Chapter 1
June 15, 1803
“Kitty, my dear, do you remember Mrs. Parker in the village? I took you to meet her a few weeks ago?” Mrs. Bennet asked her fourth daughter.
“Yes, Mama,” replied nine-year-old Catherine Bennet, known as Kitty to her friends and family.
“I need you to take a little basket of pies over to her. Cook made far more than we can eat, even more than the servants can eat. I don’t know what she was thinking. I don’t want them to go to waste, and I know poor Mrs. Parker has trouble cooking anything more complex than porridge and stew. I thought she might enjoy some variety.”
“Why does it have to be me?” asked Kitty in a slightly whiny voice. “I would think Jane or Mary would be a better choice for the job.” Kitty didn’t like visiting the tenants in the village of Longbourn. Their little cottages were always dark and cramped, and even when they were clean, she felt dirty just by entering them. Honestly, she didn’t understand why anyone would want to live in such a place.
“You will be the one to go, because you are the one I can find,” said Mama with some asperity. “Now, no more complaining.” She handed Kitty the basket and shooed her out the door.
Grumbling to herself, Kitty nearly stomped down the freshly raked, gravel-lined driveway in front of her home. As she walked, she could see the gardener trimming Mama’s prized rose bushes at the corner of the house. In the distance, she could see her father riding his horse. He seemed to be heading toward the house, rather than away.
Kitty didn’t wish to be scolded for stomping around where people could see her, so she shifted to walking normally. She was glad she did, because Papa reached the gate at the end of the driveway just as she did, and he would certainly have noticed if she was still pouting and stomping.
“Off on an errand for your mother?” he asked.
Kitty held up the basket with the pies. “I am to take these to Mrs. Parker,” she said.
“Good, good,” said Mr. Bennet. “She is the only one of my tenants who lives alone, and I do worry about her sometimes.”
Kitty said nothing. It made no sense to her why Papa, the man who owned all the land around her, would worry about one old lady. As Papa began moving away, he said, “Give her my regards.” Then he was gone.
Since the village was just beyond the front gates to the house, it did not take Kitty much longer to reach Mrs. Parker’s cottage. It was the smallest in the village, almost frighteningly so in Kitty’s eyes. Drawing in her courage and determination, she knocked on the door.
There was a shuffling sound from inside, and Mrs. Parker opened the door, smiling. She was a nice old lady, somewhere around sixty years old, with neat gray hair pulled back in a simple bun and covered by a basic muslin mobcap. Her face and hands were clean, unlike some of the other female tenants who were always dealing with dirty, noisy children.
“Well, this is a surprise,” said Mrs. Parker. “If I remember correctly, you must be Miss Kitty, the fourth of the Bennet daughters.”
Kitty curtsied and said, “Yes, ma’am. Mama sent me with this basket of pies for you.”
Mrs. Parker’s eyebrows rose humorously. “Now why would she do a thing like that?” asked Mrs. Parker. Before Kitty could answer, Mrs. Parker said, “Well, it is rude of me to keep you standing on the doorstep like this. Come in, come in.”
Kitty had hoped to simply leave the basket and go home, but she did not know how to decline an invitation from someone so much older than she was. Mrs. Parker was old enough to be Kitty’s grandmother. So, she entered the little cottage.
Almost immediately before her was a staircase that likely went up to the only bedroom. To her right was a sitting area with a rocking chair and one other chair, both drawn up to the fireplace. In the back of the room, there was a doorway that probably went to the kitchen, though Kitty had never seen the kitchen in any of her father’s cottages. That was the whole house: a sitting room, a bedroom, and a kitchen. Kitty marveled that anyone could live like this.
At least this one didn’t feel as cramped and dirty as some of the others. Though the space was small, there was no extraneous furniture crammed into corners, no toys strewn over the floor, not even a little side table next to the chairs. Additionally, everything Kitty could see almost gleamed with cleanliness, even the fireplace.
“Sit, sit,” said Mrs. Parker waving Kitty over to the chairs. “I’ll just go put these pies in the kitchen and fetch you some milk and biscuits. I got some fresh milk straight from Mrs. Gordon’s cows just an hour ago.”
Kitty liked milk, but she didn’t get to drink it plain very often. Her parents always insisted that she drink tea, watered wine, or small beer. Water was considered to be just for the farm workers, and milk was usually presented as either cream for the tea or cheese.
When Mrs. Parker returned with a wooden tray which held two teacups and a plate with a few biscuits on it, Kitty smiled and said, “Thank you. I like milk.”
Mrs. Parker returned the smile as she handed the teacup that contained milk over to Kitty. Kitty could see that Mrs. Parker’s cup had only water, but she made no comment. When Mrs. Parker pushed the plate of biscuits closer to Kitty, she took one and bit into it. It wasn’t very sweet, but it was lovely and buttery. “This is delicious,” she said.
The old lady smiled and said, “Now tell me about yourself, Miss Kitty.” Before she could answer, however, Mrs. Parker said, “That can’t be your real name, can it? It must be a nickname from your sisters or perhaps your mother. Tell me, what is your Christian name?”
“My name is Catherine,” said Kitty, “though everyone calls me Kitty, even Papa.”
“Well, I shall treat you like the little lady you are and call you Catherine. Now, what do you like to do, Miss Catherine?”
Kitty suddenly felt grown up. Mrs. Parker had called her a little lady. The maids at home sometimes called her that, but they still treated her like a child. Mrs. Parker, however, was even going so far as to use her real name.
“I like to draw,” she said. “I usually just use pencils, but I like crayons, too. Mama says that when I turn ten, she will get me some paints and paintbrushes. I am a little nervous about it, though. Painting seems like it could be messy, so I was thinkingperhaps I might not like it. Mary sometimes paints tables, but she has to put down an old sheet underneath it to make sure none of the paint gets anywhere. Even then, her tables aren’t very pretty, so I don’t know why she bothers.”
