Kitty Bennet's Diary (Pride and Prejudice Chronicles)

by Elliott, Anna

  It is odd—for the last days, ever since encountering Mrs. Hurst at Vauxhall, I have been wracking my brains in an effort to think of some way of forcing her to give Jane’s necklace back to her. And I have come up with absolutely nothing in the way of feasible ideas. But as soon as Miss Dalton uttered those words, an entire plan sprung into my mind. Complete in every detail.

  Almost before I knew the words had left my mouth, I heard myself say, “I will do it.”

  Miss Dalton blinked at me in surprise. “That is very obliging of you, Miss Bennet.” She looked at me curiously. “But may I ask why—”

  I wavered momentarily. But it seemed as though my scheme might be more likely to succeed if I committed as few sins as possible in the planning of it. Besides, I truly did not wish to lie to Miss Dalton; I liked her too much for that.

  I drew in a breath. Telling myself that the worst Miss Dalton could do was be shocked and refuse my offer.

  I said—

  No, on second thought, I will not write down my entire scheme for the undoing of Louisa Hurst. If it succeeds, I will write down a full account. But in case it is a spectacular failure, I will at least spare myself the necessity of ripping these pages out of the diary and burning them.

  Speaking quickly, I related to Miss Dalton the whole history of Jane’s necklace and the wager made over the card game. And then I moved on to outline the plan that had just come into my head.

  I was fully prepared for Miss Dalton to in fact be utterly shocked and refuse to let me come anywhere near the fete. But when I had done, she clapped her hands, her dark eyes crinkled up at the corners with mirth. “Oh, famous!” She put her hand to her mouth, trying to suppress a laugh—but one escaped anyway. “You will be doing me—and the children’s hospital—a very kind service, Miss Bennet. But I confess that I would have let you take the role of gypsy for the sake of this scheme alone.” Then she stopped laughing and said, “I knew I should like you, from everything Lance has told me.”

  That made me stop short. But before I had time—or for that matter the nerve—to ask what precisely her brother had said about me, we were interrupted. Aunt Gardiner and Mr. Dalton had evidently finished their conversation, and Mr. Dalton had stood up to take his leave.

  Miss Dalton squeezed my hand as she bid me good-bye and said, still looking as though she wanted to laugh, “I shall look forward to seeing you Wednesday, then, Miss Bennet. It was a great pleasure to meet you.”

  My aunt, in bidding Mr. Dalton good-bye, said, “Do give my regards to your mother, Lance. And apologise to her that I have not yet gone to see her since she has been in town.”

  The words seemed—to my ears, at least, and I assume Aunt Gardiner’s as well—harmless enough. But both Mr. Dalton and his sister went still.

  And then Miss Dalton rushed to fill the moment of strained silence that had descended, saying swiftly, “Of course I will tell Mama. She … she goes out very seldom these days. But if you were to call at the house she might—” She gave her brother a quick, anxious-looking glance before returning her gaze to Aunt Gardiner. “That is, I am sure she would be delighted to see you, if she is at home.”

  Aunt Gardiner was too polite to mention the contradiction—that if their mother seldom went out, then calling at her residence could hardly fail to find her at home. She only repeated her good wishes, and the Daltons took their leave.

  I asked Aunt Gardiner when they had gone whether she knew what the trouble had been about, but she only shook her head and frowned. “No, I’ve no idea. I had heard that their mother took Percival’s death very hard indeed. He was always the favourite son, I remember, when he was a boy. I suppose perhaps she is still too much taken by her grief to pay or receive calls.”

  Monday 29 January 1816

  Rose came up to find me this morning—wide eyed and fairly breathless with awe at having so august a personage in the house—to say that Lord Henry Carmichael was downstairs in the drawing room and asking to speak with me.

  I went down at once, fuming—a fresh volley of threats and imprecations and general insults ready on my tongue. Because I assumed that he had asked to see Miss Bennet—meaning Mary—and that Rose had made a mistake in thinking he had asked for me.

  As well as needing practice in how to answer the door, she also sometimes forgets the distinction between ‘Miss Bennet’ and ‘Miss Kitty Bennet’.

  But I had entered the drawing room and got no further than saying, in an icy tone, “Lord Henry, my sister is not at home—” when he held up a hand to stop me.

  “I know your cursed sister is not at home! I’ve been waiting on the cursed street outside in my carriage for nearly two cursed hours waiting for her to leave, so that I might come in and speak with you!”

  My eyes widened in surprise—and I looked at him more closely. Noticing for the first time that he seemed to be in an advanced state of vexation. He was sober, for once. Or mostly so. But his face was flushed and his fair hair was rumpled, as though he had been tugging his hands through it.

  I raised my eyebrows, keeping well back from him. He seemed, from his lack of consciousness, to recall the basics of our conversation, but to have no memory of his drunken attempts at softening my opinion of him. But neither did I wish to come within his grasp again.

  “I was under the impression that I had made my position perfectly clear. I wish you to stop seeing my sister. If you do not—”

  “I am trying to stop seeing your sister!” Lord Henry burst out. He let out an explosive breath of air, running both hands through his hair again. “Miss Bennet, I have done exactly as you asked. I have called off the bet. I have made no efforts whatever to contact your sister. The trouble is that she has no wish to stop seeing me. She comes jumping out at me from behind trees when I go riding in the park. She darts out at me from doorways when I am walking to my club. I declare that it is getting so that I would not be at all surprised to find her nestling in the soap dish the next time I take a bath!”

  He sounded so thoroughly exasperated that I very nearly laughed. But in truth, it was no laughing matter—not at all. No respectable lady ventures to walk down St. James’s Street—which I assume is where Lord Henry’s club is located; most fashionable gentlemen’s clubs are. But—or so I have heard—a great number of less-than-respectable ladies do frequently walk there.

  If Mary persisted in her doggedly determined pursuit, she might very easily come to harm at the hands of a man who mistook her for one of those latter kind. And it would be entirely Lord Henry’s fault.

  All at once I was angry—boilingly so. “Well, and did it never occur to you before you made your disgusting little wager that it might have less-than-desirable consequences?” I clenched my hands. “You cannot simply go through life toying with … with other people’s affections. Treating other people’s lives as though they were mere playing pieces in a game designed solely for your own private amusement!”

  Lord Henry looked at me. And then abruptly, he frowned. “Wait a moment. I know you, do I not?”

  I forced myself to draw a ragged breath. “We have had this conversation before. I told you. We met in Ostend last summer.”

  Lord Henry frowned, shaking his head in apparent puzzlement. “No, that’s not it.” He looked at me again, brow still furrowed in an effort of recollection. “I should have sworn—”

  Of course this was the very last path down which I wanted his memory to wander. Besides which, my throat was feeling uncomfortably tight, and I knew that I should never, ever forgive myself if I were to burst into tears in front of Lord Henry, of all men.

  “Just get out,” I snapped. “I will deal with my sister. You keep away from her. Because if you do not, my original … warning still stands. I will go to your aunt, and you will abruptly find yourself in possession of a slighted and abandoned wife and a dead baby son.”

  That was an hour ago. My hands have finally stopped shaking enough to allow me to write all this down, but I still have no idea exactly how I am t
o go about persuading Mary into giving up Lord Henry. And yet at the same time sparing her a humiliation from which she might never recover.

  Tuesday 30 January 1816

  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, an
d 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.

  Wednesday 31 January 1816

  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.