Chapter 27

Dear Mary,

I hope you did not suffer much from the visit of this Mr. Richard. If I were still in Meryton, I'd have been that abrupt, unannounced, officious guest—purposely calling late in the day in order to make an invitation for dinner incumbent upon my hostess. I might have sat between Richard and Miss Kitty. I would start talking before he'd open his mouth. If he asked a question to anybody, I would answer him instead. If he asked for another glass of port, I'd excuse myself, accidentally trip against your servant, upset the port, and shower him. 'I beg a thousand pardons, sir! A shame it wasn't water…' If it had been water, it would've done everyone some good. No—I take that back. What I ought to do is bribe the servant, to put some soap in the water first before the accident.

Knowing you, I can already see you reading this disapprovingly. How could I be so impertinent? so childish and ungentlemanly? I cannot disagree with that thought; though I daresay, if I carried out such a scheme, you'd be hard pressed not to laugh. Your father would've probably fallen out of his chair.

This was the beginning of his next letter; the answer to follow from Mary was nothing like or unlike her character.

Dear Captain Carter,

I wish you'd be serious for a change. Though, perhaps, I ask too much of you. I also know better than to believe you'd dare attempt such tomfoolery in the dining room of Longbourn. Indeed, my father would be hysterical, and so would Kitty, and Lydia, if she were here.

How I wish that Lydia were home. While we have recovered a measure of peace, I am not certain that the sacrifice is worthwhile. Perhaps, if she had not been invited to Brighton, we'd all have to put up with her for a time. But with enough time, and as long as the war office doesn't have reason to spite Hertfordshire, she might mature. Though I will not bore you about my impatience in that regard. For I would rather that you be more agreeably engaged mentally, just as you have done for me. Do I request too much to ask, how does Lydia do in Brighton?

In between a conversation about Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth, and a discussion between sympathy and loyalty for both Catholic and Protestant, he responded:

To be quite honest with you, Mary, I do not see much of Lydia. We do not mix in the same circles. I've only seen her twice. Once, I saw her down at the seaside. On another occasion, I was in an interview with Colonel Forster, and encountered each other at their rented villa. She seems in good spirits. No different than I had known of her in Hertfordshire.

Hopefully, you and Kitty will not continue to be plagued by your mother's schemes. I know something of mothers and the unwitting mischief they wreck upon children. It is their duty, so it seems, their life's career to make matches, whether their children wish it or not. I can boast having dodged at least three attempts on my life, three different young ladies, that my mother has tried to force upon my notice. Her choices, well, I should say well-intentioned—does not suit my idea of what her son should want. My sisters often found themselves in a similar position to yourself. They would come home one day to learn, within hours, that our mother was to receive visitors from a certain part of town, of a certain family. Whenever she named the age of the lady or gentleman involved, that was a siren to all of us! If you weren't so clever as to take the hint, the fault is your own. And this lady or gentleman that was coming, they knew the purpose of this visit, they knew who to steer toward, and they attached like a doctor's leech. I think a leech would be kinder than some of them!

I hope that, whenever my heart is so engaged, so enticed by a refined mind and kindred spirit, that I will not make that common error of judgment. Ruth assumes I've yet to understand love until I've fallen in love; which I confess, I detest that expression! It's overused, over the top, unfit to describe what should be a sentiment based on reason. The expression portrays someone has fallen into a hole, against their will—not with reason. Who falls in reason? Yet, if you think about it, what's more popular and yet more advised against? Is it not love, more than reason? My younger sister is dearer to me than any other. On that subject, however, I cannot agree with her.

What are your thoughts on it? I'm sure I need not ask. You're a reasonable person. You're too sensible to fall into something, unable to think yourself out of it. I confess, the idea of you being swept off your feet—but I know you better than that. Of course—now you really think me a fool already. Don't listen to me. Don't be persuaded from your high pretensions. Though it may be lonely for a time, you will be happy with yourself regardless of the outcome. I prefer you as you are, Mary.

With fondness,

L. Carter

This letter perplexed Mary for many days. That line through a word towards the end, so obvious, so contrary to his usual equanimity, conveyed more emotion than thought. He was so presumptuous to assume her thoughts. Perhaps, she did not think him a fool. Perhaps, she thought something entirely different. It was meant to be general, asking her opinion on the subject of love and reason, but after that last paragraph, it was irony to her, to think he's both a surgeon and a soldier. In professions where precision is everything, an uneven stroke, missing an easy target, suddenly incapable of asking a direct question, proved concerning.

Because of his detailed letters, Mary did not feel the need to be in Brighton to experience the aspects of a trip that would give her pleasure. He spoke of the still, gray mornings, walking the beaches before shops and streets had awakened. Sunlight would pour in streaks on the sand and water, whatever could reach through the marine layer. He also spoke fondly of the marketplace, in particular the fishmongers. There was nothing like procuring the fish fresh, with the sea being so close. He enjoyed buying some cod or herring that very day it was fished, take it back to the camp, and pan-roast it over an open flame. A little salt, a little vinegar, maybe a squeezed lemon to taste—so simple and delicious. It was like his days back home but fresher. While perhaps many people disliked the smell of the harbour, the fish and the saltwater, the environment was invigorating to Captain Carter.

There is a corner of the marketplace, quite the favourite spot for young officers to frequent and purchase nosegays for their lady to wear at the next ball. I have to say roses are quite the beauty on their own. They don't need help from other blooms, especially when those others are so ostentatious and fragrant. In case I never said so, I must tell you I cannot abide lilies, for this very reason. They should not be paired with other flowers, but stand alone. Even then, the smell they give off is so strong and sickly sweet, it gives me a headache before long. Isn't that ironic, given the camp is within sight and smell of the harbour? But I did spy one redeeming bouquet in the back of the shop. It probably had not been finished yet. For its simplicity, I have to say: it was perfectly matched. Pink roses, with some tiny white and purple flowers—that I cannot recall the names. Perhaps Jane or Elizabeth would know what they're called, but how well they complemented the damask petals. If you were here in Brighton, Mary, you'd have received a delivery at your address. Or better yet, you should have been walking with me that afternoon, and I'd bestow them personally. Instead, I simply purchased them for myself, for a little corner of my tent.

Kitty did not receive so many pretty letters. It would've been heavenly to hear her dear Denny had thought about her while looking at flowers in the marketplace. His most recent letter was a mere paragraph, expressing his exhaustion of late nights, early morning drills and practice, Colonel Forster being unsure where they'll go next, no orders yet from the war office, and some lieutenant, of a different camp and different corp, received a discharge from military service. It was not known whether it was with honours or a disciplinary action. Then, added almost as an afterthought, he added: It's good to hear from you, Kitty dear. Concluded with his fondness and signature. Lydia's recommendations to write apparently did not cause alarm over a rival.

Before Jane's cautionary tale came to her mind, her first impulse to receiving such a love letter was to take a new tactic of encouragement—jealousy. For a brief time, Kitty considered inventing a more handsome, grander vision of Mr. Richard, and mention how he's paying calls and having dinner with the family regularly now. Might also stir more writing if she dropped a hint how attentive he was being towards her, even though he'd only dined at Longbourn once. Denny would never know there was no truth to it. Kitty drafted the letter after dinner, at the corner desk of their chamber.

"Kitty, are you going to be finished soon?" asked Mary.

"I'm almost done. I'll put the candle out soon."

"Are you writing to Lydia?"

"No. I've already sent my letter in the post this morning."

"It's been nine days since the last letter," noted Mary. "I wonder how Lizzy and the Gardiners are doing? It's been three days since we've heard from her."

"Jane has been slower about letters, simply because she has her hands full with the children."

With a scrutinizing eye, which struggled between dim lighting and distance, she noted with what care her lines were written. "...You write a long letter, Kitty. Is that for Mr. Denny?"

"Yes. What of it?" grumbled Kitty.

"When you received his letter this morning, you didn't seem the least bit pleased. Is all well?"

With defensive quickness: "Mary, that's really no business of yours!"

"Good heavens, Kitty, I was merely asking a question."

"Because I know you. You're resolved to only think the worst of him. Even Jane, who thinks ill of nobody, questions his character. At least Lydia would wish me happy, to see us both happy."

"I do not know what Lydia wishes, Kitty," Mary thoughtfully replied. "She's not very sorry to have left you behind at Longbourn, and have Brighton for herself. Don't you think, if Lydia really wished you to accompany her, she might have asked Mrs. Forster if you could join them?"

Between the suggestion and the letter being drafted, Mary couldn't make out which made Kitty more angry. The pen returned to the ink pot. She sat motionless, glaring at the letter for a few seconds, then hastily crumbled both pages in one hand. The fire had burned down, though the embers still flickered on. All the scraps were thrust toward the closest ember, igniting the letter. Perhaps, it had been ill-advised of Mary to mention it, only to rub salt in the wound. But this little display of irritation did not kindle a lot of sympathy. This foolish girl was going to break her heart over this officer, and would not be convinced, could not be reasoned with, and the pain to come will be of her own making. Mary let the offense go, sure of seeing such prediction come true yet.

Kitty made some unintelligible remark after discarding the drafted letter. She retreated to bed, settled in, but did not yet put out the candle. She pulled a letter out from between her pillows, while edging closer to the candle.

"Kitty, will you please?"

"I'll put it out in a moment! Must you be so cross!" she continued to snap. Lydia's most recent letter, which had also arrived in the post that morning, contained another underlined post-script.

I got to watch the military drills today. The Colonel invited his wife and myself to come watch. For it's possible that his regiment might be called for review before his majesty himself. Such an honour! Oh, to meet the king and queen! I should be delighted if the –shire is called to London for a military review. But if I shouldn't be able to go, I shall not break my heart about it.

These have been such happy weeks! Mr. Wickham asked me to dance at the ball last night. Local gentry hosted a gathering in honour of the military, which quite outdid the ball of Netherfield. There must have been five or six hundred in attendance! So noisy and gay, I could scarcely hear my dance partners speak over the crowds and the music. There were multiple rows of dancers. It had to be for so many, and I'm grateful to Mary for all the practice I've gotten by her playing at home. I didn't misstep once, though I feared stepping on Pratt's foot. All our friends from Meryton are such excellent dancers!

I cannot write long. For we're off soon to market. In one of the shops, I finally found a new gown—though I had to sell back the other frock I'd recently purchased to afford this one. I had to take a little bit of a loss, but this dress was absolutely worthwhile, Kitty. A red ball gown! Cherry red and perfectly matching my sweet bonnet. Between these and my new parasol, I could want for nothing else. I intend to wear it at the next ball. Believe it or not, it was dear Wickham's suggestion. He thinks red is a splendid colour for my complexion, despite how adamantly I've been warned otherwise. It does not make my cheeks look red at all. I also must take care not to let Mama ever see me in this dress. She'll say it's rather daring, but it's not so bad. I think it very becoming.

Mrs. Forster also talks of throwing another party with charades, just like the one in Meryton.

Last night, Mrs. Forster and I were invited to a big house on the street here. Just supper and cards, but a much grander affair. Don't tell Papa. He'll suspect I've gone back to high stakes, which would not be incorrect. We won and lost a bit of money that evening. We were faring poorly until Denny and Pratt and Wickham joined our table. I won three pounds from Pratt! If I could practice more and improve my game, I daresay I could make a living off it. If only society would not look down so meanly on the gaming houses.

I entrust my secrets to you, dearest Kitty. You are the only one at Longbourn whom I trust so well. I am anxious that word will come from the war office any day now, sending my dear regiment and dear Wickham to another part of the country. Or overseas, which I dread constantly. I don't know if I could bear a separation. It's now or never. I've yet to utter the words. Send me courage with your well wishes, my dear.

While asleep that night, Kitty imagined a version of Brighton. Probably a very inaccurate image, but the closest she'd get to going herself. She imagined herself alongside Lydia, walking arm in arm with Denny while Lydia walked arm in arm with Wickham—down the boardwalk and onto the sands. A breezy day but full sun. Off to the sea-bathing stations, where the girls might undress and don their swimming attire. A smart-looking attendant would drive and maneuver their station into the water, where they'll easily slip into the invigorating, cool saltwater. Hair covered and secured in their bathing caps. The men would join them, and tease them with splashing and swimming contests.

Another version of Brighton involved a party and music down by the camp, where tens and hundreds of officers gathered for festivity. Both sisters danced and laughed so merrily, like never before in Meryton. While surrounded by a circle of friends, of course, Wickham and Denny were always the first dance partners, and foremost above any other handsome man. Mrs. Forster and the dear colonel would join, sit with them for cards under a tent, and everyone armed with a glass of wine for the serious hands and dealing to take place. Heavenly scents of roasted meat came wafting from a nearby tent, and more music and singing…

Dazes and daydreams were always so suddenly broken by the clanking of silver on the table, or when one of the Gardiner children dropped a glass. Kitty almost longed to go to bed at night, simply for the pleasure of dreaming herself off to Brighton.

Lizzy wrote in a few days more, with a report on Matlock and Chatsworth. They'd yet to see Dovedale. The peaks were extraordinary and breathtaking. What are men compared with rocks and mountains? While it wasn't the Lake District, its splendors satisfied the enthusiasm of any naturalist like Elizabeth. Her only desire was to have her family about her. A similar expression of Lydia's, but one genuinely desirous of sharing with all the family. Currently, by Mrs. Gardiner's design, they decided to settle some days at Lampton, her town of birth and childhood. Mary's mind seized upon the picturesque scenes, while Kitty sighed over the void. Lizzy's holiday was rather dull and uneventful in comparison.

"They apparently talk of seeing Pemberley tomorrow. That's quite surprising!" remarked Jane.

"Ah, Pemberley!" sighed Mrs. Bennet. "I should like to see it myself, though I might dispense with a chance of meeting the master of Pemberley ever again. I once read something about the estate a few years ago, back when Mr. Darcy's father was the current master…" She recalled but vague details, nothing substantial in this printed column of the paper.

Their attention was turned toward the door, as Mary had just come down from upstairs. She had not been downstairs in five days, to which her pale face showed. In part, it wasn't merely the pain, but also the side effects of the laudanum, making her sensitive to sound. The young Gardiners roamed in and out of the house at will, sometimes chasing and yelling after one another. Mrs. Bennet tolerated it for five minutes before removing herself to her parlour, where there weren't enough chairs or room for them. Mary took a place on a chair over by the window, wide open and letting in a breeze.

"What are you doing in that old frock, Mary dear? I'm practically broiling in here," Mrs. Bennet observed. "You must be terribly hot in long sleeves and high neck."

"My summer dresses are being laundered. I have only one short sleeve gown, and that's the black and white gingham, an evening dress."

Jane jumped up. "You may wear one of mine, Mary. I have several frocks with cap sleeves."

"I'm quite alright, Jane."

"Please, come back upstairs. It is too warm today for this gown. You're still recovering, and you don't look quite well enough."

Everyone pleaded with Jane that Mary go back upstairs to change. Their mother feared, with such looks as hers, she would faint from the heat. It was best to heed. Before they left the room, she grumbled about Mary's obstinacy over new clothes; and for once, Mary actually would've concurred with her and submit to punishment at the dressmakers.

"Mama, may I ask you something?" Kitty began nervously. Her next stitch of needlepoint had been suspended for five minutes in indecision.

"Yes, my dear." She'd just sipped her tea, rising to pour another serving from the tray.

"How did Papa propose to you, before you were married? How long did it take, from the time you met to when you were engaged?"

"Oh my, seems like an age ago!" the woman chuckled, bemused. "I was coming to pay a visit to my sister, just five months after she'd married Mr. Phillips. She brought me to an assembly ball. It was there I met your father. He thought me very handsome and spirited. I was only visiting for two months, and by the end of my visit, I went back to London engaged."

"Who fell in love first? You or Papa?"

"Oh, for certain, it was your father. Of course, I was still pining for my redcoat of Colonel Miller's regiment. He knew I'd had my heart broken, and I think he was afraid that if this fellow knew I was visiting Meryton, if he would write to me, he feared I might change my mind and return home. While I can say I was truly heartbroken by my old beau, it was clear that Mr. Bennet would not be beaten. And we were rather fond of each other's company."

"Did your old beau ever respond to your letters?" Kitty asked eagerly.

"He did write, but after considering what I had here in Hertfordshire, my dear Mr. Bennet, Longbourn, an estate, two thousand a year, so many comforts—it was all for the best. I wrote him a very sweet letter, putting him out of his misery."

"But, I thought you said he broke your heart?"

"We quarreled, shortly before the regiment decamped," shrugged Mrs. Bennet. "He was a bit of a flirt, and while I enjoyed his flirting myself, I did not appreciate being one of many girls. It was not an irrevocable break. I would have forgiven him eventually, perhaps even… But no, I'm much happier, and I'm sure he's much better off himself. Well, does that answer your question? Why what's the matter, love?"

Colour drained from Kitty's face, trying to picture the old beau of her mother's past. The only face, the first face, to come to her mind was Denny's. It struck her with horror. He was a flirt, just the same. Perhaps, he is not so ashamed of it. Perhaps, she was one of many girls. She had feared as much before the regiment left, but her fear had been one woman to come along to steal him. Never a thought for women, plural, that relish his company. What was flirting anyway? It's not marriage. It's by no means exclusive.

Speaking to herself in furtive whispers: "He wouldn't do that. I know he wouldn't!"

"Kitty?"

"I'm sorry. I was lost in thought, Mama."

Because of the summer heat, getting to sleep was difficult. Mary was about ready to get out of bed and slip out to the garden. It was Lizzy who thought up the idea before. Sleeping in the garden to avoid the noisy nursery was the only occasion she ventured outdoors at night. As long as it wasn't windy, she even took a lamp with her and a book. The seat under the great oak was an ideal spot. Nothing wild or outrageous about this method of coping; for a fact, Mary sometimes felt her life would be much easier if everyone lived outdoors. It would take a different civilization, a different era, and deep thinkers to retrace everyone's footsteps back to the wild. An irrational thought, but all irrational thoughts make sense in distress.

Kitty tossed and turned fitfully, seeking the cool side of the bed she had turned from five minutes ago. She had been remarkably quiet as of late. Her sister saw no more letters being drafted since the one in the ashes. No letters had been delivered from Mr. Denny. Perhaps there was hope yet. For as long as she had one correspondent in regimentals, the militia were still quartered in Meryton and consuming her mental vacancies. Despite the efforts of Jane, herself, and Lizzy, Kitty had taken little interest in developing new tastes or expanding her horizons. Unless it involved Brighton or London, she had no interest in discussing travels. What was the point of it? being her own mentality. What was the point of refining her French if the kingdom is at war with France? Drawing and watercolours required much time and patience for excellence, which she lacked entirely. It was not in Mary's mind but Kitty's own words.

Just as Mary began to feel the onset of drowsiness, feel a limpness in her head and limbs, the sound of a lone horse came galloping along the road and up the drive. Its hooves slid to a grinding halt at the front door, followed by the urgent ringing.

"What in the world?" yawned Kitty. "Is that the doorbell?"

"I believe so."

"Who is come so late?"

Her sister did not wait for speculations. As hastily as she could dress, Mary donned her dressing gown and slippers. The braid had already been tousled enough between the pillow and the humidity of body. Smoothing it hastily, she prepared herself to meet whatever visitor was downstairs. Jane was up quickly, also ready to make her way down, but she held Mary back.

"Wait for Father, Mary."

Mr. Bennet staggered from up the hallway, night cap and powdering gown eschew, candle in hand. His wife dragged behind too long to be waited for, and he proceeded down the stairs, meeting Mr. and Mrs. Hill in the vestibule. Candles were united to light it up. Mr. Hill unlocked and answered the door first, ready with a little money pouch for the carrier. It proved to be unnecessary. The man declined money, requesting the master of the house. All his daughters watched Mr. Bennet, with confusion and some dread, recognize the express messenger. It wasn't a post carrier.

"Captain Carter," he said. It was the first time any of the family had ever seen him dressed as a civilian. He was almost unrecognizable. By this point, Kitty had come tripping down the stairs in nothing but her nightgown and shawl. Had she known, she'd have raced back upstairs for her dressing gown. Mary stood on the bottom step of the staircase, stupefied.

"Mr. Bennet, forgive me for the late hour," replied the captain. "I'm here with an express from Colonel Forster."

A letter was produced from the breast pocket of his gray long coat. Colonel Forster. Brighton. It only meant something to do with Lydia. Mr. Bennet said something but too low to be understood by anyone. The seal was broken hastily. Mr. Hill brought a candle closer, holding it above Mr. Bennet's shoulder.

Dear Mr. Bennet,

Captain Carter has volunteered to deliver this express to you. For I would've had to wait until morning for a carrier to send this letter express. I'm writing about your daughter, Lydia. Have you heard anything from her lately?

We all awoke Monday morning to discover her missing. A letter had been left for my wife, to inform us that she has gone to Scotland. It's with grief and a heavy heart, that I'm obliged to inform you, she has eloped to Gretna Green with Mr. Wickham. Ever since, I've been asking for information and questioning my officers to ascertain details as to Mr. Wickham's plans and whereabouts. Wickham has not asked me for a leave of absence, and nothing was said as to a family emergency to call him away so suddenly. I intend to learn more. Once I'm through with this letter, I'll be off to make inquiries with the coaching stations. I intend to make my way to Hertfordshire within the day, as soon as I have more information.

It's finally come! Lydia's infamous elopement...