Bonus Chapter
The drawing room at Pemberley was an architectural triumph of symmetry and wealth. It was vast, elegant, and currently functioning as a theatre for the exhausting emotional athletics of the Bennet family.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh sat in a velvet wingback chair, her spine an unyielding monument to aristocratic superiority.
She rested both hands on the silver head of her cane.
She did not really need the cane to walk, but it was very useful for making a point and occasionally, landing it on an offender's shin.
She surveyed the room with detached, clinical judgement, like a general assessing a somewhat chaotic infantry.
To her right, her daughter Anne lounged upon a chaise, ostensibly reading a novel, though her eyes frequently darted over the pages to observe the spectacle.
Near the fireplace, Georgiana stood rigidly upright, practising what she and that peculiar middle Bennet girl called the "Mule posture".
On the settee was Lydia Bennet, reading a fashion plate.
The girl was a trial, certainly—loud and wildly unformed—but under Lady Catherine's strict tutelage at Rosings, she had at least learned to stop slouching, and resembled more a lady than a bar wretch.
Fitzwilliam Darcy, her nephew, stood near his sister, his hands clenched and his lips pursed in a thin line of worry, as he watched his wife providing the true disturbance.
Elizabeth Darcy, the Mistress of Pemberley, was pacing. She was wearing a trench into the priceless Aubusson carpet, waving a letter that had arrived by the morning post from Hertfordshire.
"Elizabeth," Lady Catherine commanded, tapping her cane against the floorboards. "Cease your marching. You are making me dizzy, and you are entirely distracting Lydia from her mission on finding a respectable gown. A lady of consequence receives news sitting down."
"I cannot sit down, Aunt," Elizabeth declared, her dark eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and hysterical amusement. "I have just received an express from my father. The laws of the universe have collapsed in Hertfordshire. Listen to this!"
She halted, unfolding the thick parchment, and began to read aloud in a voice that perfectly captured Mr Bennet's dry, cynical baritone.
"My dear Lizzy, I write to you from the sanctuary of my study, which is currently under siege by your mother's loud joy and the even louder, persistent purring of Charles, the orange menace.
You will be astounded to learn that Mr Charles Bingley, who turned out a menace as well, has returned to our county in the summer.
However, he has abandoned his fashionable waistcoats and London polish.
He arrived claiming to be a 'Man of Depth' and immediately set about wrestling with the stubborn clay of the North Pasture, attempting to drain his fields, and dig as many ditches as possible. "
Elizabeth lowered the paper, staring at her husband. "Fitzwilliam, did you know that?"
"Yes, he told me he intended to purchase Netherfield and settle there." Darcy shrugged with a crooked smile. "I knew he was in earnest but never imagined he would commit. I condone."
"Kitty wrote to me that Mr Bingley was digging in the mud." Lydia lifted her gaze from La Belle Assemblée. "I should have liked to see that iridescent blue waistcoat of his after such an endeavour."
"It gets worse," Elizabeth gasped, her eyes racing down the page. "He did more than dig." She read aloud: He marched about the county in ruined boots, ignoring the mockery of the village, and whilst seeking my counsel on sub-soil irrigation, he managed to fall backwards into an irrigation ditch."
"A ditch!" Lady Catherine scoffed, striking the floor with her cane. "The man has an income of five thousand a year and he is rolling in the muck like a swine? He lacks management. I always said he was too pliable. Who is he attempting to impress with this agricultural theatre?"
"Wait, there is more," Elizabeth gasped, her eyes widening as she read on. "Despite his lack of coordination, I must admit the boy proved his worth. Last week, whilst inspecting the boundary line during a violent thunderstorm, my horse spooked, I fell, and I broke my leg."
Georgiana gasped, her eyes widening, completely abandoning her mule-like rigidity. "Oh, poor Mr Bennet!"
"Well, I never!" Elizabeth cried, pressing a hand to her chest. "Listen to what happened next! 'I was rendered unconscious, but rather than wait for a cart, Mr Bingley lifted me from the mud and carried me through the tempest entirely in his arms, all the way to Netherfield.'"
"Carried him?" Lydia blinked in confusion. "Mr Bingley? The man who used to have his valet carry his hat?"
"It appears," Lady Catherine mused, a grudging note of respect entering her tone, "that the boy has finally discovered his spine. A pity it took a thunderstorm and a broken leg to locate it. Proceed, Elizabeth. I assume this physical exertion had a purpose?"
"It did," Elizabeth said, her eyes racing down the parchment. "The target of this newly acquired depth was none other than your sister, Mary. It seems she played a waltz for him on a monstrous Broadwood pianoforte he purchased entirely to lure her into his music room."
Everyone gasped, Darcy looked alarmed, and even Anne lifted an eyebrow. Georgiana beamed, clasping her hands together. "Mary! Oh, I knew it! I knew her backbone would count for something! She is the most formidable mule in Hertfordshire!"
"However," Elizabeth read, her voice climbing in pitch, "the proposal was severely interrupted.
Viscount Keathley—who was visiting with Jane after your mother's summons—burst into the room wielding a cane, chasing Mary's demonic orange cat, who had just stolen a shrieking green parrot named Sir Polonius from its cage.
The cat leapt directly between the lovers, and the parrot began screaming about tax duties. "
Elizabeth shook her head, incredulous. "My family is a travelling circus!"
Lydia was delighted. "We are passionate, Lizzy. Ah, what a lark! How I wish to have been there!"
"A parrot is a depreciating asset," Lady Catherine noted coldly, though the corners of her mouth twitched with suppressed amusement. "The Viscount should know better than to travel with exotic poultry. But did your sister secure the match?"
Elizabeth looked back at the letter, her expression softening entirely. "Despite the avian casualty and the Viscount's shouting, Mr Bingley held his ground. He insisted on his proposal and was subsequently accepted. They are to be married."
Elizabeth clutched the letter to her bodice, letting out a watery, delighted sigh. "Aww, Mary! So sweet!"
"Sweet?" Lady Catherine scoffed, though she felt a rare, fleeting warmth in her chest. "It is a miracle of perseverance. To secure a man of his fortune whilst quoting sermons and wearing brown wool? The girl has deployed a masterclass in strategic withdrawal. I approve."
"So, Mary is to be mistress of Netherfield?" Lydia asked, her eyes glittering with calculating ambition. "If Mary can catch a wealthy man by scowling and playing the pianoforte, then surely I can catch a Colonel with my new gliding technique."
"You shall catch a General, Lydia, provided you remember to keep your mouth closed and your chin elevated," Lady Catherine corrected sharply. "Now, Elizabeth, is that the entirety of the missive? I assume your mother has contributed to this hysteria?"
"There is a postscript," Elizabeth confirmed, unfolding the very bottom of the page where the handwriting changed to a frantic, ink-splattered scrawl.
"Oh, my dear Lizzy! Have you ever heard such wonderful news!
Mr Bingley is to be my son! I always said he was the most charming, handsome man in the world, even when he ran away to London!
I knew it all along, Lizzy! I planned it from the very start!
I saw how he looked at Mary's spectacles, and I knew he was entirely captivated by her moral fortitude!
We are to have another son in the family, and my nerves are perfectly restored!
The only thing that would complete my happiness would be if Kitty abandoned the mundane and Lydia were to wed a man in red.
By the by, there is one available at Netherfield.
Colonel Lindon resides with Bingley, and something tells me he is in need of a wife.
Maybe you could persuade Lady Catherine to bring you for a visit? "
The drawing room descended into a profound silence.
Anne slowly closed her novel. "Your mother," she observed dryly, "possesses a truly fascinating relationship with the truth."
"She possesses the memory of a highly optimistic goldfish," Lady Catherine corrected, striking her cane once more.
"But she has successfully married off three daughters to men of immense fortune and title.
One must respect the results, even if the methods involve a great deal of shouting and smelling salts.
Now, Elizabeth, ring for tea. If we are to welcome another Bennet sister into the ranks of the wealthy, I require refreshment to fortify my constitution against the inevitable wedding breakfast."
Lady Catherine did not wait for the tea to arrive.
She left the drawing room claiming the need for fresh air.
But she did not need air. She needed time alone.
She needed to think. Colonel Edmund Lindon was in Hertfordshire.
She recalled the young man, resplendent in his dress uniform at Richard's wedding breakfast at Rosings.
He looked exactly like his father. Her mind drifted to a crowded ballroom, many years ago, when she was a fresh debutante of the first water. It was her first season out.
The chandeliers had blazed with the light of a thousand wax candles, but Lady Catherine Fitzwilliam had outshone them all. She had been the daughter of an Earl, armed with a formidable dowry, an impeccable pedigree, and a certainty of her own destiny.
And her destiny, she had been absolutely convinced, was Anthony, Viscount Lindon.
She paused on the gravel path of the Pemberley gardens, her cane sinking slightly into the earth.
Even forty years later, the memory of Anthony's face was irritatingly precise.
He had possessed blond curls and striking blue eyes—the very same eyes that now looked out from the face of his son, Colonel Edmund Lindon.
During that Season, Anthony had favoured her.
He had sought her out for country dances, stood by her chair during tedious musicales, and treated her with a warm, easy camaraderie that she had interpreted as the precursor to a formal declaration.
She had waited, confident and secure, for him to apply to her father.
She had not accounted for Pamela.
Pamela had been her friend—or rather, a pliant companion Catherine had tolerated.
But Pamela had a mother. Augusta Prestwick, now the Dowager Countess of Wexford, had moved through the drawing rooms of London with calculating, ruthless efficiency, like a spider weaving a web.
Augusta had decided her daughter required a Viscount, and Augusta did not accept defeat.
Lady Catherine struck the gravel with the silver tip of her cane.
It had been a trap, of course. A fabricated compromise.
Lady Catherine had spent four decades wondering about this fact.
She did not know the exact mechanics Augusta had deployed—a strategically locked door, a deliberate swoon in a secluded garden, a torn hem and a manufactured scandal—but she knew the result.
Anthony was an honourable man. Trapped by Augusta's machinations, his honour had forced him to offer for Pamela.
They had married. They had produced the requisite three sons: the heir to the Lindon viscountcy, the spare who was given to the church, and the youngest, who had purchased a commission in the army, the frustratingly handsome Colonel Edmund Lindon.
At Richard and Caroline's wedding breakfast in May, Augusta had dared to glide across the lawn in violet silk and twist the knife. She had smiled her venomous smile and claimed Pamela's marriage was founded on devotion, boasting of a husband who had adored her to her final breath.
Lies, Lady Catherine thought, her spine rigid against the September breeze. Delusions designed to cover her theft. She stole Anthony from me. She, not her daughter. Pamela did not have enough wit to tie her stays.
Augusta believed she had won. She had spent forty years relishing her victory, leaving Lady Catherine to a marriage of necessity to Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whilst her own daughter claimed the prize.
But the chessboard had suddenly, miraculously, reset itself.
Colonel Edmund Lindon was unwed. He was wealthy enough to be comfortable. And, most importantly, he was Augusta's beloved grandson.
Lady Catherine turned back towards the imposing facade of Pemberley.
Inside that house sat Lydia Bennet. The girl who had arrived at Rosings as a giggling, unformed creature in a disastrous yellow dress, but who had been rigorously polished under Lady Catherine's own iron will.
Lydia had learned the art of polite cruelty.
She had mastered the devastating power of a well-deployed silence.
She had been forged into a magnificent, ruthless snare, primed and ready to catch a military man.
A slow smile spread across Lady Catherine's face, warming her far more effectively than the autumn sun.
Augusta Prestwick thought the war was over. She had no idea that Lady Catherine had just been handed the perfect weapon to steal her grandson. It was time to return to London for the Season.
It was time to unleash a Bennet.
Augusta would never know what hit her.
The End