Chapter 1 #6
“Oh, he has preached to her as well,” Lizzy said. “Charlotte writes that her ladyship was most displeased when someone compared her to the chickens in terms of her attentiveness.”
“I cannot imagine why,” Kitty said, and Lizzy shot her a look of shared amusement that made her feel warm all over.
They talked of other things then, Jane and Mr Bingley’s impending arrival, the Harper family, Georgiana’s progress on a particularly difficult piece of music, Kitty’s progress with French. It was comfortable and pleasant, and Kitty felt herself relaxing into the conversation.
After dinner, Lizzy excused herself to address some household matter, and Mr Darcy disappeared to his study. Georgiana sat down with her embroidery, and Kitty found herself once again at the writing desk.
She had to try. She could not leave the letter unanswered indefinitely.
Dear Lydia,
I was glad to receive your letter and to know that you are well. However, I cannot visit Newcastle at present, nor would it be appropriate for you and Mr Wickham to visit Pemberley. I know this is not what you hoped to hear, but I must be honest with you.
She stopped, read it over. It was too bald, too blunt. Lydia would never accept it.
She crumpled it and began again.
Dearest Lydia,
How lovely it was to hear from you! I do miss our times together, and I think of you often. As for visiting, I am afraid it is not possible just now. Perhaps another time?
No. That was worse. It was cowardly and dishonest, and Lydia would see right through it.
She tried a third time, then a fourth. Each attempt was either too harsh or too accommodating, too explanatory, or too dismissive. By the time the clock struck ten, she had a pile of crumpled paper and still no satisfactory letter.
The problem, she finally admitted to herself, was that she was not writing to Lydia.
She was writing to convince Lydia, to make Lydia understand and accept her decision.
But Lydia would not understand. Lydia did not want to understand.
She wanted Kitty to be who she had always been, a follower, a supporter, a source of money and admiration.
And Kitty could not be those things anymore.
She folded away the latest failed attempt and sat back, staring at nothing.
She blew out the candles and went upstairs to bed, the letter still unwritten, the problem still unsolved.
The morning of her birthday, Kitty lay in bed watching the darkness thin to grey, her mind already turning over the problem of Lydia’s letter. Three days now, and still no reply. Three days of circling the same impossible problem.
Perhaps the best thing to do was just to… be who she was. Not who she had been, nor who she was becoming, because she did not know that woman yet. But who was she today? Yes. That she could do.
She rose and dressed without ringing for her maid, moving quietly through the still-sleeping house to the library. The room was cold, no one having lit the fire yet, but she did not mind. This would not take long.
She sat at the desk she always used when here, pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, and began to write.
Dear Lydia,
Thank you for your letter and for your birthday wishes. I cannot come to Newcastle, nor can you visit Pemberley at present. I wish you well.
Kitty
She stared at the words. They were honest, brief, clear. They were also entirely inadequate. They said nothing of what she felt, nothing of why she had decided as she had. But perhaps that was acceptable. Perhaps she did not owe Lydia an explanation for… well, anything, really.
She folded the letter and set it aside. It was not right, but it was closer. She would return to it later, after she had thought more.
The house was beginning to stir. She heard footsteps in the corridor, the distant clatter of servants starting their morning work. She should dress properly for breakfast, return to her room before anyone found her here in her nightgown with her hair still in its plait.
She was halfway up the stairs when she met Mrs Reynolds coming down.
“Good morning, Miss Bennet,” the housekeeper said, then paused, her keen eyes taking in Kitty’s appearance. “You are up very early.”
“I could not sleep,” Kitty admitted.
“Thinking too much, I expect.” Mrs Reynolds’s tone was brisk but kind. “That is the trouble with being young and clever. You think yourselves into knots.” Then, unexpectedly, she smiled. “Many happy returns of the day, miss.”
Kitty blinked. No one had ever called her clever before. “Thank you, Mrs Reynolds.”
“Nineteen is a good age. Old enough to have some sense, young enough to enjoy yourself. I wish you the best of days, miss.”
It was the longest speech Mrs Reynolds had ever made to her, and Kitty felt absurdly touched. “You are very kind.”
By the time she had dressed properly and come down to breakfast, Georgiana was already at the table, and Mr Darcy was reading his newspaper with the focused attention he brought to all things.
“Good morning,” Kitty said, taking her seat.
“Good morning,” Georgiana replied, smiling. “Many happy returns of the day, Kitty.”
Mr Darcy looked up from his paper. “Indeed. May I wish you joy?”
It was a simple courtesy, nothing more, but coming from Mr Darcy, at least, it felt significant. He was a man who said nothing he did not mean.
Lizzy arrived moments later, already dressed for the day in a blue morning gown that made her eyes appear even brighter than they were.
“It is your day today,” she said warmly, dropping a kiss on the top of Kitty’s head as she passed.
“Jane and Charles should arrive by mid-morning. I thought we might take a walk in the grounds before luncheon if the weather holds.”
“That would be lovely.”
They discussed plans for the day. The timing of dinner, which rooms Jane and Mr Bingley would occupy, and whether Georgiana’s new piece would be ready to perform in the evening.
It was all pleasantly domestic, and Kitty found herself contributing thoughts and thinking nothing of it when everyone listened to her.
She was halfway through her second cup of tea when she realised: she had not thought of Lydia’s letter for nearly an hour.
Jane and Mr Bingley arrived just before eleven o’clock, their carriage rattling up the drive in fine style. Kitty was in the drawing room with Georgiana when she heard the commotion, and they both hurried to the entrance hall.
Jane emerged from the carriage like a vision, all golden hair and pink cheeks and sweet smiles. Mr Bingley bounded after her, grinning like a schoolboy, and Lizzy flew down the steps to embrace them both.
“Jane! Charles! Come in, come in, you must be frozen.”
“Not at all,” Jane said, but she was shivering despite her warm pelisse. “The journey was very pleasant. Oh, Lizzy, how well you look!”
They all continued into the house in a flurry of greetings and exclamations. Mr Darcy shook Mr Bingley’s hand with genuine warmth, and Georgiana curtsied prettily to them both. Kitty hung back slightly, suddenly shy, until Jane caught sight of her.
“Kitty!” Jane’s face lit up, and she crossed the hall to embrace her. “Oh, my dear, your nineteenth birthday! I am so glad we are here to celebrate with you.”
“Thank you,” she managed, returning Jane’s embrace.
“How can you be nineteen already?” Jane said softly, pulling back to look at her. “It seems only yesterday you were a little girl in pinafores.”
“I feel ancient,” Kitty said, surprising herself. “But also as though I have only just been born. It is very peculiar.”
Jane laughed, that lovely musical laugh. “I remember feeling just the same.”
Mr Bingley approached, beaming. “Miss Catherine, we have brought you something from town, though Jane assures me it is entirely inappropriate and I will embarrass us all.”
“Charles,” Jane said warningly, but she smiled.
“A set of caricatures,” Mr Bingley announced proudly.
“Political ones. Very satirical. Jane says young ladies should not be interested in such things, but I said that Miss Catherine strikes me as a young lady with opinions, and opinions require information, and information delivers itself best with humour.”
Kitty found herself smiling. “You are right, Mr Bingley. I should like them very much.”
“There, you see?” He looked triumphantly at Jane. “I told you she would appreciate them.”
“I never said she would not appreciate them,” Jane replied serenely. “I merely suggested they might not be entirely proper for a young lady’s birthday.”
“Propriety is vastly overrated,” Lizzy interjected. “When I was nine, Papa gave me a book on the agriculture of turnips for my birthday.”
“Turnips?” Mr Bingley looked delighted. “Please tell me he inscribed it with something suitably paternal.”
“‘To Elizabeth, who talks too much and would better occupy her mind with useful matters I read it cover to cover out of spite and can now tell you more about turnip cultivation than any person should reasonably know.”
“An education both improving and edible,” Mr Darcy said drily. “One cannot say as much for most gifts.”
They all laughed.
In the past, Kitty had often struggled to follow the conversation when Jane and Elizabeth were together, but she found that this time she understood everything.
What was more, she had enjoyed it. This was what family could be.
Teasing and laughter and sincere affection.
No one was performing; no one was trying to be cleverer or prettier or more noticed than anyone else.
They were simply pleased with and comfortable in each other’s company.
Mrs Reynolds directed the servants with Jane and Mr Bingley’s luggage, and Lizzy swept everyone into the drawing room for tea and the warm fire.
The day was bright and cold when they set off for their walk near midday.