Chapter 1 #3
Lizzy sorted through the letters. The business correspondence for Mr Darcy always went directly to his study, and the invitations to Lizzy.
“Oh, a letter from Charlotte,” Lizzy said, pleased. But a moment later she frowned, for there was a letter for Kitty.
Her stomach contracted when she recognised the hand.
It was unmistakable: large, looping, careless, taking up far more space than necessary. Exuberant flourishes decorated the capital letters. The direction was written with such force that the pen had torn the paper slightly.
Lydia.
Kitty was aware of Lizzy looking at her, of Georgiana’s sudden, concerned stillness, but she could not make herself meet their eyes. The letter seemed to pulse in her hand, hot and heavy, though that was absurd. It was only paper and ink. Only a letter.
“May I take this to the library, Lizzy?”
“Of course. We will still be here when you finish.”
The library was her sanctuary at Pemberley, that vast room lined with books from floor to ceiling, smelling of leather and paper and with the particular quiet that libraries possessed.
She had spent hours there since autumn, working her way through volumes that expanded her understanding of everything.
History, poetry, essays, and novels of a more serious variety than the silly ones she had devoured at Longbourn.
Lizzy had seemed surprised, she thought, by her sudden appetite for reading. Kitty had surprised herself, too.
She was more like her father than she had realised. Kitty made it to the library and closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment. Her hands shook. Why did her hands shake? It was only a letter from Lydia. Lydia wrote sometimes; nothing unusual in that.
Except there was. There was something unusual in it, something wrong.
Kitty had not heard from Lydia in three months, not since a short note in September full of complaints about Newcastle and demands that Kitty write more often.
Kitty had not written more often. She had not written at all, in fact.
Every time she tried, the words sounded false and hollow.
What could she say to Lydia that would be honest?
How could she explain that she was becoming someone Lydia would not recognise, would not even like?
She crossed to one of the deep leather chairs by the window and sat, the letter still clutched in her hand.
Outside, the December morning was bright and cold, the parkland stretching away in shades of brown and grey-green under a pale blue sky.
Beautiful, ordered, and peaceful, like everything at Pemberley.
She stared at the letter in her lap for a moment. And then she broke the seal.
Dearest Kitty,
How cross I am with you for not writing!
Three months is an age, and I have been so lonely here with no one to talk to who understands me.
You cannot imagine how provoking Newcastle is.
There are parties enough, though nothing like Brighton, and Wickham will not allow me to purchase any new gowns.
I am forced to wear the same things again and again until I am quite sick of them.
Everyone else appears in the latest fashions, and I must make do with last season’s fashions like a pauper.
It is too mortifying. You are so fortunate to be at Hawthorn House and Pemberley, where I am sure Jane and Lizzy give you whatever you like.
Do not be selfish and keep all the best ribbons for yourself.
I have had the most excellent idea. Wickham and I should come to Pemberley for the winter!
It would be so delightful, and we could have such times as we used to.
I am sure there must be excellent society in Derbyshire, and Wickham is always so charming at parties.
He would be quite the favourite, I am certain.
You must tell Lizzy at once that we shall come.
If she is still too proud to receive us because Wickham chose me over her, and now she is stuck with the dullest man anywhere, though I suppose he is very rich, so she must be satisfied, then you must come to us instead.
You must bring all your allowance money with you—do not spend a penny of it before you arrive!
—and we shall have such a grand time. There are ever so many amusements here if only one has the funds for them, and between your money and what I can coax from Wickham, we should do very well indeed.
You must come for at least two months, for anything less would hardly be worth the journey.
And you must bring all your new gowns, for I should like to borrow them.
We are much the same size still, are we not?
I cannot think you have grown since I saw you last. Oh, it will be just like old times!
Do you remember how we used to dress for balls, and how the officers would all want to dance with us?
You were never quite as popular as I was, of course, but you did well enough, and I always made sure you were included in everything.
I have been thinking about your birthday.
I am sure you will have a grand celebration at Pemberley, for Lizzy must be desperate for some gaiety now that she has married such a serious, disagreeable man.
Mr Darcy never smiled above twice when he was in Hertfordshire, do you remember?
And he was so grim at my wedding! I cannot think what Lizzy was about, accepting him, though I suppose ten thousand a year makes any man handsome.
You must tell me all about your birthday in your next letter.
I hope you receive some lovely presents.
I should so like some presents myself, but Wickham says we cannot afford such things, which is very tiresome of him.
My own birthday will be here before we know it.
June always comes round so quickly, you know, and I shall be eighteen and still I have nothing nice to wear!
If you could see your way to sending me a little money, thirty or forty pounds is all, I should be ever so grateful.
You must have plenty, living at Pemberley.
Lizzy can hardly need it all, and I am sure Mr Darcy would not even notice such a sum.
He spent ever so much more than that on my wedding, though Papa says he ought not to have been so generous, which is very ungrateful of him, I think.
After all, I made an excellent match! Mrs Wickham sounds very fine, much finer than Mrs Darcy, I am sure.
You must write back immediately and tell me when you are coming, or when we may come to you.
Do not be cruel and say you are too busy, for I know you cannot be.
What have you to do all day at Pemberley except be waited on by servants?
You have always been my favourite sister, Kitty, much nicer than Mary, who was always so preachy, and kinder than Lizzy, who always thought herself so clever, and not half so dull as Jane, who never wants to do anything amusing.
I do hope you have not grown dull yourself.
I could not bear it if you had become like them.
Write to me.
Your affectionate sister,
Lydia Wickham
Kitty read the letter through once, then again, then a third time. With each reading, her heart grew heavier and tighter, until she felt as though she could not breathe properly
The handwriting was so familiar. The loops and flourishes, the careless crossing of her t’s, the way she signed her married name with such evident pride.
Lydia Wickham. As though that name meant something fine, something to celebrate, rather than a wound that had nearly destroyed their entire family.
Lizzy must be desperate for some gaiety now that she has married such a serious, disagreeable man.
Kitty felt heat rise in her face. Mr Darcy was not dull.
He was reserved, certainly, and serious in his manner, but he was also kind and principled and had shown extraordinary generosity to her when he need not have done.
Everyone knew about Lydia’s fall. Mamma’s inability to hold her tongue in the presence of her friends and the servants had made it impossible to hide.
But Mr Darcy had married Lizzy, knowing full well the disgrace that Lydia had brought upon them all, and he had done it because he loved her. That was not dullness. That was…
But Lydia would never understand that. Lydia measured men by how much they flattered her, how entertaining they were at parties, how well they danced.
By those measures, Mr Wickham must indeed seem the better catch.
Never mind that he left his wife alone every evening, that he controlled their money while spending freely on himself, that he had seduced Lydia into ruin without a thought for the consequences to her or all her unmarried sisters.
He was charming, and that was all that mattered.
You were never quite as popular as I was, of course, but you did well enough, and I always made sure you were included in everything.
The casual cruelty of it took Kitty’s breath away.
She had known, of course, that Lydia had been the prettier one, the more confident one, the one whom officers noticed first. But she had not admitted to herself that Lydia had seen her as a lesser companion, someone to include out of charity rather than true sisterly affection.
Had it always been that way? Had Lydia always viewed her as a follower, a shadow, someone who existed to admire and enable but never to rival?
The thought was painful, made worse by the knowledge that if she had, Kitty had accepted the role willingly, even eagerly.
She had been so grateful to be a part of Lydia’s adventures that she had never questioned the terms of their friendship. Her eyes continued to trace the words.
You must bring all your allowance money with you—do not spend a penny of it before you come!—and we shall have such a grand time.