Chapter 13
BEFORE THE MONTH WAS out, Meryton held another assembly.
Kitty was not the first Bennet sister to catch an officer’s eye, but she was the first to believe herself chosen.
The Meryton Assembly ran toward midnight, and the hall had lost its shine by the time Lydia found herself at the center of a ring of redcoats, more than half of them too far into the wine to stand without swaying.
Lydia declared herself “the last woman standing,” which drew most of the officers’ attention to Kitty at her elbow and, a moment later, Wickham’s.
He appeared at Lydia’s side with a look that suggested he had not expected to see her there, which Kitty knew was false because she had caught him watching them from the far corner for half the evening.
He asked Lydia for a turn about the room and led her away before any of the other officers could reclaim her.
This left Kitty with two young and persistent officers, both of whom regarded her as a second choice, and neither of whom improved in company.
The taller one talked of his military exploits at length, while the shorter drank punch and dropped bits of fruit onto his cravat.
Kitty followed Wickham’s progress along the line of pillars, his height making him easy to distinguish among the uniformed crowd.
When he circled back, Lydia had acquired a captain who was quite old, at least twenty-eight.
Wickham hesitated before addressing Kitty, as though the idea had occurred to him only then.
“You look bored to death, Miss Catherine,” he said. “May I save you?”
Kitty agreed, even though no invitation was necessary.
She left the officers to their war stories and joined Wickham in the passage toward the supper tables.
He did not escort her right there but drew her away from the assembly, out past the doors and into the gallery overlooking the drive.
The air held enough of a bite to sharpen Kitty’s attention, and Wickham’s almost fond look encouraged her belief that he meant to confide in her.
They walked the gallery twice without speaking while Lydia’s laughter cut through the clamor from the hall behind them.
“What do the officers think of Meryton society?” Kitty asked, then winced. “That sounded like my mother.”
“Your mother is a remarkable woman,” Wickham said. “She is the reason I know every possible detail about your family, the neighbors, and your home.”
Kitty laughed at what she thought was a joke, but Wickham looked as if he waited for her to dispute it.
“Tell me one secret about your sisters that I could not have learned from Mrs. Bennet.”
She thought hard for a dazzling anecdote, but settled on the story that most amused her: Jane arriving almost late at the Meryton assembly with her hair half done and still being asked for the first dance.
“Not a secret, but a talent,” Wickham said. “Your sister has the art of being preferred without ever seeking it.”
“She does not know it herself,” Kitty said, and then, pleased by his attention, added that Jane was not the only sister to attract interest. She described how at the last assembly, half the room watched Lizzy only because Mr. Darcy did not.
“Did not?” Wickham asked.
“He refused to dance with her,” Kitty said. She felt again the glow of recounting something she alone had seen, and told it with every detail: how Darcy was overheard, how Lizzy had turned it into a joke, how the story repeated in every house by morning.
Wickham listened without looking at her, his expression hard to see in the light from the lanterns on the path. “And it wounded her?” he asked.
“Lizzy said she did not care, though she would never admit it if she did. Mama repeated the story for days. She said, ‘One does not snub a Bennet girl in her own county,’ or something more foolish. I do not remember every word.”
Wickham smiled, as though Kitty confirmed what he expected. “You give a faithful account, Miss Catherine,” he said. “I see you are not afraid to repeat a deserved insult.”
Kitty lifted her chin. “Do you think the Bennet girls unworthy of a dance with Mr. Darcy?”
“I have never seen such a creature as Mr. Darcy,” Wickham said, his tone neutral. “Perhaps he thinks the county is beneath his dignity. Maybe he is not as clever as he seems.”
Kitty leaned closer. “They say he insulted Lizzy again the next morning. He met her working with Sarah and said almost nothing to her.”
“Did he indeed?” Wickham said. “Suffered from disorder.” For a moment Kitty thought she had said something wrong, but he smiled. “Please go on.”
“She is the cleverest dog in Hertfordshire,” Kitty said. “Lizzy can stop her at three hundred yards with one whistle. Papa once said that if Sarah were a child, she would outclass all of us at school.”
Wickham laughed. “And what is she like in company?”
“For one thing, she is not a pet,” Kitty said, “and she does not care for strangers. Above all, she listens to Lizzy.”
“Above all?” Wickham asked.
“Lizzy can call her off in the middle of chasing sheep, or a fox, or even another dog. Papa says Sarah has more obedience than any of us.”
“Perhaps your sister ought to bring Sarah to the next assembly,” Wickham said, his tone serious. “It would be a novelty, and I wager the officers would fight for the honor of standing up with her in the quadrille.”
Kitty laughed. She was aware that the joke came at her own expense, but Wickham’s look held her in the joke rather than outside it. She wondered if he made everyone feel this way, or just her.
Wickham turned the conversation back to the neighborhood. “Is Netherfield as fine as everyone says? Would Miss Bennet prefer it to Longbourn?”
“Jane does not care much for fine houses,” Kitty said. “Though anyone might prefer Netherfield to the sheep at Longbourn. Mama says Jane must marry well and save us all from ruin.”
“She will,” Wickham said, without hesitation. “Any man with sense will see her value.”
Kitty blushed for Jane’s sake, though the thought pleased her. “And what do you think of the other ladies in the neighborhood?”
Wickham appeared to consider. “I have not formed my opinions yet. Friends have warned me to be cautious of local gossip.”
The answer sounded rehearsed. Kitty could not tell whether he mocked her or tested her. “There is only one piece of gossip you need, and you will not hear it from anyone but me.”
Wickham leaned in, listening.
“Everyone in Meryton says Mr. Darcy believes himself above us. If you wish to make yourself welcome, you must pretend not to care.”
Wickham’s expression was unreadable for a moment, but then he nodded, as if she had delivered a great truth.
“Thank you,” he said. “You are a clever girl, Miss Catherine. I wish I had known you years ago.”
Kitty felt her skin warm at the praise. She wished the walk could go on, but Lydia’s voice broke over the balustrade, calling for her.
“Kitty!” Lydia’s tone was loud, put out, and tinged with the rivalry she reserved for Kitty alone. “Are you not coming? The officers are all at cards. Nobody cares if you stay.”
“I must go,” Kitty said.
Wickham bowed but neither touched her hand nor offered his arm. The omission felt deliberate.
When she rejoined the assembly, Kitty told herself he had given her a confidence, and that the conversation would continue. She looked back once and saw Wickham standing where she left him, unmoved, arms folded, face half in shadow. He looked at the drive, thinking, or perhaps resting his eyes.
Lydia linked her arm with Kitty’s. “The entire regiment will dine at Longbourn within a week, and I intend to marry a colonel.”
Kitty, believing herself the only girl in Hertfordshire who knew the secret, said nothing.
By the time Kitty returned to Longbourn, the night’s confusion had exhausted her.
She woke early the next morning to the longer, more serious confusion of breakfast. She repeated to herself every detail of the gallery walk, determined not to forget a single phrase or the look on Wickham’s face at the last. The morning was new and the dining room cool enough to keep everyone at the table; the larger the audience, the sweeter the retelling.
She entered as though she carried important news. Jane was at her seat, wrapped in a shawl, while Mrs. Bennet scolded Mary for slopping jam on the tablecloth. Lydia arrived last, hair wild and face bright from sleep, and flung herself into the nearest chair without apology.
Kitty waited until everyone was halfway through bread and honey before she spoke, though she caught Jane’s smile and Lydia’s up-and-down glance that took in both her dress and her mood.
“I hope you all slept well, after such an evening,” Kitty said.
Mrs. Bennet answered first. “I never sleep when your father stays out so late. I suppose men must talk politics at such hours, but I would rather have the house quiet and the doors locked at ten.”
“Political discussion rarely improves with the hour,” Mary said.
Kitty, whose interest in politics began and ended with the uniforms of those who debated it, turned instead to Jane.
“Did you hear about Mr. Wickham? He danced with every woman at the assembly, but he talked with me alone for an hour.”
Lydia snorted into her tea.
“He was obliged to speak with you,” she said, “or you would have looked pathetic, standing there by the gallery while every officer in Meryton danced with someone else.”
Kitty’s cheeks stung, but she drew herself up.
“He did not have to walk with me, or confide in me, or ask me about every family in the neighborhood. He wanted to know all about our home, and about Mr. Darcy, and,” she felt the words lose power as she said them, but pressed on, “and about Sarah, and about Jane and Mr. Bingley.”
Jane put down her fork. “He asked about me?”
“Yes, but he was very complimentary,” Kitty said, recovering some ground. “He said any man with sense would see your value at once.”
Mrs. Bennet beamed. “There, Jane, you see? I always said you need not be clever to attract a man, only agreeable and sensible. What else did Mr. Wickham say?”
Kitty described the walk along the gallery, careful to recall every detail: the lantern light on the path, the way Wickham’s voice softened when he spoke of her sisters, his compliments to Jane, and his jest about Sarah attending the next assembly.
By the end, Wickham appeared to admire the dog’s discipline more than any woman’s beauty.
Lydia cut in. “If he admired Sarah so much, why did he not ask Lizzy about her?”
Kitty, who had not considered this, said, “He did not wish to embarrass her about Mr. Darcy’s insult.”
The words came out more cruel than intended, and Jane flinched. Even Lydia seemed to sense the slip, for she gave Kitty a sidelong look of warning.
Mary finished her tea and began to stack the cups. “It is not so dreadful to be insulted,” she said. “Sometimes it is more revealing to see who makes amends.”
Elizabeth entered then, hair damp and skin wind-reddened, having been out with Sarah before breakfast. She looked at the crowded table, then at Kitty, and said, “What has gone amiss now?”
Kitty launched into the story before anyone could stop her, enlarging every glance and compliment Wickham had given her. She ended with, “He likes me better than Lydia. I am sure of it.”
Lydia did not object, as she was busy buttering another scone, but Mrs. Bennet said, “He would be a fine match, if he can rise above his station. And so handsome! I always say that good looks are an advantage in any profession.”
Elizabeth took her seat and turned to Kitty. “What did Mr. Wickham ask about?”
Kitty, feeling the force of the question, answered, “Only what everyone here would want to know. About our house, our family, the neighborhood. About Mr. Bingley and Jane, and about Mr. Darcy, and Sarah.”
The door opened, and Mr. Bennet entered with a newspaper beneath his arm.
“A comprehensive interest,” he said, taking his place at the table. “Did he also inquire after the silver and the number of windows?”
Kitty flushed. “He was only trying to understand the neighborhood.”
“Then he has chosen an efficient method. Ask one young lady and spare himself the trouble of meeting everyone else.”
Elizabeth regarded Kitty for a long moment. “What did he ask about Mr. Darcy?”
“He asked if Mr. Darcy was clever, or only thought himself so.”
Jane frowned. “That seems an odd question.”
“It is a very common question,” said Mrs. Bennet, who never saw a family conversation she could not claim as universal. “But if Mr. Darcy is so clever, why would he make so many enemies in the county?”
Elizabeth said nothing for a while, then, “Did Mr. Wickham mention why he was curious about these things?”
Kitty felt the scrutiny, and did not like it. “He wanted to understand Meryton society, so he would not offend anyone. He is new here, after all.”
Elizabeth’s look was thoughtful, not accusing, but Kitty saw only criticism. “He did not ask you to say anything unkind about Mr. Darcy, did he?”
“Only what Mr. Darcy deserves.” Kitty’s voice broke a little, and she hated it. “He was only curious.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Curiosity can be a dangerous thing, Kitty.”
Kitty stared at her plate, and Jane tried to rescue her. “I am sure Mr. Wickham meant nothing but kindness. If he admires our family, it is because he sees good in us.”
Kitty flashed a grateful look at Jane, but Elizabeth’s silence pressed on her.
Lydia took another bite of her scone and spoke with her mouth half full. “Mr. Wickham told me he once beat Mr. Darcy at cards, and Mr. Darcy paid him without a word. I do not see why everyone here thinks him so wonderful.”
Mary, who had not looked up once, said, “It is sometimes easier to judge a man by his debts than by his manners.”
Mrs. Bennet scolded Lydia for speaking with her mouth full, then began planning what she ought to wear to the next assembly.
Kitty pushed back her chair. “I have letters to write.”
She left before anyone could ask to whom.
Once in the hall, she resolved that the next time she met Mr. Wickham, she would give them no cause to ridicule her.