Page 14 of The Making of Lady Catherine de Bourgh
Chapter fourteen
May 1782
A happy energy rushed through Catherine as she passed through the woods that bordered Rosings and found Mr de Bourgh waiting for her at the end of the path.
After dispensing with the necessary pleasantries, her potential suitor wasted no time at all in telling her how he felt.
“I was disappointed to not have a chance to speak with you at the picnic.”
Catherine blushed. She too had been disappointed—in that and the assembly. If only propriety permitted her to tell him of her true disappointment and her dearest wishes.
“Would you do me the honour of allowing me to walk you to Whitmore?” He asked.
“Yes, thank you,” she murmured quietly. “Your company would have been welcome at the picnic as well as the assembly. I feel it has been many days since we have had an opportunity to speak.”
He offered his arm, which she took hold of with delighted alacrity. They moved in concert together easily. What a pleasant fit , she thought.
“Pray please forgive me for abandoning you at the recent assembly. Lewis’s steward sent word to bring me back to Rosings—you know how my cousin relies on me,” he said, looking a bit sheepish, which increased Catherine’s pity for the gentleman.
What folly! Could not the steward beckon Sir Lewis if help was sincerely needed in the middle of the night? Could not Sir Lewis have mentioned it to her when he danced in his cousin’s place? That man had all the pleasant accoutrements of his position and yet he was nothing but unpardonable when it came to Mr de Bourgh.
“And as for the picnic,” he continued, “I could not have said it better than you. Your company would also have been welcome, however preoccupied I might have been by other company—I should have sought you out.”
Finding him utterly innocent of any wrongdoings, it was easy to settle back into their normal conversation topics and his humorous anecdotes.
Catherine could not countenance spending more time with Mr de Bourgh without learning more about his family. At length, she discovered that Mr de Bourgh’s parents had died when he was young, leaving him to spend many summers at Rosings and winters with another aunt in London. After Oxford, he had settled in town, which had the benefit of being a short ride to the family estate in Kent. Everything was as it should be. If it would not raise expectations, she would write to her brother and ask more about his friend.
“I am preparing to take over management, so I must be close at hand,” he said.
“Why would Sir Lewis pass over the obligation to you?” Catherine asked.
“He is bored of the country and feels overwhelmed by the responsibility. He never plans to marry again, so he knows it will be me rightfully taking over the estate at a later time. He hopes to speed that transition. My cousin was never overly fond of Kent to begin with.”
“I had no notion of his plans!”
“It is why I am here now. He wants to travel the continent and shall be handing me my inheritance sooner than ever expected.”
“He puts much trust in you.” And rightly so. Mr de Bourgh was plainly an attentive representative of Rosings Park. Lady Barringer would approve. It was not correct to shirk one’s responsibilities. And it was no surprise to Catherine to learn that Sir Lewis was lacking.
“He need not—I have been managing his properties for some time.”
Catherine felt a strange excitement to know that should she and Mr de Bourgh continue this discreet courtship, it could one day lead to a proposal in truth—and Rosings! Her parents may not like her making a choice for herself, but once they saw the vast property, they would surely come around in some time.
They could be engaged before she returned to Derbyshire in July and then marry from Oakley in the Autumn. It could be done before year’s end, and she would no longer be required to fear the future. Removing that uncertainty was paramount to her happiness.
The possibility of resolving difficulties for herself made her walk in even a more enthusiastic manner. She felt a weight of worry lift. Even if her mother could not bother to write her, she would have to respond if Catherine were to write with such happy news. Mr de Bourgh’s situation in life was quite suitable—grand, rather! Pemberley was nothing to Rosings Park!
“What think you of Rosings, my lady?” Mr de Bourgh asked rather pointedly.
Catherine felt the weight of the question and turned her head, angling her hat so that she could take in the gardens and fine house. “It pleases me very much. It is a testament to your devotion, surely.”
Catherine spent the next few minutes answering questions about Derbyshire, Oakley, and her family’s house in town.
“Barringer House is in Grosvenor Square. Where is your house in town?” she asked him.
“Very nearby—assuredly, one could walk.”
That pleased her too. Rosings and a house in town. She could not but keep the smile from her face.
When they reached the hedgerow that lined Whitmore, Catherine stopped and thanked him for taking the time to accompany her.
“There is no need to thank me. I take much joy in walking with you,” he responded. “Perhaps we might see one another tomorrow? Have you seen the folly at Rosings? We could meet there after your daily sojourn to the parsonage.”
Catherine’s heart sank at that. A walk through the gardens was one thing, but a clandestine meeting was quite another.
“I am not certain my aunt would approve. She will worry when I do not return at the designated time.”
“Your aunt need not know, my lady. You are a woman grown. Are you not? You might simply tell her that you plan to remain at the parsonage an hour longer than usual.”
His words soaked into her being. They clawed at her deeply held desire to be taken more seriously. It was just what she had lately been thinking on. She was grown, if not of age—but that hardly mattered. She knew her mind and was capable of telling her aunt she would be at the parsonage longer through the afternoon.
“I shall think on it.” She could hardly make him a promise.
“And I shall wait all day.”
That made her laugh. “No need for that. If I am able, I shall meet you at half past three.”
That made his grin grow even wider, his eyes alight with joy.
She could hardly wait. That future—the answer to all her questions—felt once again within her reach.
“Lady Catherine! You came.” Mr de Bourgh made his way across the lawn and reached for Catherine’s hand. He bowed over her wrist regally and laid a kiss upon the back of her hand.
“I said I would try.”
Catherine was already nervous. It was not like her to make secret plans of this nature. What would her aunt think of her? What would Lady Barringer say? She should have at least brought Dawson along. She had lain awake well into the night contemplating whether to meet him.
It was one thing to allow him to guide her across the grounds of Rosings once or twice, but quite another to plan a tete-a-tete in a quiet corner of the estate.
Mr de Bourgh appeared elated, and for now, that would have to be enough for her. She would reap any consequences at a later time.
“The folly is quite lovely. Did you have some larger part in seeing it built? I did wonder about you bringing me here.”
“A perceptive woman you are.” He smiled that expression that made her stomach flip.
“Will you attend the ball that Lord Metcalfe is hosting?” Catherine inquired.
“That I shall. I had hoped to claim your first set, should you allow it,” Mr de Bourgh said.
“I would be honoured.” Her face burned and her cheeks ached from smiling. After he left the assembly early, she had been hoping to have another chance to dance with him.
Mr de Bourgh took Catherine’s wrist and spun her around with a flourish. His light-heartedness warmed her.
When he had finished spinning her about, he pulled her wrist just a touch and brought her closer—so that she was standing directly in front of him. His joyful and jubilant spirits were contagious.
“I have a question of some importance that I would like to ask you.” His smile remained, but his voice took on a more serious tone.
She nodded. She would welcome any entreaty today. He was ever so kind to her.
“I have told you about my inheritance and my plans for Rosings,” he said, measuredly.
“You have.” She felt out of breath and body, filled with an unfamiliar anxiety.
“But I was remiss to leave out the most crucial part.” At this, his gaze sobered, and he looked her in the eye. “I should like a wife and a family, and I feel I have met the right lady to be mistress of Rosings.”
Catherine’s breath was coming and going ever so quickly.
“Lady Catherine Fitzwilliam, would you do me the great honour of becoming my wife?”
If Catherine thought she could not breathe before, she was sorely mistaken. Her entire world tilted on its edge as the question she had most wanted to hear for many months had finally been asked of her, and for some peculiar reason, her immediate thought was run, run, run . That nagging voice inside that turned her stomach and made her breath catch was back. That voice that told her no—this is not right. It had returned, and it was screaming at her.
She wondered how much of that voice was truly her and how much was her mother. If it were the latter, she was just coming around to the possibility that ignoring that voice might be in her best interest.
And yet—there he stood—a smiling, kind gentleman that she had been eager to imagine a future with, putting himself before her as a match. An exceedingly suitable match. With a very happy future.
And she hesitated.
“The earl—my father—” It was all she could think of to say. “My family has not met you.”
Mr de Bourgh pulled her closer, setting his hands on her shoulders—nearly an embrace, and as close to one as she had ever experienced.
“My darling, how could your father object? Look around you. Is not Rosings enough proof of my worth? My cousin has dined at your father’s table, has he not? And your aunt approves.”
“Does she?” Her aunt had never spoken about Mr de Bourgh to Catherine.
“Are we not friendly neighbours? I am certain all will be well.”
Catherine was not certain. She was, frankly, understanding Virginia more than she ever had before. This felt fast—faster than she had imagined. While she had hoped for his attentions, it did not follow that she had been prepared for a proposal this quickly. His admiration, she had sought and conquered, it seemed.
“I have not reached my majority.”
“Once you tell your father that you have made a promise to me, he will see that it cannot be undone. Be brave, my lady.”
And she wanted to. She dearly wanted to be brave. But this did not feel courageous, it felt reckless.
He must have noticed her fear, for he spoke quickly and reassuringly, “Graham will surely approve. Give me your word. I love you. Let us be married at the first possible moment.”
Graham . That one word shocked her more than he could have known. Lord Ashby, the viscount, Graham Edward Luke Fitzwilliam. Mr de Bourgh had called her brother by his Christian name. It was a rare occurrence. She herself had never called him Graham. No one called her brother Graham. She did not know whether to rejoice that their friendship allowed such an oddity or to be frightened for her suitor, who was conceivably out of his depth. Once again, he shirked the responsibility of addressing someone by their title and it confused her.
“Listen to me, Catherine,” he interrupted her thoughts.
There it was again—a frankness and freedom she permitted no one in her sphere. She was always Lady Catherine, even with her closest friends. If he thought showing this informality would endear her to him, he was working under false presumptions. With her guidance, she could help to manage these near blunders in the future.
He continued, “All will be well. We can announce our engagement at the ball and then send a letter to your parents. We need not wait for their approval to begin making plans. I have no apprehensions. We shall have their support once they hear the good news.”
In the end, Catherine had left Mr de Bourgh with no certain answer. She promised to give him one at the ball. When they danced the first set.
She felt overwhelmed with emotion as she walked with purpose back to Whitmore. On the one hand, she felt she had solved all of her problems. Mr de Bourgh had chosen her—not Anne, not any of the other beautiful ladies in the neighbourhood. He selected her and appeared to favour her above all. It was a thrilling sensation. She imagined Emilia squealing with joy about love and romance, and a chuckle bubbled up in her.
She did not love him, nor did she feel that any notion of romance was necessary. But he had been fairly passionate in his sentiments. Above all, his interest would increase her importance, and it felt fine to be desired for the first time. She had never felt this way during her first Season. Most of the gentlemen who had asked her to dance in London had only been in pursuit of gaining favour with her brother or the earl—only seeking a closer connection to her family, not Catherine.
She was lucky, then, that her mother had been focused on Eloise and told her particularly that no suitors would be considered for her at that time. Elder sisters married first, and she was merely in London that spring to make friends and be seen.
She had enjoyed the sights, the theatre, and all the lovely balls. She had little interest in the gentlemen and now had absolutely no practice in knowing what was up or down with men in general.
Knowing that she and Anne would be engaged the same Season, however, did increase her pride. She could hold her chin high if she said yes. No one would dare say that the de Bourghs of Rosings Park were not a fortunate alliance.
But perhaps they might. She wondered if that sick feeling in her stomach was her concern for her parents’ approval. Anticipating the needs of her family, their guests, and greater company was the education of her lifetime. But, in this moment, she could not guess. Accepting him before calling on her mother’s opinion had the potential to be the most detrimental choice of her life.
And yet, she felt eager to see the deal done. Even the apprehension pouring through her veins could not stop the joy that ran in parallel. All of her dreams for her time in Kent were coming true. She would be a married woman, a woman of great property, soon and hopefully one day, a mother and a principal lady in the neighbourhood.
It was that thought that carried her into Whitmore with a smile upon her face and a lighter step.
She would soon be Lady Catherine de Bourgh.