Chapter 1 #8
She was not happy, exactly. There was still too much sadness about Lydia, too much uncertainty about the future for that. But she was where she belonged, with people who saw her clearly and loved her anyway.
When the gentlemen entered, Georgiana beckoned her, and together they began a lively duet. Georgiana was sure and bright on the upper part while Kitty took the lower with careful attention and good humour, the two of them like partners in a country-dance, answering and yielding by turns.
Mr Darcy stood a little behind Lizzy, as attentive as if the piece had been written for him alone; Mr Bingley smiled openly, and Jane’s eyes shone.
In the passage, Kitty was nearly certain she saw a maid and a footman lingering to listen, half-hidden by the door.
Her fingers did not falter. She liked this, liked the agreeable order of notes that became something cheerful under her hands; liked, too, the clear sense that learning had given her, her French exercise book with its tidy columns, the pleasure of making oneself better.
Perhaps drawing might be the same: beginning with lines and ending, with patience, in something one could recognise.
The thought warmed her as they struck the final chord together, the sound bright as the firelight, and she felt, if not happy, then at least steady, and quietly hopeful.
Later, as they were all preparing to retire, Mr Darcy stopped her before she could enter her chamber.
“Catherine, might I have a word?”
“Of course, sir.”
They stood awkwardly for a moment. Mr Darcy was clearly uncomfortable with whatever he wanted to say, and Kitty waited patiently while he gathered his thoughts.
“I want you to know,” he said finally, “that you are welcome here for as long as you wish to stay. Not as a guest, but as family. I think of you as my sister, though I am not certain you realise it.”
Kitty felt tears threaten. “Thank you.”
“I meant what I said at dinner. You have worked hard these past months. You have taken advantage of the opportunities you have received. That speaks to your strength of character.” He paused.
“You are at the beginning of your life. The world is open to you if you continue to prepare yourself to meet it. You have intelligence and determination. Those qualities will take you far, if you let them.”
“I do not always feel very intelligent or determined.”
“No one does. We all doubt ourselves. But doubt need not paralyse us.” He gave her one of his rare smiles. “I have no doubt that you will find your way. You have already come so much further than you realise.”
After he bid her a good night, Kitty stood there for a long moment, absorbing his words. Mr Darcy was not a man given to empty compliments. If he said she had strength of character, then perhaps she did. If he said the world was open to her, then perhaps it was.
In her room, Kitty changed into her nightgown and sat at the small writing desk by the window with her candle. The house was quiet; everyone had settled for the night. The winter sky was clear and full of stars.
Kitty pulled out Lydia’s letter and read it one more time. Then she took the reply she had drafted this morning and read that, too.
It was not perfect. It would never be perfect. But it was honest, and that would have to be enough.
She made a few small changes, softening the edges without sacrificing the truth. Then she copied it out in her best hand:
Dear Lydia,
Thank you for your letter and for your birthday wishes. I cannot visit Newcastle at present, nor can you and Mr Wickham visit Pemberley. I know this is not what you hoped to hear, but I must be honest with you.
I wish you well. I hope you find happiness and contentment in your life. But I must find my own way forward, and that way does not include the kind of visits you propose.
I shall always be your sister, and I shall always remember our childhood with affection. But we are no longer children, and I seek a different sort of life than the one you have chosen. For now, this is all I can offer.
With love,
Catherine
She sealed the letter before she could second-guess herself. It was done. Tomorrow, she would give it to the post, and then it would be out of her hands. What Lydia did with it was Lydia’s concern.
Kitty stood and moved to the window, looking out over Pemberley’s grounds. The parkland stretched away into darkness, beautiful and mysterious and full of possibility. Somewhere out there was the rest of her life, waiting to happen.
Nineteen. There would be challenges ahead, certainly. New revelations about herself and the world. Difficult choices to make. But the thought did not frighten her as it once might have.
The sadness of what she had lost with Lydia, that careless, giggling companionship of their childhood, would never fade away entirely. But she also felt the solidity of what she had gained: self-respect, genuine friendships, the regard of people she admired, a sense of purpose and direction.
The year was ending. In little more than a week, it would be a new year, and she would still be nineteen. Still uncertain. Still learning. But she would be moving forward, not backward. Growing, not shrinking. Becoming someone she could respect, someone she might even, someday, be proud to be.
Mrs Reynolds’s words from this morning echoed in her ears: Make the most of it.
She intended to.
Kitty turned from the window, blew out her candle, and climbed into bed.
In the darkness, she smiled. Tomorrow, she would post the letter.
Tomorrow, they would all decorate the house with greenery for Christmas.
And after Christmas, she would begin her French lessons with Georgiana again.
She would help Lizzy on Boxing Day and practise the pianoforte and even attempt a drawing lesson.
She was Miss Catherine Bennet. She was nineteen years old. And she was just beginning.
~ The End ~