I was astonished when he burst into laughter and said, “So Chloe Athenbury drove him into madness, did she?”
I was at a loss to know what he meant, and told him so.
“Oh,” he said, “only that he wanted to marry Miss Athenbury a year or so ago and she—well, I must not say she jilted him, precisely. Only I am hard pressed to find another word that means nearly the same thing.”
“But why?” I asked.
“Mama says that Miss Athenbury first saw him on the hunting field and at balls, and thought him a man of fashion. He looked quite the dashing gentleman, I understand. His cravats were legendary. I suppose she assumed that he was worldly-wise enough to be ambitious.”
“She thought he would be ambitious as a clergyman?”
“But of course, Miss Bennet. She thought he would in due course seek a larger and more important parish—or at least get a comfortable living and retain a curate to do all the real work. She did have some qualms, evidently, about marrying a younger son, but then he is a Caldicot! He would always move in the highest circles.”
“But you say he was not ambitious,” I prodded.
“No, silly fellow. Much too religious to seek preferment and take his place in society. All that skill in the ballroom, and now he spends his days teaching ragged orphans to dance!” He laughed much harder at this than I thought was necessary. When at last he ceased his chuckling, he looked more sober and I thought he might at last give Mr. Caldicot some praise for his devotion to duty. Instead, he murmured something about “such a waste of a life.”
I must say, Jane, I was taken aback and even a little angry. How could anyone think Mr. Caldicot’s life is more wasted than Mr. Arnot’s? I bit my tongue before I said the words that came into my mind, and fortunately Mr. Arnot turned the subject and did not expect me to pronounce my own judgement on how Mr. Caldicot spends his days.
The rest of the evening was pleasant enough, but my spirits did not quite recover after this conversation. I am sure Mr. Arnot said no more than the rest of society thinks, and I must not think too hardly of him for his opinions. I daresay I might have said the same thing six months ago. Only I am afraid that my estimation of Mr. Arnot has been sunk a little, and it makes me feel rather low.
Poor Mr. Caldicot! He does so much good and is so busy—to the point of weariness, I am sure. And then to be disdained by the young lady who won his heart and be sneered at by those who ought to admire his example—it does not seem just. Lizzy and Lady Hampshire have both praised him highly to me, and I cannot but agree.
Today was the last lesson for the little children who are to come to the ball. I must say they have certainly learned much in the last few weeks! They can bow and curtsey as well as any gentleman’s children, they can dance very prettily, and they can be shown a table laden with sweetmeats without either brawling over them or consuming them all within a few moments.
I did have one embarrassing moment, however. As we were leaving, Mr. Caldicot lent me a book to help me in my talks with little Annie. “Thank you, Mr. Turns-the-Wrong-Way,” I said—which is a small joke between us about a wrong turn he made in a dancing lesson.
He laughed a little and said, “I suppose there are worse nicknames. I could be Mr. Boring-Sermons.”
“Oh no,” I returned. “You are more likely to be called ‘the Jolly Vicar,’” for that phrase popped into my head as something familiar and it did seem complimentary. But oh, Jane, I suddenly recalled where I had heard the phrase before. I am sure you remember when I was staying with you and Mr. Bingley last year and we were invited to dine with those neighbors of yours—I have forgotten their names. One of the daughters played for us after dinner and that very provoking son of theirs requested her to sing ‘The Jolly Vicar,’ but her mother said it was not a song to be sung in company. I was curious, then, and when I chanced to see the words later on, I could see what the mother meant—it is quite ribald and scandalous. And here was I suggesting that Mr. Caldicot could be given the nickname of such a disreputable parson!
Mr. Caldicot raised his eyebrows at me, and then I realized what I had said. I could feel myself blushing furiously and said without thinking, “No, no, you are more likely to be called Friar Tuck’”—which was hardly an improvement! I only meant to say that he is not a villain, but for such an earnest parson as Mr. Caldicot is, the comparison to a self-indulgent, intemperate priest was singularly inappropriate! I did not see how Mr. Caldicot took my declaration, for I was afraid to make things even worse by saying more, and bid him a hasty farewell.
I daresay he has already forgotten what I said, but I hope to form the habit of thinking before I speak! It does not matter so much with Mr. Caldicot, but I tremble to think what the consequences would be if I had made a similarly ungenteel reference when speaking to the Arnots!
This letter is far too long, Jane, and I will not inflict such a tome on you again. You are very patient to read through all my ramblings!
With much affection,
Kitty
Dear Mama,
I find that I lead a more solitary life than I knew, for I have no one to tell of the excellencies of Kitty Bennet except for you. I have no one else to confide in. No doubt this is a good thing, for if she will not have me, I will not be discomfited by sympathetic eyes gazing upon me. It is therefore your lot to bear the brunt of all my musings.
I will sound ridiculously besotted when I tell you that Kitty is the most adorable young lady I have ever met. Today she came for the final lesson of the little children for the ball. The best behaved of the boys had the privilege of dancing with her, and more than once I caught myself staring at her and wishing I could cut in on their dance. Fortunately, I think no one noticed my rapt expression.
When she left, and I gave her a book I had promised to lend her, she teasingly compared me with “The Jolly Vicar”—that vulgar ditty which fatuous young men think hilarious. It took her only a moment to recall the coarse nature of the song and then she blushed adorably and hastened to correct her blunder by then comparing me to Friar Tuck! A moment more and she realized that her second comparison was hardly more felicitous than the first. She was covered in confusion and turned away in great embarrassment and I had much ado to restrain myself at bursting into laughter. Truth be told, I really think that if we had not been surrounded by the governess, my housekeeper, and twenty children, I might have declared myself then and there.
I go tomorrow to the Darcys’ and lay before them my plans for engaging former governesses to care for some of the homeless girls of my acquaintance, including the famous Annie you have heard so much about. I doubt very much I will be able to have a private audience with Kitty, but I cannot help hoping that I will.
Your love-struck son,
John
My Dear Jane,
I acknowledge the justice of the comment in your last letter when you wrote that I report very little of how Georgiana is getting on in her first season. I expected, when we came to Town, that Georgiana would take up all my attention, and I considered Kitty chiefly as a friend and companion for Georgiana. I little thought that most of my plans and thoughts would be on Kitty’s behalf.