Chapter 31 #2
She stared at him, and for a brief instant he wondered whether surprise had deprived her of speech. Recognition followed swiftly, and indignation just as quickly.
“Lord Granfield, whatever are you doing in my brother’s study?”
She drew herself up to her full height as if hauteur alone might restore the authority she believed herself to possess.
He recognised the display at once. Catherine had always relied upon volume and posture where argument might have served better, and nothing in the present moment suggested she had altered her method.
“Lord Matlock and I have business to discuss,” he replied evenly, resuming his seat without haste and turning his attention briefly back to her brother.
“I require a word with Henry,” she returned, her tone sharpening. “My nephew is in need of guidance. He has allowed himself to be drawn into a most unsuitable arrangment with some country nobody.”
“In Hertfordshire,” Granfield observed mildly. “Yes, I am aware of the matter.”
Lady Catherine seated herself beside him with visible rigidity. He did not look at her directly, but he still noted the hardening of her expression.
“Are you?” she demanded after the briefest pause, scarcely troubling herself to look at him. “Did not one of your children marry in Hertfordshire?”
“My daughter.”
That caused her eyes to snap to his face. “You had an estate or some property there, did you not?”
“I did.”
Matlock remained silent throughout the exchange. Granfield suspected—without looking—that the corners of his mouth betrayed a trace of amusement.
“Then you may be acquainted,” Lady Catherine continued, her voice assuming a tone of calculated superiority, “with this Miss Grant—or Bennet, or whatever the chit’s name may be—who is attempting to entrap my nephew.”
Without waiting for his answer, she pressed on.
“Did this creature somehow contrive to involve you in her manipulative scheme? You were a friend to George Darcy; surely you are aware of the arrangement my sister and I established for our children. Indeed, I am relieved you are here, for you may assist in preventing that—” she waved a dismissive hand “—adventuress from securing my daughter’s intended. ”
Granfield regarded her steadily. The faint expression that touched his features was almost courteous; it yielded nothing. He allowed a measured silence to intervene, long enough for the force of her accusation to settle.
When he spoke, his tone was calm—almost reflective.
“I am here, Lady Catherine, because the young woman you describe in such imaginative terms is my granddaughter.”
He did not raise his voice.
“It is she who is engaged to your nephew. Miss Elizabeth Bennet is the daughter of my late daughter and her husband. Her son will one day inherit the earldom.”
“What the blazes do you mean?” The words burst from her in a most unladylike fashion.
“It is precisely as I have said.” Granfield rested his hands upon the arms of his chair, his posture erect and his composure unshaken. “Elizabeth Bennet is my granddaughter.”
She opened her mouth again, but he did not permit her to reclaim the floor.
“As for your claims of an engagement between Fitzwilliam Darcy and Anne de Bourgh,” he continued, his tone hardening only slightly, “I believe we have all heard—and seen—more than enough of that fiction.”
Lady Catherine’s cry rang sharply through the room, but Granfield remained unmoved.
“Before his death, George Darcy spoke to me of your insistence upon a supposed cradle betrothal between your daughter and his son. He denied its existence outright, and he charged me—most explicitly—that should I ever learn you were attempting to coerce his son into such a marriage, I was to take whatever steps were necessary to prevent it.”
He held her gaze.
“George Darcy understood you very well. He understood the lengths to which you might go in pursuit of what you desire, and he knew it had little to do with your daughter’s happiness, despite your protestations. What you seek is influence—over Pemberley above all.”
He saw her lips tremble with fury and offered no concession.
“Even had you prevailed upon Fitzwilliam Darcy to marry your daughter, you would never have gained control of Pemberley. I know Fitzwilliam Darcy well enough to be certain of this: he would not have permitted you to govern Rosings either, whatever expectations you may have entertained.”
“You think I seek influence and control over Pemberley?” Lady Catherine’s voice sharpened, the colour rising high in her cheeks. “You presume a great deal, my lord. I seek only what was long understood between our families. Anne was raised with the expectation—”
“With the expectation you supplied,” Granfield returned quietly, “despite no one else in your family supporting it, and only spoken of openly after the death of George Darcy.”
She ignored his interruption, but he saw her expression tighten further.
“Fitzwilliam’s duty is not a matter for speculation. My sister and I spoke of it often. The connexion was proper—equal in rank, equal in consequence. This—this provincial contrivance—” she broke off, breath quickening, “cannot be permitted to supplant it.”
Granfield did not answer.
“An earldom,” she continued, seizing upon his earlier revelation with visible irritation, “does not alter breeding. Nor does it erase the circumstances of a girl raised in obscurity. You cannot expect society to accept—”
“That will suffice, Catherine.”
He had not raised his voice, yet Matlock’s tone carried unmistakable authority.
Granfield observed the faint compression at the corners of the other earl’s mouth and recognised the patience that had at last worn thin.
Matlock rose from his chair.
“Darcy is engaged to Miss Elizabeth Bennet—the granddaughter of the Earl of Granfield.” He inclined his head towards the other gentleman in deliberate acknowledgment, the gesture serving less as courtesy than a request for consent to speak more fully on the matter.
Granfield answered it with a slight return of composure.
“Their child will inherit the earldom,” Matlock continued. “Miss Bennet brings with her a substantial dowry, an estate that will become hers upon marriage, and the consequence of being the future mother of an earl. Even with Rosings, Anne cannot rival such a position.”
His gaze settled once more upon Lady Catherine.
“But that is of secondary importance. She is Darcy’s choice. He has never acknowledged any obligation to marry Anne—nor has anyone else in this family. You have simply dismissed what did not suit you, and we long ago determined that argument would avail us nothing.”
“But Anne—” Lady Catherine began again, her composure visibly faltering.
Granfield turned at the faint sound of movement behind her.
She was interrupted—not by her brother, but by a quieter voice from the doorway.
“Will be perfectly content if she remains unmarried.”
Anne de Bourgh paused just within the threshold, one gloved hand resting lightly against the doorframe for support.
Her complexion was pale, and Granfield could not determine whether the strain arose from addressing the room or from the fatigue of the day’s journey.
Whatever the cause, she held herself with quiet steadiness.
All attention turned towards her.
“I am aware that my father’s will settled Rosings upon me at five-and-twenty,” she said, drawing a measured breath before continuing. “I have permitted Mama to manage the estate only because I had no wish to be burdened with it.”
Her fingers tightened briefly against the wood before she released it.
“That indulgence may be reconsidered—if she persists.”
Matlock crossed the room at once and assisted his niece into a chair. She accepted the support without protest; once seated she straightened, as if determined that assistance should not be mistaken for incapacity.
“Mother,” she resumed, her voice softer now yet unmistakably deliberate, “I did not object to this journey because it would have been futile. Had I refused, you would have come without me. I required my uncle’s presence to ensure that I was heard and that matters could be settled as I wished.”
She paused, folding her hands carefully in her lap.
“I am relieved to learn that Cousin Darcy is engaged—if only because it will bring an end to your repeated assertions of a supposed arrangement. You did not speak of it to me until after Uncle Darcy’s death. Thereafter, you spoke of little else.”
Granfield observed the faint tremor that followed, and the brief pause in which she gathered herself. The effort was evident, despite her attempts to conceal it.
“I would ask that Uncle Henry review the estate accounts in Cousin Darcy’s stead each year and advise me as I begin to assume greater responsibility at Rosings. The house…” She hesitated, colour touching her cheeks. “It has grown unnecessarily ostentatious. I should prefer comfort to display.”
Her hands clasped more firmly together.
“I regret that I did not prevent the living from being granted to Mr Collins. He may yet persuade some sensible woman to accept him, although I confess I do not greatly expect it. Should that occur—and should Cousin Darcy visit—I might at least find in his wife a companion.”
She turned towards her uncle, her composure intact though a faint pallor deepened along her cheek.
“Uncle, I should like a companion who is not appointed by my mother—someone whose loyalty is to me rather than to her. I do not desire to be governed, nor managed, nor reminded at every turn of my supposed frailty. I wish for someone nearer my own age… and nearer my equal.”
“How dare you?” Lady Catherine cried, colour rising sharply in her cheeks. “How dare you presume to displace me at Rosings? I care nothing for what your father’s will may state. Rosings ought properly to have been mine. What need have you of another companion? Am I not companion enough?”
Anne did not shrink from the outburst, her fingers drawing inward against her palm.
“Mother,” she said, her voice low but steady, “I have little desire to be cosseted or perpetually directed—told what to think, what to eat, or when to retire. I may not possess the strength to marry or to live precisely as others do, yet I wish for more than I am presently permitted to experience.”
She paused, steadying her voice before proceeding.
“Mrs Jenkinson answers to you and treats me as though I were decades older than I am. We neither travel nor receive company, except for the clergymen you choose to appoint. There are no young ladies near Rosings with whom I might form a natural acquaintance.”
While her gaze remained calm, a faint tremor touched her final words.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Perceiving that his presence was no longer required, Granfield rose and bowed, first to Matlock and then, after the briefest hesitation, to Anne.
“These matters no longer concern me; they touch your household more nearly than mine,” he said evenly. “I have spoken plainly and shall not intrude further.”
He inclined his head once more towards Matlock. “When you are at leisure, pray call at Talbot House, and we shall conclude our business.”
With one final, unreadable glance at Lady Catherine, he took his leave.