Saying goodbye to Mr Darcy was especially difficult. Outwardly both maintained a friendly accord: she thanked him for his excellent hospitality and he in turn made the necessary reference to expecting to see her at Pemberley again. Neither expected that to happen. Darcy’s manner was as smooth as ice, and just as warm. Georgiana, with Elizabeth by her side, had the grace to wish Mrs Bennet well but would not meet Kitty’s eye. She was not surprised, but deeply affected at the loss of so dear a friendship.
At last, Kitty was able to retire to her room, pleading a headache and the need to prepare for the days ahead.
She was up at first light. When she drew back the curtains she saw a summer storm had broken the previous night, drenching the countryside and breaking the weeks of fine weather. Now the day was damp and the sky sullen, but there was otherwise no impediment to travel.
Kitty made her way downstairs for the last time. As it would be neither right nor appropriate for any relation of Mrs Fitzwilliam Darcy to make such a long journey unaccompanied, a small escort of servants had been drafted to ensure Kitty’s comfort and security. These would be her sole companions on the way to Hertfordshire. With her trunks aboard, she was ready to leave. If she had harboured hopes for some last-minute reprieve – that Freddie Fanshawe might at any moment gallop into view and take responsibility for his actions, absolving her of her perceived crimes; that her friend Georgiana would relent and come down to wave her goodbye – then she was disappointed. Only Elizabeth emerged from the house to perform that ritual, and it was done perfunctorily.
And so began the journey. Kitty was immensely sad as they passed through the glades and woodlands of Pemberley. The deer, so often capriciously absent when looked for, had grouped themselves picturesquely on a hillside, and she kept them in view for as long as she could. Her grief was not just for the house and grounds, of course, nor for her own tarnished reputation, but for all that she had enjoyed so briefly and then lost. Her sister’s esteem, her friend’s affection, a camaraderie that had seemed so strong and then vanished in an instant. Inconstant fortune, she thought to herself, but could not place the reference.
The maid who had been assigned to her was a pleasant girl called Jenny. She had never been outside of Derbyshire before and was exceedingly delighted and not a little nervous about travelling all the way to London, where she would become part of the retinue at the Darcys’ Berkeley Square house. Her presence meant that Kitty could not give in to the sorrow and dejection that consumed her. She allowed Jenny to ask her questions about London and Hertfordshire and answered them graciously enough, and took a little pleasure at the wonder displayed on the girl’s face at the thought of all that awaited her in town, but after a while she feigned sleep and they travelled in silence.
The journey seemed to go on for ever and was in stark contrast to the one she had made northwards just a few months previously, where the hours were spent in friendly conversation and the anticipation of Pemberley and all that it offered. Travelling in the opposite direction now, there was nothing to look forward to, just the familiarity and monotony of Longbourn.
Kitty lost count of the stops they made to change horses and took little notice of the inns they stopped at, except to know they were satisfactory. The maid and the other servant did all they could to provide for her comfort but Kitty, locked in her own melancholy and depression, was barely aware of her surrounds and it was not until midday on the third day of the journey that she recognised some fields and farmhouses and realised they were almost at Longbourn.
A few minutes later, the ivy-covered pale stone walls of her family home were in sight at the end of a short, gravelled drive. Kitty let down the side-glass to better see outside. A sudden gust of wind dislodged some leaves on the trees and blew a few on to her lap. They were turning, she noted dully; it must be nearly autumn.
The noise of the carriage had alerted Mr Bennet who appeared at the door to welcome his daughter home. ‘There you are, child,’ he said, not without affection. ‘I am glad to see you safe and sound.’
Kitty walked back into Longbourn, its smells and sights so very familiar. She gave her cloak and bonnet to Mrs Hill, who was pleased to see young Miss Catherine again, and looked around her. Nothing had changed but everything looked smaller somehow.
‘Is that Kitty arrived?’ demanded a querulous voice.
‘Yes, Mama. I am here,’ said Kitty, unsure as to her mother’s whereabouts.
‘At last!’ cried Mrs Bennet. ‘I have been waiting.’
‘She is in her room,’ said Mr Bennet, indicating the staircase.
CHAPTER 55
She went up, knocked on Mrs Bennet’s door and entered her room. ‘Mama!’ It was as much a greeting as an expression of shock. It was seven months since Kitty had bade her mother farewell and then she had been in robust health, plump and pink-cheeked. The face she kissed now was drawn and pale, and through the layers of lace and wool that Mrs Bennet was wearing as she lay, almost lost in a sea of pillows, Kitty could see that she was much thinner. She sat on the edge of the bed, and took her mother’s hand.
‘It is good to see you, Mama,’ said she, noticing how cold and light that hand seemed in her own. ‘Jane wrote that you were not yourself. I can see that she was right to be concerned on your behalf.’
‘It is very tiresome,’ returned Mrs Bennet. ‘No one can tell what is wrong. No one can give me any relief. I have told the physician that it is no good but does he listen to me? No, he does not. I have such a pain in my side some days. Such a sharp pain and I have to sit down. You cannot imagine. Oh, I do suffer but there is no use complaining. It just makes my poor nerves so much worse. Well, at least you are here now, Kitty. You will see for yourself how things are. Pass me that small bottle over there, dear. I cannot reach it myself.’
Kitty looked around and saw a small brown vial on the table. She gave it to her mother who unscrewed the top and took a small sip.
‘What is that, Mama? Is it laudanum?’
‘Laudanum mixed with some wine, dear. It is helpful for my nerves. The apothecary says I must not have more than this tiny amount. It is all very well for him to say so but I am the one who is in pain.’ She sank back on the pillows, closed her eyes and seemed to relax a little.
Kitty waited, unsure what to do. ‘Do you want to sleep, Mama? Shall I stay or shall I go and see Papa and come back in a little while?’
‘You must do as you will. I will cope as best as I can here. There is no need to worry about me.’ Her eyes were still closed as she spoke. Kitty looked at her mother, shook her head and made a sad smile. There was no doubting Mrs Bennet was unwell and that she had lost a lot of weight; she had not, however, lost the power of speech.
Kitty found her father in his usual chair in the library.
‘What ails Mama?’ she asked.
Mr Bennet sighed. ‘The physicians are not sure. Various prognoses have been made but none are borne out by examination. Your dear mother complains of pain but it is difficult to locate its cause or indeed its exact location.’
‘Physicians?’
‘Mrs Bennet was dissatisfied with the first physician and so another was brought in. Both are of the same opinion, and that opinion is, to be frank, vague in the extreme. I am glad you are here, child.’
Kitty looked at her father and saw signs of fatigue. Mrs Bennet’s nerves, exacerbated by pain, would be exacting for all.
‘It is good to see you again, Papa.’ She could not bring herself to say she was glad to be home. Mrs Hill bustled in with tea and the information that Miss Catherine’s things had been put in her old room, just as before. She assumed, incorrectly, that this would be welcome news. Kitty thanked her and poured tea for herself and her father.
‘Your mother will be wanting you,’ he said, ‘But stay here awhile and tell me how things go with Elizabeth. This summer ball of hers seems to have been a most grand affair.’
So she stayed and gave her father a brief account of life at Pemberley, which on
ly increased her sadness, and then excused herself to go to her room.
Kitty closed her door, sank onto her bed and stared at her surrounds. The very sight of the room, its sameness, its contrast with the pretty and much larger bedroom she had had at Pemberley, taunted her. A great wave of panic and despair washed over her and suddenly she was gasping for air. She clutched at the bedpost to steady herself and forced herself to breathe. ‘No!’ she kept saying, over and over again. ‘No. No. No. No. No!’ She heard herself repeating the word and thought she would go mad. She would go mad and stay in this room for the rest of her life. Unloved, unwanted. Forgotten. Poor Kitty. She went mad, did you know? They say she stole that necklace!
She beat her forehead with the heel of her hand, as if to drive out the pain and anger. Catching sight of herself in the glass as she paced around the room, she asked her reflection, ‘What am I going to do?’ The distraught and crazed face in the mirror crumpled in front of her. ‘Do not cry!’ she instructed it. But the tears came, welling up into her eyes and down her cheeks. She felt the back of her throat constricting and she was convulsed by loud, wracking sobs. Kitty climbed onto the bed, covered her head with a pillow and cried and cried until she had no energy left.
She woke to the sound of Mrs Hill knocking on the door, asking whether she would be joining Mr Bennet for dinner. Having scant choice, Kitty got up, changed her dress, washed her face and tried, with little success and no great effort, to reduce the puffiness of her eyes with cold water. She gave up. What did her appearance matter here in Longbourn? If her father noticed she was upset, he would attribute it to concern about her mother.
Mr Bennet looked up as she entered the dining room, and asked her if she was rested? ‘You still look tired. Unsurprising, after your journey,’ he said.
‘Mama does not leave her room?’ asked Kitty.
‘She has good days and bad days,’ replied her father. ‘This is not a good day. Although, of course it is good insofar as you are here,’ he added, as an afterthought.
‘She usually has dinner sent up?’
Mr Bennet nodded. ‘It was good of you to come home, Kitty,’ he repeated. ‘Your mother will be pleased of the company.’
Kitty felt tears of self-pity threatening and managed to control them. She took a sip of wine.
‘How is Jane? I must visit her soon.’
‘She is looking well, quite well indeed,’ said her father, brightening at the recollection. ‘She will be pleased to see you as well.’
The rest of the meal passed in near silence. Mr Bennet had never been a great conversationalist, his wife took care of that aspect of their relationship. In her absence, he had taken to bringing a book to the dining table. One lay beside him now and, without thinking, he put on his glasses and opened it. Then he remembered Kitty.
‘It’s all right,’ said Kitty, and he resumed reading. She finished her meal and listened to the sound of the clock ticking.
CHAPTER 56
It took less than a day for Mrs Bennet to start devolving the running of Longbourn to her daughter and soon Mrs Hill looked to and took her instructions from Miss Bennet. Over the course of the following few weeks a routine established itself, wherein Kitty tried to keep herself occupied as far as possible – which was not difficult, given the responsibilities and requirements of managing the household – while still being the dutiful daughter. It was not exciting but it was necessary and useful in keeping her from too much despondent reflection.
Every morning before breakfast she devoted at least an hour to practising at the pianoforte. After breakfast she went to her mother and, if Mrs Bennet’s mood favoured it, she would read to her. This was Kitty’s preference, although often the invalid preferred to talk, which invariably tried her daughter’s patience and, ultimately, improved her forbearance. Aunt Phillips came to visit her sister regularly, three times a week, which gave Kitty respite for such delights as walking into Meryton or just going into the library to read – she no longer had any qualms about her father’s reaction in that regard and, to his credit, he had not so much as raised an eyebrow.
Of course she wanted to see and talk to Jane, in whom she expected to find a sympathetic ear and perhaps a chance to explain some of the events at Pemberley, but she was thwarted in even that reasonable pleasure. Shortly after she arrived at Longbourn, Kitty had contracted a slight cough and cold, which had prevented her from visiting Netherfield. Then, just as that ailment had passed, Jane’s physician had prescribed bed rest for his patient and also advised against visitors for the rest of her confinement. Jane was happy to see Kitty but the latter, mindful of the physician’s instruction, wanted only to do what was best for her sister and the baby. So they continued to correspond even though Jane was but three miles away.
She had sought the company of Maria Lucas, but that was also denied her. She had lately gone to Kent, to be with her sister Charlotte and her new baby.
If Kitty and her father were dining à deux, as was usually the case, each would have a book as a companion, an arrangement that suited both. On the rare occasions Mrs Bennet and her nerves felt well enough to bring themselves downstairs, her husband and daughter had to mask their reluctance in favouring conversation over their books.
Her mother rarely required attention in the evenings; whether the result of her illness or the laudanum, she was often tired and drowsy. This allowed Kitty the genteel pursuits of playing music, reading and writing letters and, if she was really at a loss, of picking up some netting.
Once in a while, something untoward happened to vary the routine. The physician might call, or Lady Lucas might visit. Mr Bingley occasionally came by, usually at Jane’s request, to enquire after everyone and apologise for his wife’s inability to come to Longbourn herself. Such was the extent of the unexpected at Longbourn during those days.
Mrs Bennet’s condition remained unchanged and Kitty reported as much when she wrote to Elizabeth. Those letters received polite but perfunctory replies and Kitty received more information as to what was happening at Pemberley through Elizabeth’s letters to Jane, with whom she shared more interesting news.
Kitty had no intentions whatsoever of writing to Lydia, though she was once coerced into scribing a letter for her mother. Sometimes, Mrs Bennet handed over Lydia’s letters for her perusal but Kitty did not deign to read them. It was galling to have to write on her mother’s behalf, knowing that Lydia would recognise her handwriting and take pleasure in picturing her, the spinster sister, at Longbourn.
From Georgiana she heard nothing. Miss Fanshawe, however, had written a long letter, full of plans for her forthcoming wedding and the future and news of what was happening at Danson Park, including best wishes and kind enquiries from her mother, brothers and uncle. Kitty did not begrudge Felicia her happiness but the letter made her downcast all the same. The irony of receiving best wishes from Freddie Fanshawe, even at second-hand and imagined rather than genuine, was not lost on her. Nonetheless, she replied immediately, clinging on to the memory of a summer that seemed very long ago, and hoping to salvage at least one friendship from the debacle.
She remained sad but adapted to life at Longbourn, and there was, she discovered, some worth in being useful and helping care for her mother. She felt appreciated, by her father at least.
***
It was now October and the only thing that had changed at Longbourn was the season. The days were shorter and the trees were skeletal, devoid of leaves and colour. Kitty had been reading to her mother, who had now fallen asleep. She looked at her, such a shadow of the bustling and noisy woman she had been, and wondered what she could do to make her feel better.
Yesterday, Mrs Bennet had been quite voluble. She wanted to talk, she said, which essentially meant she wanted her views heard and validated by whoever was listening. Her subject range was narrow: Jane and the belief her child would be a son; this sometimes led to the observation that it didn’t matter if Jane and Mr Bingley didn’t have a son, because there was n
o spectre of a Mr Collins waiting to take everything from them; then there was the heady question of when Elizabeth and Mr Darcy would produce an heir, and really Elizabeth should not wait too long to do something about that; this led her to wonder when her dear Lydia and Wickham would give her a grandchild; then she might wonder vaguely about Mary, but never for long; and finally, inevitably, the conversation would turn to Kitty and when she was going to find a husband.
‘It is hard to believe that you found no one suitable when you were in London, Kitty,’ she had reiterated, irritated at her daughter’s ineptitude in so simple a task. ‘Jane wrote that you went to all the best places. You cannot be too choosy, you know.’
Kitty had agreed this was so.
‘Was there no one who was interested in you? You are not a beauty, but you are handsome enough in your way. In fact, I think you are looking better these days.’
Kitty had thanked her for the compliment and Mrs Bennet had eyed her sharply. ‘I hope you are not being smart with me, Miss.’
She had said she was not. The conversation rarely varied. Kitty could almost recite it, and sometimes she was almost amused by it.
Her mother turned in her bed, sighing loudly, but did not open her eyes. Kitty picked up the novel that lay open on her lap. It was not particularly good, certainly not good enough to keep her mother awake, and Kitty thought she could do better herself. A small voice in her head said, ‘Well, why don’t you?’ It quite startled her. An idyllic afternoon on the lawn at Pemberley came into her mind. Georgiana had been painting and she and Elizabeth sitting on a great plaid blanket, reading. She remembered that one of the books had been authored by ‘A Lady’. Was it a comedy of manners or a romance? Kitty wasn’t sure, but the author had chosen to remain anonymous. Could she write a book? She wasn’t sure about that either. ‘That would surprise them all,’ said the voice again. So it would, thought Kitty, the idea taking tenuous hold.
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