"How so?"

"The cases are usually more severe, and very often they are ailments I have only ever read about; here in Bath, my experience was largely limited to cases of gout and nervous tension and broken bones, with one or two more serious complaints. But at St. Thomas's I feel, half the time, as though I am quite out of my depth; and yet I find the feeling somehow vitalizing."

"That is good," Mary said warmly. "You are taking the opportunity to learn and to grow in your field. There is no point in pursuing any activity, whether it is a gentleman's profession or a lady's accomplishment, if one already knows all that there is to know."

"I am sure my patients would not be particularly reassured if I shared that idea with them," Robert said. "But I take your meaning. I believe I am receiving the education for which I had hoped: I work all day, and I go home at night and read the works of physicians greater than myself."

Mary remembered the antique medical texts she had discovered in the library at Pemberley, and told him about them. He was interested, as she had known he would be.

"If ever I visit Pemberley," he said, "I will be sure to explore the library."

"The books are rather hidden," Mary said, "and I do not believe even Mr. Darcy knows that they are there; I shall have to help you find them. Perhaps when—"

She paused, for she had been about to say "perhaps when we are married," and flushed. Robert's eyes met her own. She could not tell whether he had guessed how she should have finished the sentence.

"Oh, Captain Finch," Kitty called suddenly, across the room, "are you leaving?"

The Finches had all risen, and begun to make their excuses.

"I am afraid so, Miss Katherine," Bertram Finch replied genially, bowing to her. "We are to dine with our aunt and uncle in Weston tonight, and I am afraid they will not brook any tardiness. I am sorry that we must break up such an agreeable party." He turned to help his sister Diana with her spencer.

Kitty's disappointment was plain upon her face, and Mary was surprised, for she had not seen her sister speaking with any members of that family.

"I will walk with you," Mrs. Fitzwilliam said; "I had not realized how late it is."

"Nor had I," Mrs. Hart agreed, rising.

"Then Mary and I will go along with you," Kitty said, "for we are staying near Carlton Road."

Mary would have liked to stay and talk more with Robert, but Kitty looked quite determined; and anyway, perhaps it would be best if she speak with him again only after she had begun to sort out her feelings. This, she was certain, could be accomplished overnight—she was a very logical person, after all—and so on the morrow she would be quite equal to his company.

And so they all set out from Hart House together; and Mary swiftly found herself abandoned by her sister, as Kitty made a beeline for Mr. Finch's side.

"I was sorry that we did not have an opportunity to speak earlier," Kitty said, rather breathlessly, as she caught up to him. "But I saw that you were sitting with your cousin, and did not want to interrupt."

"It would not have been a disagreeable interruption," Oliver replied, with a little smile that surprised her. She had expected him to blush and look away, as was his wont when paying any sort of compliment. "I am glad you arrived safely in Bath. Is it to be a long visit?"

"No; very short," Kitty answered, and though she had not minded so much (at least not as much as her mother had) when Mr. Bennet had made this decree, now she found it quite disagreeable. "No longer than a week."

"I am sorry to hear it."

"I hope we may have the opportunity of meeting often, while I am here," Kitty said, looking up to meet his dark eyes. She searched his gaze for the sudden wondrous spark of understanding and recognition of which she had dreamed so often…

But there was a burst of laughter from Oliver's siblings who walked ahead of them, which caught his attention momentarily. The spell, if there had been one, was broken.

"I have enjoyed our correspondence," he said, turning back to her, and now there was a hint of his regular diffidence in his voice.

"So have I," Kitty agreed, "for your letters always made me feel as if I were in Bath again, sitting and talking with you; but I must confess that it is even nicer to really be here, and have the opportunity of really talking with you."

"You are very kind, Miss Katherine. I am glad that you were able to return, even if only for a short time; I remember that you were not so certain, when you left here, that it would be possible."

"I was not certain that Papa would allow it," Kitty admitted, "for he has been very strict about keeping us at home, except when we have our sisters to attend us. But I think he was pleased that neither Mary nor I had eloped with anybody, or made any other hasty marriage, or gotten into any other sort of trouble while we were here, and so this is our reward. My father does not know," she added, more softly, "that he owes his relief in a large part to you."

Oliver shook his head. "It was you who refrained from taking that unfortunate step; all I did was loom threateningly beside you."

Kitty laughed aloud at this. "Indeed, you have a frame perfectly built for looming," she said cheerfully, and was pleased to see the gentleman blush, "and for rescuing damsels in distress."

"I think you give yourself too little credit, if you think yourself a damsel in distress," he replied, "for such creatures usually lack all sense and resourcefulness, and that is not true in your case."

"Thank you," Kitty said, touched.

They had reached the point where the Finches would turn northwest toward Weston, and Mrs. Fitzwilliam would turn north toward James Street, and there were fond farewells exchanged between them all. "Goodbye, Mr. Finch," Kitty said, curtsying low. "I hope we may meet again soon."

"I shall look forward to it," the gentleman replied, with a bow, and then he turned to join his siblings.

Kitty did not quite know what to make of their conversation; she puzzled over it as she and Mary and Mrs. Hart walked along toward Carlton Gardens, and as she and Mary and Mrs. Bennet ate their dinner of cold meat and bread, and as she and Mary undressed that evening in their shared bedroom at the top of the house, which was even smaller than the one at Henry Street.

Of course she realized that her expectations had been too high; it was only in books that the hero, faced with the first sight of his beloved after a long separation, clasped her passionately in his arms. Yet she could not help wishing that their conversation had been less formal, and more like the long familiar letters that had flown back and forth between them over the past months. She felt as if she knew him so well, so completely, that all their polite civilities were somehow insulting—as though they implied that she and Oliver were merely mutual friendly acquaintances, and nothing more.

But, she reminded herself, as far as she knew, Oliver might consider her nothing more than a friendly acquaintance or, at the most, a good friend. The thought pained her, for despite all her efforts to remain detached, she had begun unconsciously assuming that her role would merely be to speak the words that both of them felt—not to try and win the love of a gentleman who had never looked at her in such a light. She was not at all certain that she was equal to this task, especially if he were still in love with Rosamond, and worry began to gnaw at her breast.

She did her best to distract herself. "Well, Mary," she said, affecting a cheerful tone, "did you find Robert as you remembered him?"

Mary glanced at her. "I did indeed," she said, trying to sound unaffected.

"Do you think you shall marry him?"

"The question is not will I, but when will I."

"And when will you?" Kitty asked.

Mary bit her lip, trying to stem the flow of words; but they burst out of her anyway. "I don't know!" she said, rather miserably. "I have been attempting to examine my feelings on the subject, but I cannot discern a conclusive answer. I was quite convinced, a week ago, that I should prefer to wait at least another year or so; but now that I am here, and have spoken to him, I am not at all certain if that is what I want."

She looked up to meet Kitty's eyes. To her surprise, her sister was not smiling or laughing, and did not look ready to tease. Instead she looked very thoughtful.

"Have you no course of action to propose?" Mary asked, a little bitterly. "Will you not encourage me to run to him and throw myself into his arms?"

"Only if that is what you wish," Kitty said, with a small shrug.

"And then there are his feelings to consider," Mary went on, the thought having just occurred to her; "I cannot say whether he is in as much confusion as I am, or whether he desires to be married now, or whether he should like to wait longer. And so however laborious may be the process of choosing my own course of action, I cannot be guaranteed that my wishes, whatever they may be, will be in accord with his."

"No," Kitty said, "you cannot. We can never be assured of another's thoughts or feelings for us; all we can do is take the risks that are presented."

Mary frowned at her. "You are taking this far more seriously than I had expected. Have you truly no advice for me?" She did not mean the question to sound as plaintive as it did.

Kitty smiled at last. "No, Mary, no advice—only to take Jane's counsel, and do what makes you happiest."

The problem, Mary thought, was that she did not know what would make her happiest—not anymore. But Kitty's words were kindly meant, and she did not say anything of her doubts. Instead she returned her sister's smile, a little tremulously, and they both went to bed without speaking any more upon the subject.

---

Rosamond Hart was, as Kitty had once pointed out, a young lady of unusual good fortune; and so it was no surprise to anybody that the day of her wedding, despite being preceded by two days of drizzle, furnished a beaming sun in the glorious blue sky, the sounds of birdsong in all the blossoming trees, and a promise of coming summer in the warm breeze. Kitty, dressing in her prettiest pale pink muslin, was cheered by the beautiful weather; but she could not help a little tremor of anxiety, even as she examined herself in the looking-glass. She had not seen Oliver Finch since they had met at the Harts' three days ago, and knew that today must be the day she made her declaration to him.

Mary, too, regarded the day's event with mingled pleasure and trepidation. She still could not say, definitively, where her heart lay.

The Adlam family was of enough importance that it had been no hardship for the viscount to secure Bath Abbey for the ceremony. It was the first time the Bennets had been inside the Abbey, for during their previous stay in the city, they had attended services at one of the smaller, less fashionable churches. The regal façade of the Abbey was no stranger to them, as the building lay very near the Pump Room and the Roman Baths; but the exterior could not match the grandeur of the interior, with its gleaming white fluted columns stretching toward the sky and bright sunlight dappling the white stone floors and the carved wooden pews.

"Should you not like to be married in such a place, my dears?" Mrs. Bennet whispered breathlessly to her daughters. Mary pursed her lips.

The church was full, both the Harts and the Adlams being popular families in their circles, and everybody was dressed very fine—but of course nobody, even the Honorable Miss Adlams in their London fashions, who acted as bridesmaids alongside Rosamond's sisters, could compare to the loveliness of the bride. Rose, arrayed in her wedding-clothes and lit by the clean light of the Abbey, was radiant, as any proper bride ought to be. Her cheeks were flushed, her large eyes were bright (possibly with tears—Kitty was seated too far back to see properly), and her gold hair, lit by the sunlight which filtered through the stained glass windows, shone under her delicate veil. She did not stop beaming throughout the entire ceremony, nor, for that matter, did the gentleman who would be her husband. (He, too, looked very handsome in his wedding-clothes; but of course hardly anybody, save his lady, was looking at him.)

The ceremony was neither too long nor too brief, and everybody agreed afterwards that it had been very beautiful indeed. Miss Hart became Lady Adlam, and there were a great many tears among her friends and family; Kitty, too, wept a little, out of happiness for her friend, and Mrs. Bennet, who could never keep from crying at a wedding, muffled her soft sobs in her handkerchief. Even Lord Adlam's three sisters did not look entirely unmoved, and Kitty was pleased to see them each embrace Rosamond with something approaching real warmth.

Then they were all leaving the church, and the happy couple paused to greet everybody, to thank them for their attendance and, with many blushes and smiles, to receive their congratulations.

"My dear Miss Hart!" Mrs. Bennet trilled, when the newlyweds reached them; then she swiftly corrected herself, "Of course, I mean, Lady Adlam! How fine you are in your wedding-clothes! How fortunate you are, sir!"—this last, of course, to his Lordship.

Rosamond thanked her, laughing, as Lord Adlam declared his hearty agreement. To Kitty and Mary each the new viscountess afforded a fond embrace and a light kiss upon the cheek. "Perhaps your turn may come sooner than you think," she whispered in Kitty's ear, and in Mary's, "I shall be glad indeed when you share my happiness!"

But there was not time for anything further to be said.

The Upper Rooms had been rented for the evening's celebration, and by the time the Bennets arrived, they were already quite full. It reminded Kitty very much of all the balls they had attended within these walls: the musicians seated in the alcove, the windows open to allow the spring breeze through, the skirts and coattails of the dancers swirling as they moved. It was not yet fully dark, but the chandeliers were lit and glittered merrily. The room was decorated with garlands and bunches of springtime flowers, the same peonies and sweet peas which had spilled alluringly from Rosamond's wedding bouquet.

Kitty's heart lifted at the sight of all this gaiety, so familiar and natural. For a moment she was swept by a great wave of longing for Bath, for its ballrooms and dinner-tables but also for its streets and parks and houses. She remembered walking through Guilford Market with Rosamond, and felt a sudden sharp pang of nostalgia which she knew to be quite foolish.

"Be sure to find Lady Adlam, my dear," Mrs. Bennet hissed in her ear, "and be sure that she introduces you to her husband's friends!"

"Mamma," Kitty objected, half-laughing and half-annoyed, "we are only to be here for a few days more; even you cannot secure a titled husband for me in such a short time!"

"Perhaps not, my love, but there is always the chance that you may meet these gentlemen again when you go to London in the winter, and then you will have an acquaintance upon which to build," Mrs. Bennet replied shrewdly. "Go now, both of you, and sit by her Ladyship!"

Mary and Kitty obligingly moved into the cheerful crowd, as Mrs. Bennet made her way toward the refreshments; but her Ladyship was not, in fact, available for them to sit by. Mary soon pointed her out upon the dance-floor with her husband.

"Well, we may not interfere with that," Kitty said decisively, "and so Mamma will simply have to be disappointed in us." She was scanning the ballroom for Oliver, but could not catch sight of him. "Have you seen Robert, Mary?"

But she need not have asked, for at that moment there was a gentle hand upon Mary's elbow, and Robert stood beside them.

"I am glad to see you both," he said, with greater enthusiasm than either of them had expected from him. He offered each sister an arm; Kitty, still unable to see Oliver Finch, was happy enough to accept Robert's courtesy for the moment. The three of them cut a path through the crowd, pausing every few steps for Robert to smile and nod his thanks at some expression of congratulations for his twin.

"You must be very pleased upon this occasion, Mr. Hart," Kitty said, when it became apparent that Mary was not going to speak. Robert turned to look down at her, and his face split into a grin.

"It is wonderful to see my sister made happy," he replied, and though the words themselves did not convey any great zeal, his expression was sincere. "We are all pleased for her."

"Do you think it will be strange, not to have her Hart House anymore?" Kitty asked carelessly, still searching the assembly. She saw the eldest Mr. Finch and the two younger Miss Finches upon the dance-floor, but of the rest of the family there was no sign.

"It will be strange, I think, but not in a bad way. It is not any misfortune that takes her from Hart House—quite the opposite."

"I hope you will have the opportunity to visit her often." Where was he?

"I shall, as often as my work—and her patience—allows. She is already promising our younger sister a London debut, which pleases Juliet beyond all reason, and makes our father rather nervous. I think he would rather Julie spend time at Locksby than Breezewood."

Kitty smiled at him. "Your father and mine are not so dissimilar then."

They sat down together in a cluster of chairs at the edge of the dance-floor. It was not long before Mr. Carpenter came to seek Kitty's hand, and the whirl of the ball began in earnest. She danced with Mr. Carpenter and his brother, with Captain Finch, with both of the Mr. Harts, with Mr. Hargreve, and Mr. Hammond, and Mr. Bontecou, and one or two of Lord Adlam's friends (courtesy of Rosamond—a sight which very much pleased her mother, when she came back into the ballroom); she even danced a lively reel alongside Rosamond and Lord Adlam, with Theodore and Anne at her other side, which resulted in all of them laughing together in exhilaration once it had ended.

"I declare I must sit down; I am quite exhausted!" Rosamond exclaimed, leaning upon her husband as they left the dance-floor; and Lord Adlam, upon depositing his bride in a chair, immediately ventured off to fetch her some wine.

"He already dotes upon you," Theo Hart said, in mock disgust.

"Yes," Rosamond said, cheerfully, "I suppose I shall eventually have to break him of that habit; a physician's daughter is not accustomed to being doted upon, after all."

"A physician's daughter may not be, but a viscountess shall probably have to endure it," Anne said, and Rosamond gave an embarrassed little laugh and looked away, as if she had forgotten her new title.

But even this agreeable company could not make Kitty forget the object of her evening, and even as she danced and laughed and talked, her eyes scanned the room for Oliver. She caught sight of him once or twice, dancing with his sisters or talking with his friends, but he made no move to come speak with her; and her steady stream of engagements—as well as her nerves—kept her from going to him. (What could she say, anyway, in a ballroom?)

At length, however, she glanced away from her present partner (Mr. Seabrook) to see Oliver's broad shoulders ducking through the doorframe into the Octagon Room. As the cotillion ended a moment later, she steeled her resolve, and followed him.

The Octagon Room was crowded with people standing and talking, cups of wine or pastries in their hands. There was no sign of Oliver. She went down the corridor, to look into the card room, and the tea room, but he was not to be found. And so she made her way back along the corridor, and pushed open the doors to the vestibule.

Outside it had grown dark. A pale silver moon hung in the dark blue sky, and cast a soft glow over the world beneath. The scent of peonies and sweet peas hung in the air; a quiet spring breeze gently lifted a few stray petals from the cobblestones. The musicians had begun one of the slower dances, and the song reached them through the open upper windows of the ballroom. Kitty's heart began to beat faster.

Oliver stood a few feet from the door, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, apparently admiring the stars. They were quite alone.

Kitty hesitated for a moment; the speech she had composed, everything she had wanted to say, had momentarily fled her mind. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and went to stand beside him. He turned to her with a little smile.

"Hello, Miss Katherine."

Hello, Kitty meant to respond, and then, Mr. Finch, there is something I feel I must say to you, and I hope you will not think me exceedingly forward.

Instead she burst out "I hope you are not pining for her!"

Oliver's eyes went very wide and startled, and Kitty would have thought the effect comical if she had not been so mortified. She clapped a hand over her mouth, her face burning.

"Forgive me," she gasped, after a moment. "That was very impertinent—it was…it was not at all what I wished to say—"

Oliver was still staring at her, as if she were quite mad. "Pining," he said, slowly, as if speaking to a simpleton, "for whom?"

Kitty frowned. "For—for Rose," she answered, faltering, as the look of surprise upon his face evolved to an expression of utter shock. "You need not deny it. I know very well your feelings for her."

"My feelings for her?"

"Yes," Kitty replied, for a moment annoyed by his incredulity. "You do not know what I mean?"

"I think I do know what you mean, Miss Katherine," Oliver replied, and he looked quite as mortified as she felt. "You…believe me to be in love with Lady Adlam?"

Kitty was confused; his astonishment seemed so sincere, so unlike a patent denial, that a possibility at once comforting and embarrassing was now dawning upon her. "Why, yes," she said, "since the first time we met, last summer. You two are so intimate," she added, her brow furrowed, "and so much in each others' confidence; and you are always visiting Hart House, and walking about with her—"

"We are friends!" he interrupted, with more vehemence than she had ever heard in his voice.

"But you always dance with her at every ball, when you will not dance with any other young lady; and you show her such preference!"

Oliver was red-faced. "Only because I am better acquainted with her than with anybody else; and that," he went on, his voice dropping, "is largely because she is amiable, and kind, and easy to talk to; and I am—not very charming in company."

He looked rather miserable, and glanced away as he said it. Kitty's heart suddenly melted with affection, and she wished nothing more than to wrap her arms about him.

"You are perfectly charming," she declared warmly, "only quiet. And that is nothing to be ashamed of; indeed I quite like it. I am sorry if I embarrassed you," she added, feeling her own embarrassment fade as hope took hold of her. "Sometimes I convince myself of things, and I cannot be told otherwise, even if the things of which I am convinced are not at all true. I did not mean to say anything at all, and I wish I had not."

He met her eyes. "No," he said, "I am glad that you did. It is always best to cure any misapprehensions between friends. And I am glad to be allowed to call myself your friend."

"So am I," Kitty said warmly, taking another step toward him.

Oliver looked away again. "I have very much enjoyed writing to you, Miss Katherine," he remarked, with studied carelessness. The back of his neck was endearingly red.

"Yes," Kitty replied, amused, "so you said."

"I am glad of the opportunity to come to know you better. I feel as if we never had much opportunity to converse, when you were last here in Bath."

"Well," Kitty said, "my mind was otherwise engaged at that time, upon silly things like balls and parties, and I was not very much given to sensible conversation. But now I wish I had not been so foolish, and had taken the time to talk with you. If I may judge by our correspondence, I think there are few people in Bath whose conversation I enjoy more."

He gave a small smile. "You are very kind."

"I am not being kind," Kitty insisted. "I am being honest."

"Well, then," he said, "thank you."

Another silence fell between them, interrupted only by a faint burst of applause and laughter as the dance inside finished. Kitty swallowed hard.

"Mr. Finch," she began, hesitantly, "a great deal has changed, since I was last in Bath. I have changed. I have realized that things I was used to think very important are not important at all, and that things which I never once considered are in fact quite necessary to my happiness."

He was looking at her now, but she saw no dawning of comprehension. She frowned. Why did he not take her meaning?

"I mean," she went on, "that I am not the same young lady I was, and I do not care about the same things. That is, I still enjoy balls and parties and so on, but not in the way I once did. And I could no longer agree to spend the rest of my life with somebody simply because they danced well, and flirted with me."

Oliver's brow was furrowed. Kitty sighed.

"You do not dance very well, Mr. Finch," she hinted, "and you have never once flirted with me."

At this, he went red. "I should never wish to presume," he said stiffly.

"I know that; and I am glad of it. I could never be happy with somebody who went about presuming. And I think, Mr. Finch, if—if it should please you, as well as it should please me—which is very well indeed—what I mean to say, sir, is that if you cared to have it so, I think I could be very happy with you."

The only response she received was silence. Kitty swallowed hard, again, and looked down at her hands, which were twisting nervously together before her.

"I know I could be happy with you," she mumbled, feeling a hot flush of humiliation rise to her face. She could not bear to look at him.

"Miss Katherine—" he said, very quietly, after a long moment.

"You are so good," she burst out. "Before, when I was so foolish, I thought you were dull; but you are not at all. You are kind, and honorable, and clever, and very—very good. I know that I am shallow and thoughtless, and not nearly so good as you are, and very selfish; but it is that selfishness which convinces me that you are the only man in the world with whom I could ever live, happily, for none of the other gentlemen of my acquaintance are anything to you, Mr. Finch. I am very sorry to embarrass you again, but I feel that I must speak my piece. Forgive me."

She cut herself off there with a little gasp, feeling that she would certainly ramble on unforgivably if she did not, and held her breath. She still could not look at him, but she could feel his eyes on her.

"Miss Katherine," he said again. "I do not think you are shallow or thoughtless."

Kitty did not reply.

"My opinion of you must be quite contrary to your own," Oliver continued. "For I think you a compassionate friend, a loving sister, a dutiful daughter and a young woman of sense and understanding, who wishes for those around her to be happy, and tries to make them so. Nor do I think you are selfish—no more than you ought to be, for love is always selfish, in its own way. I hope," he said, haltingly, "that I have not got it wrong; I hope that you are speaking of—of love."

"I am," she whispered.

"And if you are selfish, Miss Katherine," he went on, "then I am as selfish as you are, and for the same reason."

Kitty risked a glance at him. He was blushing fiercely, as she had known he would be; but he was also smiling. Her heart began to pound hard again. Oliver took another step toward her, and carefully, hesitantly, put out his hands. She gave him hers without a second thought, hardly daring to breathe. He knelt.

"I understand it is customary, upon these occasions, to make a speech of some grandeur," Oliver said, "and to offer a great many compliments, which I can surely—"

"No," Kitty interrupted, laughing breathlessly, for she had had quite enough grand speeches and pretty compliments for a lifetime, and that was not why she loved him, "only say the words!"

He did so, red-faced and nervous and without much suavity; and she gave her response, and then threw herself into his arms happily.

"And for heaven's sake, my dear," she added, laughing, "do stop calling me Miss Katherine!"

---

"I meant to tell you," Robert said, "that my plans have been settled. I return to London tomorrow."

He and Mary were dancing a clumsy quadrille together, which had begun with pleasant conversation, and had lapsed into a companionable silence a few moments ago; but now Mary's gaze snapped toward him, and she froze for a half-second, forgetting that she was upon the dance-floor. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes; it is quite unavoidable. I wish that I could stay longer. It is an unfortunate irony that you should return to Bath only to see me leave it."

Mary stared at him. He spoke quite casually; although his regret was plain, it did not seem to be overwhelming him. "Do you—do you not think we ought to talk together, before you go?"

"We are talking together, Mary," he said, rather teasingly. She shook her head.

"But I mean—" She hesitated. He glanced at her, and seemed to comprehend.

"Oh," he said, the laughter fading from his eyes.

They danced silently. Mary was turning his words over in her mind. Tomorrow. She had known, of course, that they would be obliged to separate again, and soon; but she had not expected it to be so soon. Indeed some small part of her had rather hoped that he would be able to stay until the end of the week, though he had thought it unlikely; she had expected to do the leaving, not to be the one saying goodbye. And to think that this was the last she would see of him, until—until—

She could not think when they would meet again. The thought brought a hard and unexpected lump to her throat.

The quadrille ended, and they stepped apart, applauding politely. Then Robert gave her his arm and led her, silently, past their friends, and into the Octagon Room, which was full; then into the quiet tea room. The other guests had availed themselves freely of the refreshments, and only a few pastries remained.

"Are you hungry?" he asked politely. Mary shook her head.

A few clusters of people sat together at the little tables. One group called merrily to Robert to come and join them, but he resisted, and after a moment they returned to their conversation. Robert deposited Mary at a table a little removed from the others, and sat down beside her.

"Now," he said, looking at her very gravely, "what did you wish to say?"

Mary frowned. This was the problem; she did not know what she wished to say. For three days she had struggled with the question, and had failed to arrive at any conclusive answer. Failures of decision were a not a familiar concept to Mary Bennet, and she disliked intensely the feeling of helplessness which pervaded her when she could not answer a question. She was very much accustomed to being able to reason things through, and to arrive at a definitive solution which was supported by all her understanding of logic and morality, and which therefore allowed her a comfortable satisfaction.

"Do you falter because you think your words will offend me," Robert asked, "or because you cannot be sure of my response?"

"Both, perhaps," Mary replied, a little relieved that he had asked a question she could answer. "Uncertainty is never agreeable, and I shall not ask your forgiveness for allowing it to cause some hesitation on my part."

"The best way to combat uncertainty, Mary, is to address it. Speak what is in your mind, and you shall know my response."

Mary sighed. "It is not that simple."

"Such things never are."

"No," Mary said, annoyed, "the problem is that I do not know what is in my mind. Or rather, I do, but the two halves of the answer are of such conflicting natures that I cannot come to any resolution."

"Then tell me the two halves of the answer, and perhaps we may come to a resolution together."

And so, encouraged by the seriousness of his tone, she told him. "The question (largely put to me by my sisters) is whether we should take this occasion of our reunion to make our—attachment into a formal engagement, and perhaps even plan to be married soon. This, I understand, was the question we had always planned to ask ourselves periodically, but I cannot say anymore where my desire lies. There is some part of me which desires, very greatly, to be your wife; but there is another part which is not yet ready to give up my solitude."

"And these two parts," Robert said, "are they of roughly equal size? Does neither possess even the slightest dominion over the other?"

"There are moments when one or the other has the advantage," was Mary's rather miserable response, "but they trade places so swiftly that I can hardly come to a conclusive answer. At times I think it would be the greatest misery of my life to separate from you again, even temporarily."

Robert looked rather pleased at this.

"But at other times I think I should rather die than trade London for Meryton," she added, "even if it meant being your wife."

His delight faded, and he frowned. "Never say you should rather die," he said. "It puts an unpleasant image in my mind."

"I am sorry. But those are the facts of the case: and if you are more able to sort it out definitively than I am, I wish you joy of it. I suppose my answer to the question," she said thoughtfully, "depends in large part upon your own."

Robert shook his head. "Your feelings appear to be so unreliable that you will not be completely happy, no matter what I say. If I were to propose to you now, for example, I imagine part of you should rejoice, but the other part should mourn. Or if I were to say that I should not like to be married for another few years—part of you should be pleased, but the other part should be left unsatisfied."

Mary saw the truth in this, but she was impatient. "Let us proceed from hypotheticals, Robert," she said. "What is your answer? You need not be afraid of how it will affect me. Only speak frankly, as I know is your wont, and I shall be well enough whatever you say."

He gave her a little smile. "My answer is not so different from your own. I have missed you, Mary, and I should like to have you by my side, but not if it would not make you perfectly happy. On the other side, I know that whatever further separation we may endure will not be so disagreeable: Rosamond will invite us all to Locksby whenever possible, and Breezewood if you should consent to a short residence in Town, and of course Lord Adlam comes here to Bath every Season. So I think that I could bear being apart from you again—though I would not particularly enjoy it—so long as I knew that it was temporary."

"We have already agreed that it will be temporary," Mary said. "It is only the duration which is in question. And it is a question I should like to have answered before you return to London."

Robert sat back in his chair, brow furrowed. "Then we are at impasse. Neither course of action pleases both of us entirely."

They sat in silence for a long moment. The tea room had begun to empty while they were speaking and now, Mary realized, they were quite alone. She could not remember the last time she had been alone with Robert.

"Well," Robert said, at last, "if we cannot trust our feelings to guide us, let us trust our reason and judgment. What does your rational side tell you, Mary?"

Mary swallowed. "That a marriage ill-timed is a marriage ill-made, and that one should never marry without absolute certainty."

Robert nodded, although he did not look entirely pleased. "I cannot presently support a wife upon my income—at least, not well. Nor am I enough at home to make good company for you, if you did come to Town with me; you should be largely left to your own devices, and whatever love you have for me may very well be outweighed by your distaste for an extended residence in London. Let us, then, separate now, and continue as we have."

Mary bit her lip. Part of her, as she predicted, was quite desolate at his words; and yet the other part was wholly relieved. She recognized, at least, the sense in what he said.

"But this decision," he added, "unlike so many others, is entirely reversible. Always know, Mary, that if you return to Hertfordshire and find that you have made the wrong choice, and cannot bear another day without me," he grinned, "then all you need do is write to me, and I will come, and speak to your father. And you may be Mrs. Hart as soon as you please."

Mary smiled at him, and reached across the table to lay her hand gently over his own. His hand was warm, and he turned it over so their palms touched. Another silence fell, this one more settled than the last.

At length, "Mrs. Hart," Mary said thoughtfully. "I begin to see what you meant, now, when you told me of your distaste for always sharing a name with somebody else. I shall always be the second Mrs. Hart, and you always the second Dr. Hart."

"We shall have to move somewhere away from my family," Robert agreed, "so that we are always the only Harts in the neighborhood."

"Shall you make that a criterion, when you are eventually selecting a location in which to establish your practice?"

"The primary criterion: if there are any other Harts in the vicinity, I shall immediately look elsewhere."

"But it must not be too far from your family; I should like to visit them, on occasion."

"Then that is another criterion. Far enough from my family that we are not confused with them, but near enough that we may take advantage of their hospitality and have them invite us to concerts. It must be a small town, more akin to a village, really; and it must be green and quiet, with many walking-paths so that my wife may take all the exercise she pleases. And trees, under which she may sit and read to her heart's content. And the house must have space for a pianoforte."

Mary gave a little laugh. "I do not imagine that my pianoforte should survive a relocation, even to such a tranquil place; it is quite old, and not in the finest condition."

"I am not speaking of your pianoforte," he said, grinning. "At least not the one you have now. I hope it will not alarm you to know that I have already overheard Rose and her husband discussing possible wedding-gifts for us."

In fact the emotion Mary felt upon hearing this was quite the opposite of alarm, and she clasped their fingers together, her mind already roaming upon the green fields and quiet glades of the place, unknown just now, which would someday be their home.

"I imagine we should return to the ballroom," Robert said quietly, squeezing her hand. "Your mother and sister will be looking for you."

Mary rather doubted this; she had not seen Kitty in some time, and imagined that her sister was happily engaged somewhere, not thinking of Mary at all. But Robert was moving to stand, and she rose as well to stand beside him.

And then she was overtaken by some madness of immodesty and, with scarcely more than a glance about the room to ensure that they were really alone, she surged forward, and placed her hands gently upon Robert's shoulders, and pressed her lips to his.

He seemed shocked for an instant; and then she felt his hands settling carefully upon her waist, and the firmer press of his lips against her own. The feeling made her stomach swoop unexpectedly, and she closed her eyes.

The kiss lasted only a moment before Mary, suddenly becoming fully aware of the impropriety of kissing a gentleman to whom she was not married, broke the embrace by stumbling back, red-faced and hardly able to meet Robert's eyes. For his own part, he looked rather stunned, and there were spots of red high upon his cheeks, but there was no censure or displeasure in his expression—far from it.

"I—I—" Mary stammered, as he stared at her. "Forgive me; I do not know what I was thinking—I have never done such a thing before. It was quite indecent of me—forgive me."

"It is quite all right," Robert said, unconsciously pressing a disbelieving hand to his mouth. This action only made Mary blush more hotly, and she averted her eyes.

"Shall—" she cleared her throat. "Shall we return to the ballroom?"

Robert nodded, still looking quite shocked, but with the hint of a smile playing about his mouth. He offered her his arm, and she took it gladly.

She stopped him again, however, just before they reached the doors of the tea room. "Robert," she said, "I should like you to know that I—I love you."

He turned to her in surprise, and she looked away from him again.

"I do not think I have ever told you so before," Mary said, consumed with embarrassment, "but I trust my feelings upon the subject, and I should always like us to be perfectly candid with one another."

Robert smiled. "Then, in the spirit of perfect candor," he answered, "I love you, too."

Mary swallowed, and blushed, and nodded. "Thank you," she said, "for your candor."

Robert pushed open the doors, and they returned to the ballroom.