Chapter Text
The sight of a town coach strolling through the English countryside was not one near as surprising as the sight of the crest it carried was. The road it traversed led to a very well known and esteemed destination—one that flattered itself to be—the beating heart of the country. What was surprising about this town coach compared to the many others that swept through the wintry roads, was its decided lack of magnificence.
It certainly could have been described minimalist—even common—were not for the six grey horses that carried it through the landscape. Those which were among some of the finest you could ask for; sought after by those at the highest of positions. Unfortunately, having the money to buy them meant nothing if you did not have the expertise to handle them, both of which this particular carriage presented with little difficulty.
Putting it all together, forms the picture of an owner near-close ideal: one that had not only wealth, but also good enough taste with its use of it.
While this carriage was a very fine one with its green-and-gold colouring, it was not one far florid that it made you think its owner was a part of fashion. It did not need to be showy, that task belonged to the famous coat of arms that decorated its outside doors.
It would be quite a waste to use this transportation only for its owner: a medium-figured, blond gentleman with vivid green eyes—not older than thirty, mind you—who was dressed as equally minimal as his coach, though his tailoring did not went as far as being distasteful. His head rested back, as his arms and legs were crossed in a languid manner as he rested against the comfortable seating present inside.
Mercifully, its owner was known for favouring practicality, so the carriage was not wasted on a single gentleman: it hosted other two young ladies.
The one seated to his right paid very little attention to her surroundings, but spoke well for the image the coach intended to present. She, of course, was dressed minimally too; her clothing known to lack ribbons, printing and trimming—it was sober but dignified; no one could look at the fine french light blue silk that draped her travelling gown and think she was ordinary. The darker navy blue spencer styled similarly to a military jacket was made of velvet, to put an end to anyone’s doubt of her relation to this carriage: she was as much its owner as the nobleman to her left was.
The other young lady was the one with a prettier face, but less spectacular dress. Her travelling outfit was nowhere near as fine as the other lady’s, and nowhere near as notable. Sprigged muslin with multiple trimming at the bottom, accompanied by a light pink spencer made of fabrics that could not be possibly confused with velvet. Not that for now she could bother to be resentful of her inferior dress as she would usually be. Currently, she sought refuge from even her mind and thoughts, attempting to not think of the temporary spell of sickness that plagued not only her mind but her body. She was determined to remain focused on the only exciting event to happen in her life:
She would be in London at last! Hooray!
This was not a very respectful thought to be had, especially when she had been given the privilege of being a guest to a member of the peerage, and before that, the privileged of being guest to some of the handsomest houses in the country. It shows a great deal of impertinence and worse, a spoiled disposition; all the very traits a lady mustn't have. It was a good thing then, that Miss Catherine Bennet wasn't thought of as a lady, but only as a silly girl.
See? There are benefits to being badly brought up.
The silence had become quite unnerving to her, who was desperately anxious to arrive at her destination. She wished to say something noteworthy, but the best she could come up with was: "Mercy, how it moves so."
Her companions did not take immediate notice of her meaning, but this comment did draw His Grace's attention, he followed it with good humour, "Miss Catherine, I hope the ride hasn't been too unpleasant? I take pride in my choices regarding my conveyance, especially when it comes to horses."
"You needn't worry, Your Grace. I do not fault your carriage for my grievance in the least!", she was apologetic.
"Why—I hadn't even realised anything caused you to be cross,” His eyebrows shot up a little but with the effect of ironic surprise, “I beg you to forgive my negligence; pray tell us, what is your grievance, Miss Catherine." Though he spoke with the appearance of care, His Grace was more so amused than concerned.
His wife had not been bothered by the few words shared amongst the two, but now she was detecting the warning signs of a husband willing to be entertained by her sister's silliness, and a sister always willing to entertain others. To curb that she sent a Meaningful Look to the girl.
Taking notice of the warning, Kitty remained quiet for a stunned moment as she watched nervously between her sister and her brother-in-law, struggling to come up with something sensible. It took her a bit longer to figure what could be proper to say, and she thought a good joke just might do the trick. With a decided air—confident this would bring the conversation to a halt—she said: "I was cross with myself, Your Grace,” She shook her head, “I suppose it is no ones fault but mine if I was shaken as a baby."
It did not work as efficiently as she hoped, for he answered in genuine surprise: "Shaken as a baby!"
"Well, that is my theory, at least. I have always been sickly (more so when I was a child), you see? And carriages have always been horrid to me."
They were silenced for a stunned moment, “I am led to believe you were a beastly child, Miss Catherine?”, was all he said.
“Oh! I don’t (I can’t, really), remember if I was one, I struggle to recollect most of my childhood; but it has always been like this to me.”
“Do you suppose any carriage accidents happened while you were little?” His voice drawled.
At this she stared at him with frankness, if not with a bit of humour.
“I couldn’t know. I can’t—don’t—remember most of my childhood, you see?”
“Yes I understand, I apologise for my stupidity, Miss Catherine.” At his ironic tone, Kitty flushed in embarrassment; her attempt at humour appeared to be a dull one.
“I do recollect Jane attempting to teach me how to ride, Your Grace, but it did not go very far.”
“It did not?”
“No-No. It went well at first… that was, until I became sick—and it was not the scarlet fever.”
“No? Was it chicken pox then?”
“Really, no! I am no freckled thing! And it was not measles, or small pox, or influenza—”
“Of course, you medical vocabulary is very admirable but—”
“Oh, yes, well the point is: when I was sick Lizzy came to spend time with me (that is, Mrs. Darcy).”
“I am very intrigued as to where this story is going, Miss Catherine, what then?”
“Oh, then she told me a scary story and I became fearful of horses (only as a child) and stopped practising, that was all.”
“It is unfortunate that it comes to an abrupt end.”
“Really, it wasn’t as abrupt…that is to say, it took me slapping the horses’ neck for me to become truly fearful.”
“You slapped your father’s horses? I fear that does make you a beastly child, sister.”
Kitty had the dignity to colour.
"It was all Lizzy’s doing, really! If she had not told me of the headless horseman!”
Satisfied with the amount of non-senses spoken of, the other lady intervened.
"You must not mind the non-senses she says, Ernest." Her Grace was very displeased, and Kitty paled at the harsh tone, laughter dying from her eyes.
"I do not mind at all, I find them very intriguing. Then, couldn’t your carriage sickness come from your encounter with the headless horseman, sister?"
"I-I couldn’t know, Sir..." She turned and stared at the window to her left, hoping it would bring the conversation to an end, the courage to be impertinent abandoning her all at once. She depended on Her Grace's good-will for this trip to London to be pleasant; if she wanted an unpleasant time, she would have stayed with Caroline.
"Catherine, you must be mindful of your address, always."
"Oh, then I am very sorry, Your-Your Grace." She turned to Harleston sorrowfully.
He shook his head, "My dear, there's no need for your sister to be this formal with us, is there? We are family now. You may just call me, Harleston (or Harley, as my friends do), Miss Catherine, how about that?"
"She is not used to any sort of formality, Ernest. That is the matter. She needs as much practice as she can get." The frustration in the Duchess' voice grew to a volume she may not have intended to show, but it was clear this was a subject that concerned her.
Whatever intentions she might have had did not soften the blow to the injustice felt by her sister who thought she was treated like an ignorant babe and not a miss near twenty. With her feelings on a see-saw, the shame was replaced by quick anger, as she spoke with petulance "Now that is just unfair, Mary! Jane and Lizzy said I made much progress."
That much was actually true. Another true was that it had been very difficult to not get mad at Mary recently. Catherine had always been a fretful creature—through and through—so it was only natural that her temper evaded itself from her grasp from time to time. Yet ever since that dreadful week of August, when she received the news that at first amazed, but only grew to mortify her, she had become decidedly worse, even as she attempted to hide it.
An announcement had been plastered in the weekly gazette. Mary Bennet was to be wed, and not wed simply to a Meryton clerk or to a clergyman—oh no—she was going to be wed to a nobleman by the name of Lord Ernest Trafford, the D-U-K-E of Harleston.
D-U-K-E. It was short and sweet. It played skip in your mouth. It was the greatest thing a nobleman, short from being a prince, could be. It was equally as important as marrying a prince, as far as the gentry cared. And it was absolutely necessary to spell out every single letter so you could slowly but surely understand the magnitude of an accomplishment such as that. At least, that was the belief held by Mrs. Bennet. It almost felt like a sin to not spell out every single letter of D-U-K-E. May the Lord forgive their souls, but they had almost worshipped the man as if he was God itself; only that they had no problem in saying his name in vain.
So you see, of course when Mary was given such an advantageous position in life, her own feelings of superiority and self-importance had been allowed to bloom into a beautiful—condescending—white flower of morality. Now everything she said was The Thing, and no one could question her sermons. If a D-U-K-E approved of her behaviour enough to marry her, then who else had the right to question it?
"The manners Jane and Elizabeth taught you are much different from the manners expected by the peerage." She spoke with finality.
"La, but it cannot be so very different." Kitty challenged the Duchess by closing her eyes, refusing to take notice of her stares, "Mr. Darcy is too the nephew of an Earl, and he wasn't offended by me."
"He was not offended out of love for Elizabeth. The ton holds no affection to you and will not be half as generous."
"But in that case, my Dear," Harleston intervened, not smiling but with his eyes gleaming, "if we took to heart whatever small matter the ton is agreeable or disagreeable to, I would have never married you."
Kitty took this moment to strike her sister too, opening her eyes wide and staring at the Duchess with the most unreadable expression she could summon, "You too have offended Mr. Darcy! During the Netherfield Ball when Papa had to stop you from making a show of yourself, Lizzy told me so."
It was not very nice of her to bring up the past misgivings of her sister, as Elizabeth had only pointed out this case to comfort Kitty's own feelings of inadequacy—Then again, it's always a fine thing to have an upper hand against a sibling, so couldn't allowances be made just this once?
Her Grace was taken to blush, mortified by both her husband and younger sister's resolve to question her respectability, though her husband did it humorously. She crossed her hands and set her eyes to watch the window to her left, her expression unreadable and her eyes hard.
"You will not find a quarrel with me, Catherine. I have heard enough of your fretting for today."
Kitty harrumphed. This was just like Mary, always willing to correct others and never allowing herself to be corrected, "I was not quarrelling, Mary. Nothing is more nonsensical than pursuing a quarrel with you." she turned thus and spoke to His Grace impulsively, her eyes shining with dissatisfaction, "So you see? Being shaken as a baby is more plausible. I am always displeasing my family.”
Harleston laughed at the small bit of impertinence, and said, "Yes, what I am witnessing is very concerning. I believe I shall never be able to trust my Duchess with our children."
Mary fell for her husband's trap, rapidly turning her head and staring at his face bewildered, it was only after she recognised the meaning of the expression he carried that she became frustrated yet again.
Usually it was not so easy for her husband to rile her up, but you must understand; siblings very often do not bring out our best side, "I didn't do it, Ernest. If she was even shaken, which she was not, I dare say she did it to herself."
"La, I could not have shaken myself, Mary. That is silly."
"What of your older sisters, Miss Catherine?"
Kitty was surprise, "But, I thought you met my sisters, Your—Har-Harley."
It was Ernest's turn to contemplate, "I believe I did but I struggle to recollect (It is a problem that comes with age, child.),” He gave his wife a loving stare but she did not look back, her hard eyes were still set in the window. “I was much preoccupied with other matters."
"Really, I ask because if you knew them properly—well!" Kitty raised her eyebrows, "You would know they could not have possibly done it. It is—In-con-ceiv-a-ble."
Kitty flattered the advancement of her vocabulary—beyond medical knowledge—and a bit of ingenuity hurts no one. Well, it does, but no one would mind her using prettier words.
"You shock me, Miss Catherine! I hadn't realised the depths of my ignorance until now. Pray enlighten me on why your sisters are in-con-ceiv-a-ble suspects."
"For starters: Jane is an angel!"
"An angel, you say?"
"Yes, (she is my sister married to Mr. Bingley), not only is she a beauty, she is also everything that is goodness. She never gets angry!"
"That is indeed a quality worthy of an angel." Harleston smiled.
Harleston took notice during Kitty's temporary stay at Harleston House that his wife and her sister were not each other's favorite, but he could not make a read of who they were amongst their elders. As the two eldest were confined for a long period, mostly during the time of their courtship, he only made their acquaintance by the time of the ceremony. As such, he found it very engaging to make a study of all the sisters.
He was just that sort of husband: one that is always looking for the next reason to tease his wife.
"Next time you speak with her, you will realise just how good she is." Kitty spoke with determination.
"Yes, next time our paths cross, I will be sure to be mindful of her goodness."
"Who knows when—Mary, do you think Jane and Lizzy will come to London for Christmas too?"
"I confess I do not know. I know Jane will come as Mr. Bingley still resides in London, but I cannot speak for Elizabeth, however."
“I would like for her to come, I wish to make the acquaintance of Miss Darcy again—we spoke so little when I was last in Pemberley.”
“I believe I shall write to Lizzy for her plans when we arrive.”
"Mercy! I wish we would arrive soon." For a moment, the distraction had lost its hold on Kitty's mind, and she was back to the poor humour which had tormented her throughout their ride.
"We are not so very far from our destination now, Miss Catherine." His Grace spoke to comfort, and it was an admirable act at that; Kitty's sickness was rarely a topic anyone thought to indulge. He kindly spoke then, "Now tell me, why couldn't your sister Elizabeth have done it?"
Kitty spoke passionately for Lizzy. She was many things, but Lizzy would never be cruel to a baby. She also took the moment to speak for her parents–it is not very nice to criticise one's home, but the truth of Kitty's youth of Longbourn was so that she could not deny it: Her parents wouldn't care enough to shake her. That only left one suspect, but as that suspect vehemently denied her participation in the crime, their trail had gone cold.
It wasn't much longer until the dirt under their wheels turned into cobblestone, with the Duke’s expertly chosen coach coming to a stop. It was afternoon already, and an orange glow painted a beautiful picture, as a lovingly situated home in Grosvenor Square imposed their views. The house was as grandiose as one expects the house of a Duke to be. In truth, Kitty hadn’t even considered that townhouses could even be this big, she had expected them all to be small, London was always said to be crammed and suffocating, but who could ever suffocate in such a beautiful home?
Catherine was the first to come down the stairs, watching the house with wonderment. It was not the proper thing to come down by herself, as Mary so kindly reminded her whilst the Duke helped her to step out of the carriage. Not that Kitty minded whatever Mary said; her head was too amazed, and dizzy, and happy for her to pay mind to anything other than her racing heart. She knew a Duke was always meant to be amazing, and well, just wonderful in general, but never before had she been this close to the wonder. It was a fairy-tale.
Truth was, she just wanted to thank them–yes, even Mary–for even allowing a sickly peevish thing like her anywhere near their splendor. Mary might still know how that feels, but she was sure His Grace hadn’t the faintest idea of how meaning so little to the world felt as.
Still dazed, Kitty almost missed when His Grace asked her: “Miss Catherine, had Harleston Hall received the honour of your approval?”
“I-I—Sir!” She suddenly exclaimed with a determined mind, “Was—Could it be that you brought Mary here before the two of you became engaged?”
“Why, I do believe I did, didn't I, Mary? You were guest to my cousin's debut.” He smiled towards his wife, “Why do you ask, Miss?”
“Now, I see! This is how you influenced Mary to wed you, Sir—any female guest to such a stunning residence could easily persuaded to do so!” She spoke fiercely.
“Kitty!” The Duchess intended to keep her voice stiff and cold, but the heights it's volume reached was too akin to Mrs. Bennet own tone for it to be taken seriously. “Your coquetry is ill-timed, sister.”
“Really—You've misunderstood me!” Kitty said defensively, “I was merely compli—“
“It matters not your intentions, but what is understood of them; and had anyone else in town heard your insolent speech (which you dare to call “deduction”), you would quite easily be accused of being a flirt, have you not yet understood the gravity—“
Before the tears that sprang to Kitty's eye could flow, Harleston intervened, “Now, that is quite enough.” He raised a hand, and spoke in a grave, higher tone than than the one they were accustomed to, “We are all very tired, and the more we quarrel outside, the more cold we will become too.” That was enough to silence the two ladies, but it did not bring an end to their animosity.
The Duchess threw an accusatory glance towards her husband, and turned her heels, marching forward to the front door where servants awaited them. Not so happily did Harleston trail behind her, determined to find a fix for this situation.
Leaving thus their guest behind, as dark clouds pilled on top of the sky, announcing the coming of snow soon enough. She took one last look at the grandiose home in front of her. It was a certain now—she was never supposed to have a place there.