Mary must, I think, have been born under a lucky star. She has been continuing to sneak about and see Lord Henry—I know she has, however much she makes up glib stories of having been invited to go shopping or out to take tea with Mrs. Hurst and Miranda Pettigrew. But she has so far managed entirely to avoid arousing the suspicions of our aunt and uncle.
In large part, of course, that is because this is a busy time of year for my uncle, and he leaves for his warehouse early in the morning and often does not return until quite late in the evening. And poor Aunt Gardiner has taken a feverish cold in the last days and has been sick in bed—which leaves Mary entirely free to generally dog Lord Henry’s every footstep.
I have been debating with myself about what to do. Whether to tell my aunt and uncle, I mean. So far I have not. I hate to cause Aunt and Uncle Gardiner worry, when they have been so kind to both Mary and to me. But besides that, if I did tell them, what would they do? Very likely send Mary home to our parents—or try to. I am not at all sure that Mary would not simply run away if she were threatened with being banished from London and Lord Henry’s vicinity.
Knowing Mary as I have for our twenty years of being sisters, that sounds almost comical. But it is not comical at all to think of what could happen to Mary—with her combination of arrogance, pigheadedness, and current complete lack of common sense—if she were turned loose in the city without protection.
At any rate, I determined to try to do what I might on my own before I resorted to alerting my uncle and aunt to Mary’s danger. Yesterday I decided that I would simply not let Mary out of my sight. So when she announced her intention of meeting Mrs. Hurst and Miranda for a walk, I said that a walk in the park sounded delightful, and that I would join her, if I might.
Short of admitting that she was in fact lying in her teeth about her actual plans, Mary could hardly say no. I brought Susanna along, thoroughly bundled up and tucked into her little wicker carriage, and off we went. We must have walked five miles up and down the paths in the park while she pretended to look for Miranda and Mrs. Hurst and made unconvincing noises of displeasure, wondering where they might be and how they could have been so rude as not to meet us after all.
Finally, Mary sank down on a bench, pleading that she had a blister on her heel. She asked me to go and buy a newspaper from one of the paperboys in the park, so that she might use one of the sheets to fold up for a pad to put into her shoe. I cannot believe I was so naive as to fall for the ruse. In my defence, my feet were feeling thoroughly blistered, as well—and Susanna was beginning to fuss—and I had been listening to Mary pontificate about everything from operatic musical theory to the new experiments in electricity for over an hour.
In any case, though I would swear I was not gone for more than three minutes, by the time I had bought a paper and pushed Susanna’s carriage back to the bench, Mary was not only gone, but completely out of sight on any of the surrounding paths—as though she had vanished into thin air.
I would almost admire her skill at dissembling and evading pursuit, if her success were not so thoroughly vexing.
She came tripping blithely into our bedroom yesterday evening, just before suppertime, and widened her eyes and asked, Whatever do you mean? when I demanded to know where she had gone.
Since I could not strangle her or push her into the clothes press and lock her inside, I determined that I needed a new plan. Mary’s trickery aside, I cannot play the part of her determined and unwelcome shadow every day. With Aunt Gardiner ill, I am needed to look after Susanna, and I can scarcely drag her all over London in pursuit of my infatuated sister. Besides which, I have Jane and her dilemma to worry over as well.
It was actually the thought of Jane that put the idea for my new and revised scheme into my head, and I decided that I had better implement it at once. Last night, I sent an urgent message to Jane and Georgiana, by way of my uncle’s manservant, and this morning one of Georgiana and Edward’s servants brought the hoped-for reply: a letter from Georgiana, saying how very worried about Jane she had become, how Jane was not eating and scarcely sleeping, and seemed to grow more ill and pale every day. And that as much as Georgiana wished to help and look after Jane all she could, her time was very much occupied just now in making all the necessary preparations for her and Edward’s coming departure overseas.
We were at the breakfast table when the letter arrived. Mary and I were alone, since my aunt was still abed and my uncle had already left. I skimmed through the note—silently approving of Georgiana’s skill at crafting a convincing portrait of Jane’s illness and her own fear. And then I made a small sound of annoyance and cast the letter carelessly aside, letting it drop to the table midway between my plate and Mary’s.
Mary had been lost in some happy daydream—presumably of Lord Henry. For a moment, I thought I was going to have to retrieve the letter and drop it again with another, louder exclamation of annoyance if I wanted to attract her notice. But then she blinked and asked, “Is something wrong?”
This, of course, was the difficult part of the scheme.
I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Oh, nothing very much. It seems Jane is being a bit tiresome, that is all, and Georgiana has got herself into a fuss about it.”
Mary frowned and—as I had hoped—reached for the letter. I concentrated on spreading marmalade onto a slice of toast, forcing myself not to watch her as she read through what Georgiana had written.
After a moment, Mary said, “The situation appears to me rather more serious than Georgiana simply having got into a ‘fuss’, as you put it. What are we going to do?”
I shrugged again. “You, of course, may do as you like, but I am not proposing to do anything. Why should I? Jane was silly enough to travel in her condition, and now she is feeling a bit out of sorts. That does not mean I ought to give up the pleasures of London to sit cooped up with her in Georgiana’s best spare room.” I covered a yawn with my hand. “I cannot think of anything more utterly dreary.”
Mary bristled. I do not think I have ever seen anyone truly bristle before. But if she were a hedgehog, her every quill would have been standing on end. “Really, Kitty. I had thought in recent months that your character might be becoming slightly less flighty and irresponsible than in the past. But I see I was mistaken.”
She paused, scowling at the letter in her hand, and I held my breath—praying that my gamble would pay off. After another moment’s silence, Mary huffed out a breath and said, “Well, if you do not know your duty, I at least know mine.” She rose from the table. “I shall call on Jane directly—and I shall not leave her side until I am confident she is on her way to recovery from whatever ails her.”
I exhaled. That, of course, had been my private wager: that however much delight Mary might take in meeting with Lord Henry Carmichael, the prospect of being able to feel morally superior to me would delight her even more.
Mary paused in the doorway, glancing back at me and said, thoughtfully, “Perhaps I ought to write to our mother. She ought to be informed of Jane’s ill health. I am sure she would want to be here, and it might be that she would be able to do some good.”
That, of course, brought me very thoroughly out of my moment’s self-congratulation. I could instantly picture it: my mother, here in London, alternately throwing me and Mary at the heads of whatever eligible gentlemen caught her eye.
She would probably be delighted to join Mary in stalking Lord Henry—like a mother cat hunting mice for her kittens’ supper.
“No!” My response—which emerged as closer to a strangled shriek than a spoken word—made Mary raise her eyebrows. I gulped in a breath and said in calmer tones, “I mean … I mean that I am sure there is no need to worry our mother. Not when you are here to see that Jane has everything in the way of good care that she needs, Mary. You are so very wise, and have such an excellent sense for steering a course through every crisis.”
For a moment, I wondered whether I was perhaps laying the flattery on too thickly. But no, apparently such a thing is not possible with Mary.
She merely nodded and said—entirely without irony—”Very true.” And then she went off to fetch her bonnet and cloak, positively oozing a sense of her own virtue.
I may also have invaded my aunt’s sickroom to the extent of asking her to write a short note to Rhys Williams, asking him whether he might call at Georgiana’s on his way home from the City each day, in order that he can escort Mary back to Gracechurch Street.
I am thoroughly exhausted. I would never have believed it could be so tiring to sit inside a fabric tent and promise giggling young women dashing suitors, fortunes, and thrilling trips abroad. But I am determined to prop my eyes open a little longer so that I can write this down before any of the details fade from my memory.
It seems that I will not have to tear out my previous entry into this diary after all. My plan for recovering Jane’s necklace from Mrs. Hurst has succeeded. Or at least, the first stage of it has. It remains to be seen whether the plan will ultimately succeed.
The children’s hospital is located not far from my aunt and uncle’s house, on a poor but respectable street. I arrived early so that I might help with setting up for the fete: putting up sprays of holly and mistletoe and pine boughs. Arranging the trays of refreshments. And constructing my gypsy’s tent. Gwenevere Dalton and I undertook to accomplish that particular task together—fashioning the tent out of an assortment of heavy velvet and brocade curtains that she had brought from home.
We were talking as we worked—and I commented idly that it was very good of her to give her time to her brother’s charity endeavour.
Miss Dalton waved that aside. “I confess that at first it was merely an excuse to spend time with Lance.” She cast an affectionate look in her brother’s direction. Mr. Dalton was, at that moment, in his shirtsleeves, with his cuffs rolled up to the elbow, helping to hang up a garland of pine boughs above the door. “I do not see nearly as much of him as I would like.”
That startled me. I looked up in confusion and asked, “Does not your brother live with you?”
Miss Dalton looked conscious, as though she were afraid of saying more than she had intended. But then she sighed and shook her head. “No. He and our mother—” She stopped. “I suppose there is no harm in your knowing. Perhaps it is even better so—you will be forewarned in case the subject ever comes up with Lance.” She stopped and gave me a look I could not quite interpret. But then she went on, “Our mother— Percival was her favourite son.”
Miss Dalton paused again to cast another glance in her brother’s direction. “Do you know that horrid phrase ‘an heir and a spare’? I will not say that my parents quite went so far as to view Lance that way—as a mere spare son, to come into use only if something were to happen to Percival. But Percival was always the golden child. Our mother’s pride and joy. And when he—” Her voice trembled slightly, and she swallowed. “When he died, our mother—” She stopped again, seeming to choose her words with care. “Our mother was not herself. She … she seemed to blame Lance. Completely unjustly, of course. But it seemed a constant grief to her that Percival, her favourite, had been taken from her, but Lance yet lived. Lance determined … he determined that his presence in the house was only causing her more grief. So he moved into private lodgings. Not far from here; he wished to be as close as possible to his charity endeavours. And I stayed to care for my mother.” Miss Dalton’s lips twisted. “Though I do not seem to be making a particularly successful job of it. She still dresses entirely in black—she has even had all of her nightclothes dyed with black, and sleeps on black sheets—and refuses on most days to come out of her room.”
My eyes had widened at her story. Though not with disbelief. It is a myth that all parents love all their children equally. Some like Aunt Gardiner do. But growing up, I knew quite well that my mother’s favourites were Jane for her beauty and Lydia for her vivacious temper. And that my father’s favourite was Lizzy. Mary and I were the sisters whom our mother and father could have dispensed with very well and never missed terribly much.
I hesitated—but then reached out and touched Miss Dalton’s hand. “You must not blame yourself for that. Grief—” I thought back to those first few horrible weeks after John died. After I returned from Belgium and seemed to see the faces of all the fine, gallant young men I had watched die in agony, every time I closed my eyes.
I felt as though I were trapped a mile underwater, like a sunken ship. “I have thought that grief is one of those unfortunate parts of life that one cannot get around—one cannot get over it. One only gets through it. And one has to make one’s own way. Perhaps your mother only needs more time.”
Miss Dalton squeezed my hand and gave me a watery smile in return. “Thank you, Miss Bennet.” I had the impression she might have said more. But the first guests were beginning to arrive, and at that moment, I caught sight of Louisa Hurst and Miranda Pettigrew just entering through the door.
Miranda attached herself instantly to Mr. Dalton with affected cries of delight at meeting with him that reached me even from across the room.
And I ducked quickly into the completed gypsy’s tent before Mrs. Hurst could see and recognise me.
The interior of the tent was dim; the heavy layers of curtains that Miss Dalton and I had used ensured that. My wrists jangled with bracelets, and my fingers were stiff with rings. And I had draped myself with very nearly every scarf and shawl in Aunt Gardiner’s and my possession, winding one turban-style about my hair and then draping another one over that, so that my face would be completely in shadow. No one save for Miss Dalton, my aunt, and Georgiana—whose help I enlisted yesterday, after I dealt with Lord Henry—knew I had agreed to play the gypsy’s role; I had only to sit in the tent and wait for Mrs. Hurst to take her turn at having her fortune told.
But Mrs. Hurst did not take her turn. An hour or two passed; the tent grew increasingly stifling. I could hear the voices of the children and adult guests outside as they laughed and chattered and played at the other party games. And I began to feel as though I would scream if I had to make one single more promise—in my affectedly deep and mysterious gypsy’s voice—of love and happiness and good fortune. But Louisa Hurst still did not appear in my tent.
At last Georgiana—bless her—appeared in the tent opening and dropped into the chair we had placed opposite my little table. She smiled. “You must make a very convincing gypsy,” she said. “I have heard several guests talking of Madame Marianna’s wonderful predictions.”
I let the smothering shawl drop away from my head and used it to fan myself. “I would be a great deal more pleased to hear it if only Mrs. Hurst showed any signs of taking advantage of Madame Marianna’s gift of foretelling.”
“I know,” Georgiana said, sobering. “That is exactly why I came to speak with you. The fete is only supposed to last for another hour—and what if she never comes into the fortune telling tent at all? Do you think I ought to go and urge her to try it? I can say that you gave me the most amazing fortune while I was in here.”
I shook my head. “No. We cannot risk it.” Louisa Hurst may be petty and vain and selfish. But she is not a fool. The odds of our scheme succeeding were slight enough without giving her any reason to suspect Georgiana’s motives. Especially since Georgiana had her own vital part to play later. “No, we will think of something. Do you think you might tell everyone that Madame Marianna requires a slight rest to commune with her guiding spirits—or whatever it is that fortune tellers do?” I wiped my forehead. “I feel as though I shall melt if I have to stay in here much longer.”
“Of course,” Georgiana said. “Just let me know when you are ready to return.”
Gwenevere Dalton and I had constructed the tent so that it backed directly onto a small side door leading out of the large empty ward in which the fete was being held. It was easy enough for me to simply slip out from under the rear folds of the tent, and from there go through the door without being observed.
I had—most gratefully—abandoned the multitude of shawls, bracelets, and rings inside the tent, and I drew a breath of relief at the wash of cooler air in the hallway outside. It also occurred to me that it would be no bad thing for me to be observed—as Kitty Bennet—doing something that would give me a legitimate excuse for not having partaken of the fete’s festivities. I remembered that my aunt had spoken of parcels being made up for the children who were too ill to leave their beds; perhaps I could help with distributing those.
The hospital is not large; I quickly found the children’s ward—where an elderly, grey-haired nurse was already handing out the wrapped presents to the bedridden patients. She was happy enough, though, to allow me to help.
The children ranged in age from somewhere about five to twelve years of age. And they were so sweet, all of them, and so grateful—they tore open the parcels eagerly and marvelled over the contents.
All, that is, except for one small, freckle-faced boy at the far end of the ward. He looked to be about ten years old. And he must have been suffering from some condition of the spine, for he was lying propped up in a half-sitting position against some pillows with a complicated-looking brace of leather and metal rods strapped to his back. He could not sit fully up, nor easily move his arms. So I unpacked the box for him. And he lay and glowered at the warm mittens and knitted scarf and picture book Aunt Gardiner had given him.
“What good is all this lot?” he demanded. I will not even try to write the dialect, but he spoke with a sharply nasal cockney accent. He scowled at the hat and gloves. “I can’t go outside. I’m stuck in this bed all day. And what do I want with some sissy picture book?”
Aunt Gardiner’s choice of book was rather unfortunate—much as I love her. It was a book of illustrated stories about two children—Lucy and Francis—who learn all about politeness and good manners. Proper table manners, the proper way to greet their elders, how to behave in church … If it had been my gift, I probably would have scowled at it as well.
I said, “Well, what would you really like?”
The boy considered a moment and then said, flatly, “A sword.” There was a slightly challenging note to his voice and a lift to his chin—as though he were daring me to say that a sword was hardly of any more use to a crippled, bedridden boy than a hat and gloves.
I said, “Very well. A sword it is, then.” I have played pirates and knights so often with my cousins Thomas and Jack that I am—if I do say so—past master of the art of making swords from stiffened paper or scrap wood.
I had to improvise because of course there were not many suitable materials to be found in the children’s ward. But eventually—venturing into a small storeroom—I found some pieces of old packing crates that would do for blades. And I commandeered some rags—I suppose they were to be used as bandages—to wrap around the ends for the hilts. The crosspieces I made from rolled newspaper, tied round the blades.
I assembled the swords—I made two of them—while sitting beside the freckled boy’s bed, and he watched with growing interest. Though he tried to disguise it by maintaining the scowl. At last I finished them, and I handed one with a flourish to the boy, keeping one for myself. “There you are. One for me and one for you. Now, what is your name?”
The boy gripped the makeshift hilt—awkwardly, but I did not try to help or correct him. “Will,” he said. In a slightly less surly tone than before.
“Will?” I shook my head. “No, no. That will never do. That is not a proper pirate name at all. You had better be … let me see, Black-hearted William. And I will be Captain Kate. Now then, Black-hearted William.” I saluted his blade lightly with mine. “Let us see what you can do with this weapon. I warn you, I will not give over my ship to you without a bloodthirsty fight.”
Will’s mouth actually curved into a small smile at that. And then—with a look of fierce concentration—he raised his sword as far as he was able and struck my blade with his own. I pretended to reel backwards—
Well, I will not record all the details of our fight. But, so long as I was obliging enough to stay well within his range, Will managed remarkably well for a boy confined to bed and restricted by a brace on his back. The battle ended with my allowing myself to be stabbed to the heart and dying a gruesome death on the floor beside Will’s bed.
Will let out a laugh and a crow of triumph, and I sat up, laughing as well. And then a pair of clerical-black trousers moved into my field of view and brought me back to earth with a practically palpable thud.
Though at least this time I was not surprised by Mr. Dalton’s sudden appearance. I have practically come to expect him to appear like the genie from the bottle whenever I am behaving less than decorously.
Besides, I could not be sorry for the playacting. Not when I looked at Will’s face and saw it alight, still, with laughter. Mr. Dalton was smiling, too, as he offered me his hand to help me to my feet.
“Ah, my first mate—come to save his wounded captain,” I said as I accepted Mr. Dalton’s hand. I turned to Will, who was still grinning at me from his bed. I set my sword down, propped against his bedside. “You may have won this round,” I said, “but do not think by any means that this fight is over. I shall be back to reclaim my ship from you, Black-hearted William, never fear.”
We shook hands. And Mr. Dalton fell into step beside me as I walked back down the ward’s central aisle.
“Do you know,” he said, when we were out of earshot, “that is the first time I have seen young Will back there smile—much less laugh—since I have been coming here.”
I glanced back at Will’s bed. “Sick or healthy, I suspect all boys love to play at pirates and swords.” And then I lowered my voice and asked, “What is the matter with him? His back—was it an accident?”
Mr. Dalton shook his head. “No. He has a congenital palsy that has settled in his legs and spine. The physicians do not know the cause. Though it seems to be growing worse with time.”
“Is there no cure?”
“No. None, even if there were money to pay for his treatment—which his family certainly does not have.” Mr. Dalton’s smile had faded and his face was bleak as he glanced back at Will’s bed. “Will there is one of ten children. His family never comes to visit him any more. His mother has not been in these two months, at least.”
“That’s horrible!” I said. So violently that the nearby nurse looked round.
“Life is hard in these parts of the city.” Mr. Dalton’s voice was sober. “Will’s parents have already buried three of his younger siblings. One cannot entirely blame his mother for wishing to protect herself against further heartbreak by cutting Will off before she is forced to watch him waste slowly away.”
I looked back at Will’s bed again. All our sword battling must have tired him; his eyes were beginning to droop closed.
I could in fact blame his mother—or rather, a strong part of me wanted to. But then I had never found myself in her situation, with nine healthy children to support and one dying child.
I said, “Well, I shall come and see him again. I did just promise him a re-match, after all.” I glanced up at Mr. Dalton and added, “Though I warn you, I shall expect you to do more than just stand by and laugh at me next time. As my first mate, you had better be prepared to raise a sword as well.”
“I stand ready to defend my captain to the death,” Mr. Dalton said gravely. And then we both laughed.
It was at that moment that we were interrupted by the joint entrance of his sister and Miranda Pettigrew. Miranda—naturally—made straight for Mr. Dalton. Pausing only to direct an extremely unfriendly glance in my direction before she poutingly told him that he had absolutely promised to win her a prize in the game of horseshoes.
Miss Dalton—with what looked to me like patent relief—abandoned her brother to Miranda. Not that I could entirely blame her for that; after five minutes in Miranda’s company, I invariably start longing for escape, as well. Miss Dalton took my arm, drawing me further up the ward. Her dark eyes were wide and amazed. “Good Heaven,” she said in an undertone. “What on earth did you do to make Lance laugh like that? He has always been such a sober, serious-minded fellow. Even before—” Her voice caught slightly. “Even before Percy died.”
That surprised me. Mr. Dalton is often grave in his manner, I suppose. But he has never seemed overly so to me. Today was not the first time I had seen him moved into unguarded laughter, at any rate. There was the other night in Vauxhall Gardens, as well.
I stamped on that thought before it could take root, though, and glanced backwards. I could not hear what Mr. Dalton was saying in response to Miranda’s overtures. But he was smiling at her. I said, “I think you credit me over-much. I am sure Miss Pettigrew is far more skilled at drawing smiles from your brother than I am.”
Miss Dalton turned to follow the direction of my gaze. And then she snorted. “If my brother presents me with Miss Miranda Pettigrew for a sister-in-law, I shall cheerfully murder him with my bare hands. But he will not,” she added, her tone one of complete certainty. “He is kind to her—Lance is never anything but kind. But I know my brother, and he has absolutely no interest in girls of her type and never has. You certainly have no reason to fear her as a rival.”
I felt my jaw drop—even as the blood simultaneously spilled upwards into my cheeks. “Miss Dalton, I have not … that is, you are entirely mistaken about … I assure you that there is nothing whatever of that kind between your brother and me …” I stammered.
Miss Dalton interrupted me, though. “Oh, please do call me Gwen—everyone does.” She looked over my shoulder towards her brother again. She shook her head and said, speaking half to herself, “I still cannot quite get over the shock of seeing him in a clergyman’s collar. If anyone had told me a year ago that Lance of all people would enter the church, I should have laughed. But he is a good man—even if I am the one to say so.”
A thousand questions crowded into my head—the first of which concerning Miss Dalton’s implication that her brother had not originally been intended for a career in the church.
But before I could gather wits enough to ask any of them, Gwen startled me completely by drawing me into a swift hug. “I do like you,” she whispered. “And if you can succeed in making my brother happy again—in persuading him that the entire weight of the world does not in fact rest on his shoulders—I promise that I shall love you forever.”
It is three o’clock in the morning. Again. This seems to have become my preferred time of day for writing in my diary. However, in the first place, I am not sleeping—again. And in the second place, I never did set down an account of my fortune-telling session with Mrs. Hurst—which was after all the entire purpose of my last entry.
To begin where I left off, before I could even stammer another response to Gwen’s words, she moved on to say, “But what I really came to tell you was this: your Mrs. Hurst has at last been persuaded by some of her friends that she must have her fortune told before the end of the fete. She is waiting—not especially patiently—for Madame Marianna’s return.”
That news (almost) wiped away all thoughts of Mr. Dalton. I felt a qualm of fear slither through me. If the scheme was to succeed at all—and at that moment it seemed wildly improbable that it should—everything depended on me. And what if I failed Jane? What if I could not play my part with enough assurance to convince Mrs. Hurst? What if she only laughed?
At that point, however, I gave myself a hard mental shake and told myself that I was being absurd. If I could stay in Brussels last summer while Napoleon’s troops advanced—and with no idea of whether our army would win or lose the battle to come—then surely I could face a small, conceited little teapot-tyrant like Louisa Hurst.
Without letting myself pause—or look back again at Mr. Dalton and Miranda—I marched back to the ward where the fete was being held, slipped back into the tent the same way I had come out, and swathed myself again in Madame Marianna’s shawls.
I had to suffer through three other women coming into the tent in search of fortunes before finally Louisa Hurst appeared; I promised them dark, handsome strangers and glittering jewels and anything else I could think of in my fever of impatience to get them out of there and on their way. But then at long last Louisa Hurst ducked under the flap of the tent and—with a disdainful sniff—deposited herself in the chair opposite mine.
It was not only the sniff; her entire demeanour was one of scornful disdain. Which I was in fact rather grateful for, since it made me feel angry—enough so that I forgot entirely to be nervous or afraid.
I drew in a breath and snapped—in Madame Marianna’s heavily accented voice—“You may leave. I have no time for telling the fortunes of those who do not believe.”
That was a risk, of course. There was a chance that Mrs. Hurst would simply take me at my word and stalk out, mortally affronted. But I was gambling on her being of a contrary enough nature to feel utterly determined to do anything she was told she could not.
And of course she would never allow anyone whom she regarded as being of an inferior station—such as a mere gypsy fortune-teller—to order her about.
She planted herself more firmly in the chair and fished in her reticule for a coin, saying, “I trust my money is as good as anyone else’s?” She slapped a half-sovereign down on the table in front of me. “I desire to have my fortune told.” She sniffed again. “I was told you were rather clever and amusing.”
I had succeeded in making her stay, but she clearly still did not believe in Madame Marianna’s ‘gift’. I made a great show of reluctantly accepting the coin and—gingerly—biting it to prove its authenticity while I thought. And then I took her hand, peering down from beneath my shawls at the lines on her palm. “I see that you come from a respectable family in the north country. Your family’s fortune was acquired in trade—a fact which you do your best to forget and disclaim. You have one brother and two … no, only one sister. Both married. You do not like your brother’s wife. And you are jealous of your sister’s good fortune in finding a husband who loves her as she does him. You are married to a man of more fashion than fortune, who lives only to eat, drink, and play at cards. You ought I think to stop his eating so much rich food. I can see”—I squinted down at her palm again—“that such habits as his will lead to gout if he does not take care.” I let out a high-pitched old-womanish cackle of laughter. “You think he is little fun to be married to now, imagine what he will be in ten years—bald and fat and sitting by the fire with his sore foot tied up in rags.”
I confess that I rather enjoyed the opportunity to say all the rude things I had previously been able only to think about Louisa Hurst. She looked more than a little shaken when I had done. But she rallied, drawing herself up and said, “That is scarcely a fortune. And you might have heard all that from any of the guests here.”
I also noticed that she did not contradict my statement that she disliked her brother’s wife. I rattled my bracelets as though affronted and said, “You want any more, you will have to pay.”
This time, Mrs. Hurst did not hesitate, only dug in her reticule for another shilling and tossed it down. “There. Now tell me my fortune.”
I accepted the coin, took Mrs. Hurst’s hand once again—and then fell silent, rocking back and forth a little in my chair.
“Well?” she said impatiently, when I did not speak. “What is it? What do you see?”
I drew in my breath with a hiss, lowering my voice to a hoarse whisper. “I see darkness. A black misfortune that shades your future as a cloud does the sun.”
I flatter myself that I did manage to sound quite sinister—an added benefit of having had a good deal of practice at acting the role of villain in my cousins’ games of knights and bandits.
Mrs. Hurst’s hand tensed in mine. But I held fast to her fingers and went on, “You stole something of great value. What, I cannot see, but you took it with deceit and lies. Have a care—for such sins cast long shadows. And this sin of yours will shadow your future with evil and ill-luck until you give back what was never rightfully yours.”
When I finished, Mrs. Hurst’s prominent eyes were large and round in her pale face, and her bosom heaved as she breathed in short gasps. Then, without another word, she yanked her hand out of mine and stumbled back out through the front flap of the tent.
I was not able to see the second act of the scheme; I had to remain in the tent and finish out my time as Madame Marianna. But Georgiana assured me afterward that it went splendidly well. She contrived to jog Mrs. Hurst’s elbow while she was partaking of the fete’s refreshments—making her spill a cup full of hot spiced wine all down the front of her gown. And then Georgiana exclaimed, “Oh no, I do apologise. Your lovely gown ruined. Oh, how terribly unlucky!”
Georgiana tells me that Mrs. Hurst’s face turned positively green.
I of course put all the coins I had earned as Madame Marianna into the donations box to give to the hospital. But I kept out Louisa Hurst’s half-sovereign and shilling. I stopped at a confectioner’s on my way home and used them to buy chocolates to give to Will the next time I visit him.
I went back to the children’s ward of the hospital today—to see Will. I was not sure whether Mr. Dalton would be there or no; he and I had certainly made no plans to meet. But he was there. He arrived in the ward soon after I had done, and, much to Black-hearted William’s delight, kept his promise by engaging in a fearsome battle with our swords.
He said—
But I will not record everything that he said to me and I to him. This entry will be hard enough to write as it is. If I wind up with a great ugly blot of ink instead of words across the page, it is because I have to keep reminding myself not to grip the pen so hard that I am in danger of snapping it in half.
We finished our game of swords, and I could see that Will was tired. So I gave him the chocolates I bought the day before last, and promised that I would come back soon.
All other considerations aside, I would have considered my turn as Madame Marianna well repaid by the expression on Will’s small, freckled face when I gave him the sweets. He looked—rather comically—like a squirrel with its cheeks stuffed full of nuts after he had ripped open the package and immediately crammed at least four of the chocolates into his mouth.
I kissed the top of his head—even though I should have known better, of course; no ten-year-old boy likes to be kissed. Will endured it with a heroically patient expression. Now looking like a cross between a squirrel and a painting of a martyred saint.
I turned quickly away—before I could further injure his dignity by laughing. Or growing teary-eyed; at that moment, I would have given anything to have Will actually be a fully normal ten-year-old boy, with no brace on his back and no hopeless diagnosis.
Mr. Dalton and I walked back towards the entrance to the children’s ward. And suddenly a voice to the right of us said, “Miss Bennet—Kitty!” And I turned to see Mrs. Ayres. John’s mother.
I had for weeks gone out of my way to avoid seeing her. And now I had met her at London Hospital, of all places. I had no idea she was even involved in the hospital’s charity work. She was not at the fete the other day.
I stood stock still—wishing it were possible to simply bolt past her and out of the ward. And Mrs. Ayres came over and enveloped me in a hug.
I actually adore Mrs. Ayres. Really, she was one of the best things about being engaged to John: the thought that she would be my mother, too, after John and I married. We met in person only a few times, but she used to write letters to me—very kind letters, and full of humour and fun.
Despite having grown-up children—John had two brothers and a sister, as well—Mrs. Ayres is very pretty and young-looking still. She has dark hair, just lightly touched with grey, and a plump, rosy-cheeked face with eyes that seem always to brim with laughter.
Or at least she had when last I saw her a year ago. Now as she drew back from embracing me, I saw that she was far thinner than I remembered, and that her hair was beginning to turn white.
She was smiling at me. But it was a tremulous smile, and her dark eyes had flooded with tears. “I am so glad to have seen you at last! I have called at your aunt’s residence in Cheapside. But so far never when you have been at home.”
Her gaze was steady on mine—and I could see that she knew perfectly well that I had been avoiding her. I felt my cheeks burning with shame and started to stammer out some sort of apology. But she hugged me again and said, “It’s all right, my dear. I do understand. For weeks after I received word of John’s death, I felt as though I could not bear to see anyone.”
She thought it was simple grief over John that had kept me from wanting to see her. The knowledge felt like a fiery coal, burning its way through my ribcage.
“You will come and see me, though?” Mrs. Ayres said. “And soon? Please?” There was a catch in her voice.
I said something—I have no idea what, but it must have been vague enough that Mrs. Ayres took it for consent. She clasped my hand and kissed my cheek and said how fortunate it was that she had chosen today to bring her own gifts of charity to the hospital.
And then she left.
Tears pressed like a pounding headache behind my eyes. I felt as though I were going to be sick.
“Miss Bennet, are you all right?”
I looked up and realised that Mr. Dalton was still standing beside me. I had entirely forgotten his presence, but he must have just overheard the whole of my exchange with Mrs. Ayres. It needed only that to make the sheer nightmarish quality of the encounter truly complete.
“Perfectly. I’m … fine.” At that moment, all I wanted in the world was to get away—somewhere by myself, where no one would look at me.
A line appeared between Mr. Dalton’s brows. “You’ll forgive me, but you do not look at all ‘fine’. You look as though—”
“I am fine!” My voice cracked as I spoke the words—which rather spoiled their intended effect. I drew in a ragged breath and said, “Mr. Dalton, I am trying to spare you the discomfort of seeing me dissolve into a sniffling mess of tears.” I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes. “Please, just let me—”
He interrupted, though, before I could finish. “You are concerned about my discomfort? Does it ever occur to you to take into consideration what you want or need?” His tone softened as he put an arm about me, supporting me. “Here, come and sit down—you look as though you are about to faint.”
“I never faint,” I said automatically. But I did allow him to draw me to a hard wooden bench at the head of the ward. Something inside me seemed to have crumbled at his touch, erasing all my resolve to get away.
I sat. Locking my hands together so tightly that the bones in my fingers ached, in my effort not to burst into tears. Mr. Dalton had kept his arm about me. I knew I ought to pull away. But I could not manage to. He felt solid and strong. I could feel the warmth of his body seeping into mine, the slow, steady rhythm of his heart. I closed my eyes, resting my forehead against his shoulder.
He did not ask a single question, only sat with me and was quiet. But somehow even though—or perhaps because—he had not asked for an explanation, I felt the words spill out.
“That was Mrs. Ayres. Her son and I were … were engaged to be married. Before he was killed last summer at Waterloo.” I choked on a bitter half-laugh. “Though I suppose you know all of this already. You said when we met that you already knew me by reputation.”
At that he drew back a little, enough that he could look down at me. He was frowning again. “Miss Bennet, I think there must be … that is, if I unintentionally gave offence—” He cleared his throat and began again, abandoning the formal tone. “Look here, I thought at the time that you seemed to have understood something entirely different from what I intended by those words. When I had called at your aunt and uncle’s house previous to your arrival, the Gardiner children gave a glowing report of their Cousin Kitty Bennet, who was soon to come and visit for the Christmas holidays. And they showed me a miniature portrait of you that your sister-in-law Mrs. Fitzwilliam painted last year. That was all I meant by saying that I knew you by repute.” He gave me a brief smile. “But between one thing and another, I had not the chance to explain.”
I had not given him the chance to explain. Well, it was not entirely me—Miranda Pettigrew played her part, as well.
But the memory of that night was almost instantly eclipsed by a realisation—one that struck me like an ocean wave crashing against the shore: Mr. Dalton does not know. All this time, I have thought that he knew the worst about me—but he does not. He knows nothing of my history with John and Lord Henry Carmichael at all.
I could have told him then. I should have done. And yet somehow the words seemed to tangle up in my throat and form a hard, immovable knot. Because sitting there, in the circle of his arm—looking up into his morning-sky blue eyes—another realisation struck me with equal force.
I have fallen in love with Lancelot Dalton.
I am not going to moan and sigh and carry on like a lovelorn character in one of Lord Byron’s poems. I have fallen in love with Lance Dalton. There is absolutely no chance he would ever be happy if he married me. Not to mention, how could I live with myself? Therefore, I must do my best not to see him, not even to think of him any more.
Why could he not have had a name like Eustace? Or Sylvester? It does not seem possible that I should lie awake at night with the name ‘Eustace’ ringing in my ears.
Although perhaps it would make no difference. I have a horrible sinking feeling that it would not materially alter my feelings no matter what he was called.
But this seems to be approaching the ‘moan’ and ‘sigh’ category, and I really took up this journal to record the second stage of our scheme for getting Jane’s necklace back from Mrs. Hurst.
I had not really expected that she would go straight home from the hospital fete, open her jewellery box, and send the diamonds directly back to Jane. I hoped that she might—but I knew, really, that it would not be so easy as that. Once away from the fete and Madame Marianna, Mrs. Hurst would convince herself that the gypsy predictions were all nonsense and coincidence, and that there was no reason to give the necklace up.
It was for that reason that I planned an encore performance, to be carried out today and aimed at persuading Mrs. Hurst that she has indeed been cursed with ill-fortune.
I went to Darcy House yesterday to see Jane—and then, afterwards, to lay careful plans with Georgiana.
Georgiana—calling in a favour—contrived to get Mrs. Hurst invited to a very exclusive tea party, hosted by Countess Lieven and taking place this afternoon. Since we knew both the countess’s address and Mrs. Hurst’s, we were able to calculate the most probable route that her coachman would take to the party. And thus we were able to position ourselves at about the midpoint of her journey, at the corner of St. James’s Park.
When Georgiana’s coachman drew our carriage to a halt, we looked at each other and were silent. “Are you certain this will work?” Georgiana asked at last.
“Not in the slightest,” I said. “But I cannot think of a better plan. You can scarcely follow Louisa Hurst all over London, jogging her elbow and making her spill drinks wherever she goes.”
Georgiana laughed. “Very well, then.” She peered out the carriage window at the street and then said, “In that case, I think I see a likely candidate. That farmer with the wagon load of vegetable marrows over there?”
“Perfect,” I agreed.
We descended from the carriage, and I approached him, wondering what exactly I was going to say. I had neglected in planning this all out to account for how to persuade our unwitting accomplice to play his prescribed part.
As it turned out, though, I need not have worried. The farmer was middle-aged and phlegmatic, with a sturdy, square-built frame and a face that looked as though it had been carved out of wood. He was supremely incurious about the reason for Georgiana’s and my rather odd request. Georgiana and I paid him for his entire load of marrows—at Georgiana’s insistence, we divided the cost between us—and that was enough for him. What we did with them afterwards was entirely our affair, or so his attitude seemed to be.
So it was that when Mrs. Hurst’s sleek and rather gaudy carriage turned the corner into the road, the entire way was blocked by an overturned farm cart that had spilled vegetable marrows all over the street. The farmer was—very slowly—working at picking them all up and endeavouring to right his cart.
Mrs. Hurst’s carriage came of necessity to a halt—and before her driver could negotiate a turn, sending them back along the way they had come, three hansom cabs rolled up behind, effectively boxing Mrs. Hurst’s carriage in.
Georgiana and I had also hired the three cab drivers expressly for the purpose.
We had ducked back into our own carriage so that we might not be seen. But I caught just a glimpse of Mrs. Hurst, poking her head out through her carriage window and peevishly demanding of her driver the reason for the delay.
“She will be a quarter-hour late to the tea at least,” Georgiana said with satisfaction. “And Countess Lieven is a stickler for punctuality—she loathes tardiness above all things.”
“We shall be late ourselves, though,” I said. That was something else I had not accounted for—that we would be trapped by the same traffic delay which we had engineered.
But Georgiana shook her head. “No indeed. Saunders will find a way. He knows every street in London. I am certain he can find a way to get us to the countess’s well before Mrs. Hurst arrives.”
Saunders is her coachman, an elderly, white-haired man with shoulders permanently hunched from a lifetime of sitting at the reins.
“Will he not think this all very strange?” I asked, with a glance in front of us at Saunders’s caped great-coat and high beaver hat.
“I daresay. But he will not mind. And he will not speak of it to anyone, if that is what you are worried about.” Georgiana cast an affectionate look at the coachman’s back. “He has known me since I was a child. And besides, I hinted to him that the purpose of today’s excursion was to do a turn of good service for Amelia’s mother, which was more than enough to ensure his enthusiastic participation. He has fallen as completely under small Amelia’s spell as the rest of the household.”
The farmer gave us an unruffled wave and a tip of his hat as Saunders turned the carriage around and we drove off—which caused both Georgiana and me to dissolve into fits of laughter.
And as it happened, Georgiana was perfectly correct about Saunders’s internal map of London streets. We arrived at Countess Lieven’s—a very fashionable town home near Holland House—in plenty of time, and with still no sign of Mrs. Hurst’s carriage.
Georgiana got down from the carriage again, looking up and down the street and frowning. “Now where is Edward? He promised me faithfully that he would be— Oh, there he is. And he brought the dogs, bless him.”
She waved to Edward—who was standing at the far end of the street, holding the leashes of a rather astonishing half a dozen dogs of assorted sizes and breeds. Too far away for Mrs. Hurst to notice him—or so we hoped—or to recognise him if she did.
Edward raised his hat in response. And Georgiana climbed back into the carriage to wait for Mrs. Hurst to arrive—which she did perhaps a quarter of an hour later. Red-faced, flustered, and plainly in a very ill-temper indeed, to judge from the cutting remarks which she addressed to her servant as he helped her down from the carriage.
Georgiana flashed me a quick, conspiratorial grin and we both allowed Saunders to assist us down onto the pavement, as well.
“Why, Louisa,” Georgiana chirped when Mrs. Hurst caught sight of us, “how delightful to see you here. I had not realised you were invited to the Countess’s today.” She slipped her arm companionably through Mrs. Hurst’s, and then—I must say with a great deal of skill—contrived to stumble, jerking Mrs. Hurst’s very fashionable bead and silk reticule from her arm and sending it to the ground.
“Oh no!” Georgiana pantomimed horror. “Oh, Louisa, I am so dreadfully sorry. It is just that … my condition, you know.” I rather think she may even have managed to blush. “I sometimes take these dizzy turns.”
I could see that Louisa Hurst was positively fuming; Georgiana had not only managed to make her spill her bag, she had sent it directly into a puddle of mud. However, there was very little she could say to that besides grinding out an extremely unconvincing, “Pray do not trouble yourself. I assure you, it is nothing.”
Georgiana continued to blush and hold tight to Mrs. Hurst’s arm and babble apologies. While I said, “Please, let me help,” and bent down to retrieve the reticule from the mud. I handed the bag back to Mrs. Hurst.
At that moment, far away at the end of the street, Edward let go his hold on the dogs’ leashes. They came bounding down the street towards us, baying and woofing and yipping. It was quite an impressive sight. Mrs. Hurst shied back. And even I felt myself flinch—and I stepped in front of Georgiana, because I did not want it on my conscience that I had caused an increasing mother to be knocked down by a pack of baying hounds.
However, the dogs cooperated beautifully. Or rather, I should say that they responded exactly as I would have hoped to the greasy sausage-paper that I had saved especially for the purpose and rubbed all over Mrs. Hurst’s reticule while she was distracted by Georgiana. The paper itself I had dropped into the gutter—and some of the dogs lunged towards that. But the rest jumped all over Mrs. Hurst, yapping and barking and trying to lick everything from her reticule to her face.
“Oh, what are they doing?” Mrs. Hurst shrieked, waving her arms and pushing ineffectively at the throng of dogs. “Get them off me! Oh, they must be possessed! What can they want? Help! Jerry, call them off at once!” This last was directed at her footman—the same servant to whom she had been so thoroughly rude before.
Jerry did come to her aid. But not, I noticed, with any especial speed. By the time he succeeded in shooing the dogs away from Mrs. Hurst, her hat was tipped over one eye, her hair was coming down—and she had muddy paw prints of assorted sizes all up and down the front of her dress.
She also looked thoroughly dazed. She appeared completely blank-faced and glassy-eyed as Georgiana exclaimed in sympathy and offered her a lace-trimmed handkerchief to wipe at the mud.
I would have felt almost guilty. But she has been cruelly unkind to Jane. She is the sort of woman to think nothing of being rude to her servants. And she had directed a vicious kick at the smallest of the dogs. Though thankfully for the dog’s sake, she had missed.
“I think … I think perhaps I had better return home,” she said at last.
Georgiana and I made further sympathetic noises and agreed that perhaps that would be the best plan. And contrived to wait until she had got back into her carriage and driven away before we dissolved into laughter once more.
We were still laughing when Edward arrived on the scene. I had always thought him rather stern and stiff. But he was smiling, as well, as he saw Georgiana’s face. It was not that either of them set out to make me feel awkward or left out. It was just, I think, that whenever the two of them come together it is for the moment as though they were alone in the world.
“Edward! There you are. You were absolutely splendid,” Georgiana said.
Certainly Edward’s focus seemed to narrow to include nothing but Georgiana as he moved to her, slid an arm around her waist, and kissed her. “If that is all it takes to impress you, I shall have to remember to forgo expensive gifts in favour of a pack of stray dogs.”
“They were perfect,” Georgiana said. “Where on earth did you find them?”
“Hired them for the purpose from a group of small boys I found playing in the park. And a few were strays.” One remaining dog—a spaniel—was still hanging about, apparently still hoping for actual sausages. Edward bent down and scratched it behind the ears, then looked up at Georgiana with another grin. “So are you going to tell me, now, what this was all about?”
“Tonight—I promise,” Georgiana said. “For now, you must be needing to get back to the War Office. And I ought to go and check on Jane. She seemed a little unwell this morning.”
Edward bid us good-bye, kissing Georgiana again and raising his hat to me. So perhaps he does not disapprove of me quite so much as he used to.
Georgiana and I climbed back into the carriage, and I said, “Jane is unwell?”
Georgiana nodded, biting her lip. “I am sorry, Kitty. I ought to have told you before, but I did not wish to make you worry. She looked so tired and pale this morning—and she ate hardly anything. Mary had not yet arrived, either—so it was not simply an act for her benefit.”
So far, at least, the plan of keeping Mary occupied with Jane has been succeeding. Mary’s last two days have been spent at Georgiana’s, playing with Amelia and reading aloud to Jane.
If Mary is keeping to her usual taste in reading materials, Jane ought to receive some sort of award for sisterly devotion in that she endures it.
Georgiana hesitated, biting her lip again. “There is something else,” she said at last. “I wrote to Charles. I am afraid I did not tell Jane I had done so, for fear of upsetting her. And I did not give Charles any details about the necklace or anything else that has occurred. I only said that Jane was too unselfish to write him herself and take him away from the estate on her account—but that I thought she would be very glad to have him in London with her. I hope I did not do wrong.”
“No, indeed. I am glad you did,” I told her. “I have been thinking that I ought to write to Charles myself. But it will be much better coming from you—you have known him so much longer than I have.” I thought of Mrs. Hurst’s face as she was assaulted by the dogs—but much of the humour had soured into a lump of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. “With any luck, we shall have regained Jane’s necklace by the time Charles can arrive in town.”
“With any luck,” Georgiana agreed.
There was a moment’s quiet between us. Or rather, as quiet as the streets of London ever are. Saunders was driving us back to Darcy House, and carriages rolled past us on either side, while newspaper boys shouted out the latest headlines on corners and street vendors selling everything from ribbons to hot baked potatoes hawked their wares.
And then I said, “You did not even tell Edward why you wished him to set a pack of dogs on Mrs. Hurst?”
Georgiana shook her head. “No—there was no time, you see. He was out until late last night, attending a political supper with the German ambassador. I was already asleep by the time he came home. And then this morning, he had another meeting to attend quite early. There was just barely enough time for me to explain what was required before he had to dash out the door.”
“And yet he still fell in completely with the scheme?” I said.
Georgiana seemed to see nothing at all remarkable in that. “Oh, yes.”
I did not mean to say anything more. I would have sworn that I had clenched my jaw so that I could not allow the words to escape. But somehow I heard myself say, “Georgiana, do you ever … do you ever think of last summer, still?”
Georgiana’s look was surprised, but she said, her voice quiet, “Of course I do. And so does Edward. He has nightmares, still—of the fighting, the field of battle. But at least we have each other—” She broke off sharply and looked at me with wide, repentant eyes. “Oh, Kitty, I am so sorry. I should not have said— I did not mean to remind you …” She trailed off again and covered my hand with hers. “Oh Heaven, there is absolutely nothing I can say that will not make it even worse, is there?”
“It’s all right. I know what you meant.” Georgiana would never wish to remind me that Edward lived through the war, and John did not. Or of my knowing deep-down that even if John had lived, we should never have been able to offer each other the comfort that Georgiana and Edward seem to.
I squeezed Georgiana’s hand. “Truly, Georgiana, it’s all right.”
I am sitting curled up beside the dying embers of tonight’s fire in my aunt and uncle’s parlour, with this book balanced on my knees. At least it makes for a change from writing upstairs in bed while Mary slumbers on the other side of the room. My head aches and my eyes feel gritty with weariness after the manner in which I spent today, and I wish—
I wish any number of things. Chief among which is that I might have met Lancelot Dalton a year ago. Before I met John or made him fall in love with me. Before I even knew who Lord Henry Carmichael was.
Of course, while I am wishing for impossibilities, I ought also to wish for a cure for Will. And peace of mind for Mark Chamberlayne.
And that my sister Mary would have the sense that God gave to geese.
What happened was this: This morning, Mary was dressing herself to set out for Darcy House and Jane. I actually felt some slight stirrings of hope, because she was taking more than usual care with her appearance. Darkening her eyelashes and adding a touch of rouge to her lips and cheeks … and she had slept with her head tied up in rags to curl her hair.
I asked whether Rhys Williams would be calling for her this afternoon, to bring her home from Darcy House. But Mary gave a dismissive wave of her hand and said, “Oh, no. I told him I would not need him to escort me today. Miranda has invited me to go walking in the park again this afternoon. She and Mrs. Hurst will call at Georgiana and Edward’s to collect me.”
Her face took on a dreamy-eyed expression that told me there was every chance of Lord Henry’s being one of the party.
Though at least I had the satisfaction of reflecting that Lord Henry would be undoubtedly every bit as dismayed to see Mary as she would be delighted to see him.
Aunt Gardiner is better, but still not entirely well, which meant that I had charge of Susanna for the morning. After Mary had departed, I was playing with Susanna on the floor—and trying to think what further steps I might take to disentangle Mary from Lord Henry.
After all, if love were as simple as that to shut off and forget, I would not at this moment have sour pain scratching at my heart with sharp little claws.
However, I forgot all about Mary and Lord Henry when the messenger arrived. A small boy, red-faced and panting, who delivered to me a scrawled note written by Sergeant James Maddox.
Sergeant Maddox served in the same regiment as Mark Chamberlayne. Mark was his commanding officer. And Mark’s one saving grace in these last months since he returned from Brussels has been that Sergeant Maddox has remained in Mark’s service. Nominally as a valet, but his duties are more often those of nursemaid. Whenever I have had to help a drunken Mark back to his rooms, Sergeant Maddox has been there to take Mark in and put him to bed to sleep it off. And I know he also follows Mark to the various gaming hells that Mark frequents, and tries as best he may to ensure that Mark comes to no actual bodily harm.
He—Sergeant Maddox, that is—is a big, heavy-set man with a dome-like bald head and an extremely down-to-earth, practical nature. He was with Mark in the thick of the battle at Waterloo, but he managed to come through without a scratch. And with scarcely appearing to bat an eyelash, either, at the danger he had endured. Until today, I should have said that Maddox was impossible to upset or alarm.
His note, though—hastily scrawled on the back of an unpaid wine merchant’s bill addressed to Mark—was as near to hysterical as it was possible for James Maddox to come.
Captain Chamberlayne, he wrote, had come home early this morning from a night of carousing. He was drunk—which is not of course unusual. But Mark then had proceeded to lock himself into his bedroom with his loaded army pistol. And nothing Sergeant Maddox could say would induce him to come out—or even to speak to Sergeant Maddox through the door. Every entreaty Sergeant Maddox had made had so far met with no response at all.
A thread of panic pulled tight in my chest as I read the words. Several times I have heard Mark say, while intoxicated, that he would have done better to have died on the battlefield in Brussels. But I never thought that he might actually do himself an injury.
I picked up Susanna and carried her to my aunt’s room—and then stopped, my hand raised to knock on the door. I could not tell my aunt the truth. Every nerve in my body felt stretched tight with the need for haste, and at best it would take a great deal of convincing for my aunt to permit me to go. At worst, she would forbid me from going to Mark’s rooms altogether. Aunt Gardiner is not overly strict, but the address Sergeant Maddox had given was in an even less savoury part of town than Mark’s last place of lodging.
I knocked, smilingly told Aunt Gardiner that I thought Susanna was ready for her morning nap—which was at least true—handed the baby over to my aunt to nurse, and left as quickly as I could. I felt horribly guilty for the lie. But I had to go. And it had to be alone; my uncle was of course at his place of business, and there was no time to send for him.
Outside in Gracechurch Street, I flagged down the first cab I saw—having snatched up all the pocket money I had on hand before leaving the house. I gave the driver Mark’s address. And then sat bolt upright on the seat, my hands clenched together to keep them from shaking as I cursed the heavy London traffic that forced us to move at a seeming snail’s crawl.
Finally when we reached the corner of Mark’s street, I told the driver that I would walk from there and jumped down, thrusting a handful of coins at him for payment without waiting for change. The street—it was just off of Dorset Street, near Spitalfield’s Market—was certainly less than savoury. Actually, that is a gross understatement. It was like no part of London that I had ever seen. The buildings were black with soot and crumbling, the air reeked with the smell of rotting garbage and waste. There were no crossing sweepers to clear the road. And I realised before I had gone more than half a dozen paces that it was best not to look down and see precisely what I was stepping in.
And the people—
Despite the chill air, ragged-looking children without shoes and with scarcely even any clothes were playing and fighting in the street. Gaunt looking men—and at least one woman—huddled in doorways, asleep or drunk. And then a tall, loose-jointed man in dock-worker’s clothes came lurching out at me from the mouth of an alley, took hold of my arm, and begged me to ‘come and have a drink with him.’ First reasonably politely, and then, when I refused, with increasing bluntness as to what he really wanted.
I ought to have been frightened. I suppose a part of me was. But far more than that, I was anxious to get to Sergeant Maddox and Mark. And this man was causing me to delay. I set my hands against his shoulders, shoved as hard as I could—and he fell backwards, landing in a seated position, with a thud that must have rattled all the way up his spine.
His face darkened with anger. But then a shadow fell across him, and a voice behind me said, “I think that’s enough, John. Why don’t you get along home now?”
Instantly the man’s face changed. “Sorry, Reverend. Meant no disrespect.” He tipped his cap and shuffled off. And I turned to face Lancelot Dalton.
This time I was surprised to see him. Thoroughly so. I stared at him. Trying to ignore the lurch my heart had given at the sight of his face.
To cover my confusion, I said, “Mr. Dalton! What are you doing here?”
“I live here.” Mr. Dalton was frowning. “Or at least near here. I was on my way home, when—” He stopped and shook his head—and I noticed for the first time that he was unshaven, and looked tired, as well, his eyes shadowed and rimmed with red. “The more important question is what are you doing here, Miss Bennet?” His frown deepened. “I suppose it would do absolutely no good whatever to point out that you should not be out walking on this particular street on your own?”
“You may not believe me, but I had already come to that same conclusion myself,” I said. I was too frightened about Mark to enter with any real spirit into the argument, though. “But as it happened, I had no choice.”
In a few words, I told him about Sergeant Maddox’s message regarding Mark.
Mr. Dalton’s face grew even grimmer as I spoke. But all he said when I had finished was, “Come, then,” and set off down the street in the direction of Mark’s lodging house.
I opened my mouth to argue, to tell him that there was no reason for him to be dragged into the affair. But the look he cast at me informed me quite plainly that I should get nowhere with such an argument. And besides—
Since I am determined not to try to deceive even myself, I will admit that I did not especially wish to argue. The sight of him had started a cracked, sore place inside my chest aching. And yet somehow I did not want to give the pain up or wish it away.
I used to wonder what it would feel like to fall truly, uncontrollably in love. The answer seems to be: thoroughly uncomfortable.
Mr. Dalton knew Mark’s address, of course, since he had escorted him home once. But I had never been there before today. The rooms proved to be on the ground floor of a building that smelled of damp wood and boiled cabbage. I could hear a baby crying and a pair of raised voices—a man’s and a woman’s—shouting at each other on an upper floor.
Our knock was answered at once by Sergeant Maddox, who looked as frightened as I had ever seen him. He seized my hand and almost dragged me in over the threshold. “Miss Bennet. Thank Heaven you’ve come. I’m sorry to trouble a young lady like you. But I didn’t know what else to do.” He nodded towards the doorway to the inner room—Mark’s lodgings consisted of just the two rooms, an inner bedroom that was Mark’s, and an outer sitting room, where I suppose Sergeant Maddox must sleep on the threadbare couch that stood against the wall.
“He’s in there,” Sergeant Maddox went on. “I can hear him moving about and muttering to himself. But he won’t come out. And he won’t answer when I knock or call.”
“And he has a loaded weapon in there with him, you say?” Mr. Dalton asked. His jaw was still set.
Sergeant Maddox looked at him, appearing to fully take in the fact of his presence for the first time. Then he nodded. “Yes, sir. His old army pistol. He said—” Maddox swallowed audibly as he lowered his voice. “The one time he did answer was when I said I was going to break the door in. It’s an old door, you can see for yourself, and the lock’s not much to speak of. But Captain Chamberlayne shouted back that he’d put a lead ball through his skull if I so much as tried to get the door open.”
Mr. Dalton’s gaze went swiftly round the room, and he said, “Is there any other way into the room besides this door?”
Sergeant Maddox nodded. “Yes, sir. There’s the window—faces onto the street outside. I’d have tried going in that way myself, but I’m too big to fit, for one. And for another, I reckoned the Captain would’ve heard me, same as if I’d tried getting through the door.”
Mr. Dalton looked up at me, opening his mouth to speak. But I cut him off, anticipating already what he was going to say. “Yes, yes, go. I will try to speak with Mark and distract him long enough for you to get in.”
Mr. Dalton stared at me a moment—as though he was surprised that I had so easily guessed what he planned. But then nodded and went out without another word. And I approached the locked bedroom door.
“Mark?” My heart was hammering painfully hard against my ribcage, but I tried to keep my voice soothing and low as I spoke through the wooden panel. “Mark, it’s Kitty Bennet.”
There was a rustle and a creak of wood—I could picture Mark sitting on the edge of the bed inside, shifting at the sound of my voice. But he made no reply. I swallowed against the dryness in my throat and tried again. “Mark? Won’t you please open the door?”
Still no reply. Beside me, Sergeant Maddox looked despairing. And I felt more or less the same. Unless I could manage to engage Mark—at the very least enough to get him to speak with me—there was absolutely no chance of Mr. Dalton’s managing to get in through the window without Mark shooting either himself or Lance.
After the battle at Waterloo—after we had done what we could for the soldiers lying out in the streets—Georgiana and Harriet Forster and I also brought as many of the wounded as we could into the house we were renting, and cared for them there. Many of them were as despondent or ill-tempered as Mark. And it was then I discovered that the trick for dealing with them seemed to be to get them to say ‘yes’ to something—to ask them a question with which they would be more or less forced to agree, even if it were only with a nod. That always brought me one step nearer to getting them to talk to me.
A trickle of sweat slid down my ribs as I forced myself to take a breath and begin again. “Mark, do you remember the assembly in Meryton when you and my sister Lydia had the idea of putting tadpoles into the punch?”
A smothered sound that was half-laugh and half-sob came through the door at that. I heard Mark shift again and then he said, “Miss Bennet, please.” His voice was ragged. “I know you mean well, but please, just go away. Go away and leave me in peace.”
At least I had succeeded in making him speak to me. “I cannot do that, Mark. I am not going anywhere at all until I am certain that you are in no danger of doing yourself harm.”
“Why should you care?” There was another sound of movement inside the bedroom; I imagined Mark dragging himself up off the bed and beginning to pace the room—as well as he could on his wooden leg. “Why should you bother yourself about whether I live or die? I’m nothing but a nuisance to you. A drunken wreck who periodically crawls to your door and begs for money.”
The horrible thing was that there was an element of truth to his words. Still, I said, “You are my friend, Mark. Of course I care whether you live or die. And I want to help you, if I can. That is what friends do.”
“You cannot help me! No one can. You do not know—you do not understand—” Mark’s voice grew louder and more breathless as I heard him limp towards the door.
“What do I not understand?” I closed my eyes, leaning my forehead against the wooden panel between us. “What do I not know? Mark, I was there, remember? I was there in Brussels last summer. I do understand why you wish to forget.”
“No.” Mark’s voice did not sound angry. Only dull and lifeless. I heard the sound of his unsteady footsteps turning away again, away from the door. “No, you do not know.”
I was losing him—losing his attention. I could imagine him with his good arm wrapped about himself, withdrawing too deeply into his own misery for me to reach.
Though the only small advantage in that situation was that I heard a faint creak and a scrape—which surely had to be Mr. Dalton opening the window—and Mark apparently remained too sunk in his own thoughts to notice. At least, there was no sound of a struggle or gunshot.
But Mr. Dalton had not yet managed to climb in through the window—and if I could not find a way of distracting Mark, one or both of them might die.
“You cannot imagine,” Mark was mumbling, more to himself than to me, now.
I felt something inside me snap—sharp as a twig breaking. “I cannot imagine? I do not have to imagine! I saw it with my own eyes. Maybe I did not fight on the fields of Waterloo as you did. But I spent those days and nights in Brussels not knowing from one moment to the next whether I would live or die or be made a prisoner of the French army. And I saw the aftermath of the fighting. I saw the men and boys with their arms and legs shattered or gone or their bellies torn open by enemy swords. I held their hands while they died, begging me to save them. I saw the field of battle after the fighting had done—the mounds of the dead. Those not yet dead lying where they had fallen and crying and begging for aid. I remember it all—every horrible, bloody moment of it!” Hot tears were stinging my eyes, and I seemed to have entirely abandoned my efforts to be sympathetic. But I was too angry to care. “And if I have to carry the memories around inside my head every day, then you do, too! You are not allowed to take the easy way out!”
I have no idea whether my words would have been effective or no. But at that moment, I heard a rattle and a thump that had to be Mr. Dalton scrambling over the window ledge and dropping into the room. Mark gave a startled cry, and there was the sound of a scuffle—thumps and grunts, and the sound of Mr. Dalton saying something that was too low for me to catch.
And then—loud as a thunderclap—there came the report of a gun.
My heart stopped beating. It seemed a brief eternity before there came the rattle of the key in the lock. And then the door swung open to reveal Lancelot Dalton, standing in the doorway. Behind him, Mark sat on the edge of the bed. His head was bowed, and his shoulders were heaving with sobs. But he was alive, and so far as I could see, unharmed.
“I think you had better take charge of this.” Lance crossed to Sergeant Maddox and handed him Mark’s pistol.
I saw a glimmer of tears in Sergeant Maddox’s eyes. But he bobbed his head and accepted the weapon. “I will, sir. And”—he swallowed—“thank you, sir.”
My knees still felt weak. But I went through into the bedroom and crouched down beside Mark, touching his hand. “Mark.” I made my voice soft again. “I know how hard things are for you. Truly I do. But there are people who care about you. I care. And Sergeant Maddox—can you imagine how he would feel if you did yourself harm? What it would do to him if he were forced to go to your parents and tell them that you were dead? You are not a coward, Mark. And you are not cruel. I know you are not. Don’t make Maddox live with that.”
I could not tell whether Mark heard me or absorbed any of what I said. He was still sobbing, and he did not look up. I rested my hand on his shoulder another moment. And then I stood, to find Mr. Dalton beside me. “We ought to go now, I think,” I said. “Sergeant Maddox will be with him. But I think he will do best without outside company for a little while.”
Lance—Mr. Dalton nodded. He ran a hand through his hair—and I was surprised to see that his hands were shaking. Surprised, because in the moment of crisis, he had been so absolutely, grimly calm.
We told Sergeant Maddox good-bye, and I made him promise that he would send for me at once if he thought there was the slightest need. And then we left.
When we were back outside on the street, I said, “Thank you, Mr. Dalton. I should have said it before, but—thank you. I do not know what I should have done if you had not been there. What would have become of Mark if you had not intervened.”
Lance—or rather, Mr. Dalton—
No. I am going to give up the struggle and call him Lance. I will allow myself the (extremely) cold comfort of that.
Lance sketched a brief, dismissive gesture. “I was here to intervene—this time.”
A gust of icy wind whipped down the street, rattling the awnings of the street vendors. I shivered as I acknowledged the truth of his words. Or rather, the truth of what he had not said. That we may have prevented Mark harming himself today. But there is absolutely nothing to guarantee that he will not try again, sometime when we are not there to stop him.
Lance’s mouth twisted as he said, “It’s difficult to force a man to live if he does not wish to.”
On the last words, he stumbled slightly, his breath catching. And looking at him more closely, I saw with a fresh lurch of horror that beneath his greatcoat, the side of his jacket was wet. He pressed his hand against the stain—and I saw that his fingers came away smeared with fresh blood.
“You’re injured!” I gasped.
Lance shook his head. “It is nothing.”
“Nothing is when you are not bleeding,” I snapped. “What happened?” I thought perhaps he must have been injured while climbing through the window.
He had stopped walking and was leaning against the side of the building we had been passing by, his face pale, his eyes pressed briefly shut. He said, “The shot that Captain Chamberlayne fired—the gun went off when I tried to take it from him.”
“You were shot? And you said nothing?” I demanded. “Are you an idiot, trying to keep something like that hidden?”
Lance drew a breath—and grimaced—but said, “I did not wish to make Captain Chamberlayne feel any more burdened with guilt than he already might. And besides, it is just a graze.”
“Where is your own lodging house?” I asked.
Lance’s eyes jerked open with surprise at that. “Why?”
“Because it seems to be a choice between allowing you to bleed to death in the street and getting you somewhere where your injury can be attended to,” I said. I could acknowledge the sense of his reason for keeping silent. But the combination of worry and tautly-stretched nerves still sharpened my tone. “And since you said you live but a few streets from here, your rooms seem to be the closest available option.”
Fortunately he did live quite nearby—otherwise I do not think I could have contrived to get him home. He gave me directions through clenched teeth, guiding us to a street that was poor but still respectable, not having yet been dragged down into the lawless misery of Mark’s neighbourhood. His own lodging house was small and clean-looking, even though the front steps were chipped and the paint was peeling on the door.
The front door was opened to us by a stout, grey-haired woman in a flowered apron, whose eyes narrowed with suspicion at the sight of me. But when I had hurriedly explained that Mr. Dalton had been injured—I left out how exactly he had come by the hurt—she flew into a bustle of sympathy.
She helped me to support Lance into his own rooms, clucking her tongue and exclaiming all the while. “Oh dear. Poor Mr. Dalton. There, didn’t I say he’d come to harm, going into such rough, nasty neighbourhoods as he does?”
All throughout the walk there, Lance had refused to lean on me. But he was unsteady enough on his feet by that time that he didn’t object as his landlady and I between us deposited him in a chair in front of the hearth in his rooms—which also fortunately were only one flight up, on the first floor.
“Shall I send for a surgeon, miss?” His landlady asked.
I looked at Lance’s face—which was chalky pale and beaded with perspiration. But then I shook my head. I had no idea what sort of surgeon one might find in a neighbourhood like this one. And besides, I had seen the army surgeons treating the wounded in Brussels. Their sovereign remedy for everything was to bleed their patients. Which I suppose must be supposed to do some good, else they would not do it. But I saw again and again how the men died all the same.
“No, if the pistol ball— That is,” I said, “I think I can cope with the wound, if it is not too severe. Mrs. …”
“Poole, miss.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Poole,” I said. “Do you think you could fetch me some hot water, then? And brandy or anything else you might have for pain?”
Mrs. Poole said that of course she would fetch both, and bustled off.
Lance had been leaning back, his head resting against the stiff upholstery of the chair. But when the door had closed behind his landlady, he opened his eyes and said, “Miss Bennet, you cannot—”
I stopped him. “Yes, I can. So long as the ball is not actually lodged inside you, I should be able to cope without trouble.” I knelt down beside him and reached for the buttons on his shirt. “Here. You had better let me take a look at the wound.”
He jerked backwards at my touch—which made him bite back a grunt of pain. But then he said, after a moment’s pause, “I … I heard what you said to Captain Chamberlayne. About your having been in Brussels last summer.” He drew a shaky breath. “That night at Vauxhall—you were telling the truth when you said that you had treated far worse injuries than bruised knuckles.”
“Yes, well.” I took off both my bonnet and my gloves and laid them aside. “I suppose it is fortunate for you that I do have experience with gunshot wounds. Now either take off your shirt and let me see the wound or I will do it for you.” I forced a smile. “At least I can guarantee you that it will not be the worst sight I have ever seen.”
The wound was a nasty one, though. If it had been the first such injury I had seen, I might have been sick. And as it was, I felt my stomach clench. The ball was not lodged in the wound, at least. But it had cut a deep, jagged-edged and bloody furrow in Lance’s side, just under his ribcage. Dark spots danced before my eyes when I considered how close he had come to being shot through the abdomen.
We all quickly learned last summer that those wounds are the worst of all. Because they invariably kill, but not straight away. The victim lingers for days—a week, even—in increasing agony, dying by slow, horrible degrees. But for the first time, I was almost glad of those memories. I was glad, at least, of my experience in treating gunshot wounds, since it enabled me to know what to do for Lance.
Mrs. Poole returned with the hot water, clean rags, a bottle of brandy, and a small, darker bottle that she explained was laudanum—left over from her husband who had suffered from ‘rheumatics’ in his back. And then she left us, assuring me that I had only to call if I needed any further help. She was rather like a mother hen—clucking and fussing, but clearly very fond of Lance.
I poured a generous glass of the brandy and added a generous measure of the laudanum—which Lance threw back and swallowed in a single gulp. Though apart from that, he gave no other outward sign of the pain he must have felt. He sat quite still while I cleaned the wound. Only when I had begun to wind a clean length of bandage about his ribs did he stiffen. And then he unclenched his teeth long enough to say, “Miss Bennet, you have been more than kind, but—”
Up until that moment, I had been so entirely focused on taking care of his injury that I had forgotten to feel conscious. But as he spoke, I realised abruptly that he was sitting before me with his upper body completely bare—and that I had put my arms round his waist in the act of securing the bandage.
I was suddenly and very thoroughly aware of the heat of his skin, the hard ridges of muscle under my fingers, the beating pulse I could see at the base of his throat. The stir of his breath against my hair.
I swallowed and said, in as practical a manner as I could manage, “I am not leaving you yet, if that is what you are suggesting.”
I may have managed to fall hopelessly in love with him. But I could at the least avoid behaving like a blushing, stammering schoolgirl in his presence.
Lance shook his head. I could see that the mixture of laudanum and brandy was beginning to take effect; his blue eyes were growing slightly unfocused. “It’s scarcely fair to you—”
I interrupted him. “Someone was recently telling me that I ought to occasionally consider my own needs first.” I pretended to consider. “Now, I wonder who that can have been—and whether he ought not to take his own advice. You ought to have someone to sit with you—to make sure the wound does not open and begin bleeding again, if nothing else. Now, come along—I suppose that is your bedchamber, through that door?”
I nodded towards the doorway at the back of the room.
Lance exhaled an exasperated sound that was part laugh, part grunt of pain. But he allowed me to help him to his feet, and together we made our staggering way into the bedroom. Lance more or less collapsed onto the narrow bed, dragging me down with him. Which made me conscious all over again of the intimacy of our position, alone in his bedroom—without a soul in the world apart from Mrs. Poole knowing where we were.
I pulled back and said, still trying to speak practically, “Do you want anything to eat? Or something to drink?”
Even the short walk from the outer room had tired Lance. His eyes had drifted closed as he leaned back against the pillows, but he shook his head. “Nothing. Thank you.”
I drew away from the bed, trying to quiet the racing beat of my own heart, and looked about the room. It was Spartanly neat and bare. The furnishings—heavy, old-fashioned furniture and a flowery paper on the walls—must have been Mrs. Poole’s choice. And Lance seemed to have brought practically nothing of his own to his living quarters. A few books were stacked on the table beside the bed, their titles seeming to indicate that they were volumes on theology—with some history mixed in. But apart from them, the rooms might have belonged to anyone at all.
I wandered over to the single personal item that caught my eye: a framed crayon drawing that stood on the big oak dresser. And then I drew back in surprise.
The drawing was signed by G. Dalton—I assumed that meant it had been done by Lance’s sister. And the subject was two young men, both seated astride big charger horses, both wearing army uniforms. One of them looked so much like Lance—only with darker hair—that I knew it had to be his brother. And the other man in the drawing was Lance himself.
I turned around. “You were in the army, as well as your brother?” I asked.
Lance nodded. He looked blearily at the drawing, a furrow appearing between his brows, and exhaled. “Our father … purchased our commissions together. That’s when Gwen made that picture. I was eighteen. Percy was twenty. He oughtn’t to have been in the army at all. He was the heir, and our parents were set against the idea. He ought to have been home, learning to run the estate. But he was equally set on joining the army. It was all he had ever wanted. To be a soldier. Ever since we were boys. And our parents … they could never deny Percy anything he truly wanted.”
I looked again at the drawing. Gwen was a skilled artist. She had captured the brothers’ expressions very well. Lance looked younger—but still sober, grave. Percy was laughing beside him, his expression open and carefree. As though he were still a boy, and the officer’s red coat and sash he wore were only a part of all the joyful play.
“Then … were you in Brussels, as well?” I asked.
I was still trying to assimilate this new side to his character. Though his sister had said that a clergyman was the very last thing she would have expected him to become. And now that I came to think of it, he did behave far more like a soldier than a man of the church. When he had halted his runaway team of horses … when he had threatened Lord Henry … and just today, when he had scaled the outside wall to get in through the window and disarm Mark.
Lance shook his head. “No. I was in the cavalry. Percy joined the infantry. My regiment was posted to join the fighting in the American colonies, just before Napoleon escaped from Elba. We were recalled, but not in time for us to reach Waterloo. If I had been—”
He stopped. And the expression on his face—a kind of still-muscled control that clearly overlay grief and pain—made my heart feel twisted inside my chest.
Without thinking, I crossed to perch beside him on the bed—there was no chair for me to sit on—and put my hand over the top of his. “If you had been, you might have been the one to die,” I said.
“My mother certainly wishes I had been.” The words seemed to surprise him, as though he had spoken without first realising what he was going to say. He shook his head as though trying to clear it. “Exactly how much of that laudanum did you give me?”
“I may have been a little over-generous,” I admitted. And perhaps more than just a little, to judge by his already slurring speech and drooping eyes. He would—with any luck—be asleep soon.
But it was as though pain and weariness and the effects of the drug had combined to break some internal dam. He turned his head on the pillow to look at me and went on, “It’s entirely true, you know. About my mother. Percy was always her favourite. And he—” Lance stopped and I saw the muscles of his throat ripple as he swallowed. “I don’t know whether he truly died of his wounds. He had been trampled by a horse and had broken ribs that never healed properly—among other injuries. He had lost an arm, just like Captain Chamberlayne. His health was very weak. But there were also days … days when he spoke of wishing to die.” A brief, bleak smile touched the edges of Lance’s mouth. “Again, just like Captain Chamberlayne. And then one morning—”
He broke off again, and I felt his fingers clench and then deliberately loosen under mine. “I was the one to find him. He appeared to have died in his sleep. But there was a bottle—an empty bottle—beside his bed. It was a sleeping medication that the apothecary had given him. A mixture of syrup of poppies. And Percy had been strongly warned against taking too much. I never told either Gwen or my mother. I threw the bottle away. But I have wondered ever since—”
“No!” I interrupted him again. “No, you are wrong. He would not have taken his own life.”
Lance did not argue. But neither did he look convinced.
“I mean it,” I said. His chest was still bare, save for the bandages. Since he had lain down, I had been staring at the assortment of scars that marked his skin. He had not been lying, either, that night at Vauxhall; he really had known injuries far more severe than a bruised hand. A long, pale scar that must have been left by a sabre cut ran across his collarbone. Another scar—this one fresher, the skin still puckered and red—criss-crossed one shoulder.
I touched one of the scars lightly, with just the tips of my fingers. “You have been in combat. You must have seen sights—terrible things—just as Mark and your brother did. How do you get over that? How do you bear the memories?”
It occurred to me afterwards that I have myself a rather desperate wish to know the answer to that question. But in the moment, I was not even considering that. I was thinking only of Lance, of how much I wished him to believe that he was in no way to blame for his brother’s death.
I felt his chest rise and fall as he drew breath, and then at last he said, “One does not get over it. I do not believe anyone does. But I suppose … I suppose you reach a point where you accept that it will always be with you—the memories of all that you have done, all that you have seen. And that however heavy it may be, the weight of the memories is yours alone to carry—and so somehow you do, because you must.” He stopped, forcing a brief smile. “Or at least, that is as far as I have come.”
I slipped my hand into his. “Well, your brother would have known that, too. He would have had his own weight of memories to carry. And that is how I know that he would never willingly have added to yours by intentionally taking his life. He would never have wished to cause you that pain.”
Lance stared at me a long moment, his eyes very blue in his white, exhausted face. And then at last he let out a long, unsteady breath. “I … thank you, Miss Bennet. I hope you may be right.”
I knew I ought to tell him to close his eyes and sleep if he could. But I could not stop myself from venturing one question more.
“Why did you become a clergyman?” I asked.
Lance’s head turned restlessly against the pillow, his eyes once more drifting half shut. “I wanted … I felt as though I ought to make my life matter, somehow. Since I was the one who had lived. As if I owed it to Percy to … to accomplish something real, I suppose. I had my university degree already. It was speedily arranged that I should be ordained.”
His words had been gradually slowing. But he was not quite asleep after all. He opened his eyes once more and looked at me, his gaze startlingly blue and pain-filled. “But I am not sure how much of a clergyman I can be. I—” He stopped and exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair. “I do charity work here in the East End. I hope I accomplish some good. But that is why I have not even tried to find a position as vicar of my own parish. The thought of standing up in church every Sunday and preaching a sermon … what can I tell others about faith, when at times I seem to have so little of my own?”
He looked younger—and suddenly vulnerable, lying there and looking up at me. His mouth was bracketed by lines of pain, and his fair hair was rumpled, one lock falling down over his forehead.
Before I could stop myself, I reached to smooth it back, brushing my fingertips lightly against his brow. “You would make a splendid vicar. I would a hundred times prefer to hear a sermon from someone who has doubted than from some smug sycophant who has never even considered the questions of his own faith enough to have doubts. And besides—isn’t there that story in the Bible about Doubting Thomas? Jesus let Thomas touch His wounds to prove He was who He claimed to be. He did not say, Oh for Heaven’s sake, Thomas, just take my word for it.”
Lance let out a smothered burst of a laugh at that, still looking up at me. “Miss Bennet, I confess I would greatly enjoy hearing you debate with some of the theology tutors at Oxford.”
But then his voice changed. “You are extraordinary, you know.”
My heart thumped against my ribs. But I tried to speak lightly, pulling my hand away from his. “Now I know I was too liberal with the laudanum.”
“No.” Lance shook his head. And he kept hold of my hand. “I mean it. You are extraordinary. To have come through all you have—to have seen so much pain, and yet never to have lost your strength … your compassion … your ability to laugh.” His eyes had trouble focusing. But he raised his free hand and touched my cheek. His fingertips were warm and a little rough against my skin—and the touch seemed to echo through my every nerve. “You are … amazing. I thought from the first moment I met you that I had never known any other girl quite like you. You … make me believe.”
The last words trailed off in a sigh of breath as his eyelids finally drifted closed. I waited, frozen in place, my hand still in his. But he was asleep at last, his breathing deep and even, the lines of pain and weariness smoothed from his face.
My chest ached—it still aches, as I am writing this—as though I had swallowed broken glass. I shut my eyes. And then forced myself to gently detach my fingers from Lance’s and ease slowly off the edge of the bed. I pulled the blankets up over him—and he sighed again and shifted in his sleep. I bent—I could not help it—and touched my lips to his cheek.
But then I did not let myself look at him again as I went back to the outer room and found paper and pen on the small writing desk I had seen there.
I have no idea how long I sat there, staring at the blank sheet of paper before me and struggling with what I should write. Long enough that I began to fear the laudanum would wear off, and Lance would wake and find me still there, trying to think what to say.
It was that fear that finally propelled me to scrawl—without allowing myself to pause for thought:
Mr. Dalton—
Please do not write to me or come to see me. I cannot see you again.
Kitty Bennet
I folded the note, propped it up where he would see it, and went to tell Mrs. Poole that I was leaving. I asked her to look in on Lance periodically to see that he was all right, and that the wound had not turned to fever.
Then I walked all the way back to my aunt and uncle’s. Without actually seeing any of the streets or neighbourhoods through which I walked.
I wish—
But I seem to have come full circle back to where I began. And this entry has already reached practically novel-length proportions. My fingers are dreadfully cramped from holding the pen for so long.
Lance called at the house today.
I suppose it was futile to hope that he would not, even after the note I left for him. I sent word through Rose to tell him that I was not at home.
Which was cowardly, but I could not face the thought of having to send him away from me in person.
Gwenevere Dalton called to see me today. I did not send Rose to tell her that I was not at home. In part it was a kind of penance for having been too cowardly to see Lance yesterday. And in part … in part I wanted to hear anything she could tell me of Lance. It was rather like the impulse to keep tonguing a sore tooth, to see whether it still hurts. I wanted any news of him, however painful the hearing might be.
Gwen was wearing a grey bombazine morning dress, with sleeves slashed with black velvet and a high, ruffled collar of white lace. She gave me a hard look as I came into the drawing room, and she was silent for quite a half minute. And then she said, “Well. I came here with the firm intention of chewing your ears off. But you look very nearly as miserable as my brother does.”
I swallowed, as half a dozen questions seemed all at once to jostle for position as uppermost in my mind. I settled on, “What … what has Lance told you?”
“Very little.” Gwen picked up a china ornament from the mantel and then set it down again. “Save that you do not wish to see him again. Lance is … he is very private, in many ways. He never makes a public show of his feelings. But I could see that he was reproaching himself for something.”
That made my chest ache—the thought that Lance was thinking it was his fault that I had refused to see him. That I was angry or affronted by what he had said in his lodging room. I felt my legs fold under me, and without quite meaning to, I sat down hard on the edge of the sofa. “Please—” I looked up at Gwen. “I know I am scarcely in a position to ask you for favours. But will you please tell your brother that I am not offended or … or angry, at all, about what he said to me. He must not think that. He has been nothing but gentlemanly in every way. That I cannot see him again—that fault is all, all mine.”
Gwen gave me another hard look. And then she came to sit down in the chair opposite mine. “Look here, Kitty—I hope I may call you Kitty? Please, won’t you tell me what has happened? My brother has fallen in love with you. Not that he has said as much directly, but he is my brother, after all. I can read what he feels—especially when it is clear on his face every time he speaks your name. And you care for him, as well. Just by looking at you, that much is plain. So what is to stop the two of you telling each other how you feel?” She frowned at me. “You haven’t a secret case of leprosy, have you? Or a husband locked away in an asylum for the insane?”
That made me laugh, a little—even if the laugh felt on the edge of crying. “No leprosy or insane husbands. Nothing so dramatic.” I swallowed against the sharp ache in my throat. “But all the same, your brother and I … it is impossible. He may think that he has fallen in love with me. But he does not know me. Not really. If he truly knew who I am, I promise you, he would not care for me at all.”
I was afraid Gwen would press me to explain more fully. But she did not. She only continued to study me, her head a little on one side. And then she said, “Very well. I suppose I must bid you good morning, then.”
It had been painful to see her, painful to hold this conversation. And yet it was painful to see her go so abruptly, as well. I got to my feet, and when I could trust my voice to hold steady, I said, “Thank you for calling. And you will”—I swallowed again—“you will tell your brother what I said?”
“I will tell him.” Gwen’s voice was soft now, gentle. “I promise.”
“Thank you.” I could not stop myself from asking, “And your brother—he is … he is well, I hope? I mean, he is not ill … or … indisposed in any way?”
Gwen gave me a puzzled look. Which means, I suppose, that Lance never told her about the gunshot wound. But it must also mean that he is recovering and that the wound has not turned poisonous, if he was able to conceal it from his sister.
Gwen rose and said, “Yes. Physically, he seemed perfectly well.”
“Oh. Well, good.” I could hear how flat the words sounded, but I could not think of anything else to say. “I— Good-bye, then.”
Gwen ignored my outstretched hand, though, and pulled me into a quick, hard hug. “Oh, this is by no means good-bye. If I am to be denied the pleasure of gaining you for a sister, I am determined to keep you for a friend. I will see you again—and soon.”
I went to see Jane today. I have been wishing to go ever since Georgiana told me she was concerned for Jane’s health. But I could not face seeing her yesterday, not when I felt as though the whole of my last encounter with Lance must be printed across my face for all to read. And I knew Georgiana would send for me if there were any serious cause for concern.
Perhaps it is not serious. But I am concerned. Mary was already there with Jane when I arrived. We came separately because I had to wait until I had settled Susanna down for her morning nap. Georgiana was downstairs playing with Amelia, and Mary was reading aloud to Jane. And I saw at once, as soon as I came into the room, that just as Georgiana said, Jane does look tired and pale, as though she has not been sleeping well.
Mary broke off reading as I entered—I was correct: the book she had chosen really was an incredibly dull-looking volume of sermons—and I told her that she ought to take the rest of the afternoon for herself, that I would sit with Jane. It was depressingly easy to convince her to abandon her self-imposed duty. Meaning that she was very likely going to scheme up a way of seeing Lord Henry the moment she walked out the door. But at that moment, I scarcely cared; I wanted too much to speak with Jane alone.
Of course, in true Jane-like fashion, she brushed aside my questions and concern and asked about me, instead, her eyes searching my face. “Are you sure you are quite well, Kitty? You look so … so sad, somehow.” And then Jane’s expression took on a strange, almost frighteningly remote look, and she said, “You were always so happy, even as a baby. I remember sneaking up on tiptoe so that I could peek at you in your cradle—I was six, and mother had said she would give me a fearful scolding if I woke you. But you weren’t asleep at all, and you waved your little hands at me and laughed …”
Jane’s voice trailed away, and I felt a cold, crawling worry wriggle its way all up and down my spine. It was not so much Jane’s words themselves as the way she spoke them. So detached and remote, as though she were drifting away from me. It reminded me of my last visit to my grandmother—my mother’s mother—just before she died. The physician had come and said she had only a very little time. So all of us sisters were called in to see her, one at a time, so that we might kiss her cheek and tell her good-bye. We went in order of ages, so that when I was called in, she had already seen Jane, Elizabeth, and Mary—and she was so tired that all she could do was to feebly pat my hand and say in a dreamy, far-off way that I was ‘a good little girl’.
I had not intended to tell Jane of our scheme for getting her necklace back. But I was too frightened to stop myself. I took Jane’s hand and said, “If it is Mrs. Hurst you are worrying about, please try not to. Georgiana and I have been … speaking with her, and we have every hope that we will succeed in persuading her to return Charles’s mother’s jewels.”
Jane tried to smile at me, and said, “Thank you, Kitty.” That was very like Jane, as well. But she sank back against the pillows almost at once and closed her eyes. “But somehow … somehow I don’t seem to care nearly as much about the necklace as I did. I ought to have been honest with Charles … even if he did end with being angry with me. I wish—”
She stopped, biting her lip. And I debated with myself whether to tell her that Georgiana had in fact written to Charles, that if all went well, he ought even now to be on his way to town. Jane might be thankful to know that there was every chance she would see him soon. But on the other hand, travel at this time of year is so uncertain. There must be hundreds of opportunities for Charles to be delayed by weather or bad roads between Derbyshire and London. And I was afraid that the worry of waiting day to day to see whether Charles had yet arrived would be equally as bad for Jane as thinking that Charles was still on their estate.
At any rate, I had not the chance to decide one way or the other. Before I could speak, the door flew open and Amelia came bounding in, demanding that Jane and I admire the ‘crown’ that Georgiana had fashioned for her out of gilt paper.
Jane did brighten at Amelia’s entrance. She smiled and clapped when Amelia performed a two-year-old’s version of the steps of the quadrille. But before I left, I saw her hunch over and clutch at her middle at least twice—as though the birthing pains that frightened us a few weeks ago had begun again.
And now that I am back at my aunt and uncle’s, I still cannot help but be afraid—
I had to break off writing just now. Mary came in, having returned from wherever she went after Georgiana’s. Actually, it would be more accurate to say that she burst into the room. She was sobbing and shaking and her face was a mess of tears and smeared rouge—and she would not speak to me at all, only threw herself down on her bed and buried her face in the pillow, still crying hard.
Before I could make her speak a single word to me, the bell rang, and I had to go down to dinner—it was better than having my aunt or one of the servants come up to ask when Mary and I would be down. Of course my aunt and uncle inquired where Mary was, but I told them only that Mary was feeling unwell. Without telling any actual untruths, I think I may have managed to give the impression that Mary had come down with a touch of my aunt’s feverish cold.
I did feel guilty for the almost-lie. But until I find out what has happened, I did not feel I ought to tell anyone. I still do not know what happened to upset Mary so. She was asleep and snoring by the time I excused myself to Aunt and Uncle Gardiner and returned to our room.
I am worried for her, too, of course, as well as for Jane. But I suppose the one bright spot in this day is the faint hope I have that Mary’s tears mean that she has finally been awakened to Lord Henry Carmichael’s true character.
I remember when I was younger, I used to love Aunt Gardiner’s visits to Longbourn. She was so calm and sensible and kind—so very different from my mother, who was constantly taking vapours and alarms. One of Aunt Gardiner’s favourite sayings whenever anything went wrong—from a burned finger to one of our sisterly quarrels—was, There, there, things are never as bad as you think they are.
Well, I suppose that is true enough, in a way. Sometimes things are not so bad as you think. Sometimes they are even worse.
I had meant to question Mary this morning. But between wondering over her outburst … and feeling frightened about Jane … and—
Very well, I suppose I might as well admit it: I was also lying awake and thinking of someone whose name I cannot write down in this journal without becoming thoroughly and utterly sick of myself.
At any rate, it was hours before I managed to drop off, and when I woke this morning, Mary was already gone—to sit with Jane, her hastily scribbled note informed me. And really that alone should have told me that something was wrong. Mary does not scribble, any more than she ever does things in haste. But I was not unduly worried. Not, that is, until Rose came up to tell me that Miranda was here to pay a morning call on me, and I entered the drawing room to find Miranda, looking like a cat licking her whiskers to catch the last drops of cream.
I still had no idea what she had come to see me about, but I felt the first qualm of unease, all the same. No possible good could come from Miranda Pettigrew looking sleek and smug.
We exchanged the usual polite ‘good mornings’. Then she clasped her plump little hands together and said, “Oh, Miss Bennet. I have just come to tell you how terribly sorry I am to hear of your sister’s most unfortunate encounter at Lady Claridge’s musical soiree yesterday afternoon. As though your poor family has not suffered scandal enough.”
Her eyes were wide and round—and as hard as twin chips of ice-blue glass. I said, as calmly as I could, “My sister? I assume you must mean my sister Mary, since my sister Jane is confined to her bed.”
“Oh!” Miranda covered her mouth with one hand, eyes widening even more. “Oh, did Mary not tell you? Well, I suppose that is only natural. She must be so ashamed. I know I should be quite mortified, to have been caught in such a disgraceful position.”
This must be related to Lord Henry—it had to be. I said, still speaking calmly, “Mary was understandably … upset, last night. Too much so to give me a full account. Perhaps if you might explain more clearly what occurred and why you are here?”
Miranda’s small pink tongue darted out over her lips and she wriggled on her chair, smoothing the ruffles on her violet-coloured pelisse. “Well, Mrs. Hurst and I brought Mary to Lady Claridge’s yesterday afternoon. Anyone would think that Mary would be grateful to dear Mrs. Hurst, for introducing her to such a very refined company. But a certain gentleman was in attendance—Lord Henry Carmichael. You may have heard”—Miranda paused and looked across at me again with those icy-hard eyes—“you may have heard something of Mary’s acquaintance with him, Miss Bennet?”
I remember hearing a horrible old joke, once. Something along the lines of:
What happened while I was away, Tom?
The cat died, master.
How did the cat die, Tom?
When your house burned down, master.
How did my house catch on fire, Tom?
The candles at your wife’s funeral, master.
At that moment, I had an unpleasant feeling that I was going to be positively envying Tom’s master by the time Miranda had finished her story. I said, “Go on.”
Though Miranda scarcely needed any encouragement. She leaned forward slightly in her chair and lowered her voice, “Well, as soon as we arrived, Mary went straight up to Lord Henry. She was quite shameless about it. Apparently she has no reservations about proclaiming to the world that she has set her cap for him.”
That, coming from Miranda, had rather the ring of a pot accusing a kettle of being black. But I knew I had better hear the worst of what had happened, since it seemed that Mary was unlikely to tell me herself. Besides which, I was beginning to have a fairly good idea of the general purpose of Miranda’s visit. I managed to grit my teeth and say again, “Go on.”
“Well, it so happened that during the music, I”—Miranda coughed slightly—“I chanced to see that Mary was slipping out of the room, in the company of Lord Henry himself. Of course, I was terribly concerned for her. To go off with an unmarried gentleman, to whom she is not even engaged. Only think what it would do to her reputation. So I followed them. Intending, of course, to remind Mary of what a dreadfully compromising position she was placing herself in. But when I finally found them—they had gone into a little reading alcove in Lady Claridge’s library—I found …” Miranda paused dramatically, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I found that she was actually kissing him. I assure you, I have never been so shocked in my life.” Miranda wriggled her shoulders again and primmed up her mouth.
I was torn between wanting to smack the look of pious sympathy off Miranda’s pretty face—and wanting to tie Mary to a chair and force her to listen to me until she learned a single modicum of sense.
Except that, to talk of pots and kettles, I had not exactly the space to judge, considering that Georgiana and Edward caught me with Lord Henry in precisely the same compromising position at Pemberley last year.
“Of course”—Miranda made a display of studying her own gloved hands—“of course, very fortunately for Mary’s reputation, I was the only one who saw her with Lord Henry. That is—”
I interrupted her. If I had suspected before, I now knew precisely why she had come. “What is it you want, Miranda?”
Miranda’s head came up with a jerk. And then she widened her eyes in an exaggerated look of shock, one hand going to her heart. “Why, Kitty, how can you speak so unkindly? When all I want is to enable your family to avoid the disgrace of—”
“Spare me.” I suppose perhaps it was not the wisest move on my part to antagonise her; she really did have Mary—and thus me—more or less at her mercy, simply by the threat of what she could choose to tell. But in the past three days, I have seen Mark nearly shoot himself, treated the gunshot wound in Lance’s side, learned that Lance admires me—and been forced to cut myself off from him forever. Just then I had small—or rather precisely no—patience for continuing to play Miranda’s games. “You came here this morning because you want something in return for holding your tongue about Mary,” I snapped. “So what is it? Money?”
Miranda’s eyes narrowed, but she evidently decided that there was nothing to be gained by further bush-beating. She said, “I want you to promise me that you will never see Lancelot Dalton again.”
I very nearly laughed in her face. Of all the possible demands that she could have made …
But I managed to contain myself. I said, shortly, “Very well.”
Miranda looked utterly taken aback; plainly she had not been expecting me to agree quite so readily. Then her eyes narrowed again, as though trying to gauge whether I was sincere or no. “I have your word?”
“Certainly. My word—promise—anything you like.” The momentary grim amusement had faded, and all I wanted in the world just then was to be free of Miranda’s company as quickly as could be managed. “If I see Lancelot Dalton again, it will not be by my own choice. And if I should meet him by chance, I will avoid all direct speech with him, even if I have to cross to the other side of the street or hide under furniture in order to do so. Does that satisfy you?”
Miranda still looked faintly perplexed, with a furrow between her arched brows. She said, “I suppose so.” And then, when I said nothing more, she added, rather lamely, “Well. I will bid you good morning, then.”
She sounded rather disappointed. I suppose blackmail must become considerably less enjoyable when your victim capitulates so readily, without even a single tearful plea for mercy.
I stayed where I was as Miranda rose from her chair and swept out. I heard the front door open and close again. And then, from quite nearby, I heard a muffled sob.
That brought me out of my chair with a yelp. There are few things more disconcerting than thinking you are alone, only to discover that you are not, after all. The sobs were coming from behind the curtains across the parlour's big bow window. I had noticed—vaguely—that they were closed when I entered the room, not drawn as they usually are in the mornings. But then, it would not have been the first time that Rose forgot to draw the curtains.
I crossed and yanked the curtains aside—then stared in blank astonishment at the sight of Mary, huddled on the window seat and crying into an already-soaked handkerchief. “Mary? What on earth are you doing there? I thought you had gone to Jane.”
“I was—I mean, I did.” Mary spoke between gulping sobs. “But Jane sent me home again. I had told her I had a cold, you see. On account of having to explain why my nose and eyes were so red. So she and Georgiana sent for Rhys—Mr. Williams—and he brought me home.”
“All right,” I said. “But that does not explain why you decided to play hide-and-go-seek behind the parlour curtains.” I spoke gently, though. Mary looked more than miserable—she looked defeated, somehow. Her shoulders were slumped, and even apart from the tears, her eyes had a dark, forlorn shadow I had never seen in Mary’s gaze before.
She mopped her eyes with the handkerchief. “I had come in here to … to sit down, and be alone. I did not wish to see anyone, not even Aunt Gardiner. But then I heard Rose letting Miranda in. I could not face having to meet with her. Not after … after …” Mary trailed off and gulped again. “So I hid behind the curtains. I thought if I could just keep quiet long enough, you—both of you—would go away. But I—”
She dissolved into a fresh burst of crying. I slid down onto the window seat next to her, putting my arm around her shaking shoulders. I did not say anything, only let her cry. After a while, Mary raised her head, scrubbing at her eyes again. “You actually … you agreed never to see Mr. Dalton again. Just to protect me from Miranda?”
I sighed. “You are my sister, Mary. Of course I would do everything I could to protect you from gossip and scandal. But you must not think … that is, Miranda did not know …” I closed my eyes. Trying to summon the energy—not to mention the words—to properly explain to Mary how things stood between Lance and me.
“You are in love with him, are you not?”
Mary’s question made me startle all over again—because that is far more interest and perceptiveness than Mary usually displays in anyone else’s affairs. Or perhaps I should rather be worried that my feelings have been so obvious, even to Mary.
“I suppose.” There seemed little point in denying it. “I mean, yes, I am.”
Mary hunched her shoulders again, exhaling a shuddering breath, and blew her nose. “I am so sorry, Kitty. You tried to warn me about Lord Henry. You must think me … I have been such an utter lackwit.”
I stared. Since we had been children, I could not remember ever hearing Mary apologise to me, or deplore her own judgement. I covered her hand with mine. “No, I do not. Or at least, I do not reproach you any more than I reproach myself. I—”
I stopped. I had never spoken of my own entanglement with Lord Henry before. Only a little to Georgiana, who already knew in any case. But somehow, sitting there on the window seat with Mary, the whole story came spilling out. John—Lord Henry—John’s death at Waterloo last summer.
“That is why it is no great challenge to promise Miranda that I will not see or speak to Lance,” I finished at last. “I had already determined for myself that I could not see him again.”
Mary had stopped crying as I spoke, and now looked at me with swollen, red-rimmed eyes. “You could at least try telling Mr. Dalton the truth yourself. You might find that he understands, and does not blame or judge you for past mistakes.”
“I know.” I leaned my head against the cool window pane at our backs. “Perhaps he might, but there is still the danger to his reputation, if he were to marry me—”
“Nonsense.” Mary spoke crisply—or as crisply as she could, considering that her voice was still clogged with tears. “I do not believe the danger is so great as you have convinced yourself it may be. In the year since last Christmas, has any rumour of your association with Lord Henry raised its head?”
I shook my head. “No, but—”
“I had not heard anything of it, nor even suspected, and I am your own sister. Besides which, Miranda Pettigrew has never once mentioned anything along those lines. Nor has Mrs. Hurst, and you know she frequently visits Jane and Charles in Derbyshire. And I promise you that if such a juicy piece of scandal were being whispered around London society or anywhere else, they of all people would have heard it—and done their best to spread it about to all they encountered, besides.”
That made me smile, if briefly. But then Mary blew her nose, fixed me with a very direct stare, and said, “What is the real trouble, Kitty? Is it … is it John? Do you not think that he should wish for you to be happy?”
A memory of John rose up before I could stop it: him dancing with me, kissing my cheek on the night before the battle, the night before he marched off to die. I shook my head. “No—I know he would wish it. Though after the way I treated him, I do not think that I deserve to be. It’s just—” I stopped speaking.
It is strange. I usually feel like the elder sister, for all Mary is a year older than I am. Especially ever since I got back from Brussels, I have felt about a hundred. But at that moment, I did feel younger—almost as though Mary had taken the place of Lizzy or Jane.
I pressed my eyes briefly closed. I have never exactly thought of myself as a coward. But perhaps I am one, after all. “The real trouble … the real trouble is that if I were to tell Lance the truth, there is the equal—or far greater chance, it seems to me—that he would not understand. That he would discover that I am not at all who he thinks I am.”
And I would have to watch his expression change as he lost all the good opinion he has of me.
And with that loss … I cannot quite explain it, save that I feel as though I should lose something, too: the hope of ever actually becoming that version of Kitty Bennet, the one that I saw reflected in his eyes.
Mary said nothing to that. For which I was grateful.
We were both quiet a moment. Then Mary straightened her shoulders and said, “We ought not to despair. Despair is a sin, so the Bible teaches us.” She sounded far more like her usual self—but then she entirely spoiled the effect by adding, “Besides, these tangles always turn out happily in romantic novels.”
I stared at her all over again. “You read romantic novels?”
A flush spread over Mary’s face beneath the splotchy remnants of her tears. “Well, sometimes. Late at night … in bed.”
And I had thought nothing I learned about my sister could further surprise me. I laughed, though I still felt oddly on the verge of crying. “Then let us hope—for both our sakes—that this is a special three-volume edition with gilt-edged cover and engraved illustrations.” I swallowed again, and added, “Thank you, Mary. Truly. For listening, and for … well, just thank you. I am glad you know the whole truth.”
Mary squeezed my hand. “I am glad you told me. But you are wrong about one thing, Kitty.”
I laughed, a little unsteadily. “I am very sure that I am wrong about many things. Which in particular did you mean?”
Mary smiled, but then sobered, giving me another direct look as she wiped her eyes again. “You do deserve to be happy.”
I have—finally—extracted the truth of what occurred between Mary and Lord Henry at the musical gathering two days ago. Or rather, more of the truth. I knew yesterday from Mary’s behaviour that there had to be more to the story than Miranda had given me. Though now that I have heard Mary’s account of the afternoon, I scarcely know what to think.
To begin at the beginning, though: Last night, after we had both blown out our candles and retired to bed, I broke the silence to say, “Mary?”
I could tell by her breathing that she was not yet asleep.
There was a rustle of blankets as Mary rolled over in her own bed to face me. “Yes?”
I had been staring up at the ceiling and thinking the words for some little time; the darkness of the room and the silence of the house all around us made it easier to actually speak them. “I am so sorry. I ought to have told you before about my own … entanglement with Lord Henry. If I had—”
“If you had, I would likely not have listened in any case.” I heard Mary shift position again, and imagined her rolling onto her back to stare up at the ceiling, as well. “Did you listen to Georgiana when she warned you away last year?”
“No.”
“Well, then.” Mary was silent a moment, and then at last she said, “I have spent my whole life thinking of myself as having superior wisdom and judgement. Believing that I would never behave rashly or allow myself to indulge in anything improper. It is”—she let out another uneven breath—“it is quite disconcerting to realise that what I have actually been is a pompous prig. And that I am in fact every bit as capable of being a fool as everyone else. When I think of my past behaviour—” There was another rustle, as though Mary had shaken her head against the pillows. “Admit it, Kitty—you must have been sorely tempted to murder me on dozens of occasions.”
“Well, not dozens. Perhaps a handful, I grant you—but no more.”
Mary laughed shakily at that, and I laughed, too. But then I sobered and said, “I am sorry for everything that has happened in regard to Lord Carmichael. And I do wish that I had confided in you sooner about what I knew of his true character—even if it would not have changed what occurred. But it is … it is nice, Mary, to find you willing to admit that you are human like the rest of us after all.”
“Is it?”
It truly was. Six weeks ago, I could never have imagined lying awake and exchanging midnight confidences with Mary in this way.
Mary was silent again, and then she said, “I only wish that I knew exactly where I ought to go from this point on. How to stop wishing to crawl under a rock and die when I recall all the idiotic mistakes I have made. How to … I do not know … how to leave behind everything I have been before, pompous and foolish both, and somehow make myself into something better than before.”
It was my turn to exhale an unsteady half-laugh. “I am not at all sure that I am the right person to be handing out advice on that account. In fact, I am fairly sure that I am not.”
There was another pause, as though Mary were considering. And then she said, “You are different, Kitty. You have been, ever since you got back from Brussels this past summer. Though of course that is not surprising, considering the terrible things you must have seen. I know you have nightmares about it all, still.”
I was so startled that I nearly sat up in bed; I had not realised that Mary knew anything about my bad dreams.
Mary hesitated, then continued a little awkwardly, “I know you think perhaps that I could not understand, since I was not there. But if you should ever wish to talk of it … well, I am here, that is all.”
“Thank you.” I did not actually wish to speak of anything about Waterloo to Mary—any more than I had when Aunt Gardiner made the same offer. Not because Mary would not understand—more because I did not wish to let all the blood-soaked memories of those days invade the night’s peace, and the unfamiliar comfort of speaking with Mary in this way.
I was touched that Mary had offered, though.
I cleared my throat and then said, “Mary? Will you tell me what happened between you and Lord Henry? He must have said something—done something more than just kiss you to have upset you so.”
Mary was silent so long that I thought perhaps she was going to refuse to answer—and I felt a qualm of fear, recalling Lord Henry’s behaviour with me at Vauxhall. If he had hurt Mary, or tried to force himself on her—
But then Mary’s voice came out of the darkness, sounding as though she were speaking through gritted teeth. “If I tell you, do you solemnly promise not to laugh?”
That did not sound as though she had been hurt, at least. Puzzled, I said, “Of course.”
“I mean it, Kitty. Swear that you won’t laugh at me.”
I was more bemused than ever. “All right—I mean, I swear. Now tell me what in the name of goodness happened?” I could imagine Lord Henry offending Mary, even trying to do her harm—what I could not imagine was what Lord Henry might have done to effect this particular response.
Mary exhaled hard. “Very well. Henry—Lord Henry—asked me to wait until everyone was watching the musicians playing, and then to slip away. Someplace where we could be alone together, he said. He—I had not seen very much of him, this last week or more. So I was glad. I thought perhaps—that perhaps I ought to reward his attentions by allowing him to kiss me. Which I never had before,” she added in a prim voice—sounding very much more like the Mary I knew. “We went into the library. There was no one about, not even any of the servants. We sat down on one of the window seats. He put his arms around me, and … and …” Mary’s voice sounded strangled. “And it was absolutely revolting,” she exploded at last. “He was awkward and clumsy and he got slobber all over my face, and his tongue …” I imagined Mary’s shudder. “How any other girls have ever permitted him to kiss them, I have no idea. Or else kisses in general are greatly overrated by all the romantic novels. Because if Lord Henry’s performance is anything to judge by, the whole practice is positively disgusting.”
I started to speak, but Mary went on, the words tumbling out faster. “And then—do you know what he had the effrontery to say to me afterwards? After Miranda had caught us and then gone out again, I mean.” I could just faintly see the dark outline of her sitting up in bed, almost quivering with indignation. “He actually had the insufferable nerve to tell me that kissing me was like touching his lips to a dead fish. As though kissing him were not like kissing a … a sheep dog!”
A part of me was struggling to keep my sworn oath that I would not laugh. As dreadful as the whole scene sounded, I could understand why Mary had extracted that particular promise from me. A part of me was also furious with Lord Henry—and thought that he deserved to have me carry out my threat to get in contact with his aunt in the guise of his estranged bride.
But in larger part … in larger part, I was more puzzled even than I had been before. Mary’s story had awakened a whole host of memories—of evenings where I was the one whom Lord Henry persuaded into dark corners and kissed.
I said nothing to Mary. There are limits to exactly how far I am willing to go with sisterly confidences, much as Mary’s and my relationship has changed and grown. And besides, I did not wish to upset her any further.
But I—
Very well. There is no particularly discreet way to phrase this. And besides, Susanna has just woken from her morning nap and is demanding—in loud, insistent baby babblings—that I pay attention to her instead of scribbling in my dull old journal. The smear of ink at the top of the page is because she has just made a determined effort to grab my pen.
So I will dispense with all circumlocutions.
I daresay no one in the world—save perhaps Mary—has a lower opinion of Lord Henry Carmichael than I have. There are an absolute multitude of uncomplimentary epithets that I could apply to him, based on our past acquaintance. But even I do have to grant that ‘kisses like a sheep dog’ is most decidedly not one of them.
Oh Heavens—I have only a moment to write this; Saunders, Georgiana’s coachman, is outside, waiting to convey Mary and me to Darcy House. He arrived just a quarter of an hour ago, bearing Georgiana’s message. Jane has— It seems her baby is to be born today. Only a few weeks early, now, but still— I cannot help but be terribly afraid.
Please, please, let her and the child be all right. Please do not let her die.
I feel … I feel rather as though I had been pounded all over with rocks and then squeezed through a laundry-wringer. I am sitting up in bed and writing this. I have the room to myself at the moment, since Mary is still at Darcy House.
I suppose I ought properly to begin where I left off yesterday evening. Strange that not even a full day has passed since I wrote that last entry. It feels a week later, but it is actually barely ten o’clock in the morning as I write this now.
Mary and I arrived at Darcy House to find everything more or less in an uproar. Jane was white-faced and gasping with the labour pains that were already coming on in rapidly-succeeding waves. But she was—very uncharacteristically for Jane—also refusing absolutely to see the pompous old physician who had attended her the night of Georgiana’s ball.
Luckily Georgiana’s housekeeper—Mrs. Gibbons—knew of a nurse-cum-midwife who she thought might be able to attend. Edward was pulling on coat and gloves so that he might go out and fetch the woman, if she could be brought. Georgiana was holding little Amelia—who had her thumb in her mouth and looked as though she were debating whether the situation required tears. And Charles was staring at Jane and looking deathly afraid.
Though he straightened his shoulders and turned to take Amelia from Georgiana. “Come here, sweetheart.” He lifted Amelia into his arms. “It is time for you to be in bed. Come and give your mama a kiss goodnight.” His voice cracked slightly as he said it, but he cleared his throat and managed a smile. “And perhaps when you wake up, you shall have a new little brother or sister. What do you think about that?”
Amelia thrust out her lower lip and said, “Cat. Want a cat.”
Which made everyone—however briefly—smile. Amelia did give Jane a kiss goodnight. And Charles kissed Jane, as well, before he carried Amelia out. He rested his forehead briefly against hers, running a hand lightly over her hair.
And I have just belatedly realised that I seem to have left out a rather large piece of the story. I ought rather to have begun by saying that when we arrived at Darcy House, we discovered that Charles had arrived as well—only a bare hour before Mary and I did.
Actually, Georgiana told me later, as we sat huddled together in the corner of Jane’s bedroom waiting for the midwife’s prognosis, that it was Charles’s arrival that had brought all this about. Jane had felt a little better that day—well enough, at least, to come downstairs for an early dinner with Amelia. Charles had arrived at the house just as they were sitting down. Jane—of course having had no warning that he was coming—had struggled to her feet at the sight of him and gasped, “Charles.”
And then she had gasped for another reason entirely—her birthing waters had broken.
Which is also a hideously indelicate subject to refer to, even in writing, but I cannot bring myself to care.
Georgiana was feeling horribly guilty. She clutched my hand as we both looked at Jane, writhing through another of the birth pains on the bed. Mary was downstairs in the kitchen, supervising the boiling of water and the airing of clean linens. Not that Mrs. Gibbons and all of Georgiana’s maids especially needed supervising—but I could sympathise with Mary’s wish to be doing something, however unneeded.
“This is all my fault, Kitty,” Georgiana said. “If only I had not sent for Charles … or if I had only told Jane—”
“You must not think that.” I felt cold all through—as though needle-sharp crystals of ice were jabbing at every inch of my skin. But I tried to keep the fear out of my voice. “You know as well as I do that there has been a danger of this happening at any moment for weeks, now. Jane’s labour might easily have begun today, whether or not Charles had arrived. And it is actually much better that he is here, now. He will be here in case—”
I swallowed. Jane was lying back against the pillows, her eyes closed and her forehead already beaded with sweat. “I mean, much better that he will be here to meet his new daughter or son as soon as the baby is born.”
The midwife—her name was Mrs. O’Neil—finished her examination at that point and came over to speak with Georgiana and me. She was a big, hearty Irish woman of perhaps forty-five, with a freckled, weathered face, keen blue eyes, and a head of fiery red hair just barely threaded with grey. She had arrived back at the house with Edward and had at once taken charge with a calm, practical manner. One felt immediately that very little would ruffle or alarm her.
Though as she approached, I saw with a fresh stab of fear that she was frowning, a furrow of apparent worry between her brows.
“Well, now.” Mrs. O’Neil divided her words equally between Georgiana and me. “Mrs. Bingley seems to be coming along well. About halfway to being ready for the babe to be born, I should say. And this is her second child. So with any luck, we’ll have the wee one here with us by breakfast time.”
All of which sounded reassuring, but it did not explain her frown of concern. I said, “That is not the whole truth, is it? Something is wrong. Tell us what it is. Please.”
I barely managed to remember to add the ‘please’ as an afterthought.
“Ah, well.” Mrs. O’Neil lowered her voice. “I did not wish to worry you ladies without need. But the child seems to be coming backways first. Breech delivery, it’s called.”
I bit my lip, confused. “And is that a bad thing?”
Mrs. O’Neil looked at me and pursed her lips. But at least she did not refuse to explain, on the grounds of my being an unmarried girl. “Most babes come into the world head-first, you understand. That is the normal way, and the safest, for both mother and child. Sometimes, though, when labour starts early, before the proper time, the child has not yet had a chance to turn right-way-round. They come out feet—or sometimes bottom first.”
She glanced over her shoulder at Jane, the line of worry appearing on her forehead again. “It generally means a long, hard labour for the mother to bear. But there.” She shook her head, with a return to her former brisk, calm manner. “Mrs. Bingley is young, and she’s strong. And I’ve surely caught many a healthy breech-born babe and laid it in its mother’s arms. Now.” She turned back towards the bed. “Let’s see if we can get your sister up and walking about a bit. The longer she can keep on her feet, the faster the babe will come.”
Between us, we did manage to get Jane up from the bed and helped her to make slow circuits of the room. Georgiana and I walked on either side of her, each of us supporting an arm. Mary returned at some point, and took turns walking with Jane, too. Mrs. O’Neil alternately watched and rubbed Jane’s shoulders through the pains, sometimes instructing Jane to squat down as the labour pang reached its peak.
She was right, though, about the labour being both hard and long. All the time we were walking, Jane did not speak at all, only clamped her lips together and snorted or moaned when a fresh pain struck. But at last, after another vicious spasm had left her gasping and red-faced, she lifted her head when Mrs. O’Neil tried to urge her to walk again. “No!” Her voice was almost a growl. “I am not walking any more, you horrible old witch! Go away and let me lie down in peace.”
The tone—and the words—were so completely unlike Jane that I stared. Mrs. O’Neil smiled a reassurance at me, though, as Jane staggered to the bed and sank down onto the mattress with another moan.
“Never mind, lass. They always hate me—and usually everyone else in the world—right about now. Here.” She handed Mary a cup of water and a clean cloth. “You can see if she’ll let you sponge off her forehead a bit. Though don’t take it to heart if she ends by telling you to tip the water over your own head.”
Mrs. O’Neil’s face grew ever more sober, though, as pain after pain wrung Jane—and yet the child still showed no signs of being born.
I happened at one point to glance at the clock and realised with some shock that it was past three o’clock in the morning. We were taking it in turns to bathe Jane’s forehead or hold her hand. Georgiana was the one currently perched on the edge of the bed, while Mary and I had collapsed onto the upholstered chaise. And if we were tired, I could not imagine how Jane must feel.
Beside me, I felt Mary’s hand slide into mine, and I gave hers a squeeze in return. Mary was yawning and rubbing her eyes. “You could lie down awhile,” I said in an undertone. “Jane does not really need all three of us here.”
Mary shook her head, though. “No. I could not sleep—I would not even wish to try. Not when—” She stopped, cleared her throat, and tried to smile. “I am beginning to think that perhaps I do not regret, after all, that it seems unlikely I shall ever have children myself.”
Who would ever have thought it? Mary, trying to joke. I knew she was every bit as frightened as I was myself—but I appreciated her effort. I forced a smile, as well. “Beginning? I was absolutely certain that I was never going to have any children several hours ago.”
Georgiana slid off the bed and came to join us, as Mrs. O’Neil, murmuring soothing reassurances, told Jane that she wished to examine her one more time.
“All very well for the two of you to say.” Georgiana made a face at us, resting her hand on the barely-there swelling of her own middle. “Some of us have no choice about the matter.”
She sank down onto the chaise on my other side, and we were all quiet a long moment. Jane had—incredibly—dropped off to sleep in between pains. And I think all three of us, Mary, Georgiana, and I, were afraid to break the moment’s silence. I know I was afraid that if I once opened my mouth, I would hear myself saying, What if Jane dies?
I swallowed and turned to Mary. “Mary, you were downstairs the most recently of any of us. Where is Charles, do you know?”
Mary looked startled. “He is with Amelia, I think. He put her to bed on the sofa in Georgiana’s sitting room, so that she would not hear—”
She looked up at Jane, who had woken with a groan to another cruel pain. She had bitten her lips so many times that I could see even from across the room that they were bleeding.
“All right. Thank you.” I stood up.
“Where are you going?” Mary asked.
“To fetch Charles.”
Mary’s expression was shocked—and then worried. “Kitty, I am not sure that is wise. The birthing room is not for … that is, gentlemen do not ever attend—”
“I do not care!” I said. I drew in my breath and managed to lower my voice again. “Look at Jane.” I nodded towards the bed. “Georgiana, if that were you lying there, would you not want Edward to be with you?”
Georgiana bit her lip, but nodded. “You are right, Kitty. Charles should be here. Mary, you stay with Jane. I will come and offer to stay with Amelia, in case she should wake up.”
We found Charles sitting in a chair beside the little sofa where Amelia lay. Amelia, luckily, seemed to have caught none of the night’s alarms—she was sound asleep with her thumb in her mouth. Edward was there, as well, in a chair opposite Charles’s. One of them—probably Edward—had poured out glasses of brandy, but neither of them was actually drinking. Charles was merely turning the glass round and round in his hands, his usually good-humoured face taut and strained by the light of the single candle that burned on the mantel.
He jumped up as Georgiana and I entered, and he looked at us, his whole body braced as though in anticipation of a blow.
“It’s all right.” Georgiana hurried forward and took Charles’s hand. I could see the effort she was making to sound reassuring. “Jane is not … that is, it is only that her labour is taking rather longer than we had hoped. She is growing tired, and Kitty and I thought that it might perhaps help if you were there.”
Charles was— He was truly splendid, there is no other word. For all my determination to fetch him, Mary was perfectly correct; gentlemen do not, as a rule, so much as set foot inside the rooms where their wives are giving birth. I can easily imagine that many husbands in Charles’s case would have run screaming for the hills. But Charles did not hesitate, not even for a moment. He rose and went out of the room, not even waiting for me to lead the way.
Edward had risen, too, and come to put an arm about Georgiana. They exchanged a murmured word or two, too low for me to hear, and Georgiana rested her head against his shoulder. She straightened, though, as I made to follow Charles from the room.
“Kitty, I can come back with you, if you like—”
I stopped her, though. She had tried to make light of it before—but if all this was terrifying for me, it must be doubly so for her. I shook my head. “No, you stay with Amelia, just as you offered before. Charles will be there with Jane now, and me and Mary. And I will come and tell you at once if … I will come the moment there is any news.”
Georgiana nodded—and the last I saw, she and Edward had settled together in the big armchair, she tucked tightly up against Edward’s side and their hands intertwined.
Charles must have run all the way upstairs, for by the time I reached Jane’s bedroom again, he was already there—facing Mrs. O’Neil, who stood in the doorway and barred his entrance. She looked as dubious as Mary had. But whatever she saw in Charles’s face must have persuaded her that arguing would be futile, for as I reached the head of the stairs, I saw her shrug and step aside.
“Ah, well.” Mrs. O’Neil spoke in a muttered undertone, and I only just caught the words. “I suppose you can’t be making things much worse for the poor girl.”
I ran the last few steps and entered the room just behind Charles and Mrs. O’Neil. But I do not think Jane even saw me—or the midwife, for that matter. She was lying on the bed, curled tightly on her side while Mary dampened the cloth with fresh water from the jug. But she happened to open her eyes and look up as Charles came into the room, and she gasped, “Charles—you’re here!”
I am not sure that I can even put into words the way she spoke Charles’s name. Her whole face lighted up, the lines of pain and exhaustion momentarily easing their hold.
Charles crossed to the bed in a few quick strides and knelt down, smoothing the sweat-soaked hair back from Jane’s brow. “Of course I am, sweetheart. Tell me what I can do.”
Jane could not answer; another of the birth pains had struck, and she groaned and squeezed her eyes closed. Charles looked pale when the spasm had at last passed. I suppose he had never seen a woman in labour before. But he held Jane’s hand and spoke in low, comforting tones.
Mary slipped past him and Mrs. O’Neil and came to join me once again on the chaise by the hearth. She put her hand into mine and squeezed, and I squeezed hers in return.
“He cannot lose her,” I whispered fiercely. I was watching Charles: the tenderness with which he continued to speak to Jane and stroke her hair. “He cannot. It would be too cruel.”
Mary opened her mouth—but then closed it again. There was no need for her to speak; we both knew perfectly well that life is sometimes exactly that cruel.
Time passed. I have no idea how much, I had lost all sense of it. Jane’s pains seemed to be coming even stronger and more quickly together, now. But then Jane’s whole body began to twitch and her legs to shake. I was frightened it was a further sign of something wrong—and to judge by the tightness of his mouth, so was Charles.
But Mrs. O’Neil drew a breath of something sounding almost like relief, checked Jane again and said, “Well, now. I do believe this babe’s at last ready to be born.”
She spoke with an echo of her former brisk cheerfulness. But I could see that a furrow of worry remained on her brow, and as Jane lay gasping and panting, wrung out by another of the pains, the midwife lowered her voice and said to Charles, “Sir—a word, if you please.”
Charles drew a step or two away from the bed, and Mrs. O’Neil spoke in a rapid undertone. “Your wife’s done bravely well so far. But she’s tired by now. And I must warn you, this babe needs to be brought into the world quickly. I do not know if you’ve been told, but the child is wrong-way round—and in those cases, there’s always the danger the cord might be crushed, or might wrap around the child’s neck and strangle it before ever it’s born.”
Charles’s face blanched further. But before he could speak, Jane opened her eyes. For some while, now, she had seemed scarcely aware of her surroundings—of anything, for that matter, save for the pains. But now she looked frantically around her and said, “Charles? Where are you?”
“I’m here.” Instantly, Charles was back by her side, taking her hand. “I’m right here.” He looked up at Mrs. O’Neil, and said again, “Tell me what I can do.”
Mrs. O’Neil eyed him consideringly—but Charles must have already proved himself in her eyes, for she said with scarcely a pause, “Get behind her. See if you can help her to sit up a bit.”
Charles did not hesitate. He climbed onto the bed and gently eased Jane upright, holding her with her back against his chest and his arms looped around her.
“Charles, I can’t,” Jane whimpered.
“Yes, you can.” Charles’s face was still pinched with worry, but he somehow managed to make his voice absolutely sure. “I know you can.”
After that … after that, everything is a confused blur in my memory. Mary and I stayed where we were, both of us scarcely daring to draw breath. I know Jane alternately groaned and grunted, her face turning red with strain—and that Mrs. O’Neil crouched before her raised knees, almost shouting encouragements as Jane struggled to push the child out into the world. Charles sat behind, holding her the whole time.
Then Mrs. O’Neil said, “That’s it—one last push, now.”
Jane gave another groan that ended on a scream. There was a heartbeat of silence. And then Jane’s scream was echoed by a baby’s loud, lusty wail.
“Well, now, nothing the matter with your lungs, is there, my bonny one?” Expertly, Mrs. O’Neil lifted the red, squalling infant and laid him on Jane’s chest. The midwife was smiling broadly as she looked from Charles to Jane. “Congratulations to the both of you. You have a fine, healthy son.”
I drew what felt like my first full breath since setting foot inside Darcy House—and beside me, I heard Mary do the same.
Jane’s hand came up to cup the baby’s small, sticky-wet head. She looked positively radiant—every trace of pain and tiredness gone. “A boy,” she whispered. She smiled up at Charles. “What shall we call him?”
Charles was gazing wonderingly down at his son. Even from across the room, I could see that his eyes were wet. He gave a half-laugh and tentatively reached out one finger to stroke the baby’s tiny hand. “I’d say that you ought to have the choice of naming him. You’re the one who has done all the hard work tonight.”
Beside me, I saw that Mary’s eyes had flooded with tears. I know my own cheeks were wet, as well. We got up—quietly—and tiptoed from the room. Though the way Charles and Jane were looking at each other, I suspect that we could have marched out to a regimental drumbeat with clashing cymbals, and they would not so much as have glanced our way.
Once we were in the hall, Mary wiped her eyes and whispered shakily, “I believe … I believe I may need to revise my wish for children again after all.”
That was not the end of the night’s wonders, though. Not quite. The baby—actually I should write, ‘small Charles,’ for Jane did not even hesitate on the choice of a name—was washed and tidied and swaddled in blankets for Jane to nurse. Jane and he both fell dreamlessly asleep almost at once. And Charles—the elder, I mean—managed to tear himself away to offer to drive Mrs. O’Neil back to her home.
I think that if Mrs. O’Neil had asked for a horse and carriage weight in gold, Charles would have promised her that, too.
Mary and I went back into the bedroom, to stay with Jane while Charles was gone. Mary tiptoed down to tell Georgiana and Edward, and found them both asleep in Edward’s armchair, but Amelia just beginning to wake. Mary let her come upstairs—after extracting a solemn promise from her that she was absolutely, positively not to wake her mother—and I lifted Amelia up so that she could gaze at the small, bundled form of little Charles with saucer-round eyes.
Soon after that, Charles returned. He picked up Amelia and swung her around and whispered, “Well, now, what do you think of your new baby brother?”
Amelia answered in a two-year-old’s version of a whisper—which of course is not especially whisper-like at all, but luckily Jane was so deeply asleep that she did not even stir. “Nice.” Amelia rested her head against her father’s shoulder and put her thumb into her mouth. Then she took her thumb out again and said, “Can I still have a cat?”
Charles laughed, and then answered gravely that he supposed she could. And then he looked over the top of Amelia’s head and addressed Mary and me. “Do you know, the most extraordinary thing happened, just as I was pulling the carriage up to the house outside. I drove Mrs. O’Neil myself—no sense in rousting Saunders out of bed when I was already awake. But I was so anxious by the time I got back to get up here again to Jane that I wasn’t paying close enough attention. I drove straight through a pool of mud and absolutely soaked a woman who was walking by on the pavement. Of course I stopped to apologise. And of all people, I discovered that it was my sister. Louisa!”
Charles shook his head in amazement at the memory. “I did apologise all the same, naturally. But Louisa seemed scarcely even to hear me. She stood quite still for quite a half-minute—simply looking from the carriage to the mud puddle to the splashes on her dress and back again. She looked quite pale—so much so that I thought perhaps she had heard about Jane’s recent danger, and been worried. But when I told her about small Charles’s having safely arrived, she said that no, she had had not the smallest idea of the child’s being born so soon. And then she said that she had actually been on her way here to give Jane this.”
Charles dug in his pocket and produced a necklace—the same circlet of diamonds I had seen Mrs. Hurst flaunting at Vauxhall. “It was our mother’s. I gave it to Jane. And Jane apparently gave it to Louisa, and asked her to have it cleaned at our old family jeweller’s. Louisa had just yesterday retrieved the necklace from there, and was on her way to bring it back to Jane this morning.”
Charles shifted Amelia in his arms and looked down at Jane and the tiny, sleeping Charles. Then he laid the necklace on the table beside the bed and shrugged. “Well, there is no hurry. Jane can see it whenever she wakes.”
I had to clamp both hands over my mouth to stifle my laughter. Mary looked at me as though I had lost my mind, and towed me—still giggling helplessly—out of the room.
“Kitty, what on earth?”
“Wait a moment.” I managed to stop laughing and struggled to catch my breath. “I will tell you the whole.”
I did. I told her everything, from Jane’s gambling debt to my turn as Madame Mariana, and Georgiana’s and my efforts to make my gypsy’s prophecy come true. And it truly was a night of miracles—or else Mary is even more changed than I had thought—because she listened, and then started to snort with laughter, as well.
Neither of us told Charles, though, the reason for his sister’s very odd behaviour. Jane may tell him her side of the story, as far as she knows it—or she may not, the choice is entirely hers. I rather think she will; Jane is scrupulously truthful. But regardless, I have not the smallest doubt that she and Charles will continue together as happy as they have always been. Happier, even, now that they have their small son.
I believe I may have just had the oddest interview of my entire life.
It was just after breakfast, and Mary had gone to Darcy House to visit with Jane. Aunt Gardiner and I were sitting together in the morning room and sewing. Or rather, she was sewing. I was using the excuse of crawling around the floor in pursuit of Susanna to entirely avoid darning any of the three pairs of stockings in my pile.
Perhaps Mary was right that I am changed, but I still have not made much progress in developing a liking for mending.
We heard a knock at the door, and a few moments later, Rose came in to announce that Lord Henry Carmichael had come to call, and was asking to speak with me.
I was about to tell Rose to inform his Lordship that I was not at home. But before I could speak, Aunt Gardiner said, “Very well, Rose, let him come.”
I suppose she wanted to see for herself the gentleman who had caused so much trouble for Mary. And she does not even know the half of all the confusion and upset that can be laid at Lord Henry’s door.
Rose bobbed a curtsey and went out, returning a few moments later with Lord Henry. And I had a moment to wish (very disloyally) that my aunt were still ill. Not seriously so, of course. Just enough that she had remained upstairs this morning.
It was not even as though I could request that Aunt Gardiner leave Lord Henry and me to talk alone together. She might not be especially strict, but she would never consent to anything so improper as that in her own home.
She did at least—after I had presented her to Lord Henry and the usual formal greetings had been exchanged—move a little distance away, under the guise of watching Susanna play with her wooden animals on the small rug in front of the window. But I did not delude myself into thinking for a moment that she would not still hear every word that was uttered.
I sat in an agony of anticipation, wondering what exactly it was that Lord Henry had come here to say. Though at the sight of him—dressed in tight buckskin breeches and a blue superfine coat, the cost of which would probably feed a family in the East End for several months—I felt anger begin to simmer within me, as well.
He seated himself in the chair opposite mine, and I said, as coolly as I could manage, “You wished to see me?”
He looked sober, at least, his gaze clearer than I had yet seen and something of his usual swagger lacking in his manner. He said, “Only to tell you that I have kept my part of our bargain, and to say that I hope that you will keep yours.”
That made the anger explode. “Kept your part? I do not recall any part of our bargain including your luring my sister off and—” I caught sight of Aunt Gardiner looking at me with elevated eyebrows, and managed to both check my words and lower my tone. “And exposing her to the censure of the world,” I finished in a savage whisper.
A flash of annoyance crossed Lord Henry’s handsome face. “I did not lure her—or rather, perhaps I did, but only with the best of intentions.”
“The best of intentions,” I repeated. I could feel my eyebrows climbing towards my hairline. “Please, go on. I am all expectation to hear this.”
Lord Henry blanched slightly at my expression; he must well and truly be afraid of losing his inheritance from his aunt. His immaculately starched neck-cloth rose and fell as he swallowed, and then he said, “I did not mean—that is to say, it occurred to me that I had made your sister fall in love with me. So it was up to me to make her fall out of love with me again. If you see what I mean.”
I felt my jaw drop open slightly. “Do you mean to tell me that you took Mary off and … and orchestrated that performance of kissing her solely to make her fall out of love with you? It did not occur to you that you might simply tell her that there was not the least chance of your ever returning her affections in the smallest degree?”
Lord Henry’s face flushed and he looked slightly defensive. “Whatever you may think, I have at least some of the scruples of a gentleman. One cannot simply tell a perfectly respectable, decent girl that she is boring and bothersome and that you would like nothing better than to tell her to go and jump in a lake. Besides, I thought the whole thing would be better if the decision to break off our acquaintance came from her rather than me. I took her off alone, kissed her—making sure to appear as complete a clumsy oaf as I could. And it worked, did it not? You cannot tell me that your sister is still in love with me now.”
My mouth was still open in astonishment. Before I could find my voice, Lord Henry ran a finger around the edge of his collar and added, in somewhat awkward tones, “I had time to consider what you said to me before. About toying with other people’s affections. Treating other people’s lives as … as a game. And I realised that you were perfectly correct. And that I had a … a duty to make things with your sister right, if I could.”
Only Lord Henry could see fit to execute that duty by compromising Mary and exposing us both to Miranda Pettigrew’s blackmail. And yet … I do not know.
Lord Henry took his leave of us soon after. I was more than a little apprehensive about what my aunt would say when he had gone. But she said only, “Well. I take it I have missed out on a great deal of excitement while I was ill in bed?”
I had to explain the truth of it all to her. She looked rather horrified several times while I was speaking. But she really is a dear. When I had finished, she let out a long breath and said, “Well, Kitty, I confess that your methods for coping with these matters should never have occurred to me—not if I lived to be a hundred. But I do grant you that they seem to have been effective.” She looked speculatively at the door, where Lord Henry had gone out. “I wonder whether his impulse to reform himself will last.”
I wonder that myself. To be honest, I should say that the odds of Lord Henry Carmichael truly turning over a new leaf are even, at the very best—and yet even odds are surely better than none.
And if there is hope that Lord Henry can change, then there may be hope for anyone.
Sitting there with Aunt Gardiner, I felt oddly lighter, somehow. And then I realised something else: reformed or no, I do not seem to hate Lord Henry any longer.
Aunt Gardiner took another stitch in her mending. Susanna was sitting quietly at her mother’s feet, gnawing industriously on one of her wooden blocks; she must have another tooth coming in. Then Aunt Gardiner said, “And what is this about Miranda Pettigrew extracting your promise that you not speak to Lance Dalton again?”
Unfortunately, it is much easier to tell a whole truth than only a partial one. Miranda’s spying on Mary and Lord Henry had slipped out as part of the explanation I gave my aunt. And then of course I had to include the reason for her recent visit to me, which Aunt Gardiner had heard about already through Rose.
A part of me wanted to confess to Aunt Gardiner everything about my feelings for Lance. But I was afraid that if I did, I would be tempted to rest my head on her shoulder and cry as though I were Susanna’s age.
All of Mary’s favourite aphorisms about time being the great healer of all wounds do not seem to be applying here. Or rather, to be fair to Mary, I should say former favourites; she has thankfully not uttered a single one in the past several days.
But thinking and speaking of Lance do not seem to be getting easier at all. Instead I feel— I am still determined not to sigh and moan. But to allow myself to moan slightly, just this once—I feel as though there is a cracked space inside my chest, and every mention of his name makes the cracks widen and the jagged edges scrape together a little more.
I jumped to my feet. “Oh, just some nonsensical notion Miranda had got into her head about Mr. Dalton’s admiring me. Just because she has not yet managed to make him propose, she thinks he must be in love with someone else.”
I fled the room before Aunt Gardiner could answer, and came upstairs to write this all down.
I feel … I feel as though I were standing on my head instead of my heels. So thoroughly stunned by the events of today that I scarcely know what is real—whether I am awake or lost in some incredible dream.
Though it is at least a definite improvement over my earlier wish that I might roast Mary over a bed of open coals.
She and I were at Darcy House today, visiting Jane. Charles the elder had taken Amelia out to the park to play, and Jane was asleep when we arrived. But small Charles was awake and wiggling in his swaddling blankets next to her in the bed. He was not crying or hungry—just looking about the room with big blue eyes that already look very like Jane’s. So Mary and I scooped him up and carried him into Jane’s dressing room, so that Jane might be left to sleep in peace for as long as possible.
We laid the baby on a blanket spread on the floor and kissed and cooed over him—which small Charles took with calm acceptance; I think he is also going to have Jane’s tranquility and sweetness of temper. All the while, though, Mary seemed oddly distracted—nervously on edge, somehow. Several times I had to repeat something I had said before she seemed to hear me. And yet she kept cocking her head, as though she were listening for something.
I finally asked her whether anything were the matter. But she shook her head. “No—I was just … wondering when Charles and Amelia would be back, that is all. I had promised Amelia that I would play with her at paper dolls.”
And then she looked at the clock on the dressing room mantel, for what had to be the dozenth time in as many minutes. “Mary—” I began.
But before I could finish, someone knocked lightly at the door—and I forgot all about Mary’s odd behaviour. Georgiana came in, keeping her voice to a whisper, so as not to wake Jane.
“Kitty, there is someone here to see you. A Miss Dalton, she told me that her name is. She says that she needs to speak with you urgently.”
My thoughts immediately flew to Lance—and the fear that the bullet wound from Mark’s pistol had turned poisonous after all went through me like a shard of glass. I scrambled up and almost ran down the stairs to the parlour, where Gwen was waiting.
But it was not Lance, after all, who had prompted her visit; she told me as soon as I came into the room that Will, from the children’s ward at the hospital, had taken a turn for the worse. He was very ill and asking to see me—and would I return with her to the hospital now, at once?
I hesitated momentarily—and Gwen added, “If you are afraid of seeing my brother, I promise that you will not have to. He is not at the hospital today.”
I was already ashamed of even that brief moment’s hesitation. I had promised Will before that I would be back to play at pirates with him again—and yet between the crisis with Mark and small Charles’s birth, I had not been to see him all week. And now he was gravely ill. As though his young life had not already contained suffering enough.
“Of course I will come,” I told Gwen. “Just let me fetch my cloak.”
Outside in the hall, I bumped into Mary, who to my surprise asked whether she might accompany me to the hospital. “Charles decided that he was hungry,” she said, “so I had to wake Jane in any case. And I missed the charity fete to benefit the hospital. I should like to be more involved.”
We all three of us, Gwen, Mary, and I, climbed into the carriage which Gwen had brought, and drove towards the East End. The drive seemed to last an absolute eternity of clattering carriage wheels and streets tangled with the usual dreadful London traffic. But at long last we reached the hospital, and almost before Gwen’s coachman had drawn the carriage to a halt, I jumped down—not even bothering to see whether Gwen and Mary were following me.
I was afraid all the time that we might be too late—that if Will was so ill that Gwen had come running to fetch me, he might die before ever I got the chance to see him at all.
But when I reached the children’s ward, almost the first sight I saw was Will—not looking ill in the slightest degree. His bed had been moved up to the head of the ward, and, grinning broadly, he was propped up with pillows as much as his back brace allowed. And beside him … I felt my heart lurch hard against my ribs. Beside Will’s bed stood Lance, dressed in his black coat and clerical collar and looking—
Actually I had no attention to spare for trying to interpret Lance’s expression. The mere fact of his presence was enough.
I whirled on Gwen, who had come up behind me. “You promised me—”
“I lied,” Gwen interrupted cheerfully. Her smile was almost as broad as Will’s.
Mary, slightly out of breath, came up to stand beside Gwen. “And I called on Mr. Dalton yesterday and told him everything, and asked him to meet us here.”
That was when I succumbed to wishing that I might roast Mary over hot coals. I felt a hot blush of pure mortification flood my cheeks. “Mary, how could you—” I began.
Mary took my hand. “You are my sister, Kitty,” she said—in an echo of what I had told her, days ago. “Of course I would not wish to see you moping about and making yourself needlessly miserable. Not if there was anything I could do to help.”
“What about Miranda?” I managed to choke out. “Have you forgotten—”
Mary smiled again. “No, I have not forgotten—only decided that I do not care what rumours she may spread of me. Let her do her worst; I am not going to worry over her any more.” She put her hands on my shoulders and turned me around, giving me a small push in Lance’s direction. “So go on, there is nothing to stop you,” she added. “As I said, I have already told him all about Lord Henry and the other nonsensical reasons you think you are not fit to marry him—even though you are hopelessly in love with him. So you need not worry about having to explain anything; he already knows.”
Frozen with horror is another phrase that I had always thought a mere exaggerated figure of speech. Until today. At that moment, I was utterly unable to move—or even to think. I was vaguely aware of Mary and Gwen—looking infuriatingly pleased with themselves—linking arms and drawing away. Of Lance coming around from behind Will’s bed to stand before me.
My face was still burning, and my heart was pounding sickeningly hard—and I could not bring myself to look up at him. Not until he cleared his throat and said, “Miss Bennet—Kitty—”
That made me drag my gaze up to his face and forcibly swallow down the ache in my throat as I held up a hand to stop him. “Please, don’t.”
Lance flinched at that, a look of pain—or perhaps it was only pity—flickering in his blue gaze. It must be pity; of course he would be sorry—he would not wish to wound the feelings of the girl whose sister had helpfully revealed that she was hopelessly in love with him.
I let out a shaky breath and fixed my gaze on my clenched hands. “I mean to say that you need not— Just because our sisters have jointly conspired to manipulate you into this intolerable position does not mean that you are under any obligation to … to …”
I had to break off; despite my best efforts, my throat had tightened up too much for me to speak another word. My eyes were prickling painfully.
“Wait a moment.” Lance’s fingers cupped my jaw, forcing me to tilt my head back and look up at him again. I had not the energy to resist, no matter what I saw in his eyes. He did not look embarrassed or angry or even uncomfortable, though—only sheerly incredulous. “You think that I am here because I feel in some measure obligated? Kitty, I—” He stopped and shook his head. Cleared his throat. “When your sister came to see me yesterday, I had been sitting and staring at a blank sheet of paper for over two hours. Trying not to write to you. Trying not to beg that you would give me another chance to tell you of my feelings—properly, this time, and without being half out of my head with laudanum. You had said that you did not wish to see me again, and I was trying to respect your wishes. But when your sister called at my lodging house and told me—” Lance’s voice turned husky and he stopped again. “It seemed like a miracle. That is”—a flicker of uncertainty crossed his gaze—“that is, if she spoke the truth? If you do … love me?”
His face was a heart-stopping mixture of warmth and uncertainty. My chest tightened and I—I could not stop myself—reached up to touch his cheek. “Of course I do. But—” My voice shook, and I swallowed again. “I mean, surely you cannot really wish to marry me. Not after—”
“I cannot wish to marry the bravest, most compassionate, loyal, and intelligent girl I have ever known? The one who makes me laugh and astonishes me at every turn?” Lance’s voice turned husky again, and he looked at me with that same wonderment I saw in his gaze that day in his lodging house. “I knew from the first night we met—the night you told me nothing would make you consent to dance with me, and compared my eyes to Lady Dorwich’s Persian cat—that I had never met anyone like you. And yes, I want to marry you. So much that—” Lance broke off with a shaky half laugh, and brushed my cheek with the tips of his fingers. “So much that even though I practised again and again what I was going to say when I saw you today—how I might persuade you into giving me a chance—I have at this moment absolutely no memory of what I was going to say. Save to tell you that I love you. And that I do not even want to imagine a life—my life—in which you are not there, at my side.”
I stared up at him, at the lean, handsome lines of his face. The tiny flecks of gold about the irises of his eyes, and the single lock of hair that had fallen over his brow. I could feel hot tears spilling over my cheeks—and for the first time, a tiny bubble of hope expanding inside my chest. But I had to say it; I shook my head and said, “I still do not think … I am not at all sure that I am at all the right sort of wife for—”
Lance stopped me. His hands slid down to my waist, drawing me against him, and he covered my mouth with his. I was aware of someone—it must have been Will—letting out a raucous whistle. But only very distantly so. Lance’s lips were warm, soft and gentle against mine—and I felt myself melt against him, felt the touch run like fire through my every nerve.
After a long moment, he broke away—but only far enough that he could rest his forehead against mine, his hands sliding up to tangle in my hair. He was breathing quickly, and he said, “If that is the only obstacle, then there is no obstacle at all. Because the trouble is not that you don’t love me—but rather that you do not yet love yourself. But I promise—” He stopped and bent his head to kiss me, just lightly, again, looking at me with eyes the colour of the clear morning sky. “I promise that loving you is not at all hard. Catherine Bennet, will you marry me and let me spend a lifetime showing you how?”
I looked up at him, and felt something inside me melting, like frozen earth in a warm spring rain. I was still crying, but somehow laughter was bubbling up, as well, to mix with the tears. I reached up and kissed Lance back, so hard that he staggered backwards and then started to laugh, too.
“Yes,” I said.
I cannot believe that it has been nearly four months since last I picked up this journal to make an entry. But it is now the tenth of June, so I suppose it must be. There has been such a whirlwind of changes of late that I scarcely know where to begin in recounting them all.
To start, my mother’s most cherished dream has come to pass—all five of her daughters are now married. Lance and I were married in the old parish church I grew up attending in Meryton. As well as my parents, of course, my Aunt and Uncle Gardiner, Lizzy and Mr. Darcy, and Mary were all there. Georgiana and Edward could not be with us, since they were already departed for France. But Georgiana sent her love. And yesterday, in fact, I received another letter from Georgiana. She is safely delivered of the baby—a healthy baby girl—whom they have named Catherine Anne.
Georgiana included a sketch of her—she looks exactly like her mother, with wispy dark curls and big, dark eyes—and wrote that she and Edward will come and visit directly their year in Paris is ended, so that I may meet my small namesake.
I confess that when I read that, I did have doubts as to whether I am entirely qualified to have a child named after me. But those sorts of thoughts belong to the old Kitty, the one who did not love—or even especially like—herself. It is still hard, sometimes, to trample down those doubts and force new and kinder thoughts of myself into their place. But Lance has kept the promise he made that day in the children’s ward; of course he has, he always keeps the promises he makes. And if I still do not believe myself quite so thoroughly delightful as he seems to find me, I am persuaded that I have my good points after all.
I wrote back to Georgiana that I could not wait to see her and baby Catherine both—and that I was delighted she and Edward had shown such excellent taste in selecting a name.
But I seem to have wandered rather far away from my account of our wedding. Though there is not really so very much more to tell. Jane was there, as well, with Amelia and both her Charleses, elder and younger. Jane is perfectly recovered from small Charles’s early arrival, and the baby is growing apace. In fact, he howled loudly through most of the wedding ceremony, but I scarcely heard, and certainly did not mind.
I think I said ‘I do’ before the minister had even finished speaking, I was so terrified that the whole thing—the church, the flowers, and Lance standing at the altar and looking at me with his whole heart in his blue eyes—would turn out to be only a dream.
But that was three months ago—and I now sign my letters Catherine Dalton—so I am beginning to be convinced that it was real. Somehow Mary was right, and the whole tangled story has against all odds turned out happily—more than happily—in the end. Or rather, in the beginning. That is another discovery I have made: weddings and marriage cannot properly be termed an ending, not at all.
As for Mary—
It was actually the day before my own wedding that I came downstairs and overheard Mary in the drawing room with Rhys Williams. He had concluded his business for my Uncle Phillips in town a few weeks before and returned to Meryton. I knew he and Mary had continued to see each other since Mary had returned home, as well.
But I did not realise quite how far matters had progressed until that day—when I skidded to a halt outside the drawing room door and heard Mary, sounding more flustered than I had ever heard her, say: “I … I must warn you, I have been informed that I am not at all good at—”
She broke off with a wordless squeak, and I imagined Rhys covering her mouth with his own. There was a pause—quite a lengthy pause—and then I heard Rhys’s voice, sounding not at all hesitant or shy: “Your informant was quite wrong; I should say you are perfect.”
And Mary, her voice both dreamy and breathless at once, said, “Not perfect—for that, I believe I shall need more practice. A great deal more.”
She and Rhys were married last month, and are settled in their own home in Meryton.
Between my wedding and Mary’s and setting up Lance’s and my new home, I have been so busy, I have scarcely had a moment or a spare thought for diary-writing.
No, that is not entirely true. I have been busy. But I think that it is more … more that all the time I was writing in this book before, I was struggling to find a place for the memories—of John, of Waterloo, of everything else—where I could bear to keep them, carry them with me as a part of who I am, as Lance once said.
And now, somewhere along the way, I have.
I touched on it before—but it is not only my own opinion of myself that is changed.
The nightmares still come, sometimes. But when they do, Lance’s strong arms are there to wrap around me in the dark and chase them away. Just as Will and I do our best to chase the bleak, haunted look from Lance’s eyes when he returns from a visit with his mother—who is sadly still no less lost in her grief for her dead son.
But yes, Will is living with us. I ought really to have written that before. The week after Lance and I were married, we collected Will from the Children’s Hospital and brought him to live in our downstairs bedroom. Downstairs so that we could easily shift him into a push-chair and wheel him outside on fine spring days.
Lizzy, with typical energy, has written to tell me that there is a parish near Pemberley which stands in need of a rector, and that the position is Lance’s if he should want it, since it lies within Mr. Darcy’s gift. I think Lance will accept it, too, eventually. And I shall love to be settled so near to Lizzy and Jane. But we have agreed to stay in London for as long as Will needs us.
We are not sure how long that may be. Perhaps not very long. Will is no worse—but no better, either. We have had very nearly every physician in London to see him, but none can offer any miracles in the shape of a cure. I could be angry. Well, if I am honest, sometimes I am. But for the most part, I try my best not to be.
That is how Lance’s mother has lost her way, it seems to me—wasting her life and her strength by being angry with what cannot be changed.
Life is hard; terrible tragedies occur every day, and I still cannot pretend to know why. Why one child is born with a twisted spine and another thrives, why one man—or one brother—lives, and another dies on the battlefield. But I have learned how love can bloom, even in the midst of misery and pain; I have learned what a gift each day can be, if only we are brave enough to reach out our hands and take what life offers.
Just last week, I was able to call on Mrs. Ayres and see her shed tears that were part sad, but part happy, as well—because I had promised her that if the baby due to arrive in about seven months’ time is a boy, we are to name him John.
And for me—for now—all those are miracles enough indeed.
I began writing the Pride and Prejudice Chronicles chiefly because I loved Pride and Prejudice and so very much wanted to know what happened to the wonderful cast of characters after the story’s close. Kitty Bennet’s story has been especially interesting and fun to write, because unlike other characters in Pride and Prejudice such as Georgiana Darcy, we actually know what Jane Austen imagined for Kitty after the conclusion of the book. According to family legend, Jane Austen told her brother James that after the final chapters of Pride and Prejudice, Kitty eventually “was satisfactorily married to a clergyman near Pemberley.”
That statement made me wonder about Kitty a great deal; becoming a clergyman’s wife is quite a change from the “weak-spirited” and “irritable” girl Jane Austen describes in the original book. I began trying to imagine why and how Kitty’s character might have deepened and matured. What could have finally made her grow up?
My version of Kitty Bennet’s story began in Volume 2 of Georgiana Darcy’s Diary, Pemberley to Waterloo, in which Kitty accompanies Georgiana to Brussels during the Battle of Waterloo. Kitty Bennet’s Diary concludes Kitty’s story, and—I hope—gives a satisfactory possible answer to those questions.
We in fact know, too, what Jane imagined for Mary Bennet after the conclusion of Pride and Prejudice; also according to James Austen, Mary Bennet married one of her uncle Phillips’s clerks. As phrased by James Austen, this was not an especially advantageous marriage (a mere clerk rather than an aristocratic man of wealth and property) and a bit of a punishment for the pompous and bookish Mary. But since I have a soft spot for her character, I’ve taken the liberty of making the match a happy one.
It was an absolute privilege for me to be able to write this book, bringing Kitty and Mary to the story endings Jane Austen imagined for them. I hope with all my heart that Jane Austen would approve of the road I’ve had the Bennet sisters travel to get there.
In conclusion, I want to thank Laura Masselos for the absolutely brilliant job she did of illustrating Kitty Bennet’s Diary. We agreed in talking about Kitty’s character than her drawing style would be something along the lines of the comical cartoons popular in newspapers during the Regency era—but the final illustrations were even funnier and more perfect for Kitty’s character than I could have hoped. Thank you so much, Laura, for bringing both Georgiana and Kitty to life through your drawings. I can’t imagine the books without your magic touch.
Thank you for reading Kitty Bennet’s Diary. If you have enjoyed this book and would like to see more like it, please consider reviewing it on your favorite sites and telling your literary friends about it. Plans for future projects will be based in part on reader feedback and the success of previous projects. It would give me great joy to write what you want to read.
If you have not yet read the first two volumes in the Pride and Prejudice Chronicles, you may wish to view them at your favorite retailer. Fans of historical fiction may also enjoy The Good Knight, a medieval mystery from my writing partner Sarah Woodbury.
A current list of Anna Elliott titles can be found at AnnaElliottBooks.com.
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There are three families involved in the Pride and Prejudice Chronicles:
-Bennet / Gardiner / Phillips
-Darcy / Fitzwilliam / de Bourgh
-Bingley / Hurst
Please note that in some cases, Jane Austen did not specify characters’ first names. Uncanonical first names (e.g. Colonel [Edward] Fitzwilliam) and invented characters are shown in square brackets, as are births and marriages that occurred after the conclusion of Pride and Prejudice. Jane Austen used both Phillips and Philips to refer to the Bennet sisters’ aunt and uncle. Because the Project Gutenberg edition of Pride and Prejudice primarily uses Phillips, I have adopted the same spelling. A comprehensive genealogical summary of the original Pride and Prejudice characters is available at pemberley.com.
Old Mr. Gardiner (d?)
|-Mrs. Bennet
| m. Mr. Bennet
| |-Jane Bennet
| | m. Chas. Bingley
| | |-[Amelia Bingley]
| |-Elizabeth Bennet
| | m. Fitzwm. Darcy
| | |-[James Darcy]
| |-Mary Bennet
| |-(Kitty) Bennet
| |-Lydia Bennet
| m. Geo. Wickham
|-Mrs. Phillips
| m. Mr. Phillips
|-Edward Gardiner
m. Mrs. Gardiner
|-[Thos.] Gardiner
|-[Jack] Gardiner
|-[Anna] Gardiner
|-[Charlotte] Gardiner
|-[Susanna Gardiner]
Old Earl of ---,
| surnamed Fitzwilliam (d)
|-Lady Anne (d)
| m. Old Mr. Darcy (d)
| |-Fitzwilliam Darcy
| | m. Elizabeth Bennet
| | |- [James Darcy]
| |-Georgiana Darcy
| [m.] Col. [Edw.] Fitzwm.
|-Earl of ---
| |-[Frank],
| | surnamed Fitzwm.
| | [m.] Caroline Bingley
| | |-[unknown child]
| |-Col. [Edward] Fitzwm.
| [m.] Georgiana Darcy
|-Lady Catherine
m. Sir Lewis de Bourgh (d)
|-Anne de Bourgh
[m.] [Mr. Carter]
[m.] [Jacques de La Courcelle]
Old Mr. Bingley (d?)
|-Charles Bingley
| m. Jane Bennet
| |-[Amelia Bingley]
|-Caroline Bingley
| [m.] [Frank],
| | surnamed Fitzwm.
| |-[unknown child]
|-Louisa Bingley
m. Mr. Hurst
The cover design incorporates one of the Fullerton sisters from a double portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence (c. 1825) and a depiction of Waterloo Place and part of Regent Street drawn by Thomas H. Shepherd and engraved by W. Tombleson (1828). The decorative typeface is Exmouth from PrimaFont Software.