The Empty Chair
Dinner was announced by a servant whose gravity suggested the meal itself might be examined for deportment.
The dining room at Rosings carried the same command as the rest of the house: high ceilings, polished silver, candles enough to defy the evening, and a table arranged with no concern for intimacy.
Lady Catherine took her place at the head, where she directed the seating herself. “Sir William, on my right. Miss Bennet, there. Mr Collins, beside Clara. Miss Lucas, by Mrs Collins.”
No plate had been laid there. No glass waited. Yet the chair remained, drawn back a little from the table.
“That is my daughter’s chair,” she said. “It remains where it belongs.”
No one responded as they took their seats and even Mr Collins appeared to understand that praise was unsafe.
Lady Catherine gave a small motion of her hand. At once the servants began their work: soup set down, wine poured, plates placed and removed with a silence so practised it seemed part of the furniture.
Only when the first course had settled before them did Lady Catherine speak again.
“Anne dislikes unnecessary changes. She has her own household now, and manages it with great confidence, though not always with the economy I should recommend.”
Miss Stourton’s eyes remained fixed on her plate.
“Children make economy difficult,” Charlotte said quietly.
“They make everything difficult,” Lady Catherine replied. “That is no argument against doing it properly.”
Then she looked at Maria. “Miss Lucas, you are very pale.”
Maria’s spoon stopped halfway to her mouth. “I am quite well, your ladyship.”
“No. You are frightened. There is a difference, and one should not confuse the two.” Lady Catherine regarded her for another moment. “Sit straight. Breathe before answering. No one sensible expects brilliance at dinner.”
Maria blinked. “No, your ladyship.”
“Do you read?”
“Yes, your ladyship.”
“What?”
Maria looked helplessly at Charlotte.
Lady Catherine tapped one finger against the table. “I asked you, Miss Lucas. Mrs Collins may answer for Mr Collins, since she married him. She need not answer for you.”
Maria swallowed. “Sermons, your ladyship. Some poetry. A history of Rome, though I have not finished it.”
“Why not?”
“It became very full of names.”
Miss Stourton’s mouth twitched.
Lady Catherine noticed. “That is a failing of Rome, not Miss Lucas. History is too often written by men who mistake a list for instruction.”
Maria looked up, startled into something like hope.
“Finish the book,” Lady Catherine said. “Then decide whether it deserved you.”
“Yes, your ladyship,” Maria said, and sounded almost pleased.
Elizabeth’s estimation of Lady Catherine altered again, against her will.
Lady Catherine saw that too. “You approve, Miss Bennet?”
“Of finishing books? Generally.”
“Of young women being required to defend themselves.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “When the requirement is fair.”
“And when it is not?”
“Then defending oneself becomes more necessary.”
For the first time, Miss Stourton looked directly at her.
Lady Catherine took a sip of wine. “You answer as though you have had practice.”
Elizabeth thought of winter walks, locked doors, and questions no one had asked plainly.
“Some, your ladyship.”
“Hm.” Lady Catherine set down her glass. “Practice may harden a young woman, or improve her. It depends on the material.”
Mr Collins looked ready to declare Elizabeth excellent material and thought better of it.
“And what has your practice improved, Miss Bennet?”
“My patience, I hope.”
“Hope is no proof.”
“No, your ladyship. It is only what one says when proof would be inconvenient at dinner.”
Miss Stourton’s eyes dropped at once. Lady Catherine looked at Elizabeth for a long moment.
“Mrs Collins,” she said, “your friend is less dull than I was led to expect.”
Charlotte accepted this with composure. “Lizzy has rarely been accused of dullness, your ladyship.”
“Then people have occasionally shown judgement.” Lady Catherine turned her attention to the soup, as though praise, once dispensed, required no further ceremony. Mr Collins looked relieved enough to weep. After a moment, Lady Catherine glanced again towards the empty chair.
“Anne would have liked you,” she said, to Maria rather than Elizabeth. “She always preferred quiet girls. They gave her less to answer.”
Miss Stourton’s fork stilled. Elizabeth looked down at her plate.
“She is not quiet now,” Lady Catherine added.
There was something almost fierce in it.
“Marriage improved her spirits?” Elizabeth asked.
“Leaving Rosings improved them.” Lady Catherine’s eyes moved to the empty chair. “I have no patience with false delicacy, Miss Bennet. If a daughter thrives better in her own house, a mother may dislike the discovery and still have sense enough to admit it.”
Miss Stourton looked up, startled.
Lady Catherine noticed. “Attend, Clara. That was an observation, not a licence for rebellion before breakfast.”
Miss Stourton coloured and lowered her eyes again.
Elizabeth, sensing the subject might close if left too long, said, “Does Lady Selbourne live far from Rosings?”
“Far enough to prevent daily interference,” Lady Catherine replied. “Near enough that I may still be accused of it.”
“And her children?”
Lady Catherine’s hand stilled beside her glass.
“Lively,” she said. “Excessively so. Anne insists this is a virtue.”
“It may be one,” Elizabeth said, “if properly directed.”
Lady Catherine gave her a sharp look. “You sound like Anne. She has taken to defending noise as evidence of health.”
“That is a difficult argument to answer.”
“It is an irritating one.” Yet the irritation had gone from her voice. “The eldest climbs everything. The younger has discovered that screaming brings servants at speed. Anne writes of these triumphs as though I ought to rejoice.”
“Do you?”
Lady Catherine looked at the empty chair.
“I am learning.”
“Anthony is four,” Lady Catherine said, correcting a point no one had made. “Lewis is not yet three, and named for my late husband, which obliges him, one hopes, to become less determined to climb furniture. There is a daughter now.”
“Catherine. Born in February. Anne writes that she is small, loud, and impossible to advise.”
Elizabeth understood then why complaint sat so uneasily on Lady Catherine’s tongue.
Anthony for Lord Selbourne’s family, perhaps. Lewis for the husband Rosings still mourned in its stone and silence. Catherine for the woman who sat at the head of the table pretending not to be moved by it.
“Your daughter must wish you to know them,” Elizabeth said.
Lady Catherine’s eyes returned to her.
“My daughter wishes many things,” she said. “She has become inconveniently fond of doing so aloud.”
“The boys are to come at Easter,” Lady Catherine added.
Miss Stourton looked up. “Both of them?”
“Both of the boys. Anne says Catherine is too young to stay without her, and that she will not have the nursery turned upside down for my convenience. She writes this as though I am unreasonable.”
“Will Lady Selbourne come with them?” Charlotte asked.
“For a few days. Sir Alexander joins us for Easter, and then they return home with the baby. The boys remain here until he fetches them.” Lady Catherine’s mouth tightened. “Rosings will be loud.”
She said it as a complaint, though her eyes had moved again to Anne’s empty chair.
“Anthony is cautious,” Miss Stourton said softly. “Lewis is not.”
Lady Catherine looked at her. “Lewis is impulse in shoes.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Miss Stourton said.
“And Anthony watches him because Anne tells him he is the elder brother. A foolish burden to place on a child. I told her so.”
Elizabeth thought Lady Catherine objected because she understood the burden too well.
Charlotte, evidently taking pity on Miss Stourton, said, “Your sister is in town, I think. Lady Catherine mentioned her last week.”
Miss Stourton looked relieved to be given an easier subject. “Elinor is in town for the Season. Mama says it requires gowns, calls, nerves, and a patience she does not possess in sufficient quantity.”
Lady Catherine’s glance sharpened. “Your mother possesses patience when she remembers it is useful. What she lacks is suspicion.”
“Suspicion, ma’am?”
“In young women, it is often called prudence after the damage is done.”
Miss Stourton looked uncertain whether agreement would be safer than silence.
Lady Catherine spared her the decision. “A girl who suspects nothing is praised as amiable until someone profits by it. Then everyone wonders why she was never taught to see clearly.”
Elizabeth’s hand stilled beside her glass. Charlotte looked down.
“Georgiana Darcy was a gentle child,” Lady Catherine said. “Too gentle. That was called virtue by people who should have known better.”
Mr Collins forgot to swallow.
Elizabeth raised her eyes. “And now, your ladyship?”
Lady Catherine’s mouth tightened. “Now she has learned that obedience may be dangerous when the person commanding it is unworthy.”
Miss Stourton’s colour rose.
“Remember that, Clara.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mr Collins made a faint sound of distress. “Surely, your ladyship, obedience to proper authority must always be considered a most admirable quality in the female character.”
“Proper authority,” Lady Catherine said, “you have hidden the whole question in the word proper, Mr Collins.”
Charlotte coughed into her napkin. Elizabeth looked down, lest her face betray her.
“And Darcy?” Lady Catherine said.
Elizabeth’s pulse gave one hard beat. “Mr Darcy?”
“My nephew. You have met him. You have opinions. I dislike wasted acquaintance.”
“I do not think Mr Darcy is easily understood.”
“That is not an opinion. It is an evasion.”
Elizabeth looked at her. “Then I think he has been required to seem colder than he is.”
Lady Catherine took up her glass. “Hm. You have been paying attention.”
Elizabeth could not tell whether the words were accusation or approval. Lady Catherine gave her no assistance. She returned to her dinner, leaving Elizabeth with the uncomfortable certainty that Rosings Park noticed far more than it chose to say.