Read Kitty Bennet's Diary (Pride and Prejudice Chronicles) for Free Online Page B

conceal such feelings.  “I think we had better get you home—wherever that may be.  Miss Bennet”—he looked up at me—“can you tell me his address?”
    Before I could answer, Mark turned, fixing his bleary gaze on Mr. Dalton.  “I don’t believe I’ve had the honour of making your acqu— acqua—”  Mark gave up the effort to force his tongue into forming the word and finished: “Don’t think I know you, sir.”  A frown of doubt crossed his face.  “Or do I?”
    I suppose I ought at that point to have stepped forward to introduce them.  But I could not think of a way of saying, Mr. Dalton may I present to you Captain Mark Chamberlayne , that would not take the situation from the merely embarrassing to the grotesquely farcical.
    Mr. Dalton shook his head.  “We’ve never met.  But I’d be delighted if you would do me the honour of walking with me a short distance.  If I’m not mistaken, you have served in the army.  You must have seen a great deal during your time on campaign.  I wonder if you can tell me—”
    I have no idea what Mr. Dalton asked.  Something about the attitude of the Belgian peasantry towards the former Emperor, I think.  But I was too busy being horrified to more than half register the words.  If there was one thing Mark surely did not need at that moment, it was to be reminded of his time fighting on the Continent.
    To my astonishment, however, Mark’s shoulders straightened, he sketched a brief bow, and then said—or slurred, rather—“I should be delighted to enlighten you, sir.  You may have heard that they were all hale and hearty supporters of old Boney.  But that’s not true.  Not true at all.”
    I caught at Mr. Dalton’s arm, dragging him around to face me.  “What do you think you’re doing?” I hissed.
    Mr. Dalton glanced back at Mark.  Who appeared lost in rapt contemplation of the dust motes dancing in the rays of sun beaming through the parlour windows.  An odd look of—what?  weariness?  or pain?—crossed Mr. Dalton’s face, and he said, his voice quiet, “I knew a … I knew someone else who had suffered through an experience similar to your friend’s here.  Everyone was constantly telling him to forget, to put the past behind him.  But I found, too late, that all he really wanted was to talk of it.  And have someone truly listen.”  He glanced at Mark again.  “I can give him that at the same time I see him safely back to his place of lodging.  If you can give me the address?”
    Based on Mark’s response, he might well have been right.  But for that moment, I was angry all over again.  Angry at Mr. Dalton’s assumption of authority.  And angry that he seemed on two minutes’ acquaintance to know more about how to help Mark than I did.
    Neither of which sentiments, now that I am looking at them written down, reflects very creditably on me.  This business of self-examination is positively exhausting at times.
    At any rate, I said—
    Well, if I am strictly honest, I more snapped the words than said them.  “You need not trouble yourself.  I am quite able to see Captain Chamberlayne back to his lodging house myself.”
    “I would not dare to suggest otherwise, Miss Bennet.”  A twist of a smile touched the corners of Mr. Dalton’s mouth, then faded as his gaze refocused on Mark.  “But tomorrow morning, he will wake, sober, and remember this.  And I think he would wish to be spared the added humiliation of having forced you to play his nursemaid as well as his money lender.”
     There was still absolutely no censure or even judgement in Mr. Dalton’s voice or his gaze.   Only that same brief shadow of weariness.
    I looked at Mark.  At his peg leg.  The empty right sleeve pinned up below the stump of what remained of his arm.  He has never shown it to me, but I know exactly what it must look like; I saw more amputations than I can even begin to count in the aftermath of the battle.
    Mr. Dalton was right;