"Serious people do whatever they please, provided they do it without apology," Mary countered, fixing Kitty with the narrow-eyed stare that had once made a haberdasher weep. "You have a pleasant voice. It has been wasted on giggles and flirting with officers who cannot afford their bills. Tomorrow, you will use it for something worthwhile."
Mrs Bennet gaped at her as if she had just suggested they all take up piracy. "You wish to perform? Voluntarily? Without being bribed or threatened? Mary, are you feverish? Is it the London air?"
"Why not?" Mary met her mother's stunned gaze.
Mr Bennet lowered his book entirely. His expression was one of surprise, perhaps, or the dawning realisation that hismiddle daughter had returned from London with a spine. "Well," he said at last. "It seems the city has worked a miracle."
Mary picked up her spoon just as Charles leapt onto the table.
He landed amidst the cutlery, his tail flicking back and forth like a pendulum swinging towards inevitable disaster. With a single, deliberate paw—moving slowly, maintaining eye contact with Mrs Bennet the entire time—he batted her plate to the floor.
The crash was magnificent.
Mrs Bennet shrieked. "That cat! He is the devil in fur! He is trying to kill me! He knows my nerves cannot take the breakage!"
Charles blinked up at her, unimpressed, before snatching a piece of roasted chicken. He sauntered off to the centre of the table with the prize in his jaws.
Kitty was still gaping at Mary like she had just suggested they rob the Bank of England.
Mary turned to her sister. "Kitty, do not fret. It is only singing among family. Besides, you have a talent. Do not let it gather dust like Aunt Phillips' best china. You will do it, with conviction."
"But I am serious!" Kitty protested, forgetting to cough.
"You can sing seriously," Mary argued. "Tragic ballads are very dignified."
Mrs Bennet clutched her napkin to her chest, breathing heavily. "Mary, are you quite well? This does not seem like you, child. You never cared to include anyone else in your playing."
"I wish to fill the silence." Mary ignored the way her mother's eyebrows had climbed halfway up her forehead. "Thishouse is too quiet, you are right, Mamma. We are still here. We can make our own noise."
Charles, having finished the chicken, was now perched on the tablecloth, licking his paw with the smugness of a king surveying a conquered province. Then, with a flick of his tail, he knocked over Mr Bennet's water glass.
The liquid pooled ominously near Mary's elbow.
"Charles," Mary said calmly, not moving her arm, "if you are going to be a menace, at least commit to it properly."
The cat responded by leaping onto the sideboard, where the massive yellow bouquet stood in its vase. He sniffed a rose, sneezed violently, and then proceeded to bat the petals.
Yellow confetti rained down onto the carpet.
Kitty dissolved into giggles, her serious mask shattering instantly. "He hates those flowers! Look, Mamma! He is attacking the suitor!"
Mary watched the scene unfold—the spilled water, the scattered food, the ruined petals, her mother's outraged spluttering—and felt something unfamiliar bubble up in her chest.
It took her a moment to recognise it: amusement.
She turned back to her soup. "Tomorrow, then. We shall entertain ourselves."
Mrs Bennet threw her hands up, nearly knocking over her wine. "This family is mad! My Son would never permit such anarchy!"
Mr Bennet chuckled into his napkin. "Your Son would have been the one to start it, my dear."
Mary hid a smile behind her spoon. She was not a spectator in her own home anymore. She was the one holding the match, ready to light the fire.
Charles leapt into her lap, sitting squarely on her napkin. He purred as if the evening had unfolded exactly according to his plan.
