Page 10 of The Making of Lady Catherine de Bourgh
Chapter ten
March 1782
M ornings in Kent were delightful. Both ladies took trays in their chambers, had leisurely meals on their own, and then joined one another in the Morning Room. Lady Rosamund had many friends indeed! They never went a day without callers, and Catherine joined her aunt to return the calls they received. It was busier than life at Oakley, for there were many people of quality in the area. After only a fortnight in Kent, Catherine was feeling overjoyed. It was a much needed respite, even if it did not solve for the problem that was her unsettled future.
One afternoon in March, Martha brought two letters when she came to dress Catherine for dinner. Barringer House, London March 8, 1782 My dear Catherine, I write to inform you that your family arrived safely at Barringer House at half past eleven on the fifth of March. The roads were sufficient and the weather acceptable. Your father joined us on the seventh of March, after a stop at Pemberley. Once his business there was conducted, he followed us to London—and I shall tell you directly, the matter is settled. In preparation for the coming months, we have been to the modiste, the milliners, and the cobblers. Seamstresses have come to Barringer House also to take measurements. Your sister will attend her first ball tomorrow night and make her curtsey in a fortnight. We expect to make a special announcement in early April and host the related event by early June. My escritoire is overrun with invitations that I must attend to, so I will write more at a later date. I have directed Lady Ashby to send you a more complete letter. I am dependent on the post to know you, too, are well. Remember what you owe your family and return directly to us at Oakley in early July. Your mother, Lady Barringer
The letter was just as she had expected. The countess only ever wrote to her with the strictest formality and essential information. The next letter was just as her mother had directed: from Lady Ashby and far thicker and more detailed. Lady Catherine set her mother’s note aside on a low, polished table next to the comfortable chair she inhabited and tore open the message from Elinor. Barringer House, London March 6, 1782 My dearest Catherine, We arrived safely in London yesterday. I hope your travels were as uneventful as our own. And I am pleased to say that everyone is well and in good health. Your brother has already taken himself off to his club, and I am certain when your father arrives, he shall accompany him as well to do whatever it is that gentlemen of excellent quality do at those institutions. I shall soon follow his lead by departing after the morning meal and making a day of calling on my friends in town. My mother would like to imagine herself the first on my list of calls, but she would be wrong. Perhaps instead I shall deliver her two grandchildren to her and see if that is what she intended when she asked me to call directly upon arrival. What a scene that would be! Nanny Mary manages the boys well, but I can see that it exhausts her. When I visit the nursery, little Richard is growing so strong—much stronger than his older brother Luke at this age. The viscount says it is because he is destined to be a military man, as most second sons of good breeding are. But I also see a softness about him and wonder what he will become. Both boys will surely be happy to see your return to Oakley at the end of summer. I must confess, you have been much on my mind. While the family planned for your particular future last autumn, pertaining to a certain person who also resides in Derbyshire, I was focused only on being delivered safely of my second child. I will admit to spending most of my days resenting that I was at Oakley. I had dreamed of spending the autumn at the manor in Ramsgate or the townhouse in Bath. But of course, the countess reminded me that sons of Barringer are always to be born at Oakley. After Richard was born, I kept much to myself. Of course, your brother kept me abreast of some details, but I have to admit, I had no notion to get involved. And, as the countess believes new mothers should not be seen until they are churched, I was left on the outside of most of the discussion as it pertains to you. I say this not to excuse my idleness, but to say that it was not truly until that guest arrived that I realized how little your particular happiness was figured into the decision. I want you to know that a husband can be of your choosing—someone you find very agreeable—and still be blessed and supported by your parents. If not, it is advantageous that you are nearly one and twenty, is it not? Be courageous, my dear. Courage, I am familiar with, am I not? For I will surely stifle my abhorrence as I attend endless musicales and dinner parties over the coming months where I am forced to listen to young ladies debut their talents on pianofortes and harps and the like, all aiming to be proclaimed the most talented young lady in all of England. I shall forbear to not trip over lost shoe roses at balls and laugh with genuine cheer when the gentlemen of the peerage make ghastly jokes around dinner tables. Ladies are called to abstain from opinion and acumen, but it is our greatest secret, is it not? For we are the levers that progress society, bending the gentlemen to our will in our furtive little ways. You have enough pluck to see yourself through this season of your life. Live audaciously and listen to that unflinching voice of hope in your mind. It shall not guide you wrongly. If you will permit me one last request, do write and tell me about Kent. You may be assured of my confidentiality and devotion to your happiness and should not feel you must keep any secrets from me. You would not thank me for sharing your personal reflections, and I shall not. You have my word. March 8, 1782 Your mother has just asked me to pen you a long, detailed letter of the state of our affairs, so I shall finish this message today and start a new one tomorrow. Shall I remark on the daily habit of trips to Bond Street or the ribbons on your sister’s new hat? I think not. You can picture it well, I am sure. I hope I can say that I have already sufficiently assuaged your mother’s request, though I feel there is little to report on. Be well, my dear. I wish you every happiness. I hope this letter finds you in good health and heart. I miss you dearly. Yours Affectionately, Elinor
Catherine held Lady Ashby’s letter to her chest. She let the tears that gathered in her eyes fall, for she could feel Elinor’s encouragement all these miles away.
Coddling, Elinor Fitzwilliam would never be. But it was pleasing to have her friendship. If only she too were in Kent to better guide and direct Catherine on her prospects.
A card party held at Baldwin Manor some days later found Catherine among her new slew of friends. The ladies were lively when together, and Catherine discovered she enjoyed listening more than talking, as unnatural as it felt. She could not be but thankful to be surrounded by new people during this tumultuous time in her life. Catherine always did feel the bonds of friendship quite deeply.
She had been lately wondering if she might select a husband from those in the area and remove that burden from her parents, but no such young gentleman had caught her eye. Her parents had taught her to be discerning, and so she would be—especially if it came to selecting a husband for herself.
This night found them in the company of a gentleman she had been introduced to at the recent assembly—a Mr Webb. She had been informed that he was the heir to a small estate nearby which brought in only 1,000 pounds per annum; however, his location in this wealthy part of Kent benefited him greatly, situating him with so many people of quality. He was sure to do better finding a wife locally than making an attempt in London, though he would likely not have the means to take a house in town.
Virginia especially seemed to be pleased with Mr Webb. “Tell us, Mr Webb, do you favour card parties or musicales? I am partial to music, but I know how you like to play a trick.”
An impressive flirt, she was.
“I do favour cards, as you well know. Will you not partner me for Whist tonight? I see Lord Metcalfe was unable to join us this evening.”
“You should be so fortunate,” Virginia replied with a cunning smile that revealed her interest in toying with the gentleman. “I would rather remain with my friends, talking, for some time. Will you not join us? We are all good friends, are we not?”
“I would be honoured, Miss Sedgwick.”
“Amuse us,” Virginia dared Mr Webb. She turned to Catherine to say, “Mr Webb is best known for always having an ear to the greatest on dit from town and abroad. He is a great letter writer, with many acquaintances across England.”
“I could be compelled to think of something that would entertain you ladies,” he promised. “Ah, I have it! I have had a letter from my cousin in Hertfordshire who sends a most scandalous report from his corner of England. The village is all tittering about a full young, talented flirt—of not 16 years—who has recently had her come out.”
“Not sixteen? Heaven and earth! Of what are her parents thinking,” Catherine responded, aghast.
“You heard me rightly, my lady. She is the daughter of a local solicitor, and very beautiful, if my reports are correct. And—hear this—she is attempting to court the interest of the principal landowner in their vicinity! Indeed, my cousin reports, she thinks very highly of herself, putting herself forward in such a way. But his neighbour, the landowner I speak of, a Mr Bennet, has better sense than to marry her. He is a Cambridge educated gentleman, a bookish sort, if a lackadaisical landlord.”
Miss Hawkins gasped. “I wonder if she will be successful!”
“Unfortunately, that is the end of my tale.” Mr Webb pouted exaggeratedly.
The gall of the young lady! To try and usurp the gentlewomen in her neighbourhood and attempt to take her place in the gentry. It was a shocking story indeed. Contriving, artful coquetry at such a young age! It had to be a falsity.
“You tease us,” Mrs Bates responded to Mr Webb. “I am sure your cousin only writes to entertain you, or you pretend the entire farce in order to provide us some diversion tonight.”
Miss Hawkins joined the fray, “It sounds so romantic!”
“Posh!” Mrs Bates responded to Miss Hawkins. “You shall see one day when you find your husband that it is not nearly as romantic as those novels you indulge in. Marriage is a sensible choice, and only a lady of low breeding would attempt to attach herself to such a man as this Mr Bennet. My mother always says, we must understand our place in the world. And she is never wrong.”
Catherine agreed with Mrs Bates. It was nice to hear some sense spoken. Her mother sounded lovely.
“It is quite diverting, I think. Fiction or not, I think many ladies like the idea of a little romance.” Virginia batted her eyelashes at Mr Webb as she responded. Her expression sparkled with mirth.
Catherine wondered at her new friend. Why, with such a great match nearly settled, would Virginia waste her time flirting with Mr Webb? Catherine was glad Lord Metcalfe was not present to see her performance that night.
Lady Barringer would certainly not approve of this conversation. But Catherine wondered what Lady Ashby would think. She smiled to herself, imagining Lady Ashby at the party. She would be a force to be sure. She would likely be diverted by the conversation but would never sink to participate openly. As such, Catherine would emulate her sister by marriage for the time being. She had little time for such low-brow topics, of course.
The following week, Lady Rosamund took Catherine to the parsonage to take tea with her friends. They had made the arrangements at a party the night before.
As they rode down the lane that would lead to Hunsford, Lady Rosamund pointed to the drive of the estate that they passed regularly on their way to the village, called Rosings Park.
“As I will be in Westerham for much of the day, you can walk back to Whitmore through the grounds of Rosings Park.” Her aunt pointed and explained the path she would need to take to return to Whitmore.
Catherine was not fond of walking out of doors. They never had these concerns at Oakley, where many carriages were always at the ready for outings. But Catherine was determined to find her own way forward while she was in Kent, embracing new people and embarking on little adventures.
She knew her sister, Lady Anne, would laugh at such a thought. A walk of some thirty minutes would not seem adventurous to her; but for Catherine, it was unique, and as such, she would accept the task with as much dignity as possible.
“Will not your neighbour be bothered by my trespassing through their gardens?”
Catherine had yet to meet the family that inhabited the great manor. They must be in London, for their house and grounds spoke of significant importance.
“No, my dear! It is Sir Lewis who lives at Rosings.” Lady Rosamund smiled and released a small laugh. “As you well know, the gentleman is in the north, and his people will not be disturbed by your presence. They are very accustomed to villagers and the like traipsing about the grounds. They are the loveliest gardens in all of Kent, I should think.”
Sir Lewis . Her remembrance of the gentleman was less than positive. Petulant. Insolent. To think that he was the owner of such a property! It nearly took her breath away to consider. She would never have guessed it.
Once the ladies had finished their tea and gossip, Mrs Sedgwick directed one of their maids to accompany Lady Catherine as far as the edge of the park. While her aunt had implied that many people use these paths, Mrs Sedgwick had the good sense to ensure Catherine would not find herself lost on her first walk from their house to her aunt’s home.
A canopy of large oaks and sycamores sheltered her shoulders from the sun as she walked quietly down the well-used path. The maid bowed to Lady Catherine when she left her at the edge of the grounds of Rosings. The maid, like Catherine’s aunt, pointed in the direction where she might find the path to Whitmore. Her trepidation was great, but she could not let the young scullery maid know. She was meant to set an example for the worthy poor, was she not?
Large hedges banked the perimeter of the woods, opening to a sprawling formal garden. Many people might enjoy a walk through gardens in early spring, viewing new blooms and acknowledging the breaks in the earth which would soon spring stems that would adorn Rosings with life and colour. But not Catherine. She could not take many steps before being assaulted by one flying bug or another. Even with a chill still in the air, the small buzzing beasts had come above ground to take the air, much to her distaste.
It was unladylike to swat at bugs, but no one of importance was in the vicinity. Catherine picked up her skirts and increased her pace.
“My lady!” A voice carried across the grounds.
Catherine turned slowly and took in a gentleman aiming to reach her. Evidently, she had not been alone in the gardens at Rosings Park, for Mr Arthur de Bourgh was approaching her with quick, long strides.
“Mr de Bourgh,” Catherine replied with a small curtsey of welcome. She had to turn her face just so to ensure her wide straw hat, set at an angle upon her coiffure, would block the sun.
The gentleman was happy, it seemed, to see her.
“Welcome to Rosings,” he said. “What a fine coincidence this is. To what do I owe the pleasure of finding you here?”
Lady Rosamund had clearly forgotten Sir Lewis had a guest when she advised that no one would be at Rosings that day.
“I took tea at the parsonage this afternoon, and I am returning to Whitmore Park.”
“Of course. If you will permit me, I shall be happy to escort you to your destination.”
Lady Catherine was sensitive of the dangers of spending time with single gentlemen while not chaperoned, but perhaps this was the way of the country. She was nothing if not interested in fitting into the quaint and informal culture of this corner of Kent.
“You may,” Catherine replied and turned to resume her walk.
Mr de Bourgh matched her strides and joined her. “It is a beautiful day, is it not? Do you enjoy walking?”
“A little,” she replied.
“I find a good walk invigorating.”
She murmured her assent, but she was not one to banter long about the weather or topics of disinterest to her. She was obliging, as taught, but offered little in response to his continued comments about the weather, the benefits of walking, and the grandeur that would be the gardens after some weeks. The blooms, he said, were magnificent, and Catherine realized that the gentleman must visit often, for his knowledge and comfort on the grounds were quickly evident.
“And this one,” he pointed to a gnarled green stalk that climbed up from the ground, “will hold the lilies that my Aunt de Bourgh used to cultivate herself.”
“I see. I am sure they are lovely,” Catherine replied, though she had quickly realized the man was no horticulturist. Even for someone who preferred to spend her time indoors, she was able to identify the stalks of a rose bush. She would certainly share this little on dit with Lady Ashby, who was sure to laugh at the farce.
“I have such happy memories here from my childhood. De Bourgh does not devote himself like his mother did to the gardens, but the work of my aunt is still evident.”
“Who do you mean? I thought Rosings belonged to Sir Lewis.”
“Oh—you have caught me out! Yes, of course, he is now Sir Lewis; but I keep forgetting the King knighted him. It was such a simple thing he accomplished that I can never remember! His Majesty has become quite liberal in his knighting just about anyone who does a good deed now and again.”
His flippant demeanour shocked her. To speak ill of the King and forget his own cousin’s title in one breath—it was astonishing.
Mr de Bourgh must have seen the reproof on Catherine’s face, for he immediately apologised and explained that he and his cousin were so close that it had been hard to remember his correct form of address. “In fact, I almost always simply address him as ‘cousin.’ Please do forgive my mistake.”
Catherine considered his appeal but was still not certain he was truly sorry, for he wore a wide grin that matched his cheerful demeanour.
“I am sure it was only that I was so taken with your beauty and thankful for an opportunity to walk with you that I simply have forgotten how to speak.”
Her reaction was immediate. A light-headed rush of embarrassment and excitement cascaded through her. She used the wide brim of her hat to shelter her reaction and provide a physical barricade to his overt flattery.
“Please do not tell Ashby of my failure,” he said.
The mention of her brother startled her, and she stopped her forward motion. “Pardon me?”
“Your brother and I were great friends at Oxford. I would hate for him to hear about my blunder. Do protect me from a great teasing when next we see one another.”
Her brother! The viscount was friends with Mr de Bourgh? What a laugh. She would never picture her staid brother friends with such a flatterer. It brought to mind that she may not know her brother well, and by befriending Mr de Bourgh, she might learn more about Lord Ashby through his loose-lipped friend.
Realizing the viscount would approve of the new friendship, her relief was immediate as their walk continued, and she finally espied the edge of the woods and the chimneys of Whitmore sailing above the trees.
“Thank you for your escort, sir,” she said quietly and kept moving at a quick pace.
“It was my great pleasure, Lady Catherine,” Mr de Bourgh replied, remaining at the edge of the woods while she continued forward.
She turned back only once, to reassure herself that he was not following her to the house and found him gone. It was a relief to be away from him. From his handsome face to his shocking and flattering words, he truly put her out of countenance in the most wonderful way.