Chapter 46
Chapter Forty-Six
Lady Catherine paused just inside the room, clearly expecting Darcy to advance.
He did so, bowing and drawing out a chair for her before taking one himself.
She glanced at the upholstery as if determining whether she could approve of it, then sat, her gloves arranged with deliberate care upon her lap.
“I trust,” she said, adjusting her shawl, “that you felt last night’s disturbance as plainly as the rest of London, and that you will not pretend it was the sort of inconvenience one may smooth over with polite disbelief.”
“I would not,” Darcy replied. “Nor do I think alarm useful where facts are not yet established.”
“Facts,” she repeated, with a faint, knowing lift of her brows. “Just so. And what facts have you established, Darcy?”
Darcy met her gaze evenly. “Only that it was felt widely, and unevenly. Reports are still fragmentary.”
“Unevenly,” Lady Catherine said, leaning back a fraction. “That is precisely what interests me. One hears of some houses scarcely noticing it, while others were quite shaken. Cracks in walls. Loosened stone. Chimneys crumbled. Have you heard anything of that sort?”
“I have heard rumours only,” Darcy said. “Nothing confirmed.”
“Nothing confirmed,” she echoed. “And yet you would hardly deny that certain estates are more vulnerable than others. Older land. Improvident drainage. Houses placed for convenience rather than judgment.”
Darcy inclined his head. “That is hardly unusual after such a quake. I would deny only that conjecture is useful before particulars are known.”
Lady Catherine’s fingers tightened on her reticule.
“Conjecture becomes unavoidable when one hears that some houses were scarcely disturbed, while others were decidedly shaken. You have friends whose interests lie north of London, Fitzwilliam. Surely you have heard something of how matters stand there.”
“I have heard that the shock was felt more strongly in Hertfordshire,” Darcy said after a moment. “Nothing beyond that.”
“And nothing of consequence?” she pressed. “No reports of damage? No cause for removal or repair?”
“Nothing has reached me to that effect,” he replied. Then, as her gaze sharpened and lingered, he added, “If you are concerned for Netherfield in particular, I have had no intelligence to suggest it suffered more than any other.”
Lady Catherine’s brows rose, not in surprise but in pointed interest. “Netherfield,” she repeated. “How curious that you should name it.”
Darcy felt the faint rush of blood that always accompanied a misstep. “It is the largest estate recently occupied in that quarter, and therefore the likeliest to attract comment. Nothing more.”
“And yet you spoke of it as though such comments had already reached you.” She frowned and regarded him more narrowly. “Reports from Hertfordshire cannot yet have made their way through the usual channels. Why would you have such early notice of properties not directly connected to you?”
Darcy did not answer at once.
Lady Catherine inclined her head slightly. “Unless, of course, you were informed directly.”
“I have received no formal report.”
“But you have received information.” She studied him a moment longer. “By express, I presume. One does not speak of ‘intelligence’ otherwise.”
Darcy’s jaw set. “Mr Bingley, who is the current master of Netherfield, was in London.”
“Ah.” The sound was quiet, satisfied. “Then he was here when the disturbance occurred.”
“He was.”
“And therefore learned of his property’s condition without delay.” She paused. “I should not have thought Netherfield’s affairs would be your immediate concern unless its master were already under your roof.”
Darcy’s silence answered her.
Lady Catherine nodded once. “Staying with you, then.”
“For a short time,” Darcy said. “On his way elsewhere.”
“With company, I imagine. One does not decamp to the seaside alone.”
Darcy’s expression did not change. “That is Mr Bingley’s concern.”
“Indeed,” Lady Catherine said. “But when ladies are involved, concerns have a way of overlapping.” She considered him with renewed interest. “Which ladies, Darcy?”
He did not reply.
She waited, unperturbed, as though silence were merely another datum.
When he did not oblige her, she inclined her head again.
“Very well. The names are not essential. My clergyman writes that he is even now travelling toward Hertfordshire for his wedding. He was disappointed to learn—some days ago—that his bride’s entire family would not be present. An unusual circumstance.”
Darcy frowned but made no comment.
“Families do not absent themselves from such a happy occasion without cause,” Lady Catherine continued. “Illness, perhaps. Or some private necessity requiring removal. It is unfortunate when such necessities coincide with… disturbances.”
Darcy’s fingers tightened on the arm of the chair. “You did not come to interview me about acquaintances in Hertfordshire.”
“No,” she said crisply. “I came to advise you on inheritance.”
“Oh?”
She rose then, crossing the room with purpose. Darcy was obliged, then, to stand as well, so he wandered closer to the mantel to wait on what she had to say.
“There has been, for some time,” Lady Catherine said, “a pattern of imprudence in your conduct. You have permitted intimacy where distance would have preserved order, and indulged familiarity where discernment was required.”
Darcy met her gaze. “If you refer to my friendship with Mr Bingley—”
“I do,” she said at once. “And I refer to it as precisely the sort of attachment that leads gentlemen astray when it is allowed to deepen beyond its proper bounds. You have encouraged a degree of closeness entirely unsuitable to the disparity of your situations, and in doing so have ceded your judgment to a man ill-equipped to guide it.”
“Mr Bingley is neither ill-intentioned nor incapable.”
“He is a tradesman. A pleasant one, no doubt, but that does not recommend him as a counsellor in matters of consequence. Your father understood this. He approved your association with Mr Wickham precisely because such an arrangement preserved proportion—affection without influence, companionship without presumption.”
Darcy’s expression hardened. “Mr Wickham is not a standard by which I judge my companions.”
“And yet,” she said, “he was at least of the proper sphere. You have instead allowed yourself to be led into false assumptions, risky connections, and—inevitably—unfortunate entanglements. Such entanglements,” she continued with a scowl, “are rarely singular. They radiate outward. One imprudent intimacy begets another.”
Her eyes fixed on him with renewed sharpness.
“My parson, Mr Collins, has advised me with some concern. He is soon to be allied with the Bennet family and has observed what others have chosen to excuse. Repeated indisposition in one daughter. Sudden collapses. Complaints of nerves and headache advanced with remarkable convenience. Conduct that invites attention while professing innocence of design.”
Darcy felt the shift at once, like a draught across the skin. “You speak of Miss Bennet?”
“I speak of the entire family.” Lady Catherine continued prowling across the room, her skirts lashing at her ankles as her pace increased. “And particularly of one young woman whose habits would be unremarkable were they not so persistently disruptive.”
Darcy crossed his arms. “You will not speak of her in that manner.”
Lady Catherine rounded on him. “I speak of her as a woman whose conduct has been remarked upon. Her cousin was at pains to correct her want of modesty when he perceived it. He was not thanked for the effort.”
“You mistake illness for artifice,” Darcy said. “And generosity for license.”
“I mistake nothing. I observe patterns. A young woman falls ill with remarkable frequency. She recovers with equal suddenness. She exerts an influence that unsettles households and distracts gentlemen from their obligations. You yourself were altered, Darcy.”
She gestured to him, openly now. “It is said you were pale when at Netherfield. Drawn. I should say overtaxed. One might suppose such proximity ill-advised.”
Darcy’s voice hardened. “Your suppositions are unwelcome.”
“And yet, they are necessary! If a young woman is the cause of disorder—social or otherwise—then propriety demands she be removed from the centre of it. Either by distance, or by settlement. I am told she has now been taken away.”
“Yes,” Darcy said. “Her father thought it best.”
Lady Catherine regarded him with a look of measured approval. “Sensibly done, then. It is always preferable when families act before matters are allowed to harden into impropriety.”
Darcy narrowed his eyes. “And you believe her removal resolves it?”
“I believe,” she replied, “that it removes the distraction.” She settled once more in her chair.
“You have allowed yourself to be misled by coincidence, Darcy. A young woman falls ill. You observe her with unmerited concern, unbefitting your connexion to her. Her condition alters, as illnesses often do, and you ascribe meaning where there is only fluctuation. Remove the object of attention, and the fancy dissolves.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “You reduce too much.”
“I restore proportion,” she returned. “And now that Miss Bennet is properly out of the way, you are free to attend to what actually requires settlement.”
She paused, letting the implication take shape before she spoke it aloud. “There is a reason such matters have always been resolved within established lines. Not by indulging impressions, but by placing responsibility where it belongs.”
“In Kent,” Darcy said, before he could stop himself.
Lady Catherine inclined her head, satisfied rather than triumphant. “Precisely. Where order has been maintained, where precedent is preserved, and where there is no temptation to mistake novelty for significance.”
Darcy shook his head. “You reference one source—only one, and it is likely suspect—to assert such a claim.”