Chapter Thirteen
L ady Anne thought the dinner would never end. While Lady Catherine had made certain that Miss Bennet and Fitzwilliam were seated far apart, she had made the mistake of seating Richard beside Miss Bennet.
And Miss Bennet was scintillating; there could be no other word for it. Her conversation with Richard, while not loud, could nonetheless be heard by the other diners. She was witty, she was clever, she was well-mannered, she was well-informed. Richard was having a most enjoyable evening; doubtless far more enjoyable than the other diners.
At the other end of the table, her son was forced to endure the company and conversation of Anne de Bourgh. To his credit, he did his best. “Anne, may I offer you more chicken?”
“No.”
“Perhaps more wine? Your glass is empty.”
“I do not care for this vintage.”
“Were you much occupied today?”
“No.”
“Have you plans for tomorrow? The weather should be fine and the roses are blooming.”
“I do not care to go out of doors.”
Heavens, the girl had no conversation at all! Lady Anne looked imploringly at her sister, but Lady Catherine was paying no attention to her daughter’s interactions with her supposed intended. Instead, she was lecturing her parson – and what a tiresome creature he was! – about alms that had been given to one of the parishioners.
Lady Anne saw that plain-faced Mrs. Collins did not know where to look. She threw worried glances at Miss Bennet and then more such glances at Anne de Bourgh; she attended Lady Catherine when she heard her own name spoken; then her sister, Maria, had a question, so her attention went to her.
All in all, it was excruciating.
When Lady Catherine finally rose to lead the ladies out of the dining room, Mr. Darcy threw his mother a look that could not be mistaken. He was furious.
***
Later that night, after the guests were farewelled, Mr. Darcy came to his mother’s room. Wasting no time, he said. “Surely you can see that it is impossible for me to marry Anne. Had she been given a better upbringing –“
“Her health has always been poor, Fitzwilliam; she cannot be blamed for that.”
“Poor? Indeed it is, as she cannot walk more than fifty yards without sitting down, and a twenty-minute carriage ride necessitates a nap. But worse than that, she cannot carry on a decent dinner conversation, and I doubt she can add two numbers together, let alone manage accounts! Tell me, Mother, truthfully, why in the world would you have me marry her?”
Lady Anne looked away. Then she resorted to pulling her handkerchief from her sleeve.
Mr. Darcy spoke quickly, putting his hand on his mother’s arm. “Mother, it is enough. Father died three years ago. You can no longer pull a handkerchief from your sleeve to force me to obey your desires, though it has certainly been an effective tactic in the past. Do you truly want me to be miserable for the rest of my life, with a wife for whom I can feel no affection? Do you truly want Pemberley to be without a competent mistress when you –“ And he stopped.
“When I die? Is that what you were about to say?” Lady Anne’s voice was strained.
Mr. Darcy hesitated. Then he plunged ahead. “Father knew full well that he would someday die. His affairs were always in order, his will up-to-date. When I was quite young, he began training me to replace him, taking me to visit the tenants, explaining his reasoning when decisions were made. It is because of his foresight, his willingness to contemplate his own death, that Pemberley continues to be profitable, continues to be a good place for all of us to live. Are you unable to do the same? You, who have been devoted to the well-being of Pemberley these many years? You, who are beloved of our tenants because you always tend to their best interests? You, who make certain the servants are well-cared for, and receive pensions when they can no longer work?”
Lady Anne could not answer, for now the tears were real and the handkerchief well-employed.
Her son continued, relentless. “Is not ensuring the future of the estate one of the duties of the mistress of Pemberley, even to making certain that the woman who will take your place is qualified to do so?”
At these words, she uttered a cry, and Mr. Darcy stopped. He quickly reviewed his words and correctly fastened on the very heart of the matter. “Ah. You do not wish anyone to take your place. Is that what this is all about?”
She raised wet eyes to his. “Fitzwilliam, can you not understand? Your father was the master of Pemberley till the day he died; the same will be true of you. But we wives, our fates are very different. Our power, our very definition of who we are, stems from our husbands. The minute you marry, I am no longer mistress of Pemberley. I cannot bear the prospect. It haunts me, it terrifies me!”
“I begin to understand you at last. If I marry Anne de Bourgh, then you will continue to be mistress of Pemberley, in fact if not in title.”
Her bowed head was her only response, and the only response her son required.
“Mother, I will love and honour you for the rest of your life. But I cannot allow your fear of losing your position dictate my choice of wife; and, if I am honest, I am struggling with the fact that you were willing to force me to marry Anne de Bourgh for your own selfish ends.” He gave her a curt bow and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Lady Anne stared at the closed door for a long time, as tears continued to pour down her cheeks.