4. Lady Catherine’s Soup Gone Cold #2
“You were soaked to the skin when you returned from your walk. Your greatcoat was ruined. Mrs. Jenkinson found mud on the stairs.” Lady Catherine fixed him with the gaze she reserved for extracting confessions—a technique she had perfected on servants, tenants, and archbishops with equal success.
“I do not ask what happened because I have formed my own conclusions, and I am satisfied that whatever foolishness presented itself has been overcome. You are a man of sense and family, and I trust that you will not allow yourself to be ensnared by creatures who mistake impertinence for wit and forward behavior for charm.”
Darcy kept his face still above his soup spoon.
Lady Catherine had not heard the whole of it.
She did not know about the letter he had thrust at Elizabeth on that rain-soaked path.
A proper lady, confronted with an improper letter from a man whose addresses she had refused, would have discarded it unread.
But Elizabeth Bennet was unpredictable, and so, he carefully guarded the hope that her curiosity would overwhelm propriety.
“I came to assure myself that you had recovered,” Lady Catherine continued, “and to remind you of certain arrangements that were discussed when you came of age. Arrangements that your mother and I established, and which I believe you have allowed to lapse with the distraction of recent months.”
She gestured toward her daughter with the soup spoon.
“As I was saying to Anne only this morning, I see no reason to delay the matter further. Anne is in excellent health.”
Anne, who had been dismantling a bread roll with the concentration of a woman who had learned to occupy her hands when her mother was disposing of her future, looked up.
She was small, pale, sharp-featured like her mother but without the volume, and her dark eyes held an expression that Darcy recognized over years of shared family dinners as exhaustion polished to a high gloss.
“I am in tolerable health, Mamma. Which is not the same thing as excellent.”
“Nonsense. Dr. Morrison says your constitution is much improved.”
“Dr. Morrison says whatever you instruct him to say. It is his principal talent.”
Lady Catherine absorbed this with the imperviousness of a fortress absorbing rain. “The point, Darcy, is that the arrangement between myself and your late mother—the dearest wish of two sisters—that their children should unite our two great families.”
“How curious.” Lady Sophia’s voice was mild, but timed for exactly this moment. “Forgive me, but your sister never mentioned such an arrangement to me. We were, as you know, intimate friends.”
The temperature at the table dropped to the snowline. Lady Catherine’s spoon paused, dripping onto the pristine tablecloth.
“My sister,” she said, with the careful emphasis of a woman selecting each word as one selects ammunition, “may not have discussed every aspect of our family’s arrangements with persons outside the family.”
“No, indeed. She was most discreet.” Lady Sophia accepted more wine from the footman without looking away from Lady Catherine. “But I feel quite certain that had she wished Fitzwilliam to marry Anne, she would have told me. She told me everything else.”
Lady Catherine flushed, and Anne dipped her bread roll into her soup.
“I do not believe,” she said, “that either my mother or my late aunt consulted me on the subject of my marriage. Nor, I suspect, was Fitzwilliam consulted. Mamma, I believe we are both old enough to form opinions of our own.”
Lady Catherine’s lips pressed thin. “Anne.”
“Mamma, I do not wish to play the pianoforte this evening. Nor do I wish to show Fitzwilliam my watercolors. He has seen them every visit since I was twelve, and he has never once expressed an opinion because he has none. I should rather we all acknowledged this than continue the performance.” She looked at Darcy. “Would you not agree, Cousin?”
“I—” The honest answer was yes, entirely . The polite answer was everything else. “Your dedication to art is admirable.”
“Perhaps, but the results are mediocre. I paint because Mamma counts it as a worthwhile activity, not because I possess any aptitude. Georgiana plays because she loves music. There is a difference, and I think tonight is an excellent night to stop pretending otherwise.”
Georgiana looked up at Anne, startled. One overlooked young woman recognizing another across a table crowded with the ambitions of louder people.
“I believe,” Lady Sophia said, “that your daughter, Lady Catherine, is giving you a message. Whether you choose to hear it is, of course, entirely your affair.”
Lady Catherine rose from the table. “I will not sit here and be lectured on my family by a woman who has never married, never raised a child, and presumes to speak for a sister she has no right to claim.”
“I presume nothing,” Lady Sophia retorted. “I merely listen. It is an underrated skill.”
Lady Catherine departed with Anne in tow, the dining room door trembling in her wake. Georgiana excused herself shortly afterward, leaving Darcy and Lady Sophia alone.
“Well,” she said. “That went rather better than I expected. Your aunt usually takes a full three courses to reach the part where she storms out. We have gained at least one remove.” She tilted her wine glass toward him.
“Your cousin Anne is more interesting than she appears. You might do well to remember that, Fitzwilliam. Interesting women have a way of appearing in one’s life without warning. ”
Her eyes glinted as if she found this observation amusing, and again images of Miss Elizabeth Bennet invaded without warning.
“Now. Shall we have the pudding?” Lady Sophia concluded. “I find scenes of this nature make me rather hungry.”