Kitty Bennet's Diary (Pride and Prejudice Chronicles) by Anna Elliott Page A

him, he was telling Georgiana to escort me to my room as though I were a child in disgrace—which to be fair to Edward, I suppose I more or less was.
    “That is all right then,” Georgiana said, sounding relieved.  And then she seemed to hesitate, biting her lip.  “Kitty, there is—there is something I feel I ought to speak to you about,” she said at last.
    “Oh?”
    And then Georgiana’s next words struck me like a blow to the stomach.  “I wanted to give you warning that Lord Henry Carmichael is here in town for the winter.”
    I gaped at her, trying to get my breath back.  It felt like some sort of dark magic, as though I had conjured up her words just by force of the memory I had been recalling.
    Georgiana leaned forward, putting a hand on my arm and said, “I am so sorry!  I would not have brought it up.  Especially now, when you must be so worried about Jane.  But he was here—actually at the house—tonight.  Not that I invited him, of course,” she added swiftly.  “He came with a party of friends who were invited.  But I wanted to give you warning, in case you happen to run across him.  If he was here tonight, there is surely a chance that he may be at some other gathering you attend.”
    I finally managed to draw a full breath.   And when I could trust my voice enough to speak I said, “Thank you.  But I do not think I need worry.  He did not remember or recognise me last summer in Brussels.  There is surely even less chance of his recalling our … acquaintance now.”
    Which is perfectly true.  And besides, London is a vast city.  I managed to avoid meeting with Lord Carmichael at last night’s ball; if Georgiana had not told me, I should never have known he was there at all.  There is surely little chance of my meeting with him, even if he is in town.
     

Sunday 14 January 1816
    I was too tired this morning to write down the rest of the story—the account of my carriage ride back to Cheapside with Mr. Dalton.
    No, that is a lie.  I was tired.  But it was more that I did not want to write it down.  All the more reason, I suppose, why I should force myself to do so.
    After I had taken leave of Georgiana, I found Mr. Dalton waiting outside with his carriage, which was a curricle drawn by a pair of perfectly matched sandy bay horses.  Miranda Pettigrew cannot have been lying about his having his own private income.
      He handed me up into the carriage first, then swung himself into the driver’s seat.  We started off, rolling down the quiet, darkened street.  But he must have caught me staring at the team of bays—because he glanced sideways at me, smiled, and said, “Would you like to take the reins for a while, Miss Bennet?”
    I had not thought I was being as obvious as that.  But I love horses.  When I was small, I used to run away from lessons with our governess every chance I got and slip away to the home farm on my father’s estate.  Once when I was eight or nine and had been scolded for something—I cannot even remember for what now—I determined to run away entirely and go to live in the stables.  When I was not back by nightfall, there was a tremendous hunt.  Eventually one of my father’s stablehands found me curled up asleep in the hay inside the stall belonging to my father’s big gelding Blackie.  Everyone said it was a miracle I had not been trampled—but that had simply never occurred to me.  Blackie and I had a sympathetic understanding, as far as I was concerned.
    At any rate, it has been ages since I was able to ride or drive.  I struggled—very briefly, I admit—with temptation and then said, “I should love to.  Thank you.”
    We changed places, and I took up the reins.  It was perfectly glorious!  I loved my father’s horses, but they were plodding, gentle old geldings.  Nothing like Mr. Dalton’s team.  His bays are light and fast and seemed to respond instantly to my slightest tug on the reins.
    We were flying along—too