Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Lady Catherine accepted the express from her rector with a visible restraint of impatience, her lips tightening slightly as she broke the seal.
It was rare that Mr Collins troubled her without cause; yet it was equally rare that the cause proved worthy of the urgency he so confidently assigned to it.
Still, whatever he had written would undoubtedly demand her guidance—and very likely her judgement.
Mr William Collins had occupied the living at Hunsford for little more than six months.
During that period he had demonstrated himself to be precisely the sort of clergyman she valued: obsequious, diligent in trifles, and unfailingly deferential.
Unfortunately, he had also shown himself incapable of the smallest independent judgement, consulting her on matters so insignificant that she had begun to suspect he feared to draw breath without her sanction.
During his absence he had already written once—an unnecessary communication, in her opinion—but this had been dispatched by express. Whatever subject it contained, he must have believed it of consequence to her.
She scanned the first page swiftly; yet at the mention of her nephews, her eyes sharpened. She returned to the beginning and read the entire letter again, this time with deliberate attention.
His suggestion that her nephew—long intended for her own daughter—should be directing particular attention elsewhere was insupportable.
The matter of the supposed kidnapping did not interest her.
Such vulgar disturbances belonged to provincial society and might be managed by those immediately concerned.
Nor did Mr Collins’s matrimonial ambitions merit serious reflection; whom her rector chose to burden himself with was of little consequence to her comfort.
She was inclined, in principle, to agree with the young lady’s father; yet, lacking the full particulars, she would defer her judgement.
If the girl possessed any discretion, she would have declined the offer without hesitation—at least if she understood the distinction between ambition and propriety.
Mr Collins would make a poor husband to anyone; yet Lady Catherine could only hope he might secure a wife sufficiently sensible to receive her direction with gratitude and firmness enough to execute it tolerably well—for her sake.
But Mr Darcy’s name was not one to be attached lightly to provincial conjecture—least of all by some inconsequential country miss residing in a cottage.
Anne’s future had been long understood. It would not be unsettled by country interference.
That required attention.
Lady Catherine read the concluding lines once more before lowering the letter with unhurried precision. Her expression did not alter; only her eyes grew distinctly more intent.
“This must be corrected,” she said at last, the words spoken into the quiet of the room.
“Mr Collins is rarely deficient in zeal,” she continued coolly, delivering her judgement to the empty air, “but in this instance his alarm may prove useful to me.”
If there existed even the slightest foundation for such speculation, it would be addressed—thoroughly and without delay.
The letter was folded neatly along its existing creases and placed upon the table. The afternoon light had already begun to fade; departure that evening would be impractical.
Reaching for the small bell at her side, Lady Catherine rang it once—precisely.
When her housekeeper appeared, she did not rise.
“Anne and I will depart first thing in the morning. You will have our maids prepare trunks sufficient for a fortnight’s visit. See that Anne’s finer things are included. Inform the coachman that my carriage is to be ready at first light. We shall go to Hertfordshire.”
A brief pause followed, as though the matter were already settled.
“You will inform Miss de Bourgh. She is to be prepared to accompany me. Should she have any questions, you may tell her she will see her cousins.”
The de Bourgh ladies’ journey did not proceed precisely as Lady Catherine had intended. Upon rising the next morning, she altered her instructions and directed her coachman to take them first to London.
Her brother, the Earl of Matlock, was already in town, and she would call upon him without delay.
His support would lend necessary weight to the matter and render further persuasion unnecessary.
With Matlock at her side, she had little doubt that her nephew would be reminded of his obligations and readily obey.
Not long after Fitzwilliam Darcy had been born, and followed a year later by Anne de Bourgh, Lady Catherine first broached the idea of engaging the two children to her sister.
She was met at first with polite resistance and, after several repetitions, with unmistakable refusal.
Lady Anne declined to bind her son’s future in infancy.
Lady Catherine never forgave that opposition, for even then she coveted Pemberley’s influence alongside her own.
As the children grew, she did not abandon the design; she merely postponed it.
Since George Darcy’s death, she had grown increasingly vigilant regarding the future of that great estate. With its master gone and the heir scarcely beyond his majority, she perceived an opportunity too important to neglect: to command not only Rosings but Pemberley as well.
It was not long before she began to speak—at first cautiously, then with greater certainty—of a long-understood connexion between her daughter and her nephew.
Neither George Darcy nor Lady Anne remained alive to contradict her; and by steady repetition, she believed the notion would acquire the appearance of legitimacy.
She was careful not to speak of the matter too openly; yet in private she pressed it more firmly upon her nephew and other members of the family.
What could not be secured by agreement, she now sought to establish by assumption.
The past, after all, could be softened in recollection; objections faded when those who made them were no longer present to repeat them.
Thus what had once been a proposal became, in her telling, an understanding, and what had been firmly declined was gradually reshaped into something merely delayed by circumstance.
When she first mentioned it, Fitzwilliam had protested, insisting that neither his father nor his mother had ever spoken of such an intention and that no formal understanding existed to oblige him.
Lady Catherine persisted. In time, his objections grew less frequent—not from conviction, but from fatigue.
When he ceased to argue, she interpreted his quiet as acquiescence.
In Lady Catherine’s estimation, silence was a form of consent. That her nephew’s quiet might signify something altogether different did not present itself to her consideration.
Her brother had fared little better. At first, he attempted to correct her, observing that no such understanding had ever been declared and that neither Lady Anne nor George Darcy had ever expressed such an intention.
Lady Catherine countered that she and her sister had spoken of it often when the two had been in private.
When he ceased to contradict her—much as Fitzwilliam had done—she accepted his restraint as agreement. The possibility that he merely declined to quarrel with her did not occur to her; nor did she imagine that he might refuse to support her should the matter be put plainly before him.
It was therefore only proper that her brother be apprised of the situation before further imprudence was committed.
Lady Catherine’s carriage entered London shortly after noon. Without giving the least consideration to her daughter’s comfort—or allowing any pause after the journey—she ordered the coachman to drive directly to Matlock House in Grosvenor Square.
Within moments of her arrival, she had crossed the threshold and advanced towards her brother’s study, where the butler informed her that his lordship was in conference.
After directing the man to see to Anne’s needs, Lady Catherine silenced any further comment with a curt lift of her hand and proceeded without awaiting announcement.
“Henry.” She advanced several paces into the room, offering only the briefest glance around the room before fixing her attention upon her brother.
“Are you aware that your nephew has permitted himself to be entrapped by some vulgar country miss? She is distantly connected to my parson, and I have come to put an immediate stop to the impropriety. Anne is with me. You will accompany us to the cottage in Hertfordshire where he is presently residing. Our nephew must be reminded of what is properly expected of him.”
Her brother did not rise. Instead, he regarded her steadily, one brow lifting in faint surprise.
“Catherine, I did not expect you in London today—or, indeed, at all, considering how many years it has been since you last favoured the city with your presence. What is this business concerning our nephew? I presume you mean Darcy.”
“Of course I mean Darcy.” She drew herself up, her expression sharpening as though the clarification itself were an absurdity.
“Who else would I be referring to? We shall depart at first light. My coachman informs me it will require no more than four hours to reach this village of Meryton. We shall go in the morning and return by afternoon, having rescued our nephew from this designing creature. Thereafter, preparations may properly begin for his marriage to Anne.”
A faint sound—something perilously close to a scoff—issued from the chair opposite her brother’s desk.
Lady Catherine stiffened.
Only then did she properly observe that her brother was not alone.
The gentleman seated there rose and bowed ever so slightly. “Lady Catherine.”