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Jane had sent Lizzy to Meryton to select a dress for the ball. It was very kind of her—their figures were quite unalike, so of course, she could not simply wear one of Jane’s new gowns, and the dress would be lovely when completed. But neither had Jane felt well enough to accompany her, and it was impossible not to feel she should be as conservative as possible with her choices and spend as little of Mr Bingley’s money as she could. It was equally impossible not to envy her sisters, who would each be decked out in the most expensive, loveliest fabrics and trims; Jane’s had been sewn in London by a town dressmaker of great repute, and Jane appeared angelic in it.
Nevertheless, Lizzy knew she had little of which to complain. Even though her dress was not lavish, it was the prettiest she had ever owned. Besides, she cared nothing about whom she would dance with and certainly had no interest in the officers; it was merely a pleasant opportunity for entertainment and recreation.
Mr Bennet, evidently unable to think of a good enough excuse to miss the neighbourhood’s event of the year—held in his eldest daughter’s honour—would be in attendance. Lizzy had about as much desire to see him as he doubtless did her; they maintained a tacit agreement of avoidance, which was not a lot different from what she had experienced her whole life with him. But Aunt and Uncle Gardiner intended to come, and she did look forward, very much, to enjoying their company.
Truth to tell, she wished to speak to them about the possibility of spending Christmas in London at Egerton Crescent, leaving Netherfield just before Georgiana would. The thought of facing Mr Darcy again as a disinterested acquaintance was beyond imagination.
Three days before the ball found her alone in her sitting room, putting finishing touches of delicate embroidery on her new gown’s bodice, when Kitty burst in. Lizzy glanced at her sister and set aside her fabric.
“Oh, Kitty, you are arrived early this morning! Have you come to fetch me? Is Mama downstairs with Lydia?” Lizzy asked. “I shall put this away and go down, if you will give me a moment.”
Instead of a reply, Lizzy heard the tell-tale sound of a sniffle.
Inwardly, she sighed, for she had hoped to finish her stitching this morning, but she patted the cushion beside her, contriving not to allow Kitty to see her impatience. “You are troubled, Sister. Come, sit, and let us talk it out. I daresay we can cast a better light upon things if we try.”
Kitty answered nothing but did plunk down rather gracelessly beside her. For some moments, there was silence between them, and Lizzy wondered whether she dared take out her sewing again until such time as her sister decided to reveal her sorrows.
“Did you walk over?” she asked, simply to have something to say.
“No,” Kitty blurted at last. “I took a horse. It is not as though they would allow me the carriage, would they? I suppose if Lydia wanted it, she could have it.” Then she began to sob in earnest.
Lizzy patted her sister’s back while she waited for the tears to subside. She could sympathise with Kitty in many ways; Lydia had always been made much of, even in comparison to Jane. “I know,” she soothed. “But you did not ride all the way here to inform me that Lydia took the carriage. Tell me what is the matter, dear.”
Kitty tried to speak, but it took her some time to get any words out through her sobs. “She…she…she…”
“She? Lydia, do you mean?”
“Ye-yes. Sh-she w-will have…have…a n-new…dress!”
It was all Lizzy could do not to roll her eyes. She had seen the pretty pink gossamer net and white satin that was to be Kitty’s gown for the ball, likely nicer than anything Lizzy would ever own. Stop, she chided herself. Kitty is still but a girl, and fortunately her troubles are the troubles of a girl, although they seem as tragic to her as the real ones of a woman grown.
“Lydia…will receive yet another new dress? Besides the Venetian crape that Miss Beckford is sewing?” she guessed.
“Miss Beckford!” she cried. “’Tis all her fault! She showed Mary King the whole of it, and what does Mary do but go to Spafford’s and buy fabric of the exact same! Of course, she has not asked Miss Beckford to make it, but Mrs Latouche—who hates us, you know, since Mama would not pay her in full for that ghastly crimson Merino, even though she admitted its flaws. Lydia is certain Mary King has described the pattern to Mrs Latouche in every particular!”
“That makes little sense,” said Lizzy. “Why would she wish to imitate Lydia?”
“Oh, she thinks she is so superior with her ten thousand,” Kitty raged. “She will add stones or fur trims, anything to flaunt her wealth. Wickham has asked her for the opening set and will doubtless be impressed. He shall think Lydia the one who copies! It is not to be borne!”
It was good news, in Lizzy’s estimation. As selfish as it might be, what a relief it would be to let Miss King’s relations take a turn worrying about the scoundrel. Georgiana had prevented Lizzy from saying anything to Jane regarding refusing him an invitation; Georgie had not answered Wickham’s letter nor acknowledged him in any way, but neither did she fancy antagonising him with an open denunciation. “I will not attend the ball, and I am leaving in a few weeks. Why provoke him now?” had been the girl’s argument. If Lizzy had believed her younger sisters or her parents would listen to the opinions of Miss Darcy, she would have pressed Georgie harder, but it was likely a useless exercise. Besides, there was talk of removing the regiment to Brighton soon enough—oh, happy day!
“It sounds as though you are very sympathetic to the reasons for the, um, additional purchase,” she began gently.
“I do not care about her stupid dress!” Kitty cried. “All I asked for was ostrich plumes and a few ribbons! While she shopped for a whole new ensemble, I only wanted a few trims! But no, only Lydia was to be given everything. Everything! She gets everything! It is not fair!”
What am I to say to such a trifling matter?Lizzy thought. Have you ever studied your face in the looking glass for hours, my sister, searching futilely for some feature of Father’s, some means of convincing him that you belong? Talk to me of fairness!
But it mattered not; if Kitty had more of a place than Lizzy did, she yet had no parent who would try to understand or care. “It often seems so, to be sure,” she agreed.
“I should not be so angry, I know,” Kitty admitted. “But Lydia gets everything! A new dress, satin slippers, Chantilly lace, jewelled pins, even Wickham himself! Why begrudge me a ribbon or two?”
Warning flared inside Lizzy, but she kept her tone casual, gentle. “It sounds as though she will not ‘get’ Wickham, if he has asked Miss King for the opening set. ’Tis practically a declaration, to my way of thinking.”
“Oh, no, you are wrong, Lizzy! Well, I admit, Lydia thought so, too, at first, and I daresay Mary King thinks it, but she is wrong too! He loves Lydia!”
“Loves her,” Lizzy repeated dubiously.
“But he does! He admits it, but of course it is dreadful to be so poor, and how can he live? But he is very torn up about it.”
