A House of Daughters - Chapter 3

A Pride and Prejudice Variation

With my first novella, Letter to Georgiana, now available for pre-order on Amazon, I’m excited to begin sharing a brand-new project.

A House of Daughters is a Pride and Prejudice variation that asks: what if Elizabeth Bennet, just after returning from Hunsford, didn’t simply accept her family’s flaws in silence? What if, in a moment of frustration, she spoke her mind in front of everyone?

This story begins with that outburst—and traces its ripple effects. The Bennet sisters are forced to reckon with how they’re perceived, both within and beyond Longbourn, and what that perception might cost them.

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What to Expect

• Multiple POVs – Follow Lydia, Kitty, Mary, and Jane as they navigate change, reflection, and responsibility.

• Romance – Darcy and Elizabeth’s story unfolds in the background, witnessed (and sometimes misinterpreted) by the people around them.

• Emotional depth – Introspection, character growth, and sisterly bonds take center stage.

I’ll be publishing two chapters per week, right here.

These posts will remain available until one month after the final chapter is released, at which point the complete and edited version will be published on Kindle and enrolled in Kindle Unlimited. (Expect a few refinements in the final draft.)

Thank you for reading, I hope this story brings something new and a little surprising to your love of Jane Austen.

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Chapter 3: Just Kitty

The moment the carriage wheels struck the cobbled roads of Gracechurch Street, Kitty Bennet leaned forward, nearly flattening her nose against the window.

“Good heavens,” she breathed. “There must be hundreds of shops. And are those real chimney-sweeps? How black their faces are! And just look at the hats—so many hats!”

Mr. Bennet, seated opposite with a book open in his lap, murmured without looking up, “Yes, London does seem to have cornered the hat market.”

The city roared outside, carts rattling over stones, vendors shouting about oysters and oranges, carriage wheels groaning dangerously close. At one corner, a donkey protested beneath a load large enough to bury Longbourn whole.

Kitty leaned even closer to the window, her breath fogging the glass. “Papa,” she said, eyes wide, “do you remember your first time in London?”

Mr. Bennet turned a page. “I do. I was quite certain everyone could tell I was not meant to be there.”

She looked over at him, intrigued. “And could they?”

“Oh, undoubtedly. But Londoners are terribly polite, they judge you silently, which is far more civilized.”

Kitty let out a soft laugh. “How comforting.”

He glanced up at her then, just briefly. “You will do well enough, Kitty. As long as you do not try too hard to be someone you are not.”

That surprised her. She blinked, smiled despite herself, then quieted, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her glove. “Do you think the Gardiners will find me too silly?”

Mr. Bennet’s expression did not change, but he did mark his place with a finger.

“They are far too sensible to dismiss a girl for silliness,” he said mildly. “Though they may suggest—gently—that you find better ways to spend your energy.”

Kitty bit her lip. “So… yes, then.”

He gave a noncommittal shrug. “That depends. Do you intend to talk of nothing but bonnets and officers?”

“I had not… planned to,” she admitted.

“Well, there is hope for you yet.”

Her smile wavered. “Do you really think I can improve?”

He studied her for a moment, then closed the book with a quiet snap.

“I think you are going to be in a place where you will be treated like a young lady, not some silly girl. What you make of that is your decision.”

Kitty flushed and turned toward the window again, but his words lingered as the carriage slowed outside a tidy red-brick townhouse. The brass knocker gleamed, and the steps had been freshly scrubbed. It was not grand, but it looked respectable in a way that mattered.

“Here we are,” Mr. Bennet said, offering her a rare smile. “Be curious, not clever. It will take you further.”

The house smelled of lemon oil and beeswax. Its furniture gleamed, polished without pretense, and the air hummed with quiet order.

Her aunt Gardiner greeted them with a warm embrace. “Kitty, my dear! How you have grown. We are so pleased to have you.”

Kitty curtsied, suddenly shy, as her uncle Gardiner offered a smile. There were no squeals, no fawning exclamations, just a calm, kind welcome.

A housemaid led her up two flights of stairs to a room beneath the eaves. It was clean and bright, with a narrow bed, a writing desk, and a wardrobe. No lace, no feathers. No perfume bottles. It looked nothing like her world. And that, oddly, gave her pause.

When she came back downstairs, Mr. Bennet was pulling on his overcoat.

“You will stay for dinner, will you not?” she asked.

“No. I must return before your mother succumbs to despair. Or melodrama. Difficult to say which.”

Her aunt smiled. “I will write soon and let you know how we fare.”

He turned towards Kitty. “Well, I suppose I must leave you to your new life of London refinement and responsibility. Try not to scandalize the neighbors for at least a week.”

Kitty smiled faintly. “I will do my best.”

He paused at the door. “You are brighter than you let on, Kitty. Remember that.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Papa?”

“Do not make me repeat myself. It might sound like praise.”

With a brief touch to the brim of his hat, he turned and descended the steps.

Kitty watched from the window until his carriage disappeared into the noise and smoke.

He had not said much.

But perhaps… he had said enough.

✦ ✦ ✦

The Gardiners’ household was not what Kitty had expected.

It was warm, certainly, and cheerfully kept, but it was ordered. There were no sudden bursts of laughter, no shrieking matches over hairpins, no one tossing themselves dramatically onto a chaise. The rhythm of the house was steady, like the quiet tick of a clock: constant, purposeful, unhurried.

No one hovered around her. No one asked for the latest gossip from Meryton, or who she had danced with at the last assembly. In fact, no one seemed particularly interested in her at all.

And yet, she did not feel unwelcome. Just… unfamiliar. As if she had stepped into a life where no one expected her to perform.

It was all so different, she could not quite tell whether she liked it, or was simply afraid of disliking it aloud.

At supper, her uncle spoke of trade routes and charitable subscriptions, of improvements to shipping lanes and the price of coffee. Her aunt discussed the children’s lessons. Kitty, unsure where to insert herself, sat quietly.

It felt strange. Steady. Like sitting in a room with people who were interested in the world, not just their place in it.

Later that evening, as the children were being dressed for bed, Kitty hovered in the nursery doorway, uncertain of whether she ought to stay or go. Ned, age three, was shrieking, red-faced and wriggling, refusing to put on his nightshirt. Emma, aged seven, was cross-legged on the floor, reading aloud to herself with impressive determination, and the nursemaid looked ready to abandon ship.

Her aunt, ever unruffled, knelt beside the boy with an expression of unshaken calm. “Now, Ned. If you put your arms through, I will sing the fox song.”

“No,” he howled.

Something in Kitty moved before she could think. “I can take him, if you want.”

Her aunt blinked, surprised, then gave her a gentle smile. “If you would like.”

Kitty sat beside the squirming boy, uncertain. He kicked once, whimpering. She began to hum, just a nonsense melody, something half-remembered from the days when their old nurse at Longbourn would sing to them after storms. A lullaby without words.

To her surprise, Ned paused. Not entirely, but enough. He sniffled, blinked at her through damp lashes, and after a long moment, held out his arms.

Her aunt helped him into his nightclothes without a word, her gaze soft.

“You have the touch,” she said, smoothing Ned’s hair.

“I think he just liked the song,” Kitty murmured, pink with quiet pleasure.

But something warm had lodged in her chest and refused to budge.

That night, beneath a neatly tucked quilt, Kitty stared up at the dark beams of the ceiling. The house was still. No Lydia whispering across the room. No Mama sighing theatrically down the hall. No thuds of Mary dropping her books or Lizzy closing a window.

Just quiet.

She thought of Ned’s small arms wrapping around her, of her aunt’s calm smile. There had been no flattery, no performance, but also no ridicule. Just… a place. A place for her.

And that, she realized with a flutter of uncertainty, might be a kind of gift.

She had not written to anyone yet, not even to Lydia, to describe the strange new hush of London, the smell of beeswax, or the taste of toast made in a proper London kitchen. No one had asked what she thought of the city.

And—more curiously—she had not yet felt the need to tell.

✦ ✦ ✦

The next morning, she rose expecting a slow, meandering breakfast. Instead, she found her aunt tying Emma’s boots while speaking with the housekeeper about the grocer’s bill.

“Oh, Kitty, good morning,” she said, glancing up. “Would you fetch the blue spoon from the kitchen? Ned will not eat without it.”

Kitty blinked. “Yes. Of course.”

Downstairs, the kitchen was already bustling. Warm with the scent of porridge and yeast rolls.

A maid handed her the spoon with a knowing grin. “That boy is stubborn, but sweet. He certainly keeps us on our feet.”

Back upstairs, Ned greeted her with a face full of oatmeal and a delighted shriek. She laughed in spite of herself. He had oats in his hair and something sticky smudged behind one ear. It was disgusting, and yet oddly endearing.

Breakfast was plain: toast, warm milk, and quiet conversation. Her uncle read aloud a small item from the paper—something about a balloon ascent that had gone poorly—and her aunt made a dry joke about the wisdom of floating away in wicker baskets. Kitty did not quite understand, but she laughed anyway.

“So,” she asked, buttering a roll, “what do people do in London?”

“Well,” her aunt said, “today we shall visit the dressmaker and then make a social call. Would you care to join me?”

Kitty brightened. “Will there be anyone interesting there?”

Mrs. Gardiner smiled. “I cannot promise the ton, but I can guarantee warm tea and polite company.”

It was not what Kitty had in mind. But she nodded anyway.

The dressmaker’s shop was small and efficient, with rolls of fabric stacked from floor to ceiling and a fitting room that smelled faintly of chalk and lavender. Kitty tried to admire the silks, but after thirty minutes of standing still while her aunt consulted over hem lengths and sleeve drapes, her feet ached and her enthusiasm had dulled considerably.

The social call was worse.

An elderly woman with several cats and a fondness for describing her rheumatism in alarming detail poured lukewarm tea and insisted that Kitty try the seed cake, which crumbled like chalk.

No one asked anything at all beyond how long she had been in town. And she did not have anything to add to the ongoing conversation.

She thought to herself. “Am I the sort of girl who has nothing to talk about but officers?”

Still, she thanked them and returned home with a calm she did not entirely understand.

That afternoon, her aunt invited her to the square with the children.

Kitty hesitated. She had imagined promenades in Hyde Park, perhaps shopping along Bond Street. The square was just a patch of grass with leafless trees and a gravel path, tucked between rows of sober brick houses.

But Emma decided they were princesses imprisoned in a tower, and Kitty, without quite knowing why, joined in.

When Ned dropped his toy soldier through the fence and began to wail. Kitty knelt at once to retrieve it, and handing it back.

He clutched her sleeve and sniffled, “Fank you,” into the fabric.

It was such a small thing. But it made her feel helpful.

That evening, she sat quietly by the fire, watching the flames curl and rise.

She did not follow all the conversation between the Gardiners, but she listened anyway. No one asked her to perform. No one laughed when she spoke. And when she did speak, they looked up. They nodded. They waited for her to finish.

They expected her to join them, not to dazzle or provoke, but simply to belong.

And slowly, she began to understand something both unsettling and reassuring: she was not the center of anyone’s world here.

She was simply… part of it.

Later, in her narrow bed beneath the eaves, Kitty Bennet lay staring at the ceiling, her hands tucked beneath her pillow.

No one in London cared that she had danced three times at the last assembly. No one knew—or cared—that Lieutenant Denny had once complimented her shawl. No one whispered about who she might marry. In this part of the world, she was not someone’s sister or someone’s spectacle.

She was just Kitty. Or Catherine. Or, perhaps, something new entirely.

She rolled over, tucking the blanket beneath her chin. The quiet here was not hollow. It was not watchful or judgmental. It simply… waited.

And in that quiet, Kitty Bennet—who had spent her whole life wanting to be admired—closed her eyes and wondered, perhaps for the first time, what it meant to deserve admiration, not demand it.

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