What Kitty Did Next

by Carrie Kablean

  What could she write about? She thought about it for a long time, about the people she knew and their characters: the proud ones, the haughty ones, the downright ridiculous ones, the weak ones, the rich and the poor and the evil, grasping ones; about what she had seen and done in London and at Pemberley; about the places she had read about in other novels, places she had never visited but which she could imagine.

  There was paper and writing instruments on the table. Kitty got up quietly so as not to disturb Mrs Bennet and went over to it. Yes, she could do this! Well, she could certainly try. She had already written a short story. She pulled out the chair gently to avoid making any noise, and sat down at the table. She could be ‘A Lady’, too! Or ‘Miss Catherine Bennet, author’. She quite liked the sound of that. ‘You haven’t written anything yet!’ said the voice. Kitty brought the little stack of paper towards her and started to scribble down ideas. She would work from the title Town and Country; it could be about a housemaid, perhaps, who went from a grand estate to work in London. She wanted to be something more than a housemaid. What could she be, thought Kitty. Perhaps a milliner? She could open her own shop, eventually. How would she find the money? Perhaps she had an admirer? An old, doting admirer with a booming voice. Kitty laughed. What a ridiculous idea!

  ‘What are you doing?’ Mrs Bennet had awoken.

  ‘Writing a letter, Mama,’ said Kitty, extemporising.

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘Elizabeth,’ said Kitty. She put down her pen, and looked around at her mother.

  ‘Well, remind her she promised to tell me how the new chairs suited, and tell her I look forward to receiving a letter.’

  ‘I will, Mama.’ Satisfied with her advice and this answer, Mrs Bennet drifted back to sleep. Kitty smiled and at the same time realised she was smiling. It was the first time she had felt anything approaching happiness for weeks. She picked up her pen again and started plotting.

  It was one of Aunt Phillips’ days and Kitty, hearing her arrive, bundled up her papers and went downstairs to greet her aunt. Then, instead of going out, she went upstairs to her room and continued writing.

  CHAPTER 57

  Mr Bingley had paid a brief visit that morning, bringing with him a letter for Kitty from Jane.

  ‘How is she?’ asked Kitty. ‘If you think she is well enough, I wondered if I might call in to Netherfield tomorrow.’

  ‘She is better than she has been for weeks, so it would seem the physician’s advice was good. One would hope so, he came highly recommended. Jane is not so much tired now than tired of seeing no one. I think you will find that letter answers your question. She would be most pleased to see you.’

  ‘Oh, that is excellent news, Charles! Mama will be glad to hear it as well. I think it will not be long now?’

  Mr Bingley believed not and leaving behind that happy thought continued on his way. Kitty was delighted at the thought of seeing Jane again. She had visited Netherfield only twice since coming back to Longbourn, mindful of Jane’s condition. Her confinement had not been an easy one and when Kitty had last seen her sister she had been surprised at how pinched and drawn she had become. She had been fearful, too, afraid of losing the precious life she was carrying, but that danger now seemed past. In consequence of Jane’s fragile constitution, Kitty had quelled the urge to tell her sister of the injustices she had suffered at Pemberley. She still felt them keenly but had quickly realised that such revelations would cause Jane, who hated discord of any kind, especially between those she loved, much anxiety and distress. Now was not the time to unburden herself.

  ‘Was that our dear Mr Bingley?’ called her mother, as Kitty walked upstairs. She had her sewing bag with her, her chapters and notebook safely concealed within.

  ‘Yes,’ said Kitty, going in to Mrs Bennet’s room. ‘Jane is well. All is well; there is no other news yet. Shall I read to you?’

  Her mother nodded, and Kitty picked up the book. Thus the morning passed and Kitty had little time to think about her own stories. Aunt Phillips arrived and Kitty went downstairs to greet her and let her know she would be going out.

  ‘You are off to see your sister? That baby is taking its time to arrive.’

  Kitty agreed and rang for the carriage to be brought around. She was plotting various scenarios and characters all the way to Netherfield but her imagination gave way to reality the moment she arrived. The housekeeper came running up to tell her the accoucheur and the monthly nurse had been with Mrs Bingley since the previous evening, and the baby was expected very soon.

  ‘Good heaven!’ exclaimed Kitty. The house seemed so quiet. ‘Is everything well?’

  ‘I believe so, madam. I hope so.’

  ‘Who else is with her,’ asked Kitty, handing over her bonnet and spencer.

  ‘Just Mr Bingley, madam.’

  ‘Shall I go to her? Please tell Mr Bingley I am here.’

  The housekeeper started up the stairs, Kitty hurrying after her. They had just reached the second landing, when the thin wail of a newborn pierced the air. Kitty and the housekeeper both stopped, looked at each other. It was hard to say who was most delighted. At that moment, Mr Bingley appeared, looking dazed and supported by a small, dapper man who Kitty supposed must be the accoucheur.

  ‘Charles!’ cried Kitty. ‘How is she? Is everything all right? Is Jane well?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ returned he. ‘Yes! I have been sent outside by the nurse but, yes, all is well! I am so relieved. I had no idea…’

  Kitty hugged him in response and Mr Bingley sat down on a nearby chair.

  ‘It is all astonishing! I am quite amazed. Jane is so… so brave.’

  ‘You are quite brave yourself,’ returned Kitty. ‘Not every man would be at his wife’s confinement! But you have not told me whether you have a son or a daughter?’

  Before he could answer, the nurse had opened the door and indicated that Mr Bingley could return. He jumped up, telling Kitty to come with him. She needed no further encouragement.

  ‘Jane,’ she cried. ‘You should have sent word! I would have come sooner.’ And then she stopped, taking in the sight of her sister propped up by pillows and cradling her tiny baby.

  ‘Oh, Kitty,’ said Jane, her eyes brimming. ‘Look, we have a daughter!’

  The little pink bundle in her arms took no notice whatsoever as her mother, father and aunt peered at her and marvelled at her tiny fingers and toes, her snub of a nose, her downy little head. Jane handed her to Mr Bingley, who paraded his daughter around the room, totally enraptured with both her and his wife. ‘Her name is Elizabeth Charlotte,’ he told Kitty. ‘We had already decided. She is beautiful.’

  ‘She is,’ agreed Kitty, smiling at Jane, who was already half asleep.

  Mr Bingley handed little Elizabeth back to the nurse and sank into a chair. He looked almost as drained as his wife. ‘I confess I did not know it would be like this.’ He made a vague gesture towards the various linens, towels and other paraphernalia that one of the maids was in the process of clearing away. ‘I am not sure what I am supposed to do next.’

  ‘Be the proud father!’ laughed Kitty. ‘Perhaps I can come back tomorrow and see what help I can be to Jane? I am sure Aunt Phillips will be happy to sit with Mama when she knows your news.’

  ‘I would like that very much,’ said Jane, her voice quieter than usual. They looked over to see her trying to sit up in the bed.

  ‘I am sure you have been told to rest!’ said Kitty, sternly, and Jane smiled and lay down again, giving up that struggle. ‘I will go now so that you can sleep. I will come back tomorrow.’

  ‘You have too much to do already,’ argued Jane, feebly. ‘Looking after Mama, I mean. I know how she can be. I have been no help. You have done it all. I have not had to worry about her at all.’ She looked as though she might cry.

  ‘Do not worry so, Jane,’ said Kitty, kissing her goodbye. ‘I will come back tomorrow. You will be unable to keep me away. Rest now, please.’ She went over to have another p
eek at the sleeping baby and then Charles escorted her downstairs.

  ‘She does appreciate your looking after Mrs Bennet so well,’ said he. ‘She often comments on it.’

  Kitty, though pleased, was a little surprised at this information. How like Jane to be thinking of someone else, even after she had just given birth! She said goodbye to Mr Bingley, and looked forward to seeing him again on the morrow. The carriage started off towards Longbourn.

  What more can be said on such a happy occasion, except to formally declare that the parents were happy and proud, the baby lusty and strong, the aunt delighted to be an aunt, the mother as well as could be expected.

  CHAPTER 58

  Happily for everyone, and especially the lady herself, news of her grandchild was enough to bring Mrs Bennet out of her stupor. When she received the glad tidings on Kitty’s return to Longbourn, she called for her maid and insisted on leaving her bed immediately, at least some of her pains forgotten. She was not so strong as she would have liked, however, and it was some time before she was to be found downstairs and situated in her favourite armchair.

  Mr Bennet was likewise delighted, both at the arrival of Elizabeth Charlotte and to find his wife in the parlour. A toast was in order, he declared, and a fine claret produced.

  ‘Another Elizabeth,’ said Kitty, remembering Charlotte Collins’s baby daughter, Elizabeth Anne. She immediately realised her mistake in mentioning the name Collins in her mother’s presence and expected a tirade, but Mrs Bennet was too pleased with Jane and Mr Bingley to notice.

  ‘I shall go to Netherfield tomorrow,’ she declared, and neither Kitty nor Mr Bennet attempted to caution her otherwise, though both thought it unlikely to happen given her health.

  ‘Well, Kitty,’ said her father, an hour or so later, after Mrs Bennet, fatigued by her excess of joy, had once more retired to her room. ‘You are an aunt and I am a grandfather. Jane has worked wonders, not least for your mother.’

  ***

  To everyone’s surprise, Mrs Bennet did rally after this event. She still tired easily and kept to her bed most days, but she was more alert and more her old self. The physician, when applied to for his opinion, had no real wisdom or insight to offer.

  Kitty’s morning routine was quite severely disrupted by this change. Her nascent idea of writing suffered particularly as Mrs Bennet was now far more likely to want Kitty to read or listen to her. The constant haranguing to find herself a husband or become an old maid was now so predictable that it hardly had an effect; what Kitty found much more vexing was Mrs Bennet’s praise of her dear Lydia and her admiration of the inestimable Mrs Darcy. One day, having exhausted herself in these areas, she began to talk of the next round of balls at the Meryton Assembly Rooms. Did Kitty have a subscription, with whom would she go? Was Maria Lucas back from Kent? What about Marianne Gregory?

  Kitty let this topic air; she was not interested in dancing at the moment, it brought back too many painful memories, none of which she was about to share with her mother. She turned the conversation back to Elizabeth Charlotte.

  ‘I have yet to see the babe,’ said her mother, looking suddenly sad and very old. Kitty felt sorry for her. It would be another two weeks before Jane would leave Netherfield.

  ‘When I visit next, if the weather is fine and not too cold, I will ask Jane if perhaps the nurse and I might bring little Elizabeth here to see you. Would you like me to do that?’

  Mrs Bennet thought this was the most marvellous idea Kitty had ever had. She wondered at her ingenuity. She could not have made a better suggestion herself.

  ‘Very well then,’ said Kitty. ‘Remember, I cannot promise, I can only ask. You should rest now.’

  Mrs Bennet accepted this proposal and Kitty was soon rewarded by her mother’s gentle snores. She went to the table and began to write. She now had more ideas in her head than she had put on paper about her poor maid about to turn milliner and the frightful bores and pompous gentlemen who surrounded her. Kitty had become quite single-minded about her ‘little novel’ and worked on it in her room late at night and sometimes before breakfast. It diverted her greatly to lose herself in their ambitions and absurdities.

  A couple of days later, Little Elizabeth – as she came to be known – was brought to Longbourn, accompanied by Kitty, the nurse and the proud father, and was received with rapture by Mrs Bennet and a quieter but no less heartfelt joy by Mr Bennet. Letters of congratulation had been received, a christening arranged and all the usual accompaniments that follow a wanted child’s entry into the world.

  Kitty continued her writing; it was her escape from the dreary monotony of Longbourn and, unlike real life, her characters could be made to do what she wanted them to in this fictional world. She was in charge of their destiny.

  ‘You write a prodigious number of letters these days,’ remarked her mother one morning, rousing herself and sitting back onto her pillows. ‘To whom are you writing now?’

  ‘Miss Fanshawe,’ said Kitty, covering her papers and turning to face Mrs Bennet.

  ‘If you say so,’ said her mother, shrewdly. ‘I am beginning to suspect you are writing to someone else. A gentleman, perhaps. An amour!’

  ‘Why would you think such a thing?’ asked Kitty, genuinely astonished.

  ‘You have not been such an excellent correspondent in the past,’ grumbled Mrs Bennet. ‘I did not receive so many letters from you when you were in London and at Pemberley.’

  ‘I am sorry, Mama.’

  ‘What sort of a girl is Miss Fanshawe? What do you write to her?’

  Kitty improvised and gave an account of Felicia Fanshawe, unwisely letting it be known that she had two brothers. Mrs Bennet seized on this information, wanting to know what sort of gentlemen they were, what were their incomes, where did they live? Bored with the truth, Kitty made some of it up: she made Freddie Fanshawe short and stout, with a droopy eye; she allowed William to have a distinguished military career. Her mother seemed satisfied.

  Mrs Bennet was not entirely persuaded, however. As the days dragged by, she became increasingly convinced that Kitty was harbouring a secret, that she had a clandestine admirer. Once the idea was fixed in her head, nothing could shake it. One day she insisted on seeing Kitty’s letter and when this demand was refused, she called for Mr Bennet to intervene.

  ‘She is writing to a suitor, I am sure of it,’ she shrilled. ‘Ask her to show you her letter.’

  ‘My dear Mrs Bennet. Kitty may write to whomsoever she chooses. You would surely not censor her correspondence.’

  ‘Show your father your letter,’ insisted Mrs Bennet. ‘If you have nothing to hide, you will do as I ask.’

  ‘I have nothing to hide,’ said Kitty, ‘but my correspondence is private.’

  ‘You see?’ cried Mrs Bennet. ‘She is keeping something from me!’

  ‘Kitty,’ said her father. ‘Do you have any objection to showing your mother your letter?’

  ‘Yes,’ said she. ‘I do.’

  If her father was surprised, he did not show it. ‘Well then, Mrs Bennet. There is nothing more to be said.’ He left the room. After that, Kitty was more circumspect. She wrote in her room, or in the parlour when she was sure her father was in the library, but she kept writing. The world of her imagination was far more exciting than the one in which she was living.

  CHAPTER 59

  Kitty and Mr Bennet were in the parlour together, having had dinner, and were comfortably arranged in chairs either side of the fireplace. The winter weather had set in, and the frosts were turning the fields white in the mornings.

  A letter from Lydia to her mother lay on the table opened. It had arrived after Mrs Bennet had retired and Kitty eyed it with disdain, anticipating her mother’s request to dictate a reply.

  She turned back to her book, one of Samuel Richardson’s novels. She had already read Pamela: Or, Virtue Rewarded (the title had ironic appeal) and was now working her way through the many volumes of his History of Sir Charles Grandison, wh
ich on the whole she found rather satisfying. She sensed her father’s gaze and looked up.

  ‘You do not hear from your sister, Lydia,’ he observed mildly.

  ‘No,’ said Kitty, with some feeling. She had not meant to deliver the word with such venom.

  Mr Bennet noticed of course. ‘I have not heard from Lydia since she left Pemberley,’ continued Kitty, making sure her tone was bland and reasonable. ‘It was not so very long ago.’ She did not want to discuss Lydia, the chief architect of her woes, but the mention of her presence in Derbyshire was greeted with incredulity by her father.

  ‘Lydia was received at Pemberley?’ said he. ‘I am astonished.’

  Kitty realised her mistake; he had not known. ‘Everyone was astonished. She arrived in time for the summer ball. She was not invited.’

  ‘My word,’ said Mr Bennet, as he assessed the implications of Lydia’s intrusion into the Darcy estate.

  ‘Mr Wickham? Where was he?’

  ‘Elsewhere. In Birmingham or somewhere, with his fellow officers,’ said Kitty. ‘Lydia thought it would be enormous fun to arrive at Pemberley, unheralded.’

  ‘My word,’ said her father again. ‘And was it? Enormous fun?’

  ‘It most certainly was not,’ said Kitty, hoping to close the subject. Mr Bennet regarded his daughter.

  ‘There has been a falling out, between you and Lydia?’ he enquired. Kitty looked at him; she knew his sardonic humour only too well and she was not going to be made the butt of his amusement over something he might denounce as a silly, sisterly spat. Equally, she could not bring herself to air Elizabeth’s condemnation of her as a thief. She said nothing more, but her steely composure only prompted more questions.