Chapter 5 #6
Bending slightly toward Colonel Fitzwilliam, the footman addressed him, murmuring, “If you please, Colonel, her ladyship requests your presence in the little parlour.”
The Colonel’s brow lifted slightly, but he gave no sign of resistance. “Thank you,” he said, nodding once. “I will attend immediately.” He turned to Mr. Darcy. “It seems I am summoned. Aunt always does such things at the most inconvenient moments.”
Darcy’s gaze flicked toward the far corridor that led to Lady Catherine’s private rooms. “I doubt it is for refreshment or praise, Cousin. No doubt you are summoned for something terribly important. Best of luck.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam allowed himself a dry smile. “Luck is uncertain. Then I had best arm myself accordingly.” With a brief bow to the others, he followed the footman.
The corridor was dimmer than the ballroom, lined with ancestral portraits and heavy with the scent of lavender polish and age.
The hush deepened as they approached the little parlour, its double doors already ajar.
The footman announced him, and the Colonel stepped in, noting at once the company: Lady Catherine, seated with unmistakable command, and beside her a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman whose dignified bearing could only belong to someone of high rank.
Lady Catherine’s expression bore a sheen of expectation. “Ah, Colonel,” she said with precision. “You are punctual. Allow me to present Mr. Archibald Fletcher, Marquess of Ashford.”
The Colonel bowed deeply. “My lord.”
The Marquess stood to return the gesture. He was a man of not quite sixty, with an aquiline nose and eyes that, though hooded by age, held alert intelligence. “Colonel Fitzwilliam. A pleasure.”
“I understand,” Lady Catherine continued without delay, “that you are unacquainted with one another, though that is soon to be remedied. His lordship and I have been in most productive conversation concerning the future.”
The Marquess sat again, though his manner suggested a mind still preoccupied by the officer’s arrival.
Fitzwilliam lowered himself into the seat indicated. “Indeed?” he said, cautious but composed. “May I inquire what aspect of the future we are addressing?”
“The most essential one, my dear nephew,” Lady Catherine said crisply. “Your marriage.”
“Oh, my marriage. I didn’t foresee that.” The Colonel turned slightly to face the Marquess. “My lord, I must beg your indulgence. This is unexpected.”
“Of course,” said Lord Ashford, his tone milder than Lady Catherine’s.
“Let me assure you that no decisions have been made, nor shall be made without your full acceptance. My daughter Mary is five-and-twenty—a sensible age, and quite free to make her own judgment. Her ladyship proposed the conversation, and I agreed to explore it.”
“Miss Fletcher is,” Lady Catherine cut in, “a young woman of the highest breeding, excellent education, gentle manner, and—most importantly—modest expectations. She would suit you admirably.”
The Colonel blinked, then cleared his throat lightly. “That is generous praise. I cannot but feel I ought to meet the lady before forming any notions of compatibility.”
Lord Ashford nodded in approval. “And so you shall, sir. We were both invited, so she is here at Rosings with me. If you are willing to meet her informally, we may arrange it at once.”
“That would be best,” Fitzwilliam said, still surprised by how swiftly events were proceeding. “I do not speak out of disregard, but only out of fairness to her. The lady’s opinion of me should count too.”
Lady Catherine gave a stiff nod. “Very well. Her father shall fetch her. I expect you will not find fault with what you see.”
The Marquess rose with dignity. “I shall return shortly, your ladyship.”
As he left, Lady Catherine leaned toward her nephew.
“Colonel, do not make this difficult. You have no entailment, no lands of your own. This match would settle you in every way. I have chosen carefully—and I cannot believe I had not thought of them sooner. Her father is a widower; her mother’s death marked the young lady deeply, and she refused every offer for years.
This marriage would provide you with a fine mansion, a generous dowry, land, servants—and a sweet-tempered wife. Trust me.”
“I do not dispute the advantages,” he said evenly. “But I have never been one to be led blindfolded into any arrangement.”
“You are three-and-thirty,” she snapped. “Do you imagine you have endless time to consider your options?”
“I imagine,” he replied mildly, “that one conversation will not bind me for life.”
Before she could press the matter, the door opened again, and the Marquess returned—this time with a young lady on his arm.
Miss Fletcher entered with a grace that needed no embellishment.
She wore a soft green gown that flattered her pale complexion, and her chestnut hair was pinned in a style both elegant and unassuming.
She was not tall, nor possessed of showy beauty, but her presence was calm, collected, and quietly lovely.
She curtsied to Lady Catherine, then to the Colonel. Her gaze did not linger long on their hostess. Instead, she looked first to her father for encouragement, her eyes softening with quiet gratitude at his reassuring nod, and then to Fitzwilliam, who stood to greet her with courteous warmth.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” the Marquess said, his voice carrying paternal pride as he presented his daughter, “may I present my daughter, Miss Mary Fletcher.”
She dipped once more, her curtsy graceful and composed. “Colonel,” she said softly, her voice gentle yet clear as she lifted her eyes to meet his with a subtle spark of interest.
He bowed with easy gallantry. “Miss Fletcher. I trust you are enjoying your stay at Rosings?”
“I am, thank you, sir,” she replied, offering a gentle smile that lit her features with quiet charm, drawing a corresponding warmth in his expression. “The grounds are beautifully kept. I spent an hour in the gardens with my father.”
“I am fond of them myself,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, his tone light yet sincere as he regarded her with appreciative interest. “They offer the only serenity her ladyship has not fully regimented.”
Her eyes widened slightly, then sparkled with a flicker of amusement that betrayed her quick wit, a soft laugh escaping her as she inclined her head in playful acknowledgment.
“Then we must be grateful for her restraint,” she replied, her voice carrying a note of gentle mischief that elicited a faint, approving smile from the Colonel.
Lady Catherine sniffed, her posture straightening with imperious dignity. “I consider all parts of my estate a reflection of its proper order,” she declared, her tone conveying mild disapproval though her gaze rested upon the pair with calculating approval.
Miss Fletcher only inclined her head politely, her composure unbroken though a subtle twinkle in her eyes suggested shared amusement with the Colonel, but her next glance was clearly meant for Fitzwilliam.
Lady Catherine pressed her hands together, her expression reflecting satisfied determination. “Now that introductions are made, I am confident we may consider further acquaintance suitable.”
“Provided,” the Marquess said gently, his voice tempered with paternal care as he smiled at his daughter, his eyes twinkling with affectionate pride, “that the lady herself agrees.”
Mary looked up at her father, visibly relaxed by his tone, her posture easing as she returned his smile with quiet gratitude.
“I should be happy to speak with Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she said softly, her voice carrying a note of sincere interest. “He is a fine-looking man and seems a kind-hearted gentleman.”
Fitzwilliam smiled, his expression warming with genuine pleasure as he bowed slightly in acknowledgment.
“Miss Fletcher has an acute sense of humour—a rare quality, and a dangerous one when turned so generously in my favour,” he replied, his tone light with admiration that drew a soft blush to her cheeks.
The Marquess laughed heartily, a strong, healthy, Homeric laugh that filled the room with robust good humour. “No pair could have been more suitable than these two,” he declared, his eyes twinkling as he regarded them with evident satisfaction. “Where have you kept him, Lady Catherine?”
“As my brother’s second son, he chose a career in arms,” Lady Catherine replied, her voice carrying a note of proud justification. “Now that the war is over, it is time for him to make his own way—at home, with a woman who will understand him, support him, and respect him.”
“Let us hope she can also keep him in check,” the Marquess said, nodding with a large smile, his eyes twinkling with playful insight. “Soldiers are not known for yielding once their minds are made up.”
“Then we are well-matched indeed,” Mary replied softly, her voice gentle yet firm as she met the Colonel’s gaze with quiet confidence, a subtle smile curving her lips that elicited a corresponding warmth in his expression. “For I, too, am not easily led.”
“In that case, if your father consents,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, his tone sincere and hopeful as he inclined his head toward her with respectful admiration, “I shall consider myself fortunate, Miss Fletcher.”
“My father finds it very difficult to refuse me,” she replied, her eyes sparkling with gentle mischief as she glanced at the Marquess, drawing a hearty chuckle from him, “so you will have to negotiate with me, Colonel.”
The Marquess shook his head, then bowed it as if to admit defeat in the face of a truth, his laughter lingering with fond indulgence as he regarded the pair with evident approval.
Lady Catherine fretted in her chair with barely concealed triumph, her fingers tapping once upon the armrest before stilling themselves. The Marquess, by contrast, remained unreadable, his expression composed and watchful.
“Well?” her ladyship demanded.