Prologue #2
It was Lady Catherine’s turn to sigh. She relaxed into the cushions, a tiny stream of tension leaving her body.
The scheme to break Mr. Darcy’s engagement to Elizabeth Bennet was well underway, but not yet accomplished unless something positive had transpired in the two days since the countess had quit London.
Lady Catherine could not afford to relent in her quest, for Anne’s sake.
“So they agreed to disseminate the details of this ghastly affair?”
“With passionate resolve! Upon my word, once informed of the situation, I could not have stopped any of our friends had I exerted my towering influence to do so. Rest assured, Catherine, though small in number, down to the last they are on your side, which is, needless to say, on the side of righteousness. You have, I presume, written to Lord Matlock?”
“Yes. Thrice. I am unclear as to my brother’s precise schedule, but in his last letter from Bath, he alluded to returning to London by the middle of October. He and Lady Matlock were not in residence when you left?”
“Not unless we passed each other upon the bridge crossing the Thames. Be encouraged on that front, my friend. His lordship cannot possibly see the advantage of such a union. He shall support your cause, I am sure of it.”
“I wish I could be as confident. Forever has my brother been contrary, and he was a great friend to James Darcy. I fear his fondness for our nephew may sway his opinion.”
“Pray it isn’t so!” Lady Starkley appeared severely stricken at the possibility.
Withdrawing a fan from her reticule, she flipped it open and began waving it vigorously before her face.
“What are we coming to as an advanced society? I can hardly bear it and wonder if I am not blessed to be in waning health to avoid long years of witnessing the further degradation of our core values. If a worthy man of the gentry like Mr. Darcy of Pemberley can fall to the seductions of an ill-bred country chit, who is safe? How can a man of his caliber be so heartless to Miss de Bourgh and shirk his sworn duty?”
Lady Starkley’s query, the words nearly identical to the questions Lady Catherine had thought minutes before the countess’s arrival, brought all her anger rushing to the surface.
“I wish I could comprehend his actions myself,” she roared, launching up from her seat.
Fists clenched, she stormed to the window.
Relief to find that Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson were gone—hopefully indoors where it was cool and protected—had limited effect on her roiling emotions.
“For years I have been the saint of patience, Millicent, and what has it gotten me? For two years after Darcy’s father died I said nothing, waiting as he grieved and adjusted to his new role as Master of Pemberley.
Then, when I gently reminded him of the earnest wish of his mother, my sister, bless her soul, to marry my Anne and of the arrangement agreed upon by all, he refused to acknowledge it. ”
“Unfathomable!”
“Believing his refusal to commit to Anne and fulfill his promise was merely a request for more time to sow his wild oats, as the saying goes, I politely dropped the subject. I understand that young men require a period of recklessness and freedom before settling down. Not that the matrimonial state inhibits most men from satisfying wandering lusts and selfish needs for entertainment elsewhere. We both know this truth from personal experience.”
Lady Starkley nodded gravely, although without a trace of judgment or disapproval. Lady Catherine, preoccupied with her irritation, barely noticed.
“How long was Anne supposed to wait? A man can take his time, age not affecting him as profoundly. Women are not as fortunate. My poor Anne, forced to pretend she was not heartbroken to see her youth slip away, all while the man promised to protect her, to give her a future and a family, ignores his duty to family and our rank. Oh! The shame of it!”
“Did he show no remorse? No heart when you pleaded with him?”
Lady Catherine hesitated before turning away from the window.
The countless exchanges with Darcy regarding Anne flashed through her mind, particularly the most recent one in the Darcy House billiard room after leaving her distasteful audience with Elizabeth Bennet in Hertfordshire.
Lady Catherine shuddered at the memories, not quite sure which one caused her the most pain and outrage.
Over the years each conversation with her nephew had grown increasingly hostile.
Darcy rigidly maintained that he and Anne had no affection for each other and that any “arrangement” agreed upon had no hold upon him.
She could remember, however, early discussions when he spoke with tenderness, pleading softly with her to understand. Anne, too, had echoed her cousin’s sentiments, begging for an end to the topic.
Lady Catherine had flatly rejected doing so. For a host of reasons, a union between Darcy and Anne was the sensible, only acceptable course. Now, with the latest repugnant development, Lady Catherine’s conviction of her superior wisdom was stronger than ever.
Setting her jaw, she fixed a stony glare on her guest and, in a voice of iron declared, “The past is irrelevant. Darcy will marry, and it will be to my Anne, not a worthless country girl lacking a drop of noble blood. Whatever it takes.”