Kitty Bennet's Diary (Pride and Prejudice Chronicles)

by Elliott, Anna

  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.”

  Sunday 11 February 1816

  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 m
e.”

  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.

  Monday 12 February 1816

  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.

  Tuesday 13 February 1816

  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 ho
use 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.”