Chapter 1 #2
Kitty knew she would never possess Lizzy’s natural authority.
Even now, after only a year of marriage, Mrs Darcy could walk into a room and people attended to her.
She had that quality, that assurance. But Kitty, while not wishing ever to be responsible for a house the size of Pemberley, could at least learn the mechanics of it, the practical knowledge that resulted in graceful management.
She could learn to think ahead, to anticipate needs, to organise tasks in their proper sequence.
She could learn to be useful.
They found Lizzy in her sitting room, a bright apartment that overlooked the south lawn.
For all its beauty, it was a working room.
A bookshelf held Lizzy’s account books, and a writing table stood always ready for her correspondence.
Lizzy had settled into a comfortable chair nearest the window, bent to her work.
Kitty had learnt that Lizzy gave little time to ornamental sitting; she preferred occupation to idleness and seemed to view leisure as something to earn.
Lizzy looked up as they entered and smiled.
The smile transformed her face from merely handsome to something approaching beauty, and Kitty felt a surge of affection for her sister.
Unlike Jane, Lizzy mixed her kindness with clear-eyed honesty.
She did not pretend Kitty had always shown good sense, did not forget the past, but neither did she dwell on it.
She simply treated Kitty as someone capable of better judgement, and in doing so, made better judgement possible.
“Right on time,” Lizzy said, gesturing to the chairs opposite her desk. “I’ve just had a letter from Jane. She and Bingley will arrive on Wednesday.”
“How delightful!” Georgiana exclaimed softly, settling into her chair with the careful posture Mrs Annesley had instilled in her.
Kitty felt a rush of pleasure at the prospect of seeing Jane again.
The sisters, who had once seemed so distant, so impossibly perfect, had become very dear to her in this new life.
At Longbourn, she had sometimes felt that her elder sisters looked down on her, pitied her, certainly did not respect her.
Now she understood that she could only receive respect when she deserved it.
She was doing all she could to deserve it now. Slowly, imperfectly, but working at it nonetheless.
“Jane particularly wanted to ensure she’d be here for—” Lizzy paused, looking at Kitty with an expression somewhere between fond amusement and exasperation. “Kitty, do you remember what day Wednesday is?”
Kitty considered. Wednesday. Three days hence. She searched her mind for significance and found none. “I apologise, I don’t—”
“It will be your birthday, you impossible girl.”
The realisation struck her with genuine surprise.
Her birthday. She had forgotten her own birthday.
At sixteen, she had planned for weeks, pestering Mamma about the menu, fretting over her gown, hoping for visitors, specifically hoping for young men visitors.
She and Lydia had discussed it endlessly, what she would wear, how she would arrange her hair, and whether there would be dancing.
Lydia had been wild with jealousy because her own birthday fell in the summer when nothing interesting ever happened, while Kitty’s came in December when many balls and parties filled the festive season.
And now she had forgotten entirely.
“Oh,” she said, feeling oddly disoriented. “Yes. Of course.”
Lizzy watched her with that penetrating gaze that saw too much. “We had thought to offer you a small ball,” she said, “but Jane suggested you might prefer something quieter this year. I hope we have chosen correctly.”
Before Lydia had eloped with Mr Wickham, Kitty would have been wild with excitement at the prospect of a birthday ball.
She would have thought of nothing else for days, would have planned every detail of her appearance, would have anticipated the dancing with an excitement that bordered on frenzy.
Now the thought made her feel slightly ill.
All those eyes, all that expectation. Young men would ask her to dance.
She would have to be gay, pleasant, and light-hearted, would have to make conversation, would have to laugh at jokes that might not be amusing.
She would have to perform, and she did not trust herself not to become what she had been.
“Jane was quite right,” Kitty said, carefully measuring her words. “I am not ready for a ball just yet.”
Something shifted in Lizzy’s expression, a softening that might have been approval or merely understanding. “A family dinner. Simple and comfortable. Does that suit you, Georgiana?”
“Perfectly,” Georgiana murmured. “I am not fond of balls either.”
“Then, we all agree.” Lizzy pulled a fresh sheet of paper towards her, then paused. “You need not avoid society forever, Kitty. You are managing very well. But there is no harm in waiting until you feel ready.”
“Thank you,” Kitty said, and meant it profoundly.
Lizzy returned to her correspondence, dipping her pen with neat, efficient movements. “Now, about the weekly menus. We want to use what is in season…”
But Kitty found it difficult to concentrate on menus and arrangements. Her birthday. Three days hence. Nineteen years old. And she had forgotten it entirely because she had been too occupied with scales and household management and French vocabulary to remember.
It ought to have bothered her, this forgetting.
The old Kitty would have been horrified, would have felt as though she were losing herself, becoming dull and tedious like Mary.
But Kitty now felt only an unexpected sense of satisfaction.
That past girl was gone, or going, and someone who cared about other things was replacing her.
Someone who might, in time, become the sort of woman others could respect. Someone who could respect herself.
The discussion proceeded methodically. Lizzy reviewed the quantities with Georgiana and Kitty, explaining how one calculated provisions for both a family dinner and a large gathering, how one balanced expense with generosity, how one ensured that everyone, no matter their tastes, had enough to eat.
“You must always know precisely how many guests to expect,” Lizzy said, making notes in her household book. “And then prepare for several more. It is better to have too much than too little.”
“What of the cost?” Kitty ventured.
“Mr Darcy considers neighbourhood dinners an investment in good relations,” Lizzy replied. “A generous dinner costs less than the goodwill it purchases. And if you remain in good stead with those who attend, you may count on dining at their tables later on.”
It was a different philosophy from Papa’s.
Papa viewed every expenditure with suspicion, resented the demands of hospitality, and had made his daughters feel that their very existence imposed upon his resources.
Kitty knew her father loved them all, in his own way.
But just as he showed little natural generosity with his table, he showed little natural generosity with his affection.
Here, and at Hawthorn House too, the household functioned with a smoothness that came from adequate funding and thoughtful management.
Lizzy might speak of liberality as simply being sensible, but Kitty had also seen that her sister delighted in having the means to make a real difference in the lives of those least fortunate.
So she listened and learned, made notes, and asked occasional questions.
She was determined to understand not just what people did but why, to grasp the principles that governed a well-run household.
If she married, she would not be helpless and ignorant.
She would not rely entirely on her housekeeper, or make foolish economies, or fail to provide for her dependents’ comfort. She would know what she was about.
If she married. It was strange how that prospect had changed in her mind.
Once, marriage had seemed an urgent goal, the culmination of all a young lady’s hopes.
She had imagined it as a ball that never ended, a perpetual state of admiration and courtship.
Now she understood it as work, as partnership, as the assumption of serious responsibility.
The thought did not frighten her as much as it might have.
But she was also learning that she need not rush towards it.
Better to marry late and well than early and foolishly.
Better not to marry at all than to marry as Lydia had done.
The thought came unbidden, and Kitty pushed it away. She would not think of Lydia this morning. She had trained herself not to think of Lydia except when necessary. It hurt too much, and it accomplished nothing.
The morning passed in its usual rhythm. After the discussions of household matters, they took a walk in the long gallery to examine the family portraits (Georgiana was teaching them both to identify the various ancestors and understand the connexions between families, though Lizzy caught on quickly, and Kitty was still struggling), then returned to answer correspondence.
Kitty had begun to help Lizzy with the less formal letters, acknowledging invitations or responding to acquaintances’ notes.
Her handwriting had improved under Mrs Annesley’s tutelage, and Lizzy now trusted her to represent the household appropriately.
It was noon when Mrs Reynolds appeared with the post, her slight figure forming a silhouette in the doorway. A formidable woman, Mrs Reynolds, with keen eyes that missed nothing. She had been unfailingly kind. Not indulgent—Mrs Reynolds was not an indulgent woman—but kind in a brisk, practical way.
“The post, Mrs Darcy,” she announced, setting the silver tray on Lizzy’s desk.
“Thank you, Mrs Reynolds. You mentioned the wine cellar earlier. Shall we meet in an hour?”
“Yes, ma’am.”