Kitty Bennet's Diary (Pride and Prejudice Chronicles) (20 page)

Georgiana tells me that Mrs. Hurst’s face turned positively green.

I of course put all the coins I had earned as Madame Marianna into the donations box to give to the hospital.  But I kept out Louisa Hurst’s half-sovereign and shilling.  I stopped at a confectioner’s on my way home and used them to buy chocolates to give to Will the next time I visit him.

I went back to the children’s ward of the hospital today—to see Will.  I was not sure whether Mr. Dalton would be there or no; he and I had certainly made no plans to meet.  But he was there.  He arrived in the ward soon after I had done, and, much to Black-hearted William’s delight, kept his promise by engaging in a fearsome battle with our swords.

He said—

But I will not record everything that he said to me and I to him.  This entry will be hard enough to write as it is.  If I wind up with a great ugly blot of ink instead of words across the page, it is because I have to keep reminding myself
not
to grip the pen so hard that I am in danger of snapping it in half.

We finished our game of swords, and I could see that Will was tired.  So I gave him the chocolates I bought the day before last, and promised that I would come back soon.

All other considerations aside, I would have considered my turn as Madame Marianna well repaid by the expression on Will’s small, freckled face when I gave him the sweets.   He looked—rather comically—like a squirrel with its cheeks stuffed full of nuts after he had ripped open the package and immediately crammed at least four of the chocolates into his mouth.

I kissed the top of his head—even though I should have known better, of course; no ten-year-old boy likes to be kissed.  Will endured it with a heroically patient expression.  Now looking like a cross between a squirrel and a painting of a martyred saint. 

I turned quickly away—before I could further injure his dignity by laughing.  Or growing teary-eyed; at that moment, I would have given anything to have Will actually be a
fully
normal ten-year-old boy, with no brace on his back and no hopeless diagnosis.

Mr. Dalton and I walked back towards the entrance to the children’s ward.  And suddenly a voice to the right of us said, “Miss Bennet—Kitty!”  And I turned to see Mrs. Ayres.  John’s mother.

I had for weeks gone out of my way to avoid seeing her.  And now I had met her at London Hospital, of all places.  I had no idea she was even involved in the hospital’s charity work.  She was not at the fete the other day.

I stood stock still—wishing it were possible to simply bolt past her and out of the ward.  And Mrs. Ayres came over and enveloped me in a hug.

I actually adore Mrs. Ayres.  Really, she was one of the best things about being engaged to John: the thought that she would be my mother, too, after John and I married.  We met in person only a few times, but she used to write letters to me—very kind letters, and full of humour and fun.

Despite having grown-up children—John had two brothers and a sister, as well—Mrs. Ayres is very pretty and young-looking still.  She has dark hair, just lightly touched with grey, and a plump, rosy-cheeked face with eyes that seem always to brim with laughter.

Or at least she had when last I saw her a year ago.  Now as she drew back from embracing me, I saw that she was far thinner than I remembered, and that her hair was beginning to turn white.

She was smiling at me.  But it was a tremulous smile, and her dark eyes had flooded with tears.  “I am so glad to have seen you at last!  I have called at your aunt’s residence in Cheapside.  But so far never when you have been at home.”

Her gaze was steady on mine—and I could see that she knew perfectly well that I had been avoiding her.  I felt my cheeks burning with shame and started to stammer out some sort of apology.  But she hugged me again and said, “It’s all right, my dear.  I do understand.  For weeks after I received word of John’s death, I felt as though I could not bear to see anyone.”

She thought it was simple grief over John that had kept me from wanting to see her.  The knowledge felt like a fiery coal, burning its way through my ribcage.

“You will come and see me, though?” Mrs. Ayres said.  “And soon?  Please?”  There was a catch in her voice.

I said something—I have no idea what, but it must have been vague enough that Mrs. Ayres took it for consent.  She clasped my hand and kissed my cheek and said how fortunate it was that she had chosen today to bring her own gifts of charity to the hospital.

And then she left.

Tears pressed like a pounding headache behind my eyes.  I felt as though I were going to be sick.

“Miss Bennet, are you all right?”

I looked up and realised that Mr. Dalton was still standing beside me.  I had entirely forgotten his presence, but he must have just overheard the whole of my exchange with Mrs. Ayres.  It needed only that to make the sheer nightmarish quality of the encounter truly complete.

“Perfectly.  I’m … fine.”  At that moment, all I wanted in the world was to get away—somewhere by myself, where no one would look at me.

A line appeared between Mr. Dalton’s brows.  “You’ll forgive me, but you do not look at all ‘fine’.  You look as though—”

“I am
fine
!”  My voice cracked as I spoke the words—which rather spoiled their intended effect.  I drew in a ragged breath and said, “Mr. Dalton, I am trying to spare you the discomfort of seeing me dissolve into a sniffling mess of tears.”  I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes.  “Please, just let me—”

He interrupted, though, before I could finish.  “You are concerned about
my
discomfort?  Does it ever occur to you to take into consideration what
you
want or need?”  His tone softened as he put an arm about me, supporting me.  “Here, come and sit down—you look as though you are about to faint.”

“I never faint,” I said automatically.  But I did allow him to draw me to a hard wooden bench at the head of the ward.  Something inside me seemed to have crumbled at his touch, erasing all my resolve to get away.

I sat.  Locking my hands together so tightly that the bones in my fingers ached, in my effort not to burst into tears.  Mr. Dalton had kept his arm about me.  I knew I ought to pull away.  But I could not manage to.  He felt solid and strong.  I could feel the warmth of his body seeping into mine, the slow, steady rhythm of his heart.  I closed my eyes, resting my forehead against his shoulder.

He did not ask a single question, only sat with me and was quiet.  But somehow even though—or perhaps
because
—he had not asked for an explanation, I felt the words spill out.

“That was Mrs. Ayres.  Her son and I were … were engaged to be married.  Before he was killed last summer at Waterloo.”  I choked on a bitter half-laugh.  “Though I suppose you know all of this already.  You said when we met that you already knew me by reputation.”

At that he drew back a little, enough that he could look down at me.  He was frowning again.  “Miss Bennet, I think there must be … that is, if I unintentionally gave offence—”  He cleared his throat and began again, abandoning the formal tone.  “Look here, I thought at the time that you seemed to have understood something entirely different from what I intended by those words.  When I had called at your aunt and uncle’s house previous to your arrival, the Gardiner children gave a glowing report of their Cousin Kitty Bennet, who was soon to come and visit for the Christmas holidays.  And they showed me a miniature portrait of you that your sister-in-law Mrs. Fitzwilliam painted last year.  That was all I meant by saying that I knew you by repute.”  He gave me a brief smile.  “But between one thing and another, I had not the chance to explain.”

I had not
given
him the chance to explain.  Well, it was not entirely me—Miranda Pettigrew played her part, as well.

But the memory of that night was almost instantly eclipsed by a realisation—one that struck me like an ocean wave crashing against the shore: Mr. Dalton does not know.  All this time, I have thought that he knew the worst about me—but he does not.  He knows nothing of my history with John and Lord Henry Carmichael at all.

I could have told him then.  I
should
have done.  And yet somehow the words seemed to tangle up in my throat and form a hard, immovable knot.  Because sitting there, in the circle of his arm—looking up into his morning-sky blue eyes—another realisation struck me with equal force.

I have fallen in love with Lancelot Dalton.

I am
not
going to moan and sigh and carry on like a lovelorn character in one of Lord Byron’s poems.  I have fallen in love with Lance Dalton.  There is absolutely no chance he would ever be happy if he married me.  Not to mention, how could I live with myself?  Therefore, I must do my best not to see him, not even to
think
of him any more.

Why could he not have had a name like Eustace?  Or Sylvester?  It does not seem possible that I should lie awake at night with the name ‘Eustace’ ringing in my ears.

Although perhaps it would make no difference.  I have a horrible sinking feeling that it would not materially alter my feelings no matter what he was called.

But this seems to be approaching the ‘moan’ and ‘sigh’ category, and I really took up this journal to record the second stage of our scheme for getting Jane’s necklace back from Mrs. Hurst.

I had not really expected that she would go straight home from the hospital fete, open her jewellery box, and send the diamonds directly back to Jane.  I
hoped
that she might—but I knew, really, that it would not be so easy as that.  Once away from the fete and Madame Marianna, Mrs. Hurst would convince herself that the gypsy predictions were all nonsense and coincidence, and that there was no reason to give the necklace up.

It was for that reason that I planned an encore performance, to be carried out today and aimed at persuading Mrs. Hurst that she has indeed been cursed with ill-fortune.

I went to Darcy House yesterday to see Jane—and then, afterwards, to lay careful plans with Georgiana.

Georgiana—calling in a favour—contrived to get Mrs. Hurst invited to a
very
exclusive tea party, hosted by Countess Lieven and taking place this afternoon.  Since we knew both the countess’s address and Mrs. Hurst’s, we were able to calculate the most probable route that her coachman would take to the party.  And thus we were able to position ourselves at about the midpoint of her journey, at the corner of St. James’s Park.

When Georgiana’s coachman drew our carriage to a halt, we looked at each other and were silent.  “Are you certain this will work?” Georgiana asked at last.

“Not in the slightest,” I said.  “But I cannot think of a better plan.  You can scarcely follow Louisa Hurst all over London, jogging her elbow and making her spill drinks wherever she goes.”

Georgiana laughed.  “Very well, then.”  She peered out the carriage window at the street and then said, “In that case, I think I see a likely candidate.  That farmer with the wagon load of vegetable marrows over there?”

“Perfect,” I agreed.

We descended from the carriage, and I approached him, wondering what exactly I was going to say.  I had neglected in planning this all out to account for how to persuade our unwitting accomplice to play his prescribed part.

As it turned out, though, I need not have worried.  The farmer was middle-aged and phlegmatic, with a sturdy, square-built frame and a face that looked as though it had been carved out of wood.  He was supremely incurious about the reason for Georgiana’s and my rather odd request.  Georgiana and I paid him for his entire load of marrows—at Georgiana’s insistence, we divided the cost between us—and that was enough for him.  What we did with them afterwards was entirely our affair, or so his attitude seemed to be.

So it was that when Mrs. Hurst’s sleek and rather gaudy carriage turned the corner into the road, the entire way was blocked by an overturned farm cart that had spilled vegetable marrows all over the street. The farmer was—very slowly—working at picking them all up and endeavouring to right his cart.

Mrs. Hurst’s carriage came of necessity to a halt—and before her driver could negotiate a turn, sending them back along the way they had come, three hansom cabs rolled up behind, effectively boxing Mrs. Hurst’s carriage in.

Georgiana and I had also hired the three cab drivers expressly for the purpose.

We had ducked back into our own carriage so that we might not be seen. But I caught just a glimpse of Mrs. Hurst, poking her head out through her carriage window and peevishly demanding of her driver the reason for the delay.

“She will be a quarter-hour late to the tea at least,” Georgiana said with satisfaction.  “And Countess Lieven is a stickler for punctuality—she loathes tardiness above all things.”

“We shall be late ourselves, though,” I said.  That was something else I had not accounted for—that we would be trapped by the same traffic delay which we had engineered.

But Georgiana shook her head.  “No indeed.  Saunders will find a way.  He knows every street in London. I am certain he can find a way to get us to the countess’s well before Mrs. Hurst arrives.”

Saunders is her coachman, an elderly, white-haired man with shoulders permanently hunched from a lifetime of sitting at the reins.

“Will he not think this all very strange?” I asked, with a glance in front of us at Saunders’s caped great-coat and high beaver hat.

“I daresay.  But he will not mind.  And he will not speak of it to anyone, if that is what you are worried about.”  Georgiana cast an affectionate look at the coachman’s back.  “He has known me since I was a child.  And besides, I hinted to him that the purpose of today’s excursion was to do a turn of good service for Amelia’s mother, which was more than enough to ensure his enthusiastic participation.  He has fallen as completely under small Amelia’s spell as the rest of the household.”

The farmer gave us an unruffled wave and a tip of his hat as Saunders turned the carriage around and we drove off—which caused both Georgiana and me to dissolve into fits of laughter.