Chapter 1 #4
There it was, plain as day. Lydia wanted her money.
She wanted Kitty to come to Newcastle and pay for their amusements, to fund Lydia’s entertainment, because Mr Wickham would not.
And she phrased it as though she were offering Kitty a gift, as though spending all her allowance on Lydia’s pleasures would be a grand time for them both.
It would not be grand, Kitty knew. She would arrive in Newcastle with her money, and Lydia would spend it on gowns and parties and whatever else struck her fancy.
They would go out into society, where Lydia would flirt and laugh and draw all the attention, while Kitty stood by and watched and paid the bills.
And when the money was gone, Lydia would grow cross with her for having no more, would accuse her of being miserly, would complain that she was not as amusing as she used to be.
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.
Kitty gazed out the window at the garden, thinking of her sisters.
Mary was strict but also genuinely principled.
Lizzy was clever and used that cleverness to manage a great household and care for her family and their dependents.
Jane was not dull but rather possessed a steadiness and genuine goodness that Kitty was only beginning to appreciate.
And herself? She had been Lydia’s favourite because she had asked nothing of Lydia except the privilege of following her about. She had required no real friendship, no mutual respect, no genuine care. She had been easy to manage and easy to please, and that had made her useful.
She did not want to be useful in that way anymore.
Mrs Wickham sounds very fine, does it not? Much finer than Mrs Darcy.
Kitty felt something crack inside her chest. Lydia truly believed it.
She truly thought she had made an excellent match, that Mrs Wickham was a finer title than Mrs Darcy, that her life was enviable.
She could not or would not see that her marriage was a disaster, that her husband neglected her, that she was trapped in a town where people looked at her coldly because either they knew how her marriage had come about or they had guessed it by observing how she behaved.
Or she did see it, and the letter was an attempt to convince herself otherwise. Perhaps that was why she needed Kitty to come, to admire her, to play the old game where they pretended everything was wonderful and nothing they did had consequences.
But Kitty could not play that game anymore. She had seen too much, learned too much, changed too much.
She folded the letter carefully and sat with it in her lap, staring out at the winter landscape.
Inside, she felt as though something were pulling her in two directions.
The old Kitty, the loyal sister, the girl who had always followed where Lydia led, wanted to write back with reassurances.
Of course, I will come. Of course, I will bring my money. Of course, we are still as we were.
But another part of her, the part that was steadily, painfully emerging, knew that those reassurances would be lies.
She could not go back. But she did not yet know precisely how she should go forward.
Kitty did not return to Lizzy’s sitting room immediately.
She sat in the library, the letter in her lap, watching the winter light shift across the parkland.
Her thoughts moved in circles, returning repeatedly to the same impossible questions.
What could she say to Lydia? How could she refuse without being unkind?
How could she explain what she herself barely understood?
Eventually, she folded the letter away in her pocket and made her way back through the corridors of Pemberley.
The house was so vast, so tasteful, so entirely unlike Longbourn with its shabbiness and noise.
She had grown accustomed to the quiet here, to the order, to the sense that everything had its proper place.
She approached Lizzy’s sitting room when she heard voices, low, intimate, full of laughter.
The door stood slightly ajar, and through the narrow opening she glimpsed Lizzy and Mr Darcy standing very close together.
He said something that made Lizzy laugh, that bright, genuine laugh that transformed her entirely, and then he kissed her with a tenderness that made Kitty’s chest ache.
A year ago, nay, even six months ago, she would have giggled, would have told Lydia or whoever would listen, would have made it into a joke or a piece of gossip.
Now she simply stepped back quietly and turned towards the drawing room instead, leaving them to their privacy.
Some things were not meant for observation, and some happiness was too precious to intrude upon.
She found Georgiana there, working at some intricate embroidery. Georgiana looked up and smiled. “Are you well? You were gone for a rather long time.”
“Well enough,” Kitty said, though she felt anything but settled.
They spent the remainder of the afternoon companionably, Georgiana with her needlework and Kitty attempting to read, though the words swam before her eyes and she comprehended nothing. When the light began to fail, they went upstairs to dress for dinner.
Dinner was a quiet affair, just the four of them.
Mr Darcy was more talkative than usual, discussing a matter of estate business with Lizzy while Georgiana listened with her characteristic quiet attention.
Kitty found herself watching them all, the ease between Mr Darcy and Lizzy, the respect he showed Georgiana, the comfortable rhythm of their conversation.
This was what a proper household looked like. This was what marriage could be when both parties showed sense and kindness.
After dinner, Lizzy announced that she had correspondence to attend to. “You are welcome to join me, Kitty, if you have letters to write.”
Kitty thought of Lydia’s letter, still folded in her pocket. “Perhaps I shall.”
But when they reached Lizzy’s sitting room, Kitty found she could not begin. She sat at the small writing desk Lizzy had indicated, a sheet of fine paper before her, and stared at the blank page until the words blurred.
Dear Lydia, she finally wrote.
I cannot—
Cannot what? Cannot come to Newcastle? Cannot send money? Cannot pretend they were still as they had been? All of it was true, and none of it would serve. She crossed out the sentence and began again.
Dear Lydia, How glad I was to hear from you—
But that was a lie, and she would not begin with lies.
She still sat there, no progress made, when Lizzy looked up from her own work. She must have glimpsed the crossed-out words, for she gave Kitty a sympathetic look. “Are you struggling?”
“Rather,” Kitty admitted.
“This letter is for Lydia?”
Kitty nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
Lizzy set down her pen and regarded Kitty thoughtfully. “You need not reply immediately, you know. Some letters require time and thought before one can choose the proper words.”
“She has already taken me to task about not responding to her last. She will think ill of me if I delay further.”
“When was her last letter?” Lizzy enquired gently.
“Michaelmas.”
Her sister stood and drew her chair to Kitty’s side. She sat. “I did not know it had been so long. Why have you not written?”
“I do not know, in truth. I suppose in seeing myself more clearly, I see her more clearly too.”
Lizzy nodded. “I do not believe that Lydia will ever be wiser than she was at sixteen, if that makes sense. She has decided that she was right to do what she did and refuses to regret or even to examine her actions. It is not surprising that at nineteen, you are finding that you are not the same girl who once admired her.”
“I am outgrowing her, you mean.”
Lizzy’s smile was small and, Kitty thought, bittersweet.
“I do not think I am ready to say anything yet,” she admitted. It was such a simple observation, and yet so profoundly true. She was not ready. And although Lydia had demanded an immediate reply and either an invitation or an acceptance of one, it did not follow that Kitty must obey.
Lizzy smiled. “Come. Let us have some tea and forget about difficult letters for now.”
Kitty woke early the following day, while the house was still mostly silent. She had slept poorly, her dreams full of confused images. Lydia laughing, officers in red coats, herself running through Pemberley’s corridors searching for her coin purse while Lydia teased her for having too much.
At breakfast, she was quieter than usual. Mr Darcy, who generally preferred silence to idle conversation, seemed not to notice. But Lizzy glanced at her once or twice with what looked like concern, and Georgiana kept stealing worried looks at her when she thought Kitty was not attending.
“We are to visit the Harpers this morning,” Lizzy announced as she buttered her toast. “They have a new baby, and I promised to bring some things for the household. Kitty, would you care to join me? Georgiana, you are most welcome as well.”
Georgiana murmured her agreement. Kitty hesitated, then nodded. It would be good to have some occupation for her hands and mind. It would help her not to dwell on Lydia’s letter.
The Harpers lived in a neat cottage on the edge of the estate. Mrs Harper was a tenant’s wife, worn thin by work and childbearing, but who greeted them cheerfully from her bed. The baby was tiny and red-faced, swaddled tightly in clean but much-mended linen.
“She is beautiful,” Lizzy said, with every appearance of sincerity, though Kitty privately thought the baby looked rather like a wizened apple. “How are you managing?”
“Well enough, ma’am, thank you. My mother—” she motioned to the woman who had answered the door “—has been helping, and the girls are good about minding the little ones.”