“I assure you I can. Whenever my brother came home from school in the holidays, I would endlessly mither him about what he had learnt. I think he taught me at first just to keep me quiet, but I liked to learn and he rather liked to play teacher. I had my own little exercise book and everything,” I admitted, my cheeks warm with blush at the admission. Ithad angered my governess that I so desperately wanted to study Latin and Greek rather than needlepoint or dancing, but Darcy had indulged me and she never felt she could argue with him.
“Well then,” Kitty said, shifting just a little closer and holding out the book to me. “Prove it.”
I took a second to recover from her increased proximity, her knee brushing against mine, but managed to collect myself enough to take the book back. I was a few dozen pages into Virgil’sAeneid, a copy my brother had used at school. There were small doodles in the margins that signified every time he’d gotten bored and his mind wandered. Trees, more often than not. I wondered if he’d been thinking of home, where the forests went on for miles.
When I started to read aloud, I knew exactly what was coming, for it was the Latin I let spill from my tongue. Just as I anticipated, Kitty nudged me with her elbow, laughing as she rolled her eyes.
“In English!” she protested. “Or else I shall have no idea what it is you’re saying.”
I just smiled. Seeing her laugh had been my hope, and I would have liked nothing more than to make it my only goal in life from that moment on. It lit her up from inside like someone had touched flame to a candlewick, her eyes bright and animated. I simply could not look away, and it was several long moments before I could bring myself to return my gaze to the page in front of me.
My teasing over, I slipped into English. It took a littlelonger to read that way, translating as I went, but Kitty hung on my every word. She watched my lips, my finger tracing under each sentence, my hair as it slipped from behind my ear. It thrilled me to know it was not Virgil’s story holding her attention.
I read my way through a few pages before I set the book down.
“This is probably not to your taste,” I said. “Even translated.”
“I cannot pretend to be following much of the story, but it is no hardship to hear you read it,” Kitty admitted.
I could do better thanno hardship. Pemberley’s library was always open to visitors looking for an escape amongst pages, but it was usually Elizabeth and Darcy who played host. I never got the chance to make use of my encyclopaedic knowledge of the shelves, and I was keen to introduce Kitty to a section I thought she would much enjoy.
Basing my choice on little more than a suspicion, I dragged across the library ladder to climb up to one of the shelves above the door. I surveyed the selection of books concerning the world beyond our shores and picked some personal favourites. There were a few diaries of notable travellers and several large compendiums that came with exquisite colour plates depicting the most popular and picturesque locations. Passing my choices to Kitty, I climbed back down to find she had spread them out over the rug before my feet had even made contact with the floorboards.
“These are beautiful,” she said, her voice almost reverent as she admired a depiction of Rome.
“You wish to travel to the Continent?” I guessed.
“I would like to go somewhere I could be certain no one had ever met any of my sisters first,” she said, sighing wistfully. “These places are stunning, but my mother says the only chance I have of making it out of the country is if I marry a man with an occupation that gets him sent overseas.”
My heart seized in my chest, losing its rhythm at the idea of Kitty marrying. Of course she was going to marry. It was what respectable women did, what they had to do. There was certainly no world in which I would be free to marry Kitty. The very idea was laughable, and I pushed it from my mind as quickly as it had flickered up, snuffing it out like a flame. Kitty did not want that. I was not allowed to want that. It would simply not be allowed.
I wanted to be the one to travel with her. If she lit up like this at illustrations and paintings, then I wanted to see her reaction to the sights themselves. I had read endlessly about so many of them that I could keep her entertained for hours, because by some miracle she seemed content to listen to me ramble. Perhaps she might reward my inexhaustible facts with a kiss, even if just to silence me for a moment.
I pushed the idea from my mind. It was ludicrous, and it would do neither of us any good for me to dwell on it.
“I’m sure there is a way for you to find yourself overseas,” I said, hoping there was nothing in my voice that betrayed my thoughts.
“What about you?” Kitty asked. “Do you have aspirations to travel? Perhaps you could meet other people like you.”
I resisted the urge to freeze, aware even the tension in my shoulders might give away too much. I was so sure I’d been careful. Surely she had no idea of the thoughts that pervaded my whole mind when I looked at her, chasing out anything sensible or sane.
“People like me?” I asked cautiously, needing to be certain of what she was implying.
Then there was the other intertwined implication.Other people.Sometimes I dreamt there were places with people like that. Others who lingered too long in front of portraits of beautiful women, who dreamt of kissing rouged lips and holding delicate hands. It seemed ludicrous to imagine a place where that was accepted, but the very idea was paradisiacal.
“Those who are obsessed with knowledge and prefer books to people,” Kitty said, her words at once a relief and a disappointment.
“I do not prefer books to people,” I protested. Kitty gave me a doubtful look, raising an eyebrow, and I conceded her point just a little. “Not to all people.”
There were several notable exceptions. The most recent was sitting before me, polishing off the last of my gingerbread. Not even Darcy usually got away with that.
Chapter Five
Spending time with Kitty made my days undeniably more interesting but left me with little time for music practise. My sonata was going nowhere. After a week of late-night meetings in the library and endless attempts on Kitty’s behalf to beat me at chess, I managed to talk myself into a day of dedication to the piano. Well aware of how easily I could be distracted by the right person, I chose a room on the far side of the house, with a piano I rarely played.
I thought perhaps it was the unfamiliar instrument that rendered my playing useless, but when I didn’t improve after several attempts at easy pieces, I realised it was I and not the piano that was causing the problem. Kitty Bennet had driven me to distraction.
This was not the first time thoughts of a pretty girl hadaffected my music. A piece I had written two years ago in London remained one of my favourites, despite how much time had passed. My more recent compositions were more technically developed, but there was something about Helena’s piece that made it stand out. I could hear the truth in it.
