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  Mrs Bennet meanwhile, freed from Mr Collins’s attentions, began to consider the eligibility of Mr Jones, and to speculate on the size of his living and what his income might be. Of course, she knew nothing of his family at this point, but such details could be gleaned. The dinner hour was approaching and she was toying with the idea of inviting the two visitors to dine. Accordingly, she quit the room in order to make enquiries of the housekeeper, Mrs Hill; it would not do to offer a meal that was not sufficiently impressive, even though, she assured herself, she had no desire whatsoever to impress Mr Collins. Her efforts were in vain, however. Upon returning to the parlour a few minutes later, it was to hear Mr Collins announce that, most regrettably, he and Mr Jones must depart. They were expected at Lucas Lodge within the hour.

  Bows and curtsies were made and the pair took their leave.

  ‘Well, Mary,’ said her mother, as the door closed behind the visitors. ‘What think you of Mr Jones? He seems a good sort of young gentleman. And with his own living. Canterbury is a fine place, by all accounts. I was glad to see you speaking with him. What did you speak of when I was gone? What is his income, do you know?’

  ‘Mama!’ said Kitty. ‘You know Mary would not ask him such questions!’

  ‘It is as well to know these things,’ countered Mrs Bennet. ‘Especially if he is looking for a wife.’

  Kitty sighed, igniting her mother’s ire.

  ‘Do not get so high and mighty with me, Miss. What is to become of you if you do not get married? You two are not so pretty as your sisters; you cannot expect important matches.’ She clasped her hands in her lap and looked from Kitty to Mary, her point made.

  ‘That may be so, ma’am,’ said Kitty, her voice rising. ‘But we do not know that Mr Jones is looking for a wife; and if he were, let us not assume that that wife would be me or Mary! Must we always be looking for husbands?’ It was an unexpected outburst, to all parties.

  Mrs Bennet found herself momentarily taken aback. Mary took advantage of the silence to observe, ‘Well, sister, if I am not mistaken, I rather thought that was your chief preoccupation. Certainly, it is the impression you give.’ She bent her head back to her book.

  Kitty glared at Mary and at Mrs Bennet, then excused herself to prepare for dinner, leaving her mother exasperated, her father mildly surprised and Mary somewhat smug.

  In a small fury, she flounced to her room but stopped mid-stairs and wondered at herself. Mary’s barb had found its mark. Dancing and conversing with red-coated officers and other dashing young men had long been her sole aim, and with Lydia by her side she had not thought to question it. Now the rules seemed to have changed. What was she supposed to do? What did she want to do? Why was it all her fault? She stamped her foot. Kitty didn’t have answers to any of these questions, but she was beginning to comprehend that they needed to be asked.

  CHAPTER 6

  As could be surmised, Mrs Bennet’s nerves, ever easily excited, were severely taxed by Kitty’s unsatisfactory and ungrateful behaviour. She missed no opportunity to chastise her daughter for her irritating ways, lack of sense and general perversity. Mary also felt her disapprobation; she was castigated for her lack of sociability, her constant recourse to books and learning, and lack of enthusiasm for balls and dancing. Mr Bennet was called upon to speak to his disappointing daughters and impress upon them their mother’s displeasure.

  ‘What would you have me tell them,’ he enquired mildly, when it was clear that some intervention on his part was the price to be paid for his peace and solitude.

  ‘You must tell them I will not put up with this behaviour,’ insisted Mrs Bennet, without specifying her daughters’ misdemeanours. ‘It is too vexing. They use me ill. It is not to be borne.’ She shook her head at the unfairness of it all.

  ‘Very well, my dear,’ agreed Mr Bennet, and consequently took both girls to task for their unsatisfactory conduct, such as it was, and reminded them, quite unnecessarily, of their mother’s nerves. Neither Kitty nor Mary could expect to benefit from such general instruction but Mrs Bennet was at last mollified.

  Kitty, for her part, kept to her own company and her own room as much as was permitted, and considered the injustice of life. Neither parent particularly noted her absence. When such injustices became too much even for her, she sought respite in the novel she had found and its heroine’s pursuit of love against all manner of adversities in sixteenth-century Italy. Were she or Mary to suddenly find themselves beset with proposals of marriage, Kitty supposed her mother’s dissatisfaction with them both would evaporate, but she could do nothing to bring about such an immediate and happy solution. Mary and Kitty remained the unmarried Misses Bennet and as such the focus of her disapproval.

  That her two eldest sisters had had more than their fair share of notice in the family was entirely due to their having been born before the others. Mr Bennet had been delighted to welcome his firstborn into the world, and had there been any disappointment in that child being a Jane rather than a James, would not have owned it to himself or any other. His indulgences towards Jane had been repeated when her sister Elizabeth arrived and he had, more than was fashionable or expected, taken great pride in being their father, guiding and playing and instructing them with a joy that was to surpass his being in company with his dear Mrs Bennet, whose own childlike ways were eclipsed by her daughters. In this way, both Jane and Elizabeth were secure in their place within their little commonwealth of Longbourn.

  When the longed-for male heir failed to appear in the person of Mary, and then Catherine and Lydia, it may have been noted by a cynical observer that Mr Bennet’s tolerance for daughters – and indeed fatherhood – began to diminish and while he would, if pressed, have professed love for all five there was no doubting that he lavished less attention on the youngest three than on the first two. Mrs Bennet’s nerves, meanwhile, became more and more demanding as her brood increased and her husband’s interest waned.

  Mary, as she grew, sought her parents’ attention by her accomplishments, treating each exercise in music or reading as proof of her ability and intelligence, earnestly exhorting them to hear her opinions, but instead of commanding respect and adulation she was, at best, merely tolerated. Lydia, in whom her mother saw her younger self – both in spirits and countenance – was a source of almost unwavering and narcissistic delight to Mrs Bennet. Consequently, she favoured her excessively, excused her constantly, and her husband made little attempt to interfere in his wife’s treatment of their youngest child, unless it was for a little sport of his own.

  Kitty, meanwhile, was just Kitty. A docile child, she had trailed after her adored elder sisters but they, like many older siblings, had not delighted in her presence and had sent her off to play with the younger ones. Only sickness and prolonged periods of enforced rest had brought Jane, and occasionally Elizabeth, to her bedside, and when she had fully recovered her health Lydia had so far inserted herself as her mother’s favourite that it had seemed obvious that she should follow in her younger sister’s wake and share all the delights and comforts bestowed upon her. Neither commanding nor being the centre of attention, Kitty had become more adept at observing than doing and, until the events of the previous year, had not questioned this order of things.

  Over the course of the following few days, an uneasy truce settled into normal routine at Longbourn and the four remaining Bennets, each the centre of their own little universe, were content to be brought together by an invitation to Netherfield House. As Kitty had barely spoken to anyone for days, nor received a letter from Lydia with any interesting news, this was a welcome relief. She could be sure of a sympathetic ear in Jane and, besides, it would occasion a temporary escape from Longbourn.

  As she came down into the hall to await the carriage, her mother examined her appearance. ‘I thought you would wear the green sprigged muslin,’ she criticised. ‘It looks better on you but never mind, never mind. Too late now. Come along!’

  Kitty who had, mistakenly as it turne
d out, thought she had acquitted herself rather well in the matter of her dress and hair, did not bother to respond; instead, she followed her mother into the carriage and took her place beside Mary. She could not arrive at Netherfield soon enough.

  CHAPTER 7

  As the Bingleys were shortly to return to London for the rest of the season, the dinner was the last they would host in the county for a while. Musical entertainment had been arranged for the small gathering, which comprised family and family friends. Although Kitty’s intention was to seek out Jane or her friend Maria Lucas as soon as she arrived, her attention was caught by an elegant, silver-haired gentleman of around fifty years of age, who looked every inch the wealthy landowner. He was in the midst of a hearty conversation with Sir William Lucas and, as both gentlemen were blessed with sonorous tones, it was easy to understand that Sir William, who never missed a chance to converse with anyone upon whom he might impress his knowledge – slight though it was – of the Court of St James, was delighted to be in the company of another knight. Standing beside her father and doing her best to look interested in a conversation she had heard a hundred times before, Maria Lucas was delighted to catch sight of Mary and Kitty, and to deftly excuse herself in order to speak with the Misses Bennet.

  ‘Who is that gentleman?’ asked Kitty, once they had all greeted each other.

  ‘His name is Sir Edward Quincy,’ Maria informed them. ‘We have only just made his acquaintance but I can tell you that he is an old family friend of the Bingleys and lives in Yorkshire, where his family have owned a large estate for some generations. Do you see that fair-haired lady over there?’ She nodded towards a woman in pale rose silk who was chatting with Caroline Bingley. ‘She is Sir Edward’s daughter, now Mrs Stephen Bridgwater. She and Miss Bingley have known each other since their schooldays.’

  Kitty glanced again at Mrs Bridgwater and back at Sir Edward, seeking a family resemblance but finding very little. Where the gentleman’s features were strong and aquiline, adding to his somewhat noble mien, his daughter was round-cheeked and dimpled. ‘She must resemble her mother,’ observed Kitty, looking around to see if she could see Lady Quincy and prove her theory correct.

  ‘That may be,’ said Maria, who lowered her voice to explain, ‘but Amelia, Mrs Bridgwater, was quite young when her mother died. Sir Edward was just saying to my father that his children often spent time with Charles, Louisa and Caroline Bingley when they were growing up.’

  ‘You are well informed this evening!’ exclaimed Kitty. ‘How much you have learned in such a short time.’

  ‘It was not difficult,’ returned Maria, who was nonetheless rather pleased to have news to impart. ‘Sir Edward is quite the conversationalist. I feared I would never get away and I could not think of anything sensible to say to him!’

  ‘It is better to remain silent if one has nothing salient to contribute,’ opined Mary, giving Maria pause for lip-biting contrition and her sister cause for mild exasperation.

  As she looked around the drawing room at Netherfield, Kitty decided it had never looked more pleasing. The walls and some of the furnishings, the colour of pale peach in the daytime, appeared a darker golden colour in the candlelight and there were more paintings on the walls than she remembered from her last visit. The furniture was grouped in such a way as to encourage conversation and the general effect was one of warmth. This was Jane’s influence, she knew. Peeping through into the dining room, the long mahogany table was sparkling with candelabra, crystal and silverware; Kitty thought how pretty it looked.

  Jane’s pleasure in entertaining her family was evident but she was not insensible to the personalities assembled. She had, therefore, given considerable thought to the seating arrangements for dinner and had decided the rules of etiquette could be bent a little in pursuit of harmony. Accordingly, Sir Edward was to her right but she had taken pains to seat her mother a little distance away, closer to Mr Bingley, who had command at the other end of the table, and Lady Lucas. Kitty and Miss Bingley she had placed next to Sir Edward and Sir William, and if strict accordance to rank had given way to a more pleasing distribution of individuals only those to whom convention was more important than pleasure were likely to complain, and then in private.

  One person who may have taken umbrage at such arrangements, were she not seated next to Sir William, was Miss Bingley. A tall and handsome woman thwarted not so much in love as in an advantageous marriage, she was radiant in dark green silk, her fashion absolutely à la mode.

  She bestowed her most charmingly artificial smile upon Sir Edward. ‘How delightful it will be to return to London,’ she began. ‘I have so missed the company of our friends. I long to see them again and to visit the galleries and opera. What thought you of the latest exhibition at the Academy?’

  ‘Good enough, my dear Miss Bingley,’ returned the knight. ‘But I prefer the theatre to the galleries, any day.’

  ‘I quite agree with you, of course,’ she replied. ‘Mrs Siddons’ Lady Macbeth is a masterpiece. Although, I must say I found that recent farce at Covent Garden quite lacking in humour. I found it wanting in every respect.’

  ‘Did you, indeed. Interesting, interesting. Quite liked it myself. How did you enjoy the piece, Miss Catherine?’

  ‘Oh,’ trilled Miss Bingley, before Kitty could draw breath to speak. ‘Miss Catherine does not like the theatre. She and her sisters prefer to stay in the country rather than visit London, is that not so, Miss Bennet? Although of course I will insist our dear Jane accompanies me when we are together in Brook Street. There will be so much to do and see, but the theatre and opera must not be neglected.’

  She smiled again, assured of her style, opinion and charm.

  ‘You may be right, Miss Bingley. You may very well be right,’ declared Sir Edward. ‘Although country pursuits suit me very well, I must say. When I am not abroad, of course. Do you ride, Miss Catherine?’

  Kitty did not ride, although at this moment she would have wished to say she did. Caroline Bingley spared her the trouble, ‘You should learn,’ she informed her, before acidly adding, ‘but then I suppose your horses are usually needed elsewhere.’ She turned back to Sir Edward, ‘For myself, I cannot wait to return to our dear friend Mr Darcy’s estate in Derbyshire; my sister Mrs Hurst and I so enjoy riding through the parklands there. You are still riding with the hounds in Yorkshire?’

  In this way, Miss Bingley attempted to keep Sir Edward’s focus upon herself but her plans were counteracted; family friend or no, the gentleman was equally determined to converse with the pretty young woman seated to his right.

  ‘Miss Catherine,’ he said, ‘I fear we neglect your opinions. What amusements have you in Meryton?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Catherine, do tell us,’ entreated Caroline. ‘Now that the militia has left Meryton, you must be at a loss for entertainment?’

  Kitty was no stranger to Miss Bingley and her malice. Although not privy to Elizabeth and Jane’s conversations about Mr Bingley’s sister, she had overheard enough to know that Lizzy found Caroline arrogant and mean-spirited, and Lizzy’s opinions were generally found to be solid. Moreover, her own experience of Miss Bingley had done nothing to challenge that view. Kitty maintained her composure and smiling demurely at Sir Edward, answered: ‘It is true that the town is less colourful now that the militia has left but I can assure you that the Assemblies are as convivial as ever and that we do not want for company, no matter that our pleasures are less sophisticated than those of the city.’

  It was, perhaps, one of the most considered replies Kitty had made in her short life. She heard herself speak and awaited a pointed response from Miss Bingley. The reply, though, came from Sir Edward. ‘Well said, Miss Catherine. Give me the country over the city any day. Nothing like a day’s hunting, eh? An afternoon with a good book?’

  ‘As to hunting, I cannot say sir,’ answered Kitty.

  ‘And what of reading, Miss Catherine,’ pounced Miss Bingley, feeling herself on sure ground. ‘What has
engaged your interest of late?’

  Kitty had never felt more relieved. Her self-imposed isolation at Longbourn during the past few days had afforded her plenty of time. She had not only read the chosen novel but delved into the other book inadvertently taken from her father’s library.

  ‘Oh, I quite enjoyed Mrs Radcliffe’s A Sicilian Romance,’ she said of the first, affecting an airy nonchalance. Her words caught Jane’s attention and the two sisters enjoyed a brief review of the book’s merits. Sir Edward had read it, too, and offered his own reflections. For Kitty, this represented a minor triumph.

  ‘I am sure you are a great reader, Miss Catherine,’ said he. ‘What other books engage you?’

  ‘My father has a good library, sir,’ she replied, thinking as she spoke. She had no wish to admit her recent reading was limited to one book. ‘I am just beginning some of Mrs Wollstonecraft’s essays,’ she added, recalling the author of the second book that had literally fallen her way in the Longbourn library.

  ‘My dear Miss Catherine! What a revelation you are. A revelation, indeed!’ responded Sir Edward. ‘She has some fascinating ideas. Although not favourably received by all, I must say. I look forward to your thoughts when you have finished it. I am sure there will be points on which we differ, although I am delighted to find a young lady so advanced in her reading matter. Delighted!’

  Kitty thanked him, her heart pounding. She had little idea what his words meant nor, indeed, of the content of the book. She would have to make it her business to find out. She was grateful to Jane, who engaged her in less demanding subjects while Miss Bingley imposed her opinions on Sir William and Sir Edward. At the other end of the table, past the quieter conversation between the likes of her father and Mrs Bridgwater, Maria and Mary, her mother could be heard extolling the beauty of Jane. Mr Bingley smiled benignly on all.