Page 1 of The Making of Lady Catherine de Bourgh

Chapter one

January 1782

B eing perfect is not as effortless as it appears. It begs decorum—nay, it requires control, above all. Control that Lady Catherine Fitzwilliam’s younger sister Anne could never understand nor endure.

Catherine had no patience for her sister’s selfishness and indifference. Nothing disturbed Catherine’s equilibrium quite so much as her sister’s belief that fate was in command of her life.

If Anne were a season, she would be autumn—raining dirty leaves onto the neatly kept paths and shaking the vibrant blooms from expertly cultivated shrubs. Catherine took little pleasure in spending time out of doors, but especially not after Michaelmas. Watching the colour drain away from the ornate gardens at Oakley was unfortunate, and above all, she abhorred sneezing. It was very unladylike.

A quick glance to her sister confirmed all her worst fears. Wild curls had abandoned their required placement, the sleeves of Anne’s gown were pushed up to display her freckled arm, and the ribbon around her waist hung loosely on her slim hips.

Her chest tightened, and a wash of mortification poured through her.

“Heaven and earth! Of what are you thinking?” Catherine scolded her younger sister.

Catherine straightened her sister’s sleeves and tied the ribbon around her waist in a more pleasing manner. Anne’s coiffure was beyond help. Their mother, the countess, would have to speak to Anne’s maid. Propriety demanded her sister be kept under greater regulation.

“I should think the Darcys care little for the state of my gown or hair,” her sister answered flippantly.

She appeared bored, and that irritated Catherine even more. Could not Anne conduct herself in a manner befitting their position in the world just this once?

“Today is a most auspicious day, Anne. Our family—all of us—are under much scrutiny!”

“Would it not be the Darcys whose burden it is to be anxious?” Anne asked. “They shall benefit most from this partnership. Our noble blood absolves us from such examination. Your fortune alone should ensure Mr Darcy proposes.”

“Of course, he shall propose. It is not a question of if he proposes, but when,” Catherine hissed back to her sister. “And our mother would like to expedite the timeline so that you may make your curtsey and have your first Season in town.”

And if the countess wanted the marriage expedited, swift it would be.

While Catherine put on a brave and stalwart face for her sister, she was anxious to see the ceremony long behind her—for she was the second of the Fitzwilliam daughters with whom Mr George Darcy had been promised to. Before Catherine, her elder sister, Eloise, had spent most of her life planning to become Mrs Darcy. Eloise had been Catherine’s beautiful and flawless sister, who had been ripped from the bosom of her family by a fever that moved to her lungs. Her death had seized not only Catherine’s beloved sister but also Mr George Darcy’s future bride.

And now their families expected Mr Darcy to marry Catherine in Eloise’s stead. The idea that Catherine could live up to her parents’ expectations as his intended was at first objectionable. She could never be Eloise—lovely, entertaining, and talented Eloise—but her mother had rationalized at length that those concerns were unfounded. The countess had explained that Catherine was just as she should be—exactly what a young gentleman of means would require. And marrying him would please her family. Her mother also reminded her that this method of marrying would remove all burden of “catching” a gentleman in town. This, in particular, boded well for her. Appealing to gentlemen did not come easily to Catherine. For one, she was much taller than the average man. And for the second, she was not Eloise—and never would be. And while the countess had lauded these concerns for the last two years, claiming loudly and often that Catherine would end up a spinster, she had to agree that if her mother now found these concerns surmountable, then they must be.

This demand that she marry Mr Darcy became as simple as her answer to all other pronouncements from her parents. She would do as told. Being practical was easy for Catherine.

Lady Anne blew a misbehaving curl off her face, and Catherine reached out to secure it for her, looking down into her sister’s light blue eyes. “Please, I beg of you. Be on your best behaviour.”

A nod sufficed as a response, and Catherine squeezed her sister’s hand before turning back to the drive. A carriage and four carried the Darcys—and her future—closer and closer to the front steps.

Mr George Darcy’s father, the Mr Phillip Darcy, exited the carriage first, followed by his wife, and finally the son. The younger Mr Darcy was even more handsome than Catherine remembered—rather intimidatingly so. It was strange to imagine that she would spend the remainder of her life with this compelling creature—so noble in his bearing, even if his blood lacked proof of such. His family was an old and respected one, and her fortune would secure the future of his estate, Pemberley. It was a fine match her parents had made for Eloise; and one Catherine was only happy to submit to in her stead.

Because of Eloise, Catherine’s first London Season had caused her little concern. Second daughters did not seek husbands before their elder sisters were married. It had mattered not whether she impressed the gentlemen she met there or their eager mothers. And the next Season had been spent at Oakley in mourning. She was not accustomed to putting herself on display as she would on this day.

“Darcy! Mrs Darcy,” Catherine’s father, the Earl of Barringer, cried once the guests had ascended the front steps. “You are most welcome at Oakley!” The gentlemen shook hands, and their wives greeted each other in a warm embrace.

“And you, young man,” Catherine’s father turned to her future husband. “Mr Darcy, you are welcome as well. You know my wife, Lady Barringer; as well as Ashby and Lady Ashby—” Her father trailed off as Mr George Darcy stopped to say a few words to her elder brother, the viscount, and his wife.

Her father stepped in front of her, his eyes locked on hers, and a silent agreement passed between them. Lord Barringer expected her to be impeccable, as always. And her mother would never be satisfied with anything less than perfection. In accord with her parents, she straightened her posture and nodded her compliance.

“—and my daughter, Lady Catherine,” her father continued as the Darcys made their way down the line with the younger Mr Darcy at their side. The young man bowed to Catherine, bringing to mind the importance of this visit. She tried to suppress a blush but was not certain of her success. Catherine had been in company with Mr George Darcy in London during her Season in town, and yet she had been merely on the periphery—the younger sister to his expected bride. He had little acknowledged her presence in their past dealings.

“My lady,” he said, as his pale blue eyes met hers.

His soft smile put her at ease. The kindness in his gaze reminded Catherine that Eloise would never have agreed to marry a gentleman who was unpleasant. It was not clear to Catherine why her sister and Mr George Darcy had not married sooner. Any delay of the happy event had been simply a postponement of the inevitable. At six and twenty years old, the younger Mr Darcy was the same age her brother, Viscount Ashby, had been when he chose to marry.

After curtseying and welcoming the family to Oakley, her father continued past her with their guests. “Please allow me to introduce you to my youngest, Lady Anne,” the earl said to the younger Mr Darcy.

Mr George Darcy stepped in front of Catherine’s sister. Anne was not yet eighteen years old and was infrequently around those who were not family members. While she had become acquainted with the Darcys as a child, more than a decade had passed since she was in the company of the younger Mr Darcy.

“I have not had the pleasure in many years,” Mr George Darcy said, smiling warmly at Anne.

The tightness in Catherine’s chest eased as she watched her sister perform a perfect curtsey. She had not expected Anne to swoon or take a tumble, but even so, it was a relief. She was not surprised to see Anne’s cheeks tinted pink when she rose to gaze at Catherine’s future husband. It was not often her sister was in company with fine-looking, eligible gentlemen.

Their own brother was not borne of the same splendour. Lord Ashby was, in great opposition, a man whose character and noble blood had aided him in securing his highly sought-after wife. Of course, being a viscountess, and later the Countess of Barringer, was equally appealing to Catherine’s sister by marriage. Elinor St. John, as was her name before her marriage, had been highly desirable to many of the eligible gentlemen of the peerage during her first Season.

Catherine continued to study her younger sister. Though Anne’s greeting had been sufficient, she was now gazing upon their guest rather too long. Catherine looped her arm through her sister’s to gain her attention and, hopefully, retain the respect of her suitor. Had not Mrs McKenna, their governess, taught Anne not to stare so?

“You must join us in the drawing room, sir. Perhaps you would like some tea?” Anne ventured to their guest.

How neglectful had Anne’s education been?

The countess stepped in, as was her place. As mistress of Oakley and host to their guests, she sent a knowing smile to Mr Darcy and turned to speak to her youngest daughter. “Anne, dear, I am sure our guests would like to see their rooms and refresh themselves after their journey.”

Hopefully, he understood that Anne’s age had not permitted her to be much in society, especially having been in mourning for half of the last year.

“On the contrary, I would very much like to join you,” Mr George Darcy replied with a warm smile.

“Darcy,” her brother addressed his friend jovially. “There is no need to stand on ceremony while you are a guest here. We are nearly family, are we not? Forget the tea and join me in my study.”

“I am sure he only means to greet Lady Catherine properly. It has been some time since they have been in company,” Lady Ashby remarked at her husband’s side. She sent an encouraging smile Catherine’s way.

“And so, he has greeted her.” Amusement saturated her brother’s tone. “What say you, Darcy?”

Catherine turned to her suitor, finding no trace of his true feelings upon his face.

“If you will excuse me,” he said to the ladies, with a small smile.

Catherine was happy to see Mr George Darcy follow her brother into the house. Her nerves had nearly gotten the best of her, and she was relieved to see the gentleman go before she said the wrong thing. Luckily now, she would have until dinner to think of some thoughtful conversation topics.

As the rest of the party moved inside and gathered in the entrance hall, Mr Phillip Darcy and his wife spoke quietly with her parents until they were taken to their guest chambers.

Finding themselves very much alone after the front hall cleared, she shared an expression of satisfaction with her mother who nodded her approval from the doorway.

Lady Barringer took hold of Catherine’s stays and shooed away her daughter’s personal maid, Jones. It was a rare occasion indeed when the countess joined her to prepare for dinner. Her mother pulled tightly, disavowing Catherine of any previous expectation she may have had of taking a deep breath for the remainder of the evening.

“Doing your duty shall be accomplished easily, my darling. Mr Darcy looks not for fault, for his promise to our family is already secured. But I do warn you, gentlemen can be fickle creatures. You must remind him tonight of his commitment to our family and ease any doubts he may have.”

Her mother’s contradictory statements did not increase Catherine’s confidence. Was the marriage secure or was Mr George Darcy to decide this very evening if she was worthy?

Regardless of her questions, a rebuttal would not do. “Yes, mother,” Catherine replied.

“Remember to soften your voice.”

She pulled tightly once more. Catherine gasped and answered more quietly. “I always do.”

“Remember to flatter him but not overtly. Let him take the lead. If you have an opportunity to gently guide the conversation, find a way to encourage him to speak more about himself. It is not polite to speak of yourself, and gentlemen like to speak of their own preferences. You could ask him about his properties, for example. If he makes a joke, respond with good cheer, but do not laugh loudly. Remember that curiosity is not becoming, merely a sign of stupidity. He will not thank you for endless questions about the running of his estate. You must curb your appetite to host an inquisition about your future life. If you must ask about Pemberley, ask of the gardens or the neighbours. You shall learn more in due time.”

Catherine nodded.

“Keep your opinions to yourself. They are insignificant,” Lady Barringer warned.

“Of course.”

Lady Barringer took a step back, apprising herself of Catherine’s looks. She nodded in approval, which was a blessing, as Catherine’s broad shoulders and curves differed from both of her sisters. While Eloise and Anne were built soft and petite, Catherine was often told she had strongly-marked features. She was also the only Fitzwilliam child to inherit her father’s formidable height.

“Thank goodness your Mr Darcy is tall. I did not have to worry about such things with Eloise.” Lady Barringer released a sigh.

The mention of Eloise turned Catherine’s stomach. And not for the first time that night, she felt a flutter of fear telling her to run, run, run .

“The outcome shall be as we expect,” her mother continued. “Your excellent brother has already spoken to Mr Darcy. He understands why he is here and why we can no longer delay.”

Her mother cupped Catherine’s face in her hands, and she was warmed by this uncommon sign of affection. The countess’s teased and powdered hair soared behind her like a beacon signalling her importance. It was no wonder that St Paul’s Cathedral in London had to be raised four feet to accommodate the latest mode of hairstyling. The thought almost made Catherine chuckle, but she kept it to herself, as usual.

“You shall be betrothed by tomorrow, and we shall celebrate the joining of our families before your Mr Darcy’s parents depart on Monday. I am sure your intended will stay on for at least a fortnight after his parents set off. You may use the remainder of his stay to come to know one another better.”

A quiet knock on the door interrupted her mother’s speech.

Lady Ashby joined the fray, observing Catherine’s appearance and smiling.

Lady Barringer nodded at Catherine encouragingly and departed.

“Your mother has imparted some wisdom, I presume?”

Catherine smiled at her sister by marriage. “I must endeavour to perfection this evening, it appears.”

“Gentlemen do not desire perfection, my dear. Do not forgo your mother’s guidance, but also do not sit mutely or fawn over the man. Gentlemen desire obedience as much as they enjoy a challenge.”

“A challenge?” The advice was not clear to Catherine.

Lady Ashby shifted Catherine aside to confirm her own advantageous looks in the mirror. “I know they do not teach such things in seminary, but it would do you some good to ensure Darcy has some interest in you. He must likewise exert himself. And for a gentleman as dashing as your Mr Darcy, it may take a little effort to see him come to the point. Let him see how lovely you are tonight—how impeccably dressed and proper and correct you are—but also make him perform for your attention somewhat. Make sure he knows he must not only propose but win your interest. You have far more choices than he, of course.”

“Choices? You know I have no say in this. My future has been decided—”

“Yes, but he has not asked, and you are not yet his. A promise from his parents to yours does not a marriage make. Let him desire you— compel him to want to know more. Instead of listing out your many accomplishments, perhaps mention one. This will entice him to ask more about you.”

“Mother says to guide the conversation so we might speak about him. I should rather not speak of my accomplishments. They are lacking, as you well know.”

Lady Ashby turned Catherine by the shoulders to face her. “What of your talent with water colours, my dear? Besides, I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintances, who are truly accomplished. Gentlemen need not know the specifics, only that you are just as you should be—a proper young lady with the correct education. He cares not if you can net a purse or cover a screen, but he might enjoy trying to identify which pursuits you prefer.”

“I do enjoy dancing,” Catherine offered.

“A wonderful example. Instead of saying ‘Mr Darcy, I do so enjoy dancing,’ bring up the subject of music and nothing more. Leave the subject vague, available for the taking, you see. This may persuade him to ask if you play the pianoforte.”

“I do not.”

“And then he might ask if you enjoy attending music performances.”

“I do.”

“And… perchance next he shall ask if you enjoy dancing. You see? Let him believe it is he who is in control of the conversation.”

“I see.”

“I am sure you do.” Lady Ashby reached up, patted Catherine’s shoulder, and then excused herself.

Except Catherine did not see—not truly. Why should one not simply say what they mean? Exact instructions were much more to her liking. Why must she concern herself overmuch? Their family’s understanding was as longstanding as it was inevitable.

Catherine had already failed in one aspect—she had nearly reached her majority, and she was not married, while Lady Ashby had accomplished all that was expected of her at a much younger age. She had married well at eighteen and birthed the heir to the Barringer earldom before she was twenty.

The viscountess had been even more efficient than Lady Barringer, for she produced a spare merely two years later. Master Luke Edward Graham Fitzwilliam, the heir to the earldom, was not three years old, and baby Richard had been born just after Michaelmas. While Lady Ashby’s efforts had been exceedingly successful, the countess had spent nearly a decade attempting to be delivered of a second son, only to have three consecutive daughters.

Jones returned to put the finishing touches on Catherine’s hair, including the addition of a few delicate diamond hairpins. Catherine could admit she was in advantageous looks that night. The cut of the robe à l’Anglaise reduced the appearance of her wide shoulders and, in her opinion, bound her waist in a most flattering way. The elegant, sapphire-coloured silk lay beautifully—cinching her waist and pouring out into a fashionable, pleated skirt, splitting in the front to reveal a striped blue and ivory petticoat. The effect made Catherine feel feminine and mature. She was no longer a girl in the nursery. She was a woman grown—and a woman who would find her fate this very night.

Jones took her by the hands and told her affectionately, “My lady, you look lovely. I shall wish you very happy tomorrow morning.”

Before Jones became a complete watering pot, Catherine excused her favourite servant and took herself downstairs for dinner.