Page 2 of Elizabeth's Good Fortune

Iam examining the estate accounts when Peters appears at the door of my study, bearing the familiar sight of my aunt’s cream-colored stationery upon a silver salver. I find myself suppressing a sigh, as these missives from Lady Catherine have grown more frequent since our removal to London for the Season.

“Shall I wait for a response, sir?”

Peters asks, though he knows as well as I that Lady Catherine’s invitations are never truly invitations—they are summons, and they brook no refusal.

The letter contains exactly what I expected. I am to present myself at De Bourgh House this evening for dinner. The phrasing, as always, leaves no room for prior engagements or personal inclination. “My dear nephew, your cousin Anne has expressed particular interest in discussing the new landscaping at Pemberley, and I insist you join us...”

I know full well that Anne has expressed no such thing. My cousin barely speaks three words together in company, and I cannot recall her ever showing the slightest interest in landscape architecture.

I glance at the stack of correspondence yet to be addressed—letters from my steward at Pemberley, business matters requiring my attention, and an invitation to a musical evening that actually holds some appeal. But those must now wait. My aunt’s dinners invariably stretch long into the evening, filled with her pronouncements on everything from the proper management of servants to the appropriate matches for every family of consequence in Kent.

“Please inform Lady Catherine that I would be delighted to join them this evening,”

I tell Peters, the social lie falling easily from my lips. The butler bows and withdraws, leaving me to contemplate how many more of these evenings I must endure before my aunt finally accepts that her plans for Anne and me will never come to fruition.

Rising from my desk, I move to stand before the window overlooking the garden, where the first hints of spring are beginning to show in the carefully tended beds. The familiar irritation rises within me—not at Anne, never at Anne—but at the relentless pressure of my aunt’s expectations. Since my father’s death, Lady Catherine has taken it upon herself to guide my path in life, despite my having reached an age and position where such guidance is neither necessary nor welcome.

These matchmaking attempts grow more transparent with each passing month. It began subtly enough when I first came of age—casual mentions of Anne’s accomplishments (few though they are), and hints about my mother’s supposed wishes for my future. But lately, Lady Catherine has abandoned all pretense of subtlety. Each dinner becomes an exercise in diplomatic evasion as I navigate her increasingly pointed suggestions about the natural union of Pemberley and Rosings.

The worst of it is the position in which it places Anne. My cousin, delicate in both health and spirit, seems to shrink further into herself with each of her mother’s pronouncements. I have never seen her display any particular interest in marriage—to me or to anyone else—yet Lady Catherine persists in speaking for her, planning for her, arranging her life as though she were a chess piece to be moved at will.

My fingers drum against the windowsill as I consider my position. The ton already whispers about my apparent reluctance to marry, though I have not yet reached an age where such speculation is warranted. Bingley, with his characteristic good humor, jokes that I am too fastidious in my requirements, but the truth is far simpler. I refuse to enter into a marriage of mere convenience or family obligation. Having witnessed my parents’ genuine affection for each other during their too-brief years together, I cannot satisfy myself with less.

A marriage to Anne would certainly simplify many matters—the joining of our estates, the continuation of both family lines, the satisfaction of my aunt’s ambitions. Yet I cannot help but think that such a union would slowly destroy us both, with Anne withering under the weight of responsibilities she has neither the health nor the inclination to bear, and I watching helplessly as we both live out my aunt’s dreams rather than our own.

The memory of our last such dinner party rises unbidden in my mind. It was barely a fortnight ago, yet already Lady Catherine has deemed it time to make another attempt. I recall too clearly the oppressive atmosphere of the formal dining room, the way the candlelight caught the elaborate gilt frames of the family portraits that seemed to watch our every move with disapproving eyes.

Lady Catherine had arranged the seating with her usual tactical precision, with Anne at my right hand and herself directly across to better observe our every interaction. The soup had barely been served when she began her campaign. “Darcy, you must have noticed how well Anne is looking these days. I have engaged a new physician, at great expense, who has prescribed a most effective tonic. Soon she will be strong enough for all the duties of managing a large estate.”

The implication hung heavy in the air as Anne stared fixedly at her soup bowl, her complexion even paler than usual. Lord and Lady Metcalfe, the only other guests that evening, exchanged knowing glances that set my teeth on edge. I had made some noncommittal response about the challenges of estate management in general, but Lady Catherine was not to be deterred.

“It is fortunate indeed,”

she had continued, “that Anne will have no need to learn these duties from the beginning. To step into a position where everything is already properly organized, under the guidance of someone who knows the correct way of doing things—that is the ideal situation for a young woman of Anne’s delicate constitution.”

The rest of the evening had proceeded in similar fashion, each course accompanied by fresh hints about the propriety of marriage between cousins and the importance of maintaining family connections. By the time the port was served, even Lord Metcalfe had developed a sudden interest in examining the pattern of the carpet.

The soft knock at my study door pulls me from these unhappy reflections. “Come in, Georgiana,”

I call, recognizing my sister’s particular way of announcing herself. She enters with her usual quiet grace, though I detect a hint of mischief in her expression as she spots Lady Catherine’s letter still lying upon my desk.

“Another summons from our aunt?”

she asks, settling herself in the chair beside the fireplace. “I observed Peters carrying her response just now, and you have that particular look about you.”

“What particular look might that be?”

I ask, though I cannot help but smile at her perception. Since her recovery from last summer’s unfortunate events at Ramsgate, Georgiana has grown more confident in teasing me, a development I find I quite enjoy despite being a frequent target.

“Oh, the one where your forehead creases just so, and your mouth takes on that stern set that makes you appear at least ten years older than you are,”

she replies, her own smile widening. “I suppose we are to lose you to De Bourgh House this evening?”

“I am afraid so.”

I move to join her by the fire. “Though you need not look quite so amused by the prospect. One day, sister dear, you too will face the trials of our aunt’s matchmaking endeavors.”

Georgiana’s laughter fills the study. “Perhaps, though I doubt any of her schemes for me will be pursued with quite the same dedication and enthusiasm as her plans for you and Anne. Poor Anne! Did you know she writes to me sometimes? Such careful little notes, full of the sort of things she thinks her mother would approve of, yet occasionally I catch glimpses of a different Anne entirely. In her last letter, she mentioned reading a novel that Lady Catherine would certainly not approve of—though she swore me to secrecy about the title.”

I raise an eyebrow at this revelation. “It seems our cousin has hidden depths.”

“Indeed,”

Georgiana replies, her expression growing thoughtful. “Sometimes I wonder if any of us truly know Anne at all, or if we know only what her mother allows us to see. It makes me grateful, brother, that you have always encouraged me to speak my mind, at least in private.”

Later, as Fletcher assists me in dressing for the evening, I find my thoughts returning to Georgiana’s words about Anne’s letters. My valet maintains a steady stream of quiet commentary about the weather, the state of my cravat, and which waistcoat might best suit the occasion, but I barely register his words. Instead, I contemplate how many others might hide their true selves beneath a veneer of proper behavior, all to satisfy the expectations of others.

“What do you think about this one, sir?”

Fletcher asks, presenting various options for my attire.

Though I generally pay little attention to such matters, tonight I find myself particularly fastidious about my appearance. “Perhaps the blue waistcoat,”

I suggest, surprising Fletcher with my sudden interest in the selection.

“An excellent choice, sir,”

he responds, though I detect a hint of curiosity in his tone. “If I may say so, I understand from Harrison that Colonel Fitzwilliam is expected this evening as well.”

This news brightens my outlook considerably. My cousin’s presence always makes these gatherings more bearable, his easy manners and quick wit providing a welcome buffer between Lady Catherine’s pronouncements and the awkward silences that tend to follow them. Richard has a particular talent for steering conversations away from dangerous waters, though even he sometimes struggles to deflect our aunt’s more determined matchmaking attempts.

“I believe Mr. and Mrs. Collins are also expected,”

Fletcher continues as he adjusts my cravat with practiced precision. “They have lately arrived in town from Kent.”

I suppress a sigh at this intelligence.

Mr.

Collins’s excessive obsequiousness toward both Lady Catherine and myself makes any conversation with him an exercise in patience.

Still, his presence might at least divert some of my aunt’s attention from her usual topics.

Once Fletcher has finished with my attire, I spend a few minutes in my study attending to urgent correspondence before the carriage is announced.

The familiar routine of sealing letters and organizing papers for tomorrow provides a welcome distraction from thoughts of the evening ahead.

Yet all too soon, Peters appears to inform me that the carriage awaits, and I can delay no longer.

As my carriage makes its way through London’s crowded streets toward De Bourgh House, I find myself contemplating the evening ahead.

The presence of Colonel Fitzwilliam offers some hope of sensible conversation, though I know from experience that Lady Catherine will likely monopolize much of the dinner discussion.

At least with Mr.

Collins in attendance, she will have a fresh audience for her opinions on the proper management of a parish and the importance of clerical dignity.

The carriage passes through increasingly fashionable streets, each turn bringing me closer to what promises to be another lengthy evening of careful social navigation.

I find myself wishing I had accepted Bingley’s invitation to dine with his sisters tomorrow night—at least then I would have had a legitimate excuse to leave early.

As it is, I expect to be detained until well past ten o’clock, subjected to endless discussions of Anne’s supposed improvements in health and the many advantages of joining our estates.

I check my pocket watch—still ten minutes before I must arrive, though anything less than precisely on time will draw comment from my aunt.

The streets here are quieter, the houses larger and more imposing.

De Bourgh House, with its classical facade and perfectly maintained front garden, stands as a testament to my aunt’s insistence on proper appearances.

I straighten my cravat and adjust my coat, preparing myself for the usual formalities.

A thought occurs to me as the carriage draws to a stop that perhaps I might engage Mr.

Collins in conversation about his parish early in the evening.

While the man’s conversation is far from stimulating, detailed discussions of church matters are one of the few topics that might sufficiently distract Lady Catherine from her matchmaking schemes.

With Richard present to assist in directing the conversation, we might actually succeed in avoiding the usual pointed hints about marriage and family duty.

It is, I reflect as I ascend the steps, not much of a strategy, but tonight it will have to suffice.?