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AN ACQUIESCENCE

W hen Lady Catherine de Bourgh descended the stairs at Himdale House that evening to greet her nephew and his self-styled wife as they emerged from their carriage, she was not amused.

The impetuous young man had not heeded a word of her advice.

His cravat again was twisted, his cheeks were flushed, and his hair was snarled into small spikes.

He was rapidly smoothing his locks and speaking softly to that woman , whom he shielded from view as they climbed the steps and passed through the front door.

Lady Catherine opened her mouth to give the young pup a piece of her mind about how this might look to the neighbours, but she quickly snapped it shut.

She had agreed not to speak ill of that trollop, so she contented herself with reprimanding him for his other trespasses.

“Darcy!” she cried, rapping the handle of her elegant cane against the wainscoting.

She noticed with satisfaction that the silver head knocking against the wood made a great booming sound that caused her nephew to jump and look away from his hoyden.

“It is one minute before six o’clock. You are almost late.

Have you no respect for rank, for privilege, or for your elders? ”

“Dearest Auntie,” she heard a voice bellow from behind her. “I believe my cousin has great respect for his privilege, for his rank, and for his wife.”

She watched grimly as her nephew Fitzwilliam winked at Darcy and greeted the hussy far too warmly.

His elder and more handsome, if far less gregarious, brother, Viscount Abington, rolled his eyes.

She nodded at him approvingly and frowned at his insipid wife—yet again indecently fat with child—and Lord and Lady Matlock as they gave the upstart couple a similarly warm welcome.

Her brother and his wife had always been far too benevolent to those lower in station—baronets, servants, and dogs and such.

Anne appeared unaffected by their arrival, but then she was too refined to show offence or irritation.

Darling girl. If only she had less of Lewis in her looks.

Although irritated by Darcy’s lack of grace, Lady Catherine took Fitzwilliam’s arm.

Upon hearing a hushed squeak, however, she spun to espy Georgiana half-hidden by a large potted palm.

Vegetation in the house, practically in the middle of winter!

Did Lady Matlock not see how the dark green of their leaves clashed with the maroon wall-papers?

Did she not understand the danger of the mites and worms that populated the soil?

Clearly the family’s youngest member was traumatised by its very presence.

She was quivering like a chicken aspic when it was shaken to determine whether it was properly set. Which it never was!

“Georgiana, step away from the tree. Where is your companion, the stout woman who smiles too much?”

Appearing cow-eyed, her niece obediently fell into step beside her, hurrying to keep pace as they walked into the drawing room, explaining in her too-quiet voice that Mrs Annesley was in Chelmsford visiting her sister for a few days before they went north to Pemberley.

They. Georgiana, her brother, and that woman. The pretender to her sister, the true mistress of Pemberley, and to Anne, who had been meant to take the mantle.

Situating herself in the well-padded blue chair she had been told so many times complemented her eyes, Lady Catherine observed Elizabeth Bennet.

Mrs Darcy? Ha! Never. She snorted at the stupidity of addressing her so .

She had not seen the impertinent wench in months, and here she was, draped in jewels and silks and Darcy’s lustful gazes.

And she was laughing, her teeth practically on display!

Her haphazard upbringing and peasant connexions would be the ruin of the Darcys and Fitzwilliams, but the others were wilfully, dangerously blind to it, the fools!

How had they so quickly accepted the chit?

Darcy himself was unrecognisable, his eyes perpetually alight and his cheeks ruddy from smiling.

How disgraceful. His face must be exhausted from so much witless grinning.

Another fortnight, and he, too, would be exhibiting his teeth whilst smiling!

“Darcy.” She called his name and waited for his attention to turn to her. “Darcy!”

Her nephew finally pulled his eyes away from his ‘wife’. “Yes, madam?”

“I am most displeased that Himdale House did not have my rooms prepared when Anne and I arrived. You did not send a card to Lady Matlock. You have displeased both your aunts.”

Darcy glanced at Lady Matlock before returning his gaze to her. “You are fond of unannounced visits to my home and to that of Mrs Darcy’s family in Hertfordshire. I assumed you would wish to do the same here as well. Begging your pardon.”

The nerve of her sister’s boy! Her nephew was saved from her immediate reply—and it would have been blistering indeed—by Lady Matlock’s announcement that dinner was served.

Her sister-in-law fell miserably short as a hostess in most ways, starting with her deplorable decision to give the blue room to Georgiana.

It was unimaginably rude! Giving the largest, most elegant room in the house, one that rightly belonged to her, Lady Catherine, to a mere girl!

The countess was far too indulgent of her orphaned niece and nephew, but it must be acknowledged that she set an excellent table.

Lady Catherine would watch Miss Elizabeth Bennet closely to see whether she had the discernment to appreciate the French dishes or the manners with which to eat them.

Her shockingly impertinent behaviour at Rosings could not stand.

Lady Catherine grabbed Darcy’s arm and demanded he escort her into dinner. She still took precedence over that slattern, the supposed Mrs Darcy, and would not stand for the indignity of walking in on her own while that wanton simpered and giggled and pulled her husband’s elbow close.

The soup and fish were tolerable, though she would have a word with her brother’s wife about her erstwhile excellent cook: the soup could be improved by adding considerably more salt and the fish bettered by poaching for another fifteen minutes until grey.

She shot a sharp glance at Darcy, who sat next to her at the dining table.

“Nephew, have you given further thought to the proposal I offered you earlier today?”

Darcy nodded. “Yes, Mrs Darcy and I have considered it and?—”

Next to her, Lord Matlock stopped mid-sentence in his conversation with his sons about hunting dogs and cut in, demanding, “What is that you say? A proposal? To do what?”

Lady Catherine waved her napkin in the direction of her intended pupil.

“I intend to ease her introduction to society by sharing with her my extensive knowledge of the social graces. Under my tutelage, given sufficient time, effort, and discipline, she may eventually be embraced by the ton as well as you have been”—Lady Catherine tipped her head towards Lady Matlock—“and nearly as well as I.” She dabbed at her lips with her serviette and then glanced down at it.

It was imperfectly starched. She would instruct her sister-in-law to have a word with the housekeeper about that.

Lord Matlock looked at her in the same annoying, superior way he had since she was a girl and he her much-older brother. Some might say he had a twinkle in his eye, but she knew that sanctimonious spark for what it was.

“Indeed, and what lessons do you suppose Mrs Darcy needs before she is ready to make this deep impression on the ton ? No one remains in town unless required to by Parliament,” he said with a scowl.

“Any woman would benefit from instruction on how to comport herself with the same grace and refinement as Anne and I,” scoffed Lady Catherine. “And, um, this woman must not be subjected to the derision she would naturally encounter without being brought up to snuff. It would dishonour the family.”

Mentally, she began to tot up all the ways this presumptuous milkmaid, this Miss Elizabeth Bennet, fell short of her daughter’s excellence. It should be Anne who was being introduced to society as Mrs Darcy. Anne would need no such instruction. What a preposterous match this was. Still, needs must.

“First, she must speak with the mellifluous accents of a refined lady. A lady must speak only the King’s English and enunciate clearly.

She must maintain a sober demeanour and eschew frivolous jests and flirtation.

She must carefully consider every word she says so as not to insult her superiors and thus be seen as attempting to rise above her station.

” She paused and looked pointedly at Darcy.

“Much as Anne does. I have taught her to be all that is good. I merely wish to do the same for your wife.” Lady Catherine choked on the word and had to clear her throat.

“Aunt,” interjected Fitzwilliam, that impertinent whelp, “it sounds as if you would turn Mrs Darcy into Anne.”

What I would wish to do , thought Lady Catherine, is to make Anne into Mrs Darcy .

Anne is precisely what Darcy needs in a wife .

But heaven knows, it is too late for that, what with all his disreputably rumpled cravats .

The wanton had successfully worked her wiles on him, probably luring him into her bed before they were even married.

The outrageous manner in which her bosom strained under her bodice suggested she might even be with child.

No! It was too late to be wishing Anne could be the mistress of Pemberley.

Best not to think of it further. The poor girl was coughing, likely disguising her distress behind her serviette.

From Darcy’s direction next to her, Lady Catherine discerned something that sounded suspiciously like a muttered “And do you follow your own advice, Aunt?”