Page 31 of Mrs Darcy’s Dilemma

“Well! I made inquiries, you may be sure. I am not unacquainted with the fashionable world, you may know, though my adventures in it were many, many years ago, when I was Lady Catherine Fitzwilliam. Society was quite different then. No young lady was given over to the care of a governess not of the very highest character.” She paused impressively to let this sink in.

“I was a very handsome young lady, much more handsome than my younger sister, Lady Anne Darcy—that is, she was pretty in a delicate sort of way, but she suffered ill health, poor thing, and she died sadly young, you may have heard, only a dozen years after her marriage, leaving her children, Darcy and Georgiana, quite motherless. I have been a second mother to them, however, and they are quite devoted to me, as is entirely proper. Indeed, I was instrumental in forming their characters and think they do me honour on the whole.—Such a pair has seldom been seen—and Georgiana, at least, is nobly married.”

She was quiet a moment, thinking, and Cloe did nothing to encourage her to speak again.

She resumed, however, “I always think that appearance is best which announces robust health; my own poor daughter Anne would have been beautiful if she had only been healthy. But high breeding always makes for a most aristocratic appearance. My brother, the Earl of Osmington, married a very handsome, high bred woman; and their two sons, the present Earl and General Fitzwilliam, are the finest men in England in both appearance and character. That is—Fitzwilliam is in India, of course. He will inherit my property when I go. He is unmarried; I have often wished differently, but I have done with planning young people’s marriages: they are an ungrateful set.

Well, and what was I saying? My mind does wander at times, these days, which is only natural to my age; my memory, however, is wonderful, as remarkable as it ever was, but I do fall into musings, which is not strange, considering all that I have to think about, and serious matters, too.

Oh: yes, the fashionable world—and good breeding tells—you have quite a delicate appearance, and I hope will not pass any dreadful consumptive complaint on to the Collins children, poor little dears. ”

“I am not at all ill, madam,” said Cloe, controlling herself.

“Well, well, and why should you be, living in the abode of comfort, in fine places such as Pemberley, and Hunsford, and now Longbourn? Such houses! I really think no other young woman in your situation can ever have had such opportunities. It would surprise me if you did not improve in such places as these. But, oh! yes—company—I have high connections in London, you know. There is old Lady Scarborough, and some of poor Queen Adelaide’s ladies—well, never mind their names, it would hardly be fit for me to speak of people in high life to you, the governess—but I asked a few well-chosen questions about this actress, not telling anyone she was in any manner a connection of my own, however distant.

Not that anyone would have believed such a thing of me, my character speaks for itself; but I found out the whole story. ”

“Did you, ma’am?” Cloe felt she was to hear it; it could not be avoided, and she could not decide only whether curiosity or dread most informed her feelings upon the occasion.

“Oh, yes. Your sister is, as I feared, an actress of the very worst character. Off the stage, she is quite as wicked as upon it, for she is kept in great style, in a most scandalous fashion: by some gentleman or other, I do not pretend to know whom. I must not elaborate on such matters to you—it is not proper to say such things to a young unmarried woman. The differences between the married and the unmarried must be preserved; remember that. It is a mark of excellent taste. Are you quite well, Miss Wickham? You look pale. You are not going to faint?”

“I am not, but I should like some water,” and she managed to ring for a servant, for her shaking hand would not let her deal with the pitcher, and she would not ask Lady Catherine. She did, however, gather courage to ask the question weighing upon her.

“Lady Catherine—I do not wish to know details, believe me, but can you only tell me, as a matter of humanity, is my sister well? She cannot write to me, you know—so I have heard nothing.”

“No. It would be wrong if she did, and if ever she does write, you should tear up her letter, unread. She certainly ought to be dead to you and to all your dear family. But I daresay it will not be wrong for me to tell you that she seems to be prospering finely in her wickedness—such things sometimes do happen in this world—though it is a wonder that God allows one of that sort to flourish and be healthy and prosperous. But as I say, no particulars. Remember, Miss Wickham, that her being well now means nothing. She will be punished, as surely as anyone is punished, hereafter; she will be ill and persecuted and die in a low state, I am certain. I would not have her immortal soul, for the world.” Lady Catherine paused to complacently regard their respective fates at the seat of Judgement.

“Lady Catherine, you must understand that what you have told me has been very shocking to me—and that I wish to retire.”

“Oh! Yes, I daresay. Quite so. Well, I have done with you: quite done. Now, surely, you understand why you will never do as governess to the Collinses, and if you try to take a like position anywhere else, I will think it my duty to write and tell your new employers of your antecedents. I do not do this to be cruel, but so that you understand there is not the least use in trying to pass yourself off with any degree of credit, anywhere. I wish you no ill; you have evidently comported yourself as properly as you can, given your disadvantages; but you can see that you must no longer remain in this house, the sister of such a person as that.”

“She is not to instruct the Collins girls, ma’am,” said Cloe wearily, “but there is little use in arguing with you on the subject, and any continuance of it will only bring me pain.”

“You will, however, leave at once, as I have demanded?”

“I do not know; I must beg to retire. I can only say that I will think over the things you have told me,” said poor Cloe, feeling herself perilously close to childish tears and not wanting to show them before Lady Catherine.

She went upstairs, leaving that noblewoman standing her ground in the sitting-room, well-pleased with her good morning’s work and confident of having rid the Collinses of a succubus and an unworthy governess.