Epilogue
Lady Catherine de Bourgh did not knock on doors. She considered knocking to be an admission that one was not expected, and Lady Catherine was always expected, especially on her own estate.
She marched up the path, her cane tapping a rhythmic warning on the stones. Behind her, Anne trailed in her wake, wrapped in a shawl despite the mild April sun, looking as she always did: like a willow tree that had given up on photosynthesis.
The door to the Parsonage opened before Lady Catherine could reach for the handle. Mr Collins stood there, bowing so low his nose nearly brushed his shoe buckles.
"Lady Catherine! Your Ladyship honours us! We were just preparing for church, but your presence is a benediction upon this humble roof! A benediction, I say!"
"Stop bowing, Mr Collins," Lady Catherine commanded, sweeping past him into the small hallway. "You look like a wind-up toy. Where are they?"
"They, your Ladyship?"
"The guests. Mrs Collins told me her sister and the youngest Bennet girl arrived yesterday. I wish to inspect them."
She did not wait for an answer. She navigated the narrow corridor—really, the ceilings here were oppressively low—and entered the sitting room.
It was a scene of domestic disorder that made Lady Catherine's left eye twitch.
Mrs Collins—sensible Charlotte—was trying to pin a ribbon onto her sister Maria's bonnet. Maria looked nervous, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for an exit.
And in the centre of the room, laughing loudly at something she had just said, was Lydia Bennet.
She was the youngest of the Bennet brood, and it showed. She was tall, like her sister Jane, and possessed the same dark eyes as Elizabeth, but there the resemblance ended. Where Elizabeth was sharp intellect and defiance, this girl was pure, unadulterated noise.
She was wearing a gown that was too bright for the morning, her hair was a riot of curls that defied gravity and good taste, and she was currently spinning around to show off the hem of her skirt.
"And then the Captain said—oh!" Lydia stopped spinning as she spotted the imposing figure in the doorway.
"Lady Catherine," Charlotte said smoothly, curtsying. "May I present my guests. Miss Maria Lucas, my sister, and Miss Lydia Bennet."
Lydia bobbed a curtsy that was more of a wobble. "Lord! You're her! Lizzy told me you were scary, but you're not even tall."
Mr Collins made a sound like a dying bagpipe. "Miss Lydia! Apologize to her Ladyship immediately! The condescension she shows in even entering this room—"
"Quiet, Collins," Lady Catherine snapped. She raised her eyes and fixed Lydia Bennet with a stare that had reduced grown men to tears.
She studied the girl. She saw the untamed energy and the lack of polish. She saw the hunger for attention. But she also saw the sister of Mrs Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Since the wedding in February—an event Lady Catherine had attended regally—she had come to a grudging acceptance of the situation. Elizabeth Bennet had spirit. She had managed to marry the most eligible man in Derbyshire without a penny to her name. That required talent.
And this girl... this loud, unformed creature... was family.
"You are staying here?" Lady Catherine demanded, gesturing to the cramped sitting room with her cane. "In this shoebox?"
"It is a bit small," Lydia admitted cheerfully. "Maria and I have to share a bed, and she kicks."
"Unacceptable," Lady Catherine declared. "You are the sister of the Mistress of Pemberley. You are the sister of the Viscountess of Keathley. You cannot be seen sleeping in a parsonage like a surplus curate."
"But—" Mr Collins stammered.
"Mrs Collins," Lady Catherine turned to Charlotte. "Pack her bags. Your sister can stay here. She looks like she enjoys small spaces. But Miss Bennet is coming to Rosings."
Lydia's eyes went wide. "Rosings? The big house? With the golden chimneys?"
"The chimneys are not gold, they are brick, but yes. You are family. Distant, noisy, ill-mannered family, but family nonetheless. And I will not have it said that Lady Catherine de Bourgh left her niece's sister to languish in a cottage."
"Oh, famous!" Lydia clapped her hands. "Do you have officers there? Or balls?"
"We have standards," Lady Catherine said ominously. "And starting today, you are going to learn them. Anne, order the footman to fetch Miss Bennet's trunk."
Anne blinked, looking from her mother to the wild creature in the yellow dress. A small spark of interest lit her pale eyes.
"Yes, Mother," Anne said. "This should be entertaining."
The transfer of Lydia Bennet from the humble parsonage to the grand estate of Rosings Park was accomplished with the speed of a military coup.
Within the hour, Lydia was installed in the Blue Bedroom, which was pink, but Lady Catherine refused to change the name.
Her trunk was unpacked by a maid who looked scandalized by the state of her unmentionables, and Lydia herself was unleashed upon the drawing room.
It was Easter afternoon. The service was over—Mr Collins had preached for forty minutes on the subject of humility, a virtue Lady Catherine valued in others but saw no need to practice herself—and now they were "resting."
Resting, for Lydia Bennet, apparently involved throwing herself onto the furniture as if she were a rag doll tossed by a toddler.
Lady Catherine sat in her high-backed chair, sipping perfectly brewed tea. She watched as Lydia crossed the room, looked at a priceless vase, poked a fire screen, and then flung herself onto the gilded settee with a groan of boredom.
"It is very quiet here," Lydia complained, kicking her heels against the silk upholstery. "At Longbourn, Papa is usually making cutting remarks, or Mama is shouting, or Kitty is crying. Here, it is just ticking clocks."
"That is the sound of civilization," Lady Catherine informed her. "And remove your feet from the silk. That fabric was imported from Lyons before the war. It costs more than your father's annual income."
Lydia dropped her feet, but she slumped lower, her spine forming a perfect curve of indolence. She pulled a letter from her pocket—a crumpled, well-read missive.
"Lizzy writes that she is having a ball at Pemberley for Easter," Lydia sighed, waving the paper. "She says Georgiana is playing a concerto and there will be three hundred people. And Jane says Robert took her to the theatre four times last week. It isn't fair. They are having all the fun."
"They are married women," Lady Catherine said. "They have duties."
"They have husbands," Lydia corrected. "Rich, handsome husbands. That is what I want. I want to catch a gentleman of Darcy's calibre. Or at least an officer. A Colonel, maybe. Like cousin Richard, but with more money and less laughing at me."
Lady Catherine set her teacup down. She looked at the girl. She saw the raw ambition. She was vulgar, certainly. But she was also practical.
"You wish to catch a husband?" Lady Catherine asked.
"Of course! I am sixteen. I am practically a spinster. Mama says if I don't marry by next year, I shall have to wear caps and teach Sunday school." Lydia shuddered. "I want a carriage. And diamonds. And a husband who lets me go to Brighton."
"And you think you will achieve this by sprawling on a sofa like a sack of potatoes?"
Lydia blinked. "I am not a sack of potatoes. I am resting."
"You look like a sack of potatoes. A sack of potatoes in a yellow dress that is too tight in the bust." Lady Catherine stood up. She walked over to the settee and poked Lydia's shoulder with her cane. "Sit up."
"Ouch!" Lydia sat up, rubbing her arm. "You poked me!"
"I shall do worse than poke you if you do not listen. You want a Darcy? You want a Viscount?"
"Yes!"
"Well, you won't get one giggling like a milkmaid and slouching like a labourer.
My nephew married your sister because she stands up straight and speaks her mind with intelligence.
Lord Keathley married your other sister because she has the grace of a queen and the patience of a saint. What do you have?"
Lydia pouted. "I have... liveliness?"
"You have noise," Lady Catherine corrected. "Noise is not attractive to men of consequence. Noise attracts Ensigns with debts. Is that what you want? A husband who gambles away your dowry and leaves you in a rented room in Bath?"
Lydia's eyes widened. "No."
"Then you need to change. You are a Bennet. That means you have potential. Your sisters proved that. But you are currently raw material. Very raw."
Lady Catherine paced the rug. A plan was forming in her mind. She had lost the battle to control Darcy's marriage. She had lost the battle to control Anne's life (the girl was reading novels openly now). She needed a project. She needed something to mould.
And here, in a yellow dress, was the ultimate challenge.
"I shall teach you," Lady Catherine announced.
Lydia looked confused. "Teach me what?"
"Everything. How to walk. How to sit. How to speak without screeching. How to catch a man who isn't looking for a lightskirt."
From the corner of the room, where Anne was reading on a chaise, a quiet voice spoke up.
"You should listen to her," Anne said, turning a page. "She is scary, but she knows everyone in England."
Lydia looked at Anne. Then at Lady Catherine. Then at the letter from Elizabeth, describing the grandeur of Pemberley.
"Will it work?" Lydia asked. "Will I get a rich husband?"
"If you listen to me," Lady Catherine said, drawing herself up to her full height, "you will have your pick of them. I shall not fail, Miss Lydia. Now, stand up. We begin with the walk."
Lydia stood and started walking.
"Shoulders back!" Lady Catherine barked. "Chin up! You are walking into a ballroom, not stalking a badger in the undergrowth!"
Lydia groaned, but she pulled her shoulders back.
They went at this for an hour. The grand drawing room of Rosings had been transformed into a training ground.
"My feet hurt," Lydia complained.