By the time his dances with the lady were finished, I had determined one thing: it is too late for me to impress him as a suitable partner in life (if only I had talked to him about more serious things and not make that awful reference to The Jolly Vicar!), but I do resolve to be the kind of woman that a man like Mr. Caldicot could love. I do believe he is the best of men, and I will never meet his equal again. However, if there is ever another man who is something like him, I want to be worthy of such a man’s regard.
No sooner had I determined this, than he came across to me and asked me to dance the two next with him. If he had asked me an hour earlier, I would have been the happiest creature alive, but now knowing that I could never be his wife, it was difficult to enjoy myself. I felt that it would be the last time we would ever dance together, and it seemed a very solemn thing. I did try, Jane, to be lively and friendly, but I was afraid of appearing flippant and childish. I did my best to carry on a sensible, rational conversation, but everything I said sounded ridiculous to my ears. He did ask me once if anything was the matter, and I said there was nothing wrong—which I see now was a lie—but how could I tell him what I was thinking?
I asked Lizzy later if she knew who the lady was that he danced with, and she did not know. I suppose if he is as entranced by her as he looked it be, it will not be long until their engagement is public, and then my curiosity will be satisfied.
Mr. Caldicot left the ball soon after that, in order to see the children back to the vicarage. He came over to say goodbye to me and Lizzy, and she invited him to dinner on Christmas Eve, which is but two days from now. He accepted immediately, which I did not know whether to be glad or sorry for. Knowing that I love him, however hopelessly, means that I like to be in his presence. But also knowing that I will never be his makes me wish to never see him again.
It is very late, now, Jane, and I am very tired. I feel that I have lived whole years today.
Thank you for reading all my ramblings, and for the sympathy that I know you will have for me when you read this letter.
Your very chastened sister,
Kitty
Dear Mama,
I think I have ruined my chances with Miss Bennet. Something changed her disposition toward me between the time she came to the vicarage to help the children get ready for the ball, and the time I asked her to dance.
I cannot say for certain what happened, but I think I know. Just as we were putting the children into the carriages, one of the perpetual drunks of my acquaintance came and tried to create a scene. I dealt with him as quietly as I could, but it must have been something in that incident that changed her opinion of me. Either she thought that I handled him with more violence than was necessary (I did put his arm behind his back and compelled him to go with me down the street), or she thought that I did not do enough to punish a man who plainly would have harmed a little girl. Perhaps she thought I ought to have knocked the man down.
I had determined to ask Miss Bennet to dance at the ball, but found it impossible to do so immediately, as it only seemed proper for me to dance with one or two of the children. After that, I spent some little time greeting those who have given generously to the Society in the last few months. I then found the bishop eager to speak to me. I had nearly finished my discussion with him when I saw my cousin Alice. You must know, Mama, that I have not seen her since I came to London and have missed her sorely. Do you remember when we were children and they came to stay at the Hall for weeks on end, how she and Frances and I played and romped around the gardens until Biggins pleaded with Nurse to keep us under control? She and Tom have come to London for the season, and I hope to see them often. It seemed a little bit of home to talk and laugh with her.
Finally I asked Miss Bennet to dance. She accepted, but I could sense that there was a change in her. She was overly serious and conversed with me only on intellectual subjects. I asked her if anything was the matter and she said there was nothing, but she is not an accomplished liar.
I left the ball early to see the children home. When I arrived back at the vicarage, I found that Miss Bennet had left behand a handkerchief. The housekeeper said she found it in the room where the little girls were being dressed. I am tempted, like a sentimental fool, to keep it—but I will not. I will return it tomorrow, for Mrs. Darcy has invited me to dine with them. I half suspect her of knowing my mind. I hope I may find a way to speak with Miss Bennet and discover if my actions have given her a distaste for me.
Your devoted and distracted son,
John
My Dear Margaret,
I must report that as a matchmaking device, the ball was unprofitable. Something has happened, and I do not know what. Kitty seemed in very good spirits at the start of the ball, but when I saw her again later, she seemed rather wistful and sober, especially as she danced with John. And when John took his leave of the Darcys (Kitty was standing with them), she seemed to look anywhere but at him. I have not a notion what may have happened, but it is all very dispiriting, although we need not despair.
In (faint) hope,
Isabel
Dear Mama,
As today is Christmas Eve, I dined with Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, determined that I would find a way to speak to Kitty. It was a failure. That is, as a dinner it was a success, but as an opportunity to talk to Kitty it was a failure, chiefly because as soon as the ladies joined the gentlemen after dinner (which is when I was hoping to speak with Kitty, if the others were all talking among themselves), I was called away to the bedside of Mrs. Strickland, who has been languishing for the last six months. She did not die, but it was too late when I was finished praying with her to return to the Darcys’. Therefore I had no opportunity to restore Kitty’s handkerchief to her.
I thought that her demeanor toward me was still constrained, although once when I made a joke she laughed and for a moment there was a radiant smile. And then whatever cloud she is under came back and shadowed her face again. I feel that perhaps she has not taken a complete dislike to me, and it might be that if I could explain my behavior, there might yet be reason to hope.
Your loving son,
John
Dear Mr. Caldicot,
My sister, Mrs. Darcy, asks your pardon for disturbing you on Christmas Day, but she wonders if, in the next day or two, you might have time to visit little Annie? She is in great distress at the thought of leaving the house here to go to the “coterie” with the governess you found for her—Miss Drake, I think you said her name was. We hope you might be able to set her mind at rest. The footman will wait for your answer.
With Kind Regards,
Catherine Bennet
Dear Miss Bennet,
Of course I will come as soon as may be—this very day, if it will not be an imposition. You may expect me at about 4 o’clock.