Kitty told her. Cecily – who Kitty had not thought to be listening – gasped, and Aunt Dorothy granted herself the indulgence of an unladylike whistle.
‘Oh my,’ she said, eyes wide. ‘Mr Pears it shall have to be then.’
‘Yes,’ Kitty agreed, though a little dubiously. Two thousand a year was certainly better than nothing, but there was more to it than simply paying the debt. Was two thousand a year enough to clear their not inconsiderable sum, keep Netley, and then after, to secure her sisters’ futures, too? For what if one of her sisters should need a dowry, to secure the gentleman of their choice? What if all of them did? What if, instead, one needed funds to marry a poor man? Or Cecily, who would surely be happiest with no husband, but a great number of expensive books in her possession. She would have expected Mr Linfield to do all this, but the kindest man in the world, with only two thousand a year to spend, would not be able to promise her the same.
‘Would a place such as … Almack’s be where gentlemen of more fortune frequented?’ she asked thoughtfully.
‘Almack’s Assembly Rooms? Kitty, you would be reaching for the stars,’ Dorothy said, much exasperated. ‘There is a vast difference between polite society and high society. High society – the world of lords and ladies, land and fortune – is not a place to which I can give you access. You must be born to that world and there is no other way to secure an invitation. Put these dangerous notions aside and focus your attention instead on the likes of Mr Pears – you would be lucky indeed to have such a husband.’
They had arrived at Wimpole Street. Kitty went up to their bedroom without speaking further. In a state of some melancholy, she ruminated over Dorothy’s words all the way through her nightly ablutions and was still not done when Cecily blew out their candle and got into bed beside her. Her sister fell instantly asleep, and Kitty listened to her breathing in the dark, jealous of the ease with which Cecily could cast aside the worries of the day.
Two thousand would not mean the end to their worry and their strife, but it would help, at least. Her mother had settled for far less than two thousand a year, after all – this was a sum, in fact, far greater than what Mr and Mrs Talbot had been given in exchange for their leaving London together so many years ago. It had not been enough for them, of course – especially since Papa had never quite been able to adapt his lifestyle from that of an affluent single gentleman to a father of five with a rapidly decreasing income of five hundred pounds a year. Kitty might not enjoy gambling or hundred-year-old port, but she still had four sisters to support – and unlike her Mama and Papa, would not have the luxury of a loving marriage to ease her mind when the pennies began to pinch.
Kitty wished, for perhaps the hundredth – the thousandth, the millionth – time, to be able to speak to her mother. Kitty was grateful to have Aunt Dorothy as a skilled London guide, but it was not the same. She wanted desperately to speak to someone who knew her intimately, to someone who loved her sisters as much as she did – who would be just as haunted as she was by the visions of Jane, Beatrice, Harriet and Cecily alone and stranded in dark and unkind corners of the country – and someone who would understand that no lengths were too great in the pursuit of their happiness, as Mama would. She would know what Kitty ought to do next, Kitty felt sure, and she would not be bothered by such self-limiting silliness as hierarchy or social tiers – after all, it was she, and not Aunt Dorothy, who had had the gumption to fall in love with a gentleman far above her station.
Kitty rolled onto her side, trying to marshal her rebellious thoughts into order. It was useless to ruminate upon matters she could not possibly change. Her mother was gone, and this was Kitty’s task alone to bear, now. Aunt Dorothy was the only advisor she had, and she had laughed when Kitty had asked after men of greater fortune than Mr Pears. The laughter had not been malicious; she had honestly considered it absurd, and perhaps Kitty should heed that.
Sleep came uneasily that night, in fits and starts as exhaustion fought with anxiety for dominance. And even as sleep finally drew ahead, Kitty was still wondering: was it so wrong to wish that, if she had to sell herself for her family’s sake, it would at least be to a higher bidder than Mr Pears?
4
Kitty awoke the next morning longing for a break from the clutter of London’s streets. After breakfast she persuaded Cecily to walk with her to Hyde Park. Accompanied, at Aunt Dorothy’s insistence, by her housemaid Sally – who followed two steps behind – Kitty and Cecily found their way to the park easily enough. They began their turn around the Serpentine, their quick pace – despite Aunt Dorothy’s teachings – quite incongruous to the languorous gait of the other ladies, and Kitty breathed in the clean air and bright green of the grass and the trees with relief. Though far more structured than any of the landscape in Biddington, the view was as close to home as any Kitty had seen so far in London.