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“Do you?” Mr. Fletcher’s green eyes narrowed as he took the seat across from her. “Coffee, please.”
“At least, I assume it was French,” Kitty continued, nodding as the maid stepped forward to pour tea. “I do not speak French, so it is entirely possible I am incorrect. None of my sisters do, either. Five of us, and not one bit of Italian or French. We are woefully unaccomplished.” Kitty waved a hand about as she spoke, as if entirely engrossed in the topic. “Some effort was made with Jane and Elizabeth, I suppose. Even Mary. She plays pianoforte. So does Elizabeth, but not as well, but Lizzy sings better, which really is more important, do you not agree, Mr. Fletcher? Oh, and Jane draws. Drawing is an accomplishment, but we speak not a lick of French among us. Do you speak French, Mr. Fletcher?”
“No, but how—”
“No, to be certain you do not. Gentlemen are taught Latin and Greek. Which is silly, do you not think? Why not encourage us all to learn the same languages so we may communicate with one another, rather than women speaking French and men speaking Greek? And a man might need French or Italian, so why should a man not speak them?” As offhandedly as she could, Kitty added, “After all, a man might be called on to fight for King and Country and encounter those who speak French or Italian while most women will never do that.”
There it was, the slightest pause as he reached for his coffee, his gaze flickering to hers. Kitty smiled back mindlessly.
“Do you know what I wish, Miss Kitty?”
“To be able to speak French, Mr. Fletcher?”
A smile tugged at his mouth, which really was a rather nice mouth, now that she noticed it. In truth, none of his features were as plain as she first thought, now that she had leisure to study him.
“While I would not mind being able to speak French, what I wish in this moment is for us to be frank.” He took a sip of coffee.
“You do?”
“I do. I believe frankness is rather important at this juncture.”
Kitty considered that, all the while studying those intelligent green eyes. Mr. Fletcher had proven quite patient. She should likely give up tormenting him.
For now.
She turned to the footman. “I can tell by Mr. Fletcher’s expression that the coffee is bitter and cold. I daresay it is the same coffee served to Mr. Darcy when he breakfasted, which I imagine was ever so long ago as Mr. Darcy seems the sort to rise so terribly early, do you not think?”
The footman stared at her.
Kitty smiled. “Please take that away and bring fresh coffee.”
“Yes, miss,” he said and, taking the coffee tray, left the room.
Kitty turned to the maid next. “My sisters asked for a tray. I quite forgot. They must be half-starved by now. Lizzy only wanted tea and toast, but I am certain Jane is far hungrier. Could you please go to the kitchen and ready a tray for them? It would be ever so kind of you.”
The maid, her face bland enough to tell Kitty she knew she was being got rid of, curtsied and left.
The room empty of all but the two of them and the open doorway not only maintaining propriety but allowing Kitty to hear if anyone drew near, she returned her attention to Mr. Fletcher. “Very well. Here is what I know of the Archers.” She proceeded to rapidly and succinctly tell him every detail she could recall, from how the Archers arrived at Mr. Collins’ home as he was departing to hurry him to the point where he had not a moment to write to Kitty’s father about them, to their call, the carriage ride, her eavesdropping, and everything in between. Everything up to and including Mr. Darcy’s report on Miss Archer’s attempt to entrap him. Finally, her ears straining for the return of the staff, Kitty concluded with, “And if Mr. Hurst is a caricaturist, and you are not an officer in service of the King, then I truly will set my sights on Mr. Collins as my mother wishes because I will deserve no better.”
Mr. Fletcher smiled. A full, kind smile that warmed Kitty like drinking chocolate. “I am relieved to learn that fetching exterior is not simply a vessel for a vacant mind.”
He found her fetching? Only because he’d yet to meet Jane and Lydia, but his words still brought heat to her cheeks.
“But you are incorrect in one small detail, though I would not consign you to this Mr. Collins of whom you spoke.”
“Mr. Hurst is not a caricaturist,” Kitty said flatly.
Mr. Fletcher shook his head.
Footfalls sounded in the hall, but Kitty didn’t look away from the man across from her.
“I am no longer in service to the Crown. I retired my commission.”
“I believe my assessment close enough to the mark to spare me.” Kitty took a sip of tea to cover her smile as the footman returned with the coffee service. After pouring Mr. Fletcher a fresh cup, the footman returned to his place along the wall.
Before Kitty could decide if she wished to send him away again, new footfalls sounded. Softer, and with the rapidity of a mincing step. A moment later, Miss Bingley entered.
She halted in the doorway, lovely in a yellow day dress accented in orange, exuding poise, height, and wealth. As Mr. Fletcher rose to bow to her, Kitty recalled how old and frumpy her gown was. How her slippers didn’t match, and the ribbon in her hair outright clashed. No wonder Mr. Fletcher had smiled at her. She was silly. Compared to Miss Bingley’s elegance, Kitty was practically a court jester.
