Chapter 38

Fresh snow fell on the eve of Jane and Elizabeth's wedding. Everyone had a fire lit in their chambers, with the menservants chopping firewood for at least three hours to supply the house for weeks ahead. Mary had just settled into bed, with her Bible open in lap, spectacles slipping, and candle lit. With a sigh of relief, she thought about the events of tomorrow morning, glad and not the least bit concerned; for her monthly miseries had already come and gone some days ago. No danger of disturbance, no threat of pain or nausea loomed in those coming happy hours. Sarah entered and brought tea, to finish off the night in serenity.

Kitty came in, looking a bit restless and occupied by deep thoughts. Her sister watched the sluggish pace of her routine; between the time she threw her current wool gown over the changing screen to stepping out in her night gown, must've been a full five or ten minutes. What was she doing, or could she be doing but standing there? She brushed her hair, did her braid, and sat in bed awhile, not even attempting sleep. All this, without the least bit of expression to her eyes.

"Are you not well, Kitty?"

"I'm fine."

"You look as though you have a headache."

"No. I'm just not very tired."

"If I didn't know any better, one might think you were the one to be married tomorrow." Mary suddenly bit her tongue for having mentioned the notion. Yet, it had not caused the least upset. "Really? What's the matter, Kitty?"

"I don't know. I wish I could answer you better than that, but I don't know, really."

Hardly satisfying. Though, perhaps, as Mary so concluded, this was a good thing. For she'd not known Kitty to make a habit of deep reflections. Having never been that sort of girl, Mary judged it best to allow her free reign to them, undisturbed by questions. The mind required silence or isolation for thoughts of this depth. And she judged correctly. Kitty did not speak, move, or do anything for a full ten minutes. Propped up by her pillow, her gaze settled, unfocused, to the pattern in the wall. Then, sudden inspiration! Her countenance enlivened. Her mind came back into the present moment, flung off the bed covers, walked around and reached under Lydia's vacant bed. Some of her old things that had been left behind were discarded to a ten year old hatbox: tattered, stained, torn, unloved scraps of material, ribbons, and miscellaneous. Tucked beneath these, Kitty had decided to place her diary.

Mary was fascinated with the scene; her sister, taking up her candle, sitting down to the corner desk, and dipping the pen. She had turned to the last page, the last entry, then turned it over to a clean, blank page. Kitty wrote like she was in a wild hurry; that candle burned long, for another hour or so, before she was satisfied with the four pages that had been filled. Whatever she wrote, whatever the subject of her entry, dispelled some of that restlessness. This new habit would take hold over the next several nights to come. Why Kitty did not simply get her own journal, with fresh and untainted pages to call entirely her own, was unanswerable. It would make more sense. Mary felt, within herself, to have claimed ownership of her sister's prior journal and private thoughts, would feel contemptible in some ways. Those entries were not Kitty's thoughts.

One night, when she'd finally worked up enough curiosity, she inquired about it.

Kitty's response was plain. "I could get my own, but I'd rather not. Lydia always held that she was better than me. I do love her still, but I intend to prove her wrong. I'm determined that I shall do better than she, in everything."

This puzzled Mary for a long time to come, how best to answer her.

The ceremony had been splendid. Never before had Meryton ever seen a double wedding. Never had they seen two sisters, so beloved and dear to one another, that they would share their most special day with each other. The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the world, though only just that summer, when Lydia had first run away, they had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune. Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy were the happiest of men, though such elation was drastically different in expression. For everyone observed that Mr. Bingley could not stop smiling, very much like his own bride. Mr. Darcy did not speak his joy, which was to be expected, but his actions and reserved manner, his dignified manner, even lack of many words, seemed to speak a great deal. His own sister, Georgiana, could attest to that.

It was clear to Mary's own eyes, as she watched from across the breakfast table at Netherfield, that Mr. Darcy was rather overcome. His lack of many speeches, his countenance, spoke more of the man's struggle to restrain his joy. It was so opposite of everything she had observed in Mr. Wickham. What delight, with some happy tears, she watched her dear, respected sisters sit in places of honour, at the side of their husbands. For today, the Darcys were to spend the night here at Netherfield, then depart for Derbyshire the following morning.

Aside from the joy of the occasion, there was also much amusement to be had from it. Mr. Bennet sat beside Mary, with plenty of observations about Mr. Collins' solemn airs and Miss Bingley's forbearance. Indeed, the array of reaction, expression, and conversations at the table was quite a theater. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were most disappointed at having found nothing to critique in the choice of food or decoration, nor even in the conduct of their brother's sisters-in-law. Mr. Collins tried his best not to think of Lady Catherine, not even mentioning her name at the table above only three times. Sir William and Lady Lucas shared the joy of her neighbours, or rather the wife echoed the husband, without much to say for her own feelings. For her dear neighbour, Mrs. Bennet, did not have much to look forward to in later years; her exorbitant exultations could be tolerated for one day.

Mrs. Bennet, who was seated across from them, had Miss Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam for neighbours. The utmost sweetness and addresses were paid to Miss Darcy, but she had too soft a voice and mild a manner; unaccustomed to a person like Mrs. Bennet, she faded into insignificance compared with the colonel. Though not deemed so handsome as his cousin, Mrs. Bennet certainly enlivened at having found herself a bird of fair plumage, of decent age, not too old, and of position. The second son of the Earl of Matlock. Mary looked at her father, shook her head, and he rolled his eyes. Lizzy's prediction about their mother had been fulfilled, having scarcely disposed of her dearest daughters in marriage. Thankfully, Mrs. Long appeared from a nearby table, and asked something of Mrs. Bennet, that bid her away from the table, and away from the colonel, of much relief to both her neighbours.

When about mid-way through the wedding banquet, Mr. Bingley stood from his seat. A very familiar scene of the past.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to thank you all for coming, and while we're still dining, let us have some music… Miss Bennet?"

Mary looked up from her plate, completely astonished to see Mr. Bingley turned towards her. He had requested her!

All she could muster was: "Me?"

"Yes! Will you please honour our company with a song or two?" His sister, Caroline, had drained of all colour.

"If you wish it, sir, I'd b-be delighted to…"

Her father's hand reached out and grasped hers as she stood from her chair. In a whisper, he pleaded: "Mary, since he's forgiven your performance last time, I beg only one thing of this current exhibition. Please don't sing."

"Papa!"

"Go on, go on." He sent her to the instrument with blushes and smiles. Quite the different person and musician from before, without the pernicious influence of another substance to affect her hearing or her judgment. With pride, she sat down at the beautiful piano forte. For it escaped her notice, that either Miss Bingley or Miss Darcy might have been asked. He gave her the first opportunity.

Taking the advice of her father, and suddenly seized by feelings of pride as well as joy, Mary's hands thundered, danced, and skipped lightly over the newer, fresher keys. Someone had provided music, but none of it was opened. She brought no scores of her own. All of it was planted in memory, filling the room of spectators with wonder. Whispers began to circulate; their lips reached the corners of her vision.

"What is that she plays?" I've never heard such a piece before." "Is that new? It must be!" "Who is the composer she plays?"

For some minutes, everyone listened enraptured, including the more expert musicians of the room. None perhaps was so enthralled and attentive in silence as Miss Darcy herself. With a pride she had never experienced prior, Mary executed her notes with perfect precision, and finished with a flourish that won the applause and admiration of the wedding guests. Sir William, with ceremony, cried out: "Bravo! Bravo!" Jane and Lizzy glanced and whispered between each other, glowing delight.

Mary was ready to quit her place, having learned from her previous mistake, and not wishing to presumptuously commence with another selection of her choice. However, she was stopped short. Miss Darcy, politely dismissing her seat, approached the instrument and the player herself.

"That was wonderful, Miss Bennet," she praised. "I've never heard such fine playing in all my life."

"I thank you, Miss Darcy. That is… quite a compliment. For I've heard your skills on the piano forte are unmatched to anybody."

"Pardon my asking, but I do not know the composer. I don't believe I've heard anything like it before."

"Well, it's actually… I must confess, that it is of my own… making, shall we say."

Miss Darcy's eyes doubled in size. "Really! You composed that?" she cried astonished. "It's wonderful! Why it's… brilliant! Everything about it, it's measures, the stanzas, your tempo—flawless! Why you should not be playing for us! You should be playing for real audiences."

Mary was almost scarlet. "I'm not so good as that, Miss Darcy," she replied, demurely. "I wish I might someday, perhaps…"

"Tell me, do you have a copy of that? If it's not too forward to ask. I know we've just barely been acquainted, but may I trouble you to ask for a copy of your music?"

"I'd be glad to write you a copy."

"Whenever you can spare the time. Do you have any others, or do you plan on more compositions in future?"

Their interaction so amused Lizzy, and enthused Mr. Darcy; for two sisters such as theirs, too naturally disposed to shyness and reserve in company, were so animated and lively before long. Within minutes, Mary resumed her place at the instrument and made room for Georgiana to join her, playing a most charming duet for the company. Though neither of them danced, nor wished to join in dancing later on, they were both too happy to leave their place.

"I declare, my heavens!" cried Mrs. Bennet, later in the afternoon. "Mary, your playing was delightful, and so was Miss Darcy. Nobody wished you to stop. Oh my, what a sweet girl Mr. Darcy's sister is, and so pretty… I almost wish she hadn't sat down next to you."

"Mama!" chided Mary. "I don't care about such comparisons, and I'm sure neither does Miss Darcy." Mary did not wait for the next day. She had already rummaged for her spare copy of the sonata, that which never reached Captain Carter. As soon as the remaining family returned from Netherfield, she was seated in the drawing-room table fulfilling her earlier promise. Everyone looked quite content and somewhat forlorn to see the end of such a beautiful, winter day.

The clock chimed four. Hill hadn't yet drawn the curtains, which made the room rather bright. Yet, no one wished for the sun to set any faster; like an impolite visitor that left a party too early, it went through January. A healthy fire burned in the hearth. Cook was preparing a light dinner, in compensation for the heavy feasting of earlier in the day. Then, Kitty, having just removed her new white bonnet, fell heavily down on the divan. Mary was too caught up in her own occupation for a few minutes, to hear the soft sighs under the breath of her mother and sister.

A happy day for Mrs. Bennet, happy for all her maternal feelings on a day which she finally got rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride she would afterwards visit Mrs. Bingley, and talk of Mrs. Darcy at every supper and card party to come. With such success, so long an endeavour and so hard won, now, her hands lay empty in her lap. It was no surprise to observe her, from the peak of happiness, fall and melt into her own hand, weeping tears of mixed concoction.

"My sweetest Jane, and dearest Lizzy…" Even the loss of her least favourite child broke her heart for days. "Oh, Mr. Bennet, what am I to do? We've had three daughters leave us. Such a blessing, and yet, what a bittersweet thing marriage can be to their parents."

"We must bear it as best we can, my dear," he replied, still capable of answering in tolerable spirits. "You must not forget, we still have two left. Though as much as I should relish their company for the rest of my life, I don't think we ought to be so selfish. We have to let them go, or they will run away with first officer or clergyman to be thrown in their way."

"Papa!" Both his daughters protested, even in jest. Kitty took his words a little too seriously than was intended. "I shall not ever run away," she vouched for herself. "What I want, I can get for myself without causing my family grief."

Mr. Bennet's brow cocked, and chanced a glance at his older daughter. "What do you make of this new philosophy, Mary?" he asked. "Sounds like Kitty implies much more than that. Your studious, meditative habits are rubbing off."

"No Father, I make no such claim upon my sister. She is determined; that I shall say."

"I shall miss them all," declared Kitty. "This house will never be the same again."

Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had generally known, her improvement was great. She was not so ungovernable a temper as Lydia; and, removed from the influence of Lydia's example, she became, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less ignorant, and less insipid. From the further disadvantage of Lydia's society she was of course carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham frequently invited her to come and stay with her, with the promise of balls and young men, her father would never consent to her going.

"No, never," agreed their mother. "It must be so desolate for you girls, with so many of your sisters married and gone. But, you will both have many new advantages in the world, to which you had no access to before. Between Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Darcy, why, you're in a good way of meeting many fine young men, rich young men."

"Unless they wish to come and call here, at Longbourn, I must confess," admitted Mary, "that I am not very tempted to venture out into society."

"Mary, it's been such a lovely day. Don't spoil it now. You can be hardheaded and foolish tomorrow, but not today." She was still too happy, that she was willing to compromise; something unheard of in Mrs. Bennet, even six months ago. Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was necessarily drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Bennet's being quite unable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix more with the world, but she could still moralize over every mourning visit; and as she was no longer mortified by comparisons between her sisters' beauty and her own, it was suspected by her father that she submitted to the change without much reluctance. Of course, though she was always included in the same invitations to Pemberley, her delicate condition limited her ability to travel farther distances, for a time.

"What's so funny, Kitty?" Mary asked her sister.

"I cannot resist… Mama, what do you say now? Are you now glad that Lizzy had refused Mr. Collins over a year ago?"

Their mother quite glowed. "Oh dear, what a chance! Indeed, had I known… Oh dear Lizzy! What a headstrong girl, but I'm very glad of it now! Mrs. Darcy, of Pemberley—Derbyshire. Your Aunt Gardiner was just telling me at breakfast of some of Pemberley's beauties. How I long to see it for myself! I can just imagine Lizzy's delight, to have command of such grounds and gardens. She and Jane would disappear for weeks, lost in its woods and trails. And Mr. Bennet, my brother said that Mr. Darcy had offered to take him fishing in his trout stream. Between the fishing, shooting, and Pemberley's famous library, you will be in paradise."

"At my first convenient opportunity," replied Mr. Bennet, nodding, "I shall depart and make my way north. And do not be surprised if I should stay behind or run up and see them myself. For perhaps, it's time to make some changes in my life, and do a little more traveling. See a little more of the world, and let my family see a bit more of it too."

"Hhmm, I'll believe that when I see it for myself, Mr. Bennet," declared Mrs. Bennet. "I've never known you to be a man of change. My dear Lizzy was a headstrong girl for a reason. It's only hereditary."

"Thank you very much for the compliment, but I am in earnest. We need some change around here. No better time to start than today."

"What are you talking about?" demanded Mrs. Bennet.

"Well, our Jane and Lizzy have had the happiest day, but everyone should be happy today. We can make the best of what we have..."

"What do you mean, Papa?" seconded by Kitty.

A rather blank look enveloped the man's features, which both disturbed and piqued Mary's senses. Instead of explaining, he kept his silence as a pair of small boxes, tucked discreetly in one of the bureau drawers, was removed. One long, one stout; one plain white, the other purple and bound in silver ribbon.

"This should be a happy day for everyone. It doesn't compensate the loss of our daughters, my dear, but a little something for your lot." To his wife, he presented the long, plain white.

"What is this?"

"Maybe you should open it." Mrs. Bennet's eyes already widened at the suspicion, but with the flip of the lid, a gasp escaped her. "Oh, Mr. Bennet," she moaned, "oh my, they are precious! So beautiful! Look girls, look, are those… Rubies!"

Her girls shared in her awe, echoing their praise of the new necklace: a modest chain of an array of tiny crimson teardrops.

"So delicate! Oh Mr. Bennet, you are too charming!" The woman leapt from her chair. For it was not often any of their girls were witness to kisses between their mother and father. She planted one, bursting with tearful pride and affection. Mr. Bennet's stony facade, developing mild cracking at the lips. "Too good to me, is he not, girls?"

"They are beautiful, Papa," said Mary. "They'll look very fine on you, Mama."

"Indeed! But do not worry, Mary, Kitty, I shall not mind if you wish to borrow them. But we must take great care of them."

"Mrs. Bennet, you know as well as I, and so do the girls, that those rubies are not going to come off your neck for anything in the world." His wife laughed drolly, taking her complexion and now bare neck to the mirror on the opposite wall. While fawning over her present, Mr. Bennet approached Kitty. "I think it's hopeless to wish your mother will share. Better you have something of your own, Kitty." The shorter purple box with silver ribbon was held out.

"For me too? Oh Papa, you shouldn't have…" Kitty replied automatically, not truly feeling any such notion. Mary fairly burst at her eagerness. Off the ribbon came and the lid, to reveal a pair of gloves. "Oh dear! Wait a minute… Papa, these gloves—the chamois… I remember these! Why this is the pair of gloves that Lydia… isn't it?"

"Yes. That's right," affirmed her father. "The same gloves. I couldn't return them to the dressmaker, and I certainly had no intention of letting her have them back, after how she secured their purchase in the first place. Besides, when have you ever had such nice gloves? Aren't you going to try them on?"

"You are too much…" Kitty had slipped a hand into the left glove, only to find some obstacle mid-way, blocking her fingers. In confusion, a wad of paper was pulled out, which caused her to gasp now. The wad had been unraveled. "Papa! Twenty pounds!"

"I said you'd earn back your allowance one day." After that, for a minute, her gift was entirely forgotten. The box and wrappings tumbled from her lap, and the gloves almost crinkled in hand, what with the force her arms were thrown around his shoulders. Mr. Bennet was as much stunned by his daughter's spontaneous embrace as his wife's. "How sweet of you, Papa… But what have you got for Mary?"

"Mary? Why… I forgot all about Mary," he shrugged. "Besides, she's not so silly as my wife and other daughters. I hadn't the faintest clue what to get her, and it just slipped my mind."

Kitty smirked. "You most certainly did not!" Neither she, or mother, were the least bit fooled. Little by little, his smile was growing upon his face, but he assumed this little air of mystery was pure entertainment. While trying to keep the blank expression, he walked out from the room.

"Oh good heavens, what is he up to?" cried Mary. "Mama, did you put him up to this?"

"Me? You think me capable of this? I never know what goes on in your father's head, no more than the man in the moon. This shall pair so lovely with that new lace I found."

"It's probably just a book or some new music," guessed Mary.

"Well, if it is a book, that's the largest volume of anything in existence," said Kitty, wide-eyed.

"Mr. Bennet, what on earth!"

Mary could boast the biggest gift box of them all: a wine red hatbox. Even that in of itself might be a gift worthy of use. Yet, it was a hatbox.

"Papa, what is this?" With greater delicacy it was placed on the table beside her copied music.

"It must be a new bonnet!" guessed Kitty.

"If I expected anything, it would've been something sensible."

Mr. Bennet was nodding again. "Of course, a book or music is sensible but too sensible, my child. I picked this up thinking to myself: my little philosopher needs to be outdoors more often."

Anticipation had Kitty and their mother begging Mary to relieve them. "Dear Papa, if you have the silliest daughters in the country, then you must be the silliest father. If this is one of those London caps or something like, you have wasted—" Of all their reactions, Mr. Bennet perhaps took the greatest delight in the stunned and tables-turned expression of his third child. Having just barely lifted the lid, she was startled, with hands flying to her mouth, at the soft squeals and the sight of two tiny heads struggling out. Kitty gasped and burst into giggles. "Oh my goodness! Oh, Papa…" Mary choked out. For seemingly no reason, her voice suddenly deserted her. "They are just adorable. Hello little ones…"

Mary plucked the brown stripped kitten first, then his patchy, brown, black, and white companion. Both were fixed upon her face, begging and competing, meowing and gripping onto her gown with anxious paws. To some embarrassment, Mary felt dampness on her cheeks, and could neither contain them or the laughter. She'd have done like her sister, scurrying over to hug their father, if her lap and arms were not already full.

"They are just precious! My dear Mr. Bennet, how good you are to us. Where did you find these sweet things?"

"Mr. Hill and Roland, while they were out chopping wood last night, came across this pair on the estate. They appear to be abandoned. In fact, while Roland was chopping and tossing them in the pile, apparently, one of the logs almost rolled over on them. Thankfully, Hill caught it just in time."

"How unfortunate. How will they be fed?" wondered Kitty.

"Already taken care of," assured Mr. Bennet. "One of our tenants just informed me of another cat that's also recently produced a litter. It doesn't sound like the same mother, but as of last night, they were able to get that mother to nurse this pair. It shouldn't be too much longer before they can eat on their own."

"As soon as they are weaned, they'll not be shared with anyone," said Mary, sniffling, and attempting to put her face back in order. "Of course, I don't believe I'll be so successful keeping them all to myself. Would you like to hold one, Kitty?"

On her knees, Kitty gladly took the patchy one into arms. "You are just too precious. Both of you! How could you be just left behind? Don't worry. You're in good hands here." He answered her with a ferocious little meow, or what he assumed was ferocious. It earned him no more than a kiss pressed to his tiny head.

"Oh my, so soft," cooed Mrs. Bennet, stroking the one in Kitty's hands. "What shall you name them, Mary?"

"I haven't the faintest idea—" While Mary was still distracted between the two bundles, and drying her face with her handkerchief, the brown stripes got himself out of her grasp, onto the table, and started walking on the fresh copy. "Oh no! You little scamp…" For the first time ever, in Mr. Bennet's memory, he heard Mary really laugh aloud. No chuckle, no imperious sneer or quiet restraint in a smile. She laughed heartily! "Good heavens, your paws are already black. Now you've inked them. I suppose I'll have to make Miss Darcy a new copy."

"Whatever for? You should send it just like that," laughed Kitty.

"I'd say send it. It still looks like a D chord to me," said Mr. Bennet.

For even with three sisters gone, the remaining two were by no means inconsolable to the change of situation. It was taken for granted how he was the introduction of the family, and Jane, to Mr. Bingley over a year ago. He did not disclose in calling immediately, giving his wife much vexation until he confessed it. Likewise, he continued to find no small joy, every once in a while, emerging from his library, and laugh upon making them some unexpected surprise.

Though their favourite children were sorely missed at Longbourn, the absence forced Mary and Kitty into the void. As expected, to both their liking and their total dread, the attention and affection from their mother often proved overwhelming. To compensate for such extremes, Mr. Bennet now welcomed his children as his opponents at chess and backgammon, and on quiet evenings, he would read aloud to them all in the drawing room. Old attitudes had altered, though his ways, his routines, odd humours never mended. Mr. Bennet continued to call his remaining daughters, two of the silliest girls in the country, outranked only by the youngest child. The only change from before was in that his daughters accepted the teasing title as proof of regard.

So I did bring in Colonel Fitzwilliam. Don't think it would've been possible for him to escape Mrs. Bennet entirely. But no pairings. Georgiana, on the other hand, I'm happy to announce will be an active character in Part 2.

Well, what did you make of the final scene? Safe to say, Mr. and Mrs. Bennet are not the best of parents, and they've made plenty of mistakes. Does this reverse all the bad? Of course not. But I couldn't move on without a scene between the four of them. OOC for Mr. Bennet? Maybe a little. What's your opinion? Like it, hate it, too fluffy? I think Mary and Kitty deserved some sweet recognition.

What do you think of Kitty's earlier scene? picking up where Lydia left off in her journal? Would you have done the same? Would you have trashed the old one? A good development or trouble?

I kept to Jane Austen's endings, with regards Mary and Kitty. That's not a final and forever for either of them. These last details in the novel don't specify how long Mary remains at home or how long Kitty goes back and forth between her sisters. So prepare for a minor time jump. Will also be making some changes to the summary. I hope all that's to come will satisfy your expectations. And I thank every one of you that has followed, favorite, and reviewed R,C&S. Look forward to hearing more of your opinions in updates to come. In the meantime, enjoy your day and your coffee/tea!

END OF PART 1