Page 34

"What question is that, Father?" inquired Richard lightly.

"The question," replied the Earl, "of precisely whom your Aunt Catherine was endeavouring to compromise."

Richard arched a brow. "That must have been nigh on thirty years ago. Whoever the poor gentleman was, I daresay he’s long counted it the greatest stroke of fortune in his life—perhaps even marks it with annual gratitude."

He paused, then added with a grin, "Indeed, knowing Aunt Catherine, I can only suppose he was at least a duke—if not some forgotten scion of royalty. She would scarcely have condescended to less."

“You are quite mistaken, my son,”

said the Earl, with a smile touched more by irony than amusement.

“You misjudge your aunt entirely. The gentleman in question possessed no rank whatsoever. He was a country gentleman—respectable, to be sure, but entirely without title.”

Richard gave a low exclamation.

“Are we acquainted with him?”

The Earl looked to , who had remained silent.

“Indeed you are,”

said he.

“Both of you know him well—though you, William, perhaps more intimately than most.”

looked up at last.

“It was your father.”

A brief silence followed, heavy with astonishment.

“My father?”

said .

“Your father,”

the Earl confirmed.

“Why should Aunt Catherine have attempted to compromise my father? Was this before he began to court my mother?”

“Ah, William, that is not easily answered,”

said the Earl.

“You must consider how your father was then regarded. For all the grandeur and long history of Pemberley, he was but a country gentleman—of little consequence in the ton, and with few connections by birth. In temper, he was then as reserved as you are now.”

“I know,”

said .

“Well,”

the Earl continued.

“what your father gained early in life was respect—not only from his tenants and household, but even from members of the peerage. He was known as a generous, kind, and honourable landlord. Many gentlemen might answer to such a description; what distinguished your father was his method of managing the estate. He was among the boldest of gentleman farmers—ever eager to experiment. He studied agricultural practices from across the kingdom, and even from the Continent. He introduced new crops, and was an early adopter of the four-course rotation system in Derbyshire, with remarkable success. He came to be regarded as both innovative and, in some circles, even radical.”

leaned forward, eager to hear more of his father.

“He was much sought after,”

the Earl continued.

“Many gentlemen—some of them men of rank—corresponded with him to solicit his advice. He formed his connections not through assemblies or drawing-rooms, but by reputation alone, and the esteem of those who knew his worth.”

“And yet he married my mother—the daughter of an Earl,”

said , smiling.

“Ah, that he did,”

said the Earl.

“though not for her rank. He fell in love—and Anne, to be sure, returned his regard. Though no formal courtship had begun, it was well understood in the family that young George was partial to Anne—and that her feelings were much the same. In fact, your father requested leave to court her the very day after Catherine’s attempt at compromise.”

“Was Aunt Catherine aware of my parents’ attachment?”

“She was,”

said the Earl.

“And that knowledge led to her ill-considered attempt at compromise.”

“Did she care for my father in that way?”

The Earl sighed.

“No. She did not.”

“Then why, Uncle?”

“To understand that, William,”

said the Earl.

“you must first consider Catherine’s place within our family. I fear she was always the odd one out.”

He offered a faint smile, touched with both memory and regret.

“I, as the heir, was granted respect from the cradle. Anne, your mother, was the darling of every gathering: gentle, graceful, and possessed of a countenance made for admiration. Between us, Catherine—plain in feature and strong in will—always had to strive for her due.”

saw Richard shaking his head slowly, as though the tale were painfully familiar.

“She never took it well,”

the Earl continued.

“She could not charm, and so she sought to command. She resented being left behind, and fancied—wrongly—that regard might be gained through interference. When I began taking on my responsibilities, she insisted on accompanying me into the fields, questioning the steward as though already mistress of the estate. It was neither modest nor wise.”

He gave a rueful smile.

“I advised her—gently, as I believed—to apply herself to more traditional accomplishments: music, French, watercolours. But the matter worsened. My parents, disapproving of her ventures into the province of men, forbade her from joining me at the estate. She was ordered indoors.”

leaned back, the pieces beginning to fall into place.

“So,”

he said slowly.

“Aunt Catherine saw in my father the very thing she had long been denied—an opportunity. A young man of promise, yet without title. Accomplished, yet not fully admitted to the ton. One whose name carried weight locally, but little within the higher circles—and therefore, someone she might influence.”

“And he was not bad to gaze at,”

added Richard for good measure.

The Earl nodded.

“Just so. She fancied that with a little encouragement—rather, determined interference—she might shape him. That, as mistress of Pemberley, she might at last claim a partnership of true consequence. No grand balls or London notoriety, but something far more powerful: control, importance, a voice in the running of an estate of renown.”

“She would never have succeeded,”

murmured .

“Indeed not,”

said the Earl, with a dry chuckle.

“Your father was many things—mild, reserved, even obliging—but not pliant. Certainly not to Catherine. He had his own mind, and, more importantly, a quiet confidence in it.”

Here he glanced at with something like fondness.

“Rather like someone else I know.”

“How my mother would have been disappointed in her,”

said softly, the words spoken more to himself than to the room.

“Your mother never knew, William,”

the Earl replied.

“It was your father’s express wish that she should remain ignorant of the matter, and we honoured it. There was no cause, he said, to burden her with a history that could bring only confusion and pain. All that Anne ever knew was that Catherine had abruptly accepted a proposal from a certain Lewis de Bourgh—a name no one had ever heard before. Anne puzzled over it, I believe, to the end of her life.”

“And now Aunt Catherine lives in dread that my mother may reveal the truth to ,”

said Richard.

“That, you see, is the string by which my mother holds her fast.”

“Exactly so,”

said the Earl.

“Whatever else one might say of Catherine, she has always held a particular regard for the s. It is one reason she so relentlessly promoted a marriage between her daughter and you, William. In her mind, it would have bound her once again to a family whose good opinion she valued more than she would ever admit.”

“And now she fears the loss of that opinion,”

said .

“She fears what I might think of her.”

“Precisely,”

said the Earl.

“Your regard has become, in her eyes, a form of absolution. She fears to see it withdrawn.”

’s gaze remained steady, though something behind it darkened with quiet turmoil.

“Well, then she had every reason to worry, Uncle,”

he said quietly.

“For I know not how to look at her now. To think that my mother might have lived to see the man she loved standing at the altar beside her own sister.”

He drew in a breath and looked down.

“She would have been heartbroken.”

“That fate, I think, would never have come to pass,”

said the Earl.

“My parents worried over appearances and their reputation, yes—but not to the extent of rewarding deceit. A gentleman in need of a dowry is never hard to locate. Your father would have been free to court Anne.”

He paused, then added.

“And knowing your father, he would have.”

said nothing, but understood the sentiment. Had any of Elizabeth’s sisters posed a danger to the Bennets’ reputation, he too would have stepped forward—shielded her, stood by her, borne the burden beside her. That she should face it alone would have been unthinkable.

“Now then,”

said the Earl, rising with a weary groan.

“you have your tale, Richard. I am off to my chamber—though I rather doubt sleep will find me again.”

“One moment, Father,”

said Richard, narrowing his eyes.

“When exactly did you arrive? No carriage arrived last night, I am sure.”

“I arrived in the afternoon, whilst you and your cousin were off making declarations to your young ladies,”

the Earl replied, sighing.

“Your mother nearly dragged me to a guest chamber and commanded me to remain there, until she judged it tactically wise for me to emerge. I confess, there are days when I cannot tell whether I am among family or seated once more in the House of Lords.”

Richard gave a hearty laugh.

“Do not tell me that Bingley has been unknowingly playing host to an Earl these past sixteen hours!”

“Well, his sister knows,”

said the Earl dryly.

“As does that very capable housekeeper—she saw fit to smuggle in a tray. As for your friend Mr. Bingley, I cannot speak to his awareness.”

“I shall take great pleasure in witnessing his expression when the truth dawns,”

said Richard, grinning. Then, with a glance at , he added.

“Father, will you not accompany us to Longbourn? To see our intended ladies?”

“I will, Richard,”

said the Earl.

“Indeed, I look forward to renewing acquaintance with Mr. Gard—”

He stopped short. His gaze flicked sharply to his son. Richard, ever alert to the sudden shift in tone, narrowed his eyes.

“Father,”

he said slowly.

“how are you acquainted with Mr. Gardiner?”

There was a pause—a silence too deliberate to be without meaning. The Earl glanced sidelong at , who looked studiously at the carpet.

Richard cast a keen look upon his cousin.

“, you once mentioned the sum I placed with Mr. Gardiner had grown—but you never gave me the precise figure. What is it now?”

cleared his throat, wearing the air of a man who would rather be elsewhere.

“According to Gardiner’s most recent report, it has grown to… ___ pounds.”

Richard nodded. The sum exceeded his expectations. Respectable, even impressive—not so great as to suggest tampering, yet sufficient to raise a cautious doubt regarding its good fortune.

“So,”

he said, frowning slightly.

“a tidy sum. Better than four percent, certainly. But not so much as to betray paternal interference.”

He turned back to his father.

“Why did you seek out Mr. Gardiner?”

The Earl sank back into his chair with a groan, covering his face with one gloved hand.

“Damn my tongue,”

he muttered behind it.

“I shall assume introduced you,”

said Richard, now openly amused.

“Richard,”

the Earl said, with all the pomp of wounded dignity.

“this line of inquiry is most improper. It is but my affairs.”

“Come, humour me, Father. You know you will feel better once you confess.”

The Earl looked at him, exhaled heavily, and muttered.

“You are more your mother than you know.”

“Pray, do not distract me with compliments.”

The Earl stared at the fire a moment, then gave a weary shrug.

“Very well,”

he said.

“I suspected that you would never accept Rosemont if I offered it outright. You have always had a stubborn little streak of honour running through you, like a steel thread woven through otherwise tolerable cloth.”

Richard inclined his head.

“You raised me to it.”

“And now it inconveniences me,”

the Earl said dryly.

“In any case—I knew you had given your savings over to , who placed them with a certain Mr. Gardiner of Gracechurch Street. I thought it rather clever to add a modest sum of my own, quietly, invisibly. A secret benefactor, as it were.”

Richard shook his head, half in disbelief.

“Well? How did that go?”

The Earl gave a short laugh.

“Abysmally. Mr. Gardiner was unfailingly courteous—but resolute. Said that while he admired my paternal concern, his first and last duty was to his investors, and he would not, under any circumstance, accept funds under false pretence or impose upon a client—even to benefit him. Called it improper. Imagine that!”

He paused, then added, with something like reluctant admiration.

“He is, I must admit, a thoroughly honourable man, Mr Gardiner—a true gentleman in all but title, and better than many who possess one. It is no small advantage to be allied to him at present. A sound connection.”

shifted, ever so slightly, in his chair.

“Well, Father,”

Richard said after a moment.

“what would you have done had I remained obstinate and refused Rosemont?”

“What would I have done?”

The Earl leaned back with a show of ease.

“There is nothing to stop me from opening an account with Mr Gardiner in my own name, nor any law to forbid my leaving the proceeds—be they modest or vast—to you in my will. In fact,”

he added, with a triumphant glance.

“it is already done. You are welcome, of course, to visit my grave in protest—I assure you, I shall not respond.”

At that, Richard gave in to laughter—hearty, unrestrained, and sincere—the kind only possible in the company of those who vex and love you in equal measure, and with whom one may safely be both child and man.

The Earl then rose, smoothing his coat with the briskness of one who had said more than intended, yet had no wish to retract a word.

“Well,”

he said, with a trace of long-suffering dignity.

“I trust all your curiosities have now been satisfied. Am I, at last, permitted to retire to my chamber without further interrogation?”

“Off you go, Father,”

said Richard, wiping the mirth from his eyes.

“You have an hour’s peace before we ride to Longbourn. And thank you—for the investment. I shall be sure to complain of it regularly at your tomb.”

The Earl’s huff, as he swept from the room, was of such noble disdain that it could only have been rivalled by his sister in Kent. The door closed behind him with a certain flourish, entirely deliberate.

and Richard exchanged a look—and then matching smiles.

“,”

said Richard, fixing him with a look of narrowed suspicion.

“were you aware of my father’s scheme when you introduced him to Mr Gardiner?”

“I had a suspicion,”

replied calmly.

“but nothing was ever spoken between us.”

Richard gave a short nod.

“Very well. But I have another question—one that has troubled me since yesterday.”

raised a brow.

“How,”

Richard said, leaning forward.

“how in the devil’s name did you suspect me to be the culprit who hurled that stone at Mr Gardiner? Of all the ridiculous things—how came you to that conclusion?”

let out a laugh—low, amused, and not entirely repentant—and leaned forward in kind.

“When Elizabeth recounted the tale, the incident at her uncle’s wedding, I had the oddest sense of familiarity. I thought, at first, it might have come from one of Georgiana’s novels. I used to read them in secret, to ensure their content was suitable.”

Richard smirked.

“How noble.”

“Indeed,”

said , unbothered.

“But the sensation persisted—and then I met Mr Gardiner, and shortly after, Mrs Gardiner.”

He sat back, his expression bemused.

“It took no effort at all to recognise her as the former Miss Chambers.”

“I had no difficulty either,”

said Richard fervently.

“Good God, that face—I would have known it in a room full of dowagers.”

“Exactly,”

said .

“Which brings us to your question. How did I know it was you? I did not know—I suspected. And you confirmed it by your reaction when you saw Mrs Gardiner. I asked Mary to observe it.”

“, that still does not explain why you suspected my involvement in the first place,”

Richard pressed.

let out a sigh, shifting in his chair.

“I remembered the day of Miss Chambers’ wedding. When Mrs Reynolds mentioned it to my father at breakfast, I noticed your reaction.”

Richard shook his head, clearly bewildered.

“, that was what—eighteen years ago? How in heaven’s name could you possibly remember my reaction from so far back?”

paused, turning aside, his countenance betraying a flicker of unease.

“It was not only your reaction, I must confess. You failed to observe mine. I was, fortunately, possessed of restraint enough not to hurl a stone at the groom—though,”

he added, allowing himself the ghost of a grin.

“it was a close matter.”

The words lingered for a moment. Then Richard’s eyes widened in sudden comprehension.

“Good heavens, ,”

he exclaimed, leaning forward in astonishment.

“You cannot mean to suggest—you too? You, of all people, were also taken with Miss Chambers?”

said nothing, his gaze shifting aside. His features, for the briefest moment, betrayed him.

Richard’s eyes narrowed, a wicked amusement gleaming within them.

“This is a revelation,”

he declared.

“Pray, does Elizabeth know of this illustrious chapter in your romantic history?”

“She is aware,”

replied with a stiff nod.

“I deemed it prudent to confess to her. I spoke of my youthful admiration for Miss Chambers, and likewise for Mrs Reynolds’ niece, and—”

Here he stopped, most abruptly.

“And?”

Richard echoed, arching a brow with unconcealed glee.

“Good God, man, do not keep me in suspense! Was there more? Who were you, —some sort of boyhood Lothario of the Peak District?”

gave a small, beleaguered shrug.

“I was conscious that you would, in time, learn of it all, and wield it mercilessly before Elizabeth. I thought it best to disarm you by my own hand.”

“A wise precaution,”

said Richard gravely, though a sparkle lingered in his eye.

“I intended to speak with Mr Gardiner, you know—to apologise for my youthful imprudence. Mary, however, did not consider it necessary.”

“You are already yielding to your future wife’s judgement, I see,”

observed with an air of mock solemnity.

“I am,”

Richard returned at once.

“As we have just witnessed in my parents, it seems the surest path to peace—and perhaps the only certain means of securing a quiet life.”

“Indeed,”

said , rising.

“Shall we make our way to the morning parlour? I am exceedingly curious to see Bingley’s face when he meets your father.”

At this, Richard laughed—low, mischievous, and utterly unrepentant.

“Good God, I would not miss it for the world. Come.”

Longbourn

Lady Catherine

Lady Catherine was not so wholly devoid of sensibility as to remain unmoved by the display she had just witnessed. She was obliged to acknowledge that the manner in which Miss Mary Bennet had deflected the unsolicited attentions of Mr Collins—without once exceeding the bounds of propriety—was most artfully done.

A rebuke most elegant, veiled in courtesy, yet unmistakable in its aim.

And it was this very talent which unsettled her the most.

For if Miss Mary was capable of so genteel a dismissal of Mr. Collins, then Lady Catherine herself—noble birth notwithstanding—could place little faith in her own immunity from a like fate. One ill-judged remark might suffice to earn her the next of Miss Mary’s composed yet penetrating rebukes. She had much to lose—chiefly her dignity—and was, therefore, compelled to proceed with the utmost delicacy.

The first order of diplomacy: a retraction.

But for Lady Catherine, it was easier said than done.

“I believe,”

she began, standing very erect, her voice scarcely betraying the strain.

“that I may have spoken with too little—tact—at our last meeting.”

“Indeed, Your Ladyship?”

“I may have been... hasty,”

Lady Catherine admitted, each syllable seeming to scrape her tongue.

“In declaring you to be—plain. Plainness, after all, is not an absolute. There is a solemn cast of countenance that conveys gravity; there is harmony in symmetry—and a certain appeal, yes, an appeal—to a man of sense.”

Miss Mary arched a brow.

“I see. You now deem me symmetrical.”

Lady Catherine faltered.

“Let us not dwell upon geometry.”

“As you wish.”

“I have reconsidered the promise you made to me,”

said Lady Catherine, with all the firmness she could summon.

“It was a noble promise, well-intentioned—but it must be revoked.”

“Revoked?”

“You must be free—free to accept the regard of , should he offer it. It is your duty: for family harmony, for”—she glanced about, as though expecting spies—“the good of all concerned.”

Miss Mary regarded her in silence—a pause which, to Lady Catherine, lingered several moments too long.

“I made that vow in earnest, Your Ladyship,”

she said at last.

“And I now release you from it,”

Lady Catherine declared, with all the dignity she could muster.

“I shall not hold you to a promise made in a moment of… unfortunate haste.”

Miss Mary folded her hands.

“But the gentleman has not asked me.”

“He will. Or he might. He ought.”

“Then I must disappoint you.”

“You cannot mean it.”

“I have no intention of marrying Mr .”

A brief pause followed.

Lady Catherine frowned.

“But—then why did you not tell me that? Why all the ceremony about accepting the vow?”

Miss Mary smiled.

“Because I knew it would cost me nothing.”

Lady Catherine drew back, as if struck. She had, in her long and rather imperious career, encountered many forms of defiance—some tiresome, others laughable—but never one so delicately wrapped in reason.

“But now—now you must renounce your renunciation.”

“I cannot.”

“You must!”

“I will not,”

said Miss Mary.

Lady Catherine found herself rendered speechless by the unshakable composure of the young woman before her. Nothing was proceeding as it ought. This was not the confrontation she had so carefully imagined. She had anticipated reluctance—perhaps a modest protest—but not this infuriating, unreadable calm.

“I see,”

she said at last, drawing what remained of her dignity about her like a shawl.

“You refuse to act. You would see him undone—consigned to a life of melancholic solitude, brooding in corners, incapable of speech or sustenance—eternally pining. Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?”

Frustratingly, Miss Mary did not budge.

“I shall not marry Mr. .”

“Why?”

“I love someone else.”

Ah. There it was—the inevitable complication. Some tiresome village suitor, no doubt. A curate, perhaps, with an unfortunate countenance and a salary to match. It would be just like her nephew to fix his affections on a young woman already claimed by another.

“I am already betrothed to him,”

Miss Mary added quietly.

Those words struck with the finality of judgment. There could be no question of persuasion now. Miss Mary Bennet did not seem a young lady to be swayed by trinkets or titles. There was a steadiness in her tone that resisted both sentiment and bribery.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh, for perhaps the first time in a quarter century, found herself entirely at a loss. There was no threat to make, no consequence to promise, no dramatic exit that would secure the upper hand.

If she walked away without taking leave of the Bennets, they would only laugh behind her back.

Miss Mary simply stood, as immovable as a principle.

Yet still, Lady Catherine could not—would not—accept defeat. She had not risen to her present consequence in society by yielding to the stubbornness of provincial girls, however symmetrical they might unexpectedly prove. No—this was too grave a matter to be surrendered so easily. She must speak to the girl’s father. The stakes were too great. A word here, a correction there—family history had been altered by less.

But just as she prepared to speak, the sudden clatter of wheels upon gravel arrested her.

Both ladies turned. Two carriages had drawn up to the approach.

The first bore the familiar crest of Pemberley. From it descended , Richard—and, to Lady Catherine’s horror, her brother, the Earl.

The second conveyed the Countess Fitzwilliam. Georgiana followed, then a young lady whom Lady Catherine did not recognise. Last came a gentleman of about six-and-twenty, who bore a striking resemblance to the unknown lady, and was, in all likelihood, her brother.

“Shall we retire to the parlour, my Lady?”

said Miss Mary.

“We have guests—and it would be my great honour to introduce you to my betrothed.”

Lady Catherine, still blinking at the stranger, nodded without thought. Her feet, it seemed, obeyed where her mind had lost command. She followed Miss Mary like a woman suddenly transported into a play she had not auditioned for—and given a part she did not care to play.