CHAPTER 1
Lady Catherine de Bourgh sat in her drawing room at Rosings, gazing with marked indifference at the intricate patterns of the Chinese porcelain that graced her mantelpiece.
A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows upon the walls, their restless movement offering a poor diversion from the dissatisfaction that had, of late, grown too familiar.
Her ladyship scarcely concealed a sigh. How she had grown weary of those seeking favour from her; their readiness to agree, to admire, to applaud—always immediate, always excessive—stood in tiresome contrast to the indifference they displayed when called upon to act with diligence or discretion.
Her mind wandered to the clergyman from the Westerham parsonage, who performed his duties with a steadiness that required neither display nor encouragement, unlike others she could name.
Instead, she had no choice but to withdraw her support from Mr. Rowland, the former clergyman at Hunsford.
Whenever she inquired how the parish fared, Mr. Rowland contrived, with irritating regularity, to evade the substance of her questions.
He offered justifications—always plausible, always incomplete—assuring her that the congregation was small but devoted, that he was overwhelmed by his parishioners’ affection, yet that it grew increasingly difficult to proceed without more substantial assistance from her ladyship’s generosity.
Of course, small was a term employed with undue liberality; Lady Catherine knew the parish to be decidedly diminutive, and the stipend Mr. Rowland received from his position in the Church of England was minimal.
Yet he frequently found his way to Rosings without invitation, discovering, with unfailing ingenuity, new occasions upon which to press his claims. His dependence had long since ceased to recommend him; importunity, when too often repeated, could not but offend even the most patient patron.
As long as the newly appointed Mr. Collins proved himself equal to the situation, and content with the modest living he was to assume in September, matters might yet be set in order.
However, experience had rendered Lady Catherine less susceptible to professions unaccompanied by proof, and flatterers such as he inspired little lasting confidence.
His devotion was commendable, as far as it went; yet the true measure of a clergyman’s worth lay not in his expressions, but in his conduct.
And what, she now considered, had Mr. Collins done since her ladyship had extended to him the promise of her support?
He had sent her weekly epistles of flattery, extolling her greatness, her discernment, and her generosity, with a regularity that might, in other circumstances, have recommended him.
Yet he had not once gone to the Hunsford parsonage, nor taken the trouble to acquaint himself with Mr. and Mrs. Yates, who were to serve under his direction; nor had he exhibited the smallest indication that his interest extended beyond the possession of the living itself.
Lady Catherine’s gaze withdrew at last from the porcelain and settled, more sharply now, upon the fire.
It was not in her habit to act without reflection; yet she could not entirely dismiss the possibility that, in this instance, she had been somewhat hasty.
To substitute Mr. Rowland with Mr. Collins had seemed, at the time, a necessary correction; whether it would prove an improvement remained, as yet, uncertain.
She did not, however, mistake uncertainty for error—only for a circumstance requiring prompt attention.
***
Lady Catherine de Bourgh stood in the parlour, holding a crisp letter between her fingers, its contents offering her a welcome interruption to the tedious uniformity of those addresses which had, of late, tried even her patience.
Happily, it was not another effusion of misplaced gratitude from the already insupportable Mr. Collins.
3rd September 1811, Milton,
near Cambridge, Cambridgeshire
Your Ladyship,
I trust this letter finds you in good health and spirits. Pray allow me to offer my apologies for the liberty I take in addressing you without the advantage of a prior introduction. My name is George Wickham, and I have recently been informed of the vacancy at the Hunsford parish.
Having completed my studies at Cambridge, I believe myself possessed of the qualifications necessary to discharge, with diligence and propriety, the duties attendant upon a living under your Ladyship’s distinguished patronage.
Should you be pleased to admit me to consideration, I would, with the greatest respect, lay before you such testimonials as may attest to my academic standing and character.
I am further in a position to solicit a recommendation from a gentleman whose judgement your Ladyship is known to esteem highly.
I should be honoured to attend upon you at your convenience, in order to present myself more properly and to receive such direction as you may think fit to bestow.
I remain, your Ladyship’s most obedient and humble servant,
George Wickham
The candidate’s words were remarkably free from the excess to which she had grown accustomed, and, for that reason alone, they commanded her attention.
There was, in his manner of expression, a restraint which suggested either judgement or calculation; in either case, it was preferable to the indiscriminate flattery she so frequently endured.
He neither presumed too far nor abased himself unnecessarily—an uncommon balance.
Lady de Bourgh read the letter again, more slowly now, her eye resting upon the final sentence.
A recommendation—from a gentleman whose opinion she valued.
The implication was not lost upon her. Few men could be described in such terms without impropriety, and fewer still would venture to invoke such a name without confidence in its effect.
“Wilkinson,” her ladyship called, her voice cool and perfectly distinct, requiring no elevation to command attention. Her secretary appeared at once in the doorway, her habitual anxiety sharpening into alertness at the tone.
“Have this gentleman attend at Rosings at the earliest moment his convenience permits,” Lady Catherine said, placing the letter into Mrs. Wilkinson’s hands with deliberate precision. “I shall judge for myself whether his conduct answers to his professions.”
“Very well, your Ladyship. I will see immediately to the summons,” Mrs. Wilkinson replied, glancing only briefly at the signature before withdrawing with due haste.
Left once more to herself, Lady Catherine did not immediately resume her seat.
Instead, she remained where she stood, the letter no longer in her hand, yet very much present in her consideration.
If the recommendation proved what she suspected—if it were indeed connected to Mr. Darcy—then the matter assumed a different complexion altogether.
Her nephew was not a man to lend his name lightly; nor would he, without cause, advance the claims of one unworthy of notice.
That alone distinguished this Mr. Wickham from the rest.
It was not, however, sufficient. Lady Catherine’s judgement did not rest upon borrowed authority, however respectable. She would see the man, question him, and determine—by her own standard—whether he merited the advantage he sought.
Her thoughts turned, not without a degree of impatience, to Mr. Collins.
His letters, so regular in their arrival and so uniform in their content, had long ceased to recommend him.
He praised; he deferred; he anticipated her wishes—yet had done nothing to prove himself equal to them.
That he should suppose himself secure in her favour, merely by perseverance in flattery, was an error she had neither encouraged nor intended to correct prematurely.
No—it would be far more instructive to allow him the comfort of his expectation a little longer.
When the moment came—and it would come—the contrast would speak more effectively than any admonition she might choose to offer.
A slight smile touched her lips, brief, restrained, and carrying more spirit than her usual silence allowed others to suspect.
The time for decision was approaching, and Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who neither shrank from judgement nor delegated it where it most properly belonged to herself, was fully prepared to meet it.
***
In possession of Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s invitation, Wickham journeyed to Rosings Park, in Kent, where he requested the footman to announce his arrival and to convey that he attended in obedience to her ladyship’s summons.
The footman conducted him to the parlour and left him there alone, surrounded by a degree of elegance which, though impressive, did not distract him from the purpose of his visit.
His eye moved quickly over the room, not in admiration, but in calculation; such surroundings were to be understood, not merely observed.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh made her appearance a few minutes later.
She strode into the parlour with a composure that admitted neither haste nor uncertainty, her manner suggesting not display, but habitual authority.
Her attire, though rich, was worn with such natural authority that it appeared less an ornament than an expression of rank itself.
“Your Ladyship,” Wickham said, executing a measured and properly respectful bow, “I am George Wickham, and I have the honour of presenting myself in consequence of your summons.”
Lady Catherine did not, at first, approve—but she most certainly observed.
He was not what she had been led to expect—namely, a man of modest pretensions, whose appearance would at once declare his inferiority, and whose manners would betray that anxious deference which so often attends it.