What Kitty Did Next

by Carrie Kablean

‘Sorry?’ said Mr Bennet. ‘For what are you sorry exactly?’

  ‘For this,’ said Kitty, gesturing at her work, her precious stories. ‘It is just something to pass the time. I would not have them made public. I would not parody you or my sisters, I assure you. Let me take them.’ She reached out her hands to take the pages from her father, but he held them aloft.

  ‘You think I disapprove, child?’

  ‘If you will just let me take them, I will destroy them,’ said Kitty, distressed and not knowing whether her worst fear was her father’s anger or his ridicule.

  ‘I hope you will do no such thing. In fact, I shall forbid it!’

  Kitty was dumbfounded. What did her father intend? Surely he would not humiliate her further by letting others see something he found so risible.

  ‘My dear,’ said Mr Bennet, seeing her concern at last and pointing to the papers in his lap. ‘This is very good! I had no idea you had such a talent for prose. How long have you been writing this?’

  A pause followed, wherein Kitty digested this strange information.

  ‘I suppose it began when I was in London last year,’ she said at last, unsure of her father’s sincerity and well aware of his capricious tendencies. ‘There were so many new things to see, so many new people to observe. I did not know many people, so it was easier to watch. It began as a journal, just a way of keeping a record so that I did not forget.’

  ‘Well it has progressed well from there,’ said her father. ‘I would not have imagined it of you, Kitty. No, do not look alarmed! It is praise! Well meant, not like your Mr Crawford’s! Praise and, I admit it, a fair degree of astonishment.’

  ‘You really approve?’ said Kitty, quite amazed herself.

  ‘I do, child. Approve and applaud. And if you will permit me, I shall take these and I shall read the rest.’

  ‘If you really wish it,’ said she, still unbelieving.

  ‘Now you are asking for more praise?’

  ‘No, not all,’ Kitty smiled at last. ‘I am just surprised. I had not anticipated anyone reading my stories but me. The thought makes me feel uncomfortable. I would prefer it if you would not mention this to Aunt Gardiner, or anyone else for that matter.’

  ‘An author who does not want to be read! Now there is a strange thing!’

  ‘I am not an author,’ protested Kitty.

  ‘As you wish, Miss Bennet,’ returned her father. ‘But I am holding in my hand something that looks very much like a novel and someone must have penned it. Is that not so?’

  ‘An anonymous someone.’

  ‘Ah! Well that solves that riddle. Very well. I shall share it with no one else in this house without your permission.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Now as I imagine we will be joined at any moment by your aunt and uncle, let us secret these papers away and I will read them when I retire.’ He looked at Kitty as he said this, and shook his head in happy disbelief.

  ‘I think a little refreshment is in order. Please be so kind as to ring the bell.’

  Kitty did as she was bid.

  ‘Oh, and one more thing…’ said Mr Bennet, as he picked up the newspaper on the table by his side.

  ‘Yes?’ said Kitty, nervously.

  ‘Do keep writing.’

  She sat down in a chair near the fire, once more in a state of confusion. Her father was opposite her, reading his newspaper as if the day were the same as any other, which of course it was excepting that the morning’s post had brought her salvation, and in the afternoon someone – her father! – had read the beginnings of Town and Country and thought it worthy. Amusing, even. Her father! A man from whom praise was hitherto unknown. She had not thought about to whom she might have entrusted an airing of her writing, but her father would not have been among her first choices. He who was so liberal with his sarcasm rather than his advice.

  She looked across at him again. That he appeared to have aged since Mrs Bennet’s death was apparent, but his health was otherwise sound and, thought Kitty, he has regained his spirit, he no longer walks about as if he were wearing a coat made of lead. He is as content as he ever was, she realised, wondering – not for the first time – at the odd match her mother and father had made, at how he had so enjoyed deliberately misunderstanding Mrs Bennet for the sheer pleasure of vexing her; and how she had never understood that she was being provoked. She remembered Jane’s advice about prudence and passion and smiled inwardly; no doubt there was as much prudence in Mary’s marriage as there was passion in Lydia’s. Prudence and Passion! A good title for a book, she mused, or was it too provocative?

  She cast another glance towards Mr Bennet, still engrossed in his paper. Keep writing, he had said. It was almost too much to comprehend. Did this mean she was no longer silly and ignorant? Had something changed? She had no real need to answer her question. Even as she posed it Kitty knew the answer. Of course, something had changed. She had changed! The young woman sitting in this chair in a drawing room in London was quite different to the petulant child who, little more than a twelvemonth ago, had bemoaned her fate in the parlour at Longbourn. She could not have foreseen such an alteration in herself, known how events would have shaped the way she saw things, but despite her mother’s death, despite Elizabeth’s cold injustice, despite Georgiana’s fickle friendship, even despite Lydia’s malice, all these vicissitudes she had borne and overcome. It was quite an epiphany.

  Epiphanies, however, will come when they want and pay no heed to social customs or the dinner hour, and this one was no exception. Unaware they were trespassing on momentous thoughts, Colonel Fitzwilliam and the Gardiners came into the room, discussing the events of the day, and curtailing further self-reflection on Kitty’s part.

  Afterwards, she would remember that dinner with a good deal of happiness. It was not just that the conversation flowed, that it was intelligent and that the subjects were of interest to all, it was more that she saw herself differently. She was the youngest person at the table by many years, but it did not matter. She felt taller, more substantial, and quite unafraid to put forward a reasoned opinion of her own, even in the presence of her father. With the possible exception of that gentleman, no one perceived Kitty any differently – she appeared to the same good advantage as she had at any other time since she had arrived at the Gardiners.

  CHAPTER 69

  The day of the concert at St Clement’s arrived. On receipt of the programme so graciously hand-delivered, Aunt Gardiner had extended an invitation to Mr Adams and his family to take tea with them afterwards, thus assuring Kitty of both her aunt and uncle’s intention to attend the concert. Mrs Gardiner had also invited a Mrs and Mrs Morris, who were near neighbours, so a cheerful little gathering was anticipated at Gracechurch Street later that evening. Mr Bennet had been persuaded to make the journey from house to church – despite the weather and despite his having little interest in Bach and Handel – and Kitty was more exuberant, though trying extremely hard to appear calm and almost disinterested, than she had been in a long while.

  There were a number of people already assembled when the Bennet and Gardiner party took their pews in the capacious stone church of St Clement’s. Kitty immediately sought out Henry Adams and saw him to the right of the music stands, in conversation with one of his fellow musicians. Hers may not have been an entirely unbiased view, but she thought he looked very well.

  There was little difference in temperature between the inside of the church and the outside air, and while the audience had taken every precaution to be well wrapped some of the musicians, Kitty noted, were not prepared for the cold. It would be difficult, she supposed, to play the violin hampered by a greatcoat and scarf. From where she was sitting, it would be impossible to see the organist, so Kitty would have to wait until later to see whether Henry Adams bore a resemblance to his father; his mother she could see seated in the middle of one of the pews a few rows forward of her.

  ‘I see we are to hear some Purcell,’ noted Mr Bennet, looking at the
concert programme for the first time. ‘And some Maurice Greene and John Stanley. Well I am glad to see that our English composers are deemed worthy after all. I thought you said it was all Bach and Handel.’

  ‘I said no such thing, Papa!’ whispered Kitty.

  ‘Purcell’s Trio Sonata,’ continued Mr Bennet. ‘Ah, I see this Mr Adams plays the violin.’

  ‘He does,’ agreed Kitty, wishing her father would speak more quietly. ‘As well as the viola and the pianoforte,’ she added softly.

  ‘His father is the organist?’ said Mr Bennet conversationally.

  ‘Yes.’ It was not quite a whisper and not quite a hiss.

  ‘One of Purcell’s sons is buried in this church. Edward, I think.’

  Kitty forbore to comment on this remark. No one else appeared to be speaking; all were waiting in near silence for the music to commence.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Uncle Gardiner, leaning across from Kitty’s right. ‘He’s buried near the organ gallery door.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Mr Bennet peered in that direction and Kitty, vexed beyond reason at such unnecessary and spoken observation, wondered what was wrong with her father and uncle. Why was her father not his usual quiet self?

  ‘What do you think of Bach?’ he now asked Mr Gardiner.

  The reply was lost however, much to Kitty’s relief, as the rich swelling notes of Bach’s toccata and fugue filled the church and everyone, including her father and uncle, sat back to let the music envelop them. It was a promising start and she relaxed.

  After the organ solo, the two violins and the cellist played a Vivaldi concerto, although of course Kitty had only ears and eyes for one violinist. Her father suffered two Handel compositions with no outward ill effect and nodded in what could have been construed as approval at the William Boyce sonatas, which were familiar to him. The music chosen was in general uplifting and even those who had nothing more than a passing interest in the musicians were buoyed by it. The audience showed their appreciation at the concert’s conclusion and in the general stir of departures Kitty heard many complimentary comments passed about the individual performances. She could not have been more pleased had she been playing herself.

  Mrs Gardiner went in search of Mrs Adams and the rest of their party waited at the porch for Henry Adams and his father. Kitty was duly introduced to a tall grey-haired man of pleasing appearance, who professed himself delighted to meet her. Mr Bennet was likewise introduced and once all such formalities were complete the party began the short walk back to Gracechurch Street.

  ‘The concert was delightful,’ said Kitty to Henry Adams as they walked side by side along the footway. She would have said the same had she found it quite odious, but happily the truth could prevail without compromise. He was pleased, both with her reaction and that of the wider audience, and they chatted on, only privately sorry that the journey was so brief. It was the first time they had spoken since he had visited Kitty at the Gardiners, when so much had been said and so much left unspoken, and she was relieved to find that there was no awkwardness between them. All, in fact, seemed exactly as before.

  Kitty helped Aunt Gardiner with the tea things once everyone was settled in the warmth of the drawing room, cutting a pretty picture of elegance and charm as she attended to Mr Adams’ parents and her own dear father. She was of course a little nervous, quite aware that both she and Mr Adams were the objects of veiled interest and scrutiny, but the conversation flowed, helped by the discussion of the concert all had just attended and, it should be noted, by Aunt Gardiner’s easy manners and fine social graces. How different it would have been had Mrs Bennet been one of those present. That thought flitted across Kitty’s mind. Poor Mama, she thought, without any bitterness. If you were here, we would have no need to wonder about Mr Adams’ suitability. All would have been aired within a half-hour.

  The conversation turned, as it invariably will, to the weather.

  ‘I do believe there will be a frost fair this year,’ opined Mrs Adams. ‘There is much talk about it and Henri told me only yesterday that there is a lot of ice forming around London Bridge. Is it not so?’

  ‘Indeed there is, madam,’ said her son. ‘I think the river will soon be frozen over. I confess I am hoping so, for I would dearly love the chance to skate again, and skating across the Thames would be something to boast of!’

  ‘My children would be delighted to hear you say so,’ said Mr Gardiner. ‘Ever since I mentioned the possibility of such a thing, they have been eager to hear if it will happen. They ask me every day! They will be sorely disappointed if it rains.’

  ‘What of you, Miss Bennet?’ asked Mr Adams. ‘What think you of skating?’

  ‘I would like to try!’ cried Kitty. ‘Neither I nor my sisters have ever been skating, but I would try. Is it very difficult to master?’

  ‘That depends on whom your partner is,’ said Aunt Gardiner. ‘It is a little daunting at first, but your uncle made sure I did not fall. I am not sure I would do it again. You will get your chance, Kitty, if the river does freeze, for I still have the skates and you are most welcome to have them.’

  ‘Well, I will do my best,’ said Kitty, resolutely, ‘and hope not to become a laughing stock.’

  ‘That could not be!’ declared Mr Adams immediately. ‘I should be happy to escort you, should you wish it.’

  His announcement was heartfelt, and Kitty not the only person present to interpret it as so. ‘It will be quite an excursion then,’ said Mrs Gardiner, stepping into the breach. ‘Mr Gardiner will have charge of our sons. They will no doubt want to skate and not be content till they have fallen! I am quite content to watch. Mr Bennet, will we see you on the ice?’

  The question was so ludicrous – even those who had just made his acquaintance knew it to be so – and Mr Bennet’s expostulation at such an idea so humorous, that the subject of skating was soon drowned in mirth. The chessboard on one of the side tables provided a more intellectual avenue for discussion between Mr Bennet and some of the gentlemen, the ladies had children and fashion to compare, and so the conversation subsided into general topics. As a result of this quiet conviviality, Kitty and Mr Adams were left to converse by themselves, and the evening ended in mutual satisfaction for all.

  CHAPTER 70

  Afew days later, as Kitty was coming downstairs, a commotion in the breakfast parlour made her hasten her step and she entered the room expecting to confront some domestic disaster. Instead, she found the Gardiner children jumping up and down in excitement and their father regarding them, a bemused expression on his face.

  ‘Kitty! Kitty! There is going to be an elephant!’ declared the eldest boy as soon as he saw her.

  ‘An elephant! An elephant!’ chorused the others. Kitty, laughing at their wonder and enthusiasm, appealed to Mr Gardiner for an explanation.

  ‘The Thames is completely frozen over,’ said he, ‘at least between here and Blackfriars. The word is that the rivermen are going to lead an elephant across the ice to show that it is completely safe. These four seem to want to see it happen.’

  ‘We do! Papa, we do!’ declared a cacophony of small voices.

  ‘I should like to see that, too,’ said Kitty to her little cousins. ‘I have never seen an elephant. It would be a shame to miss such an event. When do we go?’

  Mr Gardiner had not refused his children’s request but had intended to confer with their mother. Kitty was their friend and saviour. They turned to look at him.

  ‘In about half an hour if you can be ready by then,’ he said, and never before had the little Gardiners been so willing and in such haste to make themselves fit for the outside world. They were on their way to the nursery and their outdoor clothes before their father had time to sit down.

  ‘So there is to be a frost fair?’ cried Kitty, quite as pleased as the children.

  ‘It would seem so,’ agreed her uncle. ‘Provided the elephant does not sink!’

  They were not the only ones keen to see such a spectac
le. The city’s great and good, dirty and disreputable, rich and poor and everyone in between were amassing on and near Blackfriars Bridge. Kitty and the Gardiners, who started their journey alongside the Thames near London Bridge, saw the great white expanse of ice, not as smooth as Kitty had imagined it but rather bumpy with little masses of chunky ice here and there. Liveried carriages were stopped by the river so their occupants could witness the scene and the elephant’s progress. Gentlemen on horseback reined in their steeds and had the advantage of extra height, while those on foot simply edged as close as reason would allow to gain the best view. The watermen, their trade and livelihood stopped by a river frozen solid, were already improvising, guarding the steps down to the river and charging tuppence for entry onto the ice. Their cries and the anticipation and excitement of those assembled made for a noisy, chattering gathering and whenever the poor elephant, quite an aged beast by the look of him, so much as moved one of his great feet slightly or turned his head to gaze impassively at the raucous throng, a huge cry went up.

  Kitty, who had charge of the two little girls, their hands firmly grasped by her own, while Mr Gardiner held on to his sons, observed it was fortunate that the elephant was tethered on their side of the river.

  ‘It is so,’ agreed Mr Gardiner. ‘And it is a wonder none of these fellows has come around asking us to pay for the sight.’

  ‘Not everyone is waiting,’ said Kitty, nodding towards a band of men setting up a row of skittles on the ice, and writing up a tariff on a makeshift board. Elsewhere a printing press was being manoeuvred down steps and onto the frozen river.

  ‘They don’t waste any time,’ laughed Uncle Gardiner. ‘They’ll be printing out souvenirs of this, just like they did last time. All manner of ruffians will be out there just as soon as that elephant makes it across. I think we can be assured of a frost fair, Kitty!’

  ‘Can we play skittles, Papa?’ asked one of the boys.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said his father. ‘You may be able to watch. And see how the pickpockets help up those who fall down on the ice. There is plenty of trade to be had at a frost fair.’