Kitty Bennet's Diary (Pride and Prejudice Chronicles) (16 page)

She flounced off down the path.  Mr. Dalton’s and my eyes met—and in the same instant, we both of us started to laugh.  I could not help it; the sudden descent of the situation from the frightening to the ridiculous was simply too much.

“I’m sorry,” I gasped at last.  “I ought to have defended your reputation.  Though do you think she would have been less or more offended to know that you were only here to knock another gentleman down?”

Mr. Dalton said, “More—I rather think more.”

We both laughed again.  And then … then, quite suddenly, our eyes caught once again, and this time held.

It was like that moment outside my aunt and uncle’s, in his carriage.  Only worse.  I felt as though all the air had suddenly been driven from my lungs—and yet I did not especially want to move or to breathe.  Time seemed to me to slow, and at the same time, everything seemed unnaturally loud and clear.  The beating of my own heart in my ears.  The sound of the wind in the trees all around us.  The distant sound of explosions; without my realising it, the fireworks demonstration must have already begun.

The explosions spangling the sky above the tree line patched the lean, hard lines of Mr. Dalton’s face with coloured light and shadow.  My skin felt too tight, tingling with awareness of him.  I was still holding his hand in both of mine, and I could feel the warmth of his skin even through my gloves.

It was not that I wished again that I might move closer still and touch him, trace the planes of his cheekbones and the curve of his mouth with my fingertips.  Or better yet, that he would miraculously draw me into his arms and kiss me.

Very well, it was not
only
that.  But truly, it was more that I had, for a few moments while I was speaking of Mary, felt that I was not entirely alone.  That I might share the burden of worry with Mr. Dalton, and that he would understand.

Hastily, I edged backwards on the bench, dropped my gaze, and finished knotting the handkerchief about his knuckles.  “Well—I ought to get back to my uncle and aunt,” I said.  “They must be growing truly alarmed for me by this time.  And you must be growing quite bored with hearing of our family matters.”

Mr. Dalton looked down at his own hand and cleared his throat.  “Miss Bennet.”  He spoke gravely, but there was light enough for me to see the smile just curving the edges of his mouth.  “I would describe my encounters with you as many things—but certainly never boring.”

I laughed at that, despite myself.  And then I scrambled up off the bench, so quickly that I almost tripped over my own feet.

Something was stirring inside me—a half-pleasurable, half-painful ache about my heart that I had never thought I would feel again.

That I do not
want
to feel ever again.

I think perhaps I ought to go back and read over the beginning entries in this diary—to remind myself of all the reasons that even Miranda Pettigrew would make a better clergyman’s wife than I.

I do not want to write this.  I have kept studiously away from this diary for the last four days in hopes that I could
avoid
writing this.  But recounting the truth—I suppose that is true penance, the one in comparison to which all my other attempts at penance pale.

Besides, I woke up cold and sweating from the old nightmare a short while ago, and there is no chance of my falling back to sleep.  Mary of course is sound asleep in the other bed.

Lord Henry has not in fact made any move to contact her at all since the night of our excursion to Vauxhall—so I think I may cautiously hope that I did succeed in frightening him away.  And today I saw Mary reading the book Mr. Williams had brought for her—which I had left on her bedside table, since I never did have the opportunity to give it to her.

Of course, I am also not entirely sure that she knew from whom the book had come.

But I am stalling.  Chiefly because even thinking of the words I have to write seems to bring a nasty taste into my mouth.  Like cold ashes and the dregs of bitter wine.

However.

A year ago, I was engaged to John—Captain John Ayres.  John was … 

This is even worse than I had expected.  I cannot tell how to describe John.  He was quiet.  Not stunningly handsome, but pleasant faced.  Strong.  Rather shy.  Kind.

But none of that seems at all to bring John to life on this page—to put it that way, he sounds merely stolid and dull.

And of course the horrible truth is that I
thought
him rather stolid and dull, a year ago.  That is one of the questions that I have lain awake asking myself: what would I think of John if I could meet him now?  And what would he think of me?  Would we
still
have absolutely nothing in common?

At any rate, we were engaged.  My mother was continually pressing me to find a husband, and John was by far the nicest of the men who offered me marriage.  I did not love him.  But then I did not really know him at all; we met a few times, danced together at public assemblies, and were engaged.  And then John’s regiment was posted to foreign service on the Continent, and the entire rest of our engagement was conducted by letters.

And John—I know he
believed
that he loved me.  His letters to me—they were not full of lyrical, poetic declarations of love, but they were very … sweet.  In a quiet way.  I have them still, in the very bottom of my trunk.  It seems like a betrayal to throw them away or burn them.  And yet neither can I stand to look at them.

But John did not really know me at all, either.  He cannot have done.  He would surely never have wished to marry me if he had.

We had been engaged for some months when I travelled to Pemberley last Christmas to spend the holidays with Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy and Georgiana.  And I—

This really
is
even worse than I thought it would be—and that is saying a great deal.  It is perfectly remarkable how one can despise one’s actions—and yet still wish somehow to paint oneself in a more favourable light.  Like a tactful portrait artist smoothing out his rich patroness’s wrinkles and warts.

But the whole purpose of this penance is to write out the truth.  All of it—warts and all.

While I was at Pemberley, I met Lord Henry Carmichael.  He was handsome, of course—dazzlingly so.  And charming.  And wealthy.  And I wanted—  It was not only that I was infatuated with him, though I suppose I certainly was that.  But I wanted to change my life—to achieve a dazzling match as my sisters Jane and Lizzy had.

John was good and kind, but he was also a younger son, without fortune or property.  And I could see myself, twenty years from now, if I married him—becoming exactly like my mother.  Constantly scheming and pushing to get my fortune-less daughters married off.

And then … while I was at Pemberley, I saw, too, how happy Elizabeth and her Mr. Darcy are.  And Edward and Georgiana—Edward was spending the holiday at Pemberley, too, though they were only engaged, not yet married.  I could see in both of them—both couples, I mean—that same almost visible glow of happiness and warmth and mutual understanding.  They knew one another completely and yet were still so very much in love.  And at heart, I knew that I would never, ever share that sort of union with John.  No matter how basically good he was, or how kind.

I grew up knowing quite well that my parents had absolutely no real understanding of each other.  No  common ground or respect—and after many years of such a marriage, very little in the way of affection, either.  And at night, when I was lying alone in bed, the fear would seem to spring out and fairly stare me in the face that that was one more way in which I might become like my mother if I married John.

Did I ever believe I might find true love and happiness with Lord Henry?  Knowing of him what I do now, that seems positively farcical.  But I suppose for a little while at least I hoped that I might.

At any rate, I was … 

Very well.  If I am going to force myself to write this all out, I shall at least get it over with in as few words as possible—without any further attempts at explanation or excuses.

I was infatuated enough to conduct a shameless flirtation with Lord Henry.  I danced with him, rode in his carriage—and at the Pemberley Christmas Ball, I slipped off alone with him and allowed him to kiss me.

Georgiana and Edward found us.  I was sent home in disgrace, though Georgiana promised that she would not tell anyone of what had happened, so long as I ended my engagement to John.

I did at least have honour enough to see quite well that I must do
that
.  That I at the very least owed John honesty.  I wrote to John and told him the whole truth and broke off our betrothal.  And yet I still did not see—or did not wish to see—Lord Henry for what he truly was.  All that winter, I thought and planned and schemed for how I might see him again.  I was so certain that if he could only see me—if he could only be reminded of how very well we were suited to each other, he might offer marriage to me after all.

I heard that he was gone to Brussels, so I formed a scheme in which Georgiana and I would go, as well.  War had broken out again—Napoleon having escaped from exile.  But I did not even think of that—except as a minor, passing inconvenience.  My only thoughts were of somehow meeting with Lord Henry again.

Which I did.  At a ball in Ostend.  And that was when I discovered that he did not remember me in the slightest.  All the time I had spent pining for him, dreaming of him … and he had absolutely no recollection of either my face or my name.

And that—that same night—was when I met John again, as well.  He was … he was so kind.  So absolutely the opposite of Lord Henry Carmichael in every regard.  He did not reproach me in the slightest.  He seemed to think only of my happiness—of trying to mend the casual hurt Lord Henry had done me.

And I
still
could not love him.  I wanted to.  I wanted to so, so much that it was an almost physical ache inside my chest.  But I did not.  John was a good friend—but that was all he could ever be to me.  Our temperaments were still completely ill-suited to be anything more.

But then the night before the battle—at Quatre Bras, where our troops met Napoleon’s for the first time, on the day before their final battle at Waterloo—John asked me whether there was not yet a chance that matters might be mended between us.

I could not tell him no—how could I?  He was hours away from marching off to war.  I told him that of course there was yet a chance.  That I would wait for him to come back to me.  And he looked so happy.  He kissed my cheek before bidding me good-bye to join his regiment.

After the battle, Georgiana and I went out into the streets to tend the wounded.  There were so many of them—scores of men and boys, all of them bloodied and wounded, many dying.  That is what I dream of—what I dreamt of tonight, and every night that one of the nightmares comes.

I am back on the streets of Brussels.  Trying not to gag at the stench of blood and putrefying flesh as I crouch beside soldier after soldier, binding up wounds.  Holding flasks of water or a few precious sips of brandy to each man’s lips.  And then … in the dream, it is always the same.  I crouch down next to a man huddled in a doorway, his face hidden from me.  I take hold of his shoulder, thinking to rouse him.  But then his head flops limply on his shoulder and I realise that he is already past all help.  And that I know him—that his face is John’s.

Of course, that was the real fear that haunted me all the time I was indeed treating the wounded men—that among the dead and dying, I would find John.  But it is only in my imagination that it keeps happening that way, again and again.  In real life—

In real life John
was
killed.  But miles away from me, on the field of battle.  I never got to see his face or tend to his wounds at all.

Mr. Dalton called at the house today.  Not to see me.  He came to speak with my aunt about another charity fete—this one organised by themselves, to benefit the children’s hospital my aunt supports.  This was the first I had heard of the event, but it appears to have been in the planning stages for some time, for it takes place in just four days’ time. 

Mr. Dalton was accompanied by a girl—a very pretty girl perhaps a year or two older than I am, whom he introduced as his sister, Miss Gwenevere Dalton.  She is as pretty as Mr. Dalton is handsome, even though she is nothing like Mr. Dalton at all to look at: small and dark where Mr. Dalton is tall and fair.  She still wears mourning colours, of course, for her brother.  Half mourning, since his death was six months ago.  But beneath the pale lavender coloured roses on her bonnet, her face was vivid and vivacious, with lively-looking dark eyes and a slightly pointed chin.

 Save for greeting me politely, Mr. Dalton spoke very little to me.  Not that I expected or wished him to.

No, that is not true.  As long as I am holding myself to a policy of strict honesty with others, I suppose that ought to include a ban on lying to myself, as well.

A part of me
did
wish that I could have spoken with Mr. Dalton more.  I had not seen or spoken to him since the night of the masquerade at Vauxhall.

However.  He and Aunt Gardiner were occupied in discussing details of the fete, so it fell to me to speak with his sister.  I liked her at once, very much.  I was also entertaining baby Susanna, and Miss Dalton crouched down and made silly faces at her and laughed delightedly when Susanna chuckled and reached out her chubby arms to be picked up.  And when Susanna was unmannerly enough to slightly dampen Miss Dalton’s (very expensive-looking) grey satin walking dress, Miss Dalton only laughed and said, “Never mind.  It’s supposed to be good luck, didn’t you know?” and kissed Susanna’s rosy little cheeks.

She told me about the fete—which she has been involved in planning, as well.  It is to take place at the hospital, so that those who come may see the children whom they are supporting.  And so that the children—those able to leave their beds, at least—may also take part in the festivities.  There are to be games and prizes to be won and dancing—and of course sweets and presents for the children.