Page 15 of The Making of Lady Catherine de Bourgh

Chapter fifteen

“A re you humming ?” Lady Rosamund looked aghast at Catherine.

A giggle that felt especially foreign indeed fell out of Catherine’s mouth. She was, frankly, elated.

“Apologies, my lady. I am only excited for the ball tonight.”

Her aunt looked to the time piece on the mantle. It was half past five, nearly the hour to abandon their places in the drawing room in favour of getting ready for the ball.

It was a rare day indeed when her aunt had no callers at Whitmore during receiving hours. But it must be that the ball being held that night at Persimmon Park was at the forefront of everyone’s minds. After a quiet afternoon, they had shared a small repast ahead of the night’s gaiety. As it stood, for all her anticipation, Catherine had little stomach for it and could hardly wait to abandon the drawing room for her chambers.

“Have you any particular gentlemen you hope to dance with tonight?” Her aunt was nothing if not perceptive.

“I may.” Catherine turned to avoid her aunt’s knowing gaze.

“I shall not force it out of you, but I know there is something you want to say. Do not fear my reaction—out with it!”

She had not planned to tell Lady Rosamund until she had accepted Mr de Bourgh, but she could not contain her joy at that moment. It had been the work of her lifetime to stifle her emotions, and yet, this pleasing news, she could not keep quiet.

“I have received an offer of marriage.”

Lady Rosamund gasped—and it was a sight to see! Catherine could no longer deny her cheerfulness.

“Have you? I had no notion you had a suitor in the area. Will you not tell me who?”

“I have not given him my answer, but I feel certain my parents will be pleased with the prospect.”

“Do you?” Lady Rosamund did not seem convinced. “I would caution you to continue to delay any reply and let me send a note to London. Your parents would not appreciate your giving any young man—pleasing or not—an answer without their knowing him and providing you with their guidance.”

“I had thought the same,” Catherine replied. “And yet, I believe I shall give him an answer tonight. He has secured my first set, and I fear if I do not answer him this evening, he shall be hurt.”

Lady Rosamund looked exceedingly concerned at that statement. “My darling, but you must delay! Any gentleman worthy of you would understand my caution.”

“Then send an express, Aunt, and we shall have my father’s blessing soon enough,” Lady Catherine said with some newfound authority. She stood and made to leave the room. “I must go start my toilette. Dawson will be preparing my bath now, as it is nearly five.”

Her aunt stood and followed her, “Please, dearest. I beg you to hear me in this—the earl’s attention is required. He could deny the release of your dowry if he objects. And you are in no position to legally accept. You have not yet reached your majority. Surely your young man knows this. Any gentleman who would ask you to forgo your father’s permission is not worthy of you. Do you not see?”

This irritated her to no end. “Do you not think I have considered all angles of this? I am a woman grown. And my parents have abandoned me to focus only on my younger sister. If I do not seize this opportunity, I shall be a spinster before long!”

“How can you say such a thing?” Lady Rosamund asked. “You are conscious that your parents have not abandoned you. It was your choice to accompany me to Kent. I am not suggesting that I or my brother would impede an engagement. I am not suggesting a delay of great length nor promising that your parents shall not be in favour of the match. Only that you must see that consulting with the earl is imperative. You are my responsibility, and I take that seriously. Where is this coming from?”

“Abandon me, they have.” Catherine jutted out her chin. “And for once, I shall take control and see to my future on my own.”

“The earl will not appreciate my allowing this type of secret courtship. I had no notion! Catherine, I beg of you—”

Catherine stood tall, rising far over her aunt’s shoulders and looking down at her with a defiance that was new and thrilling. “You shall not be held accountable. I shall explain the entire situation when the earl arrives.” Catherine smirked and whispered, “He shall forgive me all my impertinence and eagerness to answer my suitor when he hears that I shall be the future mistress of Rosings Park.”

Lady Rosamund’s eyes grew at that information. “You cannot be serious.”

Catherine held her gaze and saw her aunt’s approval softening her demeanour. She understood now. And she seemed pleased. Her aunt would be happy to call her neighbour.

Lady Rosamund replied, “Do not take my reaction for approval. The earl is still required. I shall send an express directly, but pray, please tell your suitor that a delay is necessary so that he might take an audience first with the earl. I know he shall understand completely. He is not without propriety nor good manners. And let us pray that your father travels with haste. He is required at Whitmore immediately.”

Her aunt left her to go straight to her desk at the back of the room. Once Catherine had seen her pull out a clean sheet of paper, she excused herself.

Catherine had saved her favourite ball gown for a special event and was exceeding pleased to have done so. Imagining Mr de Bourgh’s reaction made her smile as she approached the carriage. A stranger in Whitmore livery stood at the front of the coach. Dawson had not mentioned anything about Harold, her aunt’s driver, being replaced. And Dawson always gave Catherine the latest information about the estate.

A footman approached and handed her and Lady Rosamund up into the darkness of the carriage. It was not five miles to Lord Metcalfe’s home—very little time, ensuring that her skirts remained untarnished from the ride. The gown was done in the softest pink with gold embroidery, opening at her waist to reveal a white silk skirt with flounces of the finest lace, displaying her wealth and importance. It would indeed be the finest gown at the ball, of that she was certain.

When the ladies arrived, a footman handed her down, and she waited for her aunt. After visiting with their hosts in the receiving line and greeting a few friends in attendance, her aunt took her arm and led her into the great hall.

It was decorated with fresh flowers, and the candlelight bounced off of all the polished surfaces in the room.

Catherine could hear the musicians tuning their instruments for the first set. While her aunt guided her across the room, she could not help but seek out her suitor with her eyes. She looked in every direction and finally found him—smiling and serene, standing near an open door that must lead to a balcony or terrace. He was surrounded by other gentlemen from the neighbourhood, some known and some new to her. But his smile was for her alone, and she returned the gesture. It would be only a few moments until their set began and she gave him her answer.

Her aunt was still leading her about the room and came to a stop in front of Sir Lewis, who greeted both ladies with a welcoming smile and a deep bow.

“I saw you across the room, sir,” her aunt said to Sir Lewis, “and thought I should bring my niece to you for your dance. I understand you have claimed her first set.”

Oh dear .

Sir Lewis looked at Catherine with a question in his eyes. He almost seemed to be asking her if she wanted him to pretend that he was indeed her first partner. How had her aunt misunderstood her this greatly? Sir Lewis? Of what was she thinking! Of course, she would not be considering marriage to a man with an unhealthy proclivity towards seeing her uneasy and bewildered at every turn. Did not Mr de Bourgh say that everyone in the neighbourhood understood he was here to take his inheritance?

“You misunderstood me, Aunt,” Catherine said quietly to Lady Rosamund. “Sir Lewis did not claim my first set.”

Her aunt looked back and forth between Sir Lewis and Catherine in great confusion.

“I would be honoured to dance with you this evening, Lady Catherine,” Sir Lewis offered. “May I claim your second?”

She thanked him for the honour and wrote his name down.

Her aunt’s confusion was replaced with astonishment when Mr de Bourgh approached to claim her hand in the first set. As she let her suitor lead her to the dance floor, Lady Catherine looked back at Lady Rosamund and nearly laughed. How could her aunt think that it had been Sir Lewis who had proposed to her? Surely, as the closest neighbour to Rosings Park, her aunt was conscious of both gentlemen in residence! Besides, it was Mr de Bourgh who oversaw the property in the most meaningful way and handled disputes! And his inheritance was soon coming. Could she not see that it was he who was the prize?

“You seem in rather high spirits tonight, my lady.” Mr de Bourgh beamed. He inferred he understood her good humour, and he was right.

The dance did not allow any privacy in the way Catherine had hoped, so the next time the steps brought her closer to Mr de Bourgh she simply said, “I have given your question much thought and have come around to seeing your way of things.”

His smile was such that it lowered her typical guard, and she allowed a giggle to escape.

“Do you mean to tell me your answer is yes?” Mr de Bourgh looked thrilled.

She nodded.

“Thank you for your trust in me. You will not regret it.”

Their shared joy and boisterous attitudes were gaining notice from the other couples on the dance floor, and so Lady Catherine stifled her delight for the remainder of the set, but her happy eyes never left Mr de Bourgh.

She had done it. She had accepted his proposal and would soon be his wife. It would be the culmination of all of her parents’ wishes and teachings.

It was only her aunt’s confusion now that brought some concern to Lady Catherine. She informed Mr de Bourgh that his cousin had secured her next set, and so her future husband led her off the dance floor in the direction of Lady Rosamund and Sir Lewis.

He said very little in the way of farewells, simply nodding and excusing himself, not even greeting her aunt or his cousin. Catherine was conscious that Lady Rosamund was holding her tongue while they were in company, and she looked forward to easing any of her aunt’s concerns when they returned to Whitmore.

While she waited for the second set to begin, other gentlemen from the neighbourhood joined their small, gathered party and requested the honour of dancing with her.

By the time Sir Lewis led her onto the dance floor, she had four additional partners that would follow this dance. She was pleased, indeed.

Sir Lewis looked stern this evening, not quite his typical smirking self. She wondered at it. Could he already know about his cousin’s proposal and not approve of his cousin marrying? Did Sir Lewis disapprove of her? It would be no surprise considering the fact that he was constantly baiting her and taunting her. The thought made her enraged. He had better not get in the way of her joy. She was a Fitzwilliam! How could he deny that she was the ideal person to oversee the de Bourgh properties? It was he who had decided to abandon Rosings to his cousin, and surely he would not begrudge Mr de Bourgh a partner at his side.

She had no interest in pretending friendship with the man.

“You look tired, Sir Lewis.” It was his own fault that she told him the truth of it.

That comment seemed to lighten his mood. “And you look beautiful, my lady,” he said and then followed with a quieter answer near to her right ear, “And no honorific is necessary between friends. My name is Lewis—just as I told you when first we met.”

After four more partners, Catherine happily escaped the warm ballroom, exiting through the French doors that led outside. Couples were arranging themselves on the dance floor for the supper set, and she was pleased to find a moment of quiet and fresh air before the meal. She had hoped Mr de Bourgh would approach her for another set, but she had not seen him since he took himself into the card room some hours ago. It was flattering, though, to know that she was the only young lady he had asked to dance.

She found herself very alone outside on a long terrace that ran nearly the length of the house. Four single torches glowed along the stone railings, permitting more shadow than light. More torches were placed throughout the lawn, lining the paths of the formal gardens. A group of gentlemen gathered down below and in high spirits, puffs of white smoke encircling their heads. It made her chuckle. While the ladies grouped in the corners of the great hall for whispered conversation behind their embroidered fans, the gentlemen lit cigars and had their own private chats outside in the open air. What folly.

“My target is caught, my boys. You must congratulate me.” A voice filtered up through the garden that Catherine would know anywhere. Mr de Bourgh.

She did not much enjoy being called a target, but she did relish knowing that he was sharing their joy with Mr Fuller and some other gentlemen from the neighbourhood. She moved more fully into the shadows so she might hear more of what he had to say without being seen.

“. . . the unsuspecting, na?ve daughter of an earl with a pretty portion—40,000 pounds to be exact. All of my debts shall soon be paid in one fell swoop. I dearly hope I shall have some money left in my purse when Sir Lewis dies and I finally get Rosings for myself, which cannot happen soon enough.”

Catherine froze. Her hands began shaking, and she could not catch her breath. A spinning sensation overtook her that nearly made her faint outright. But she would not swoon. Not yet. If she had learned anything in Kent, it was that she had a voice, and she would use it now.

She was moving towards the light, taking herself closer to the railing to better see the men below.

“. . . her aquiline nose is too much like a hawk for my taste.”

“A goose, more like,” Mr Fuller chimed in.

“And so tall—” another voice rang out.

“Too masculine by half.”

All of their voices were mixing now. She could not ascertain which was Mr de Bourgh’s, for all the vitriol coming from the garden was enough to make her stomach roll in defeat. She hardly knew what to do—and it felt suddenly like a great punishment for making a decision on her own, for once in her life. Hands shaking and her breathing uneasy, she finally reached for the railing—to say what, she did not yet know.

She wanted to rail at the man and stomp her feet and scream at the unfairness.

Strong hands grabbed her by the shoulders, rubbing her upper arms. A voice reached her, whispering. “Hush now,” was murmured on her right. The stranger pulled her back from the railing, sinking them into near darkness. She turned her head to take in the strong, stern face of Sir Lewis. “Do not say anything just now. You have not been seen. I know I have encouraged you to speak your mind, but now is not the time. Let me return you to the party.”

Catherine turned in the shadows of the terrace to look Sir Lewis in the eye. “You know I cannot resume my evening as if naught has occurred.”

“Of course you might. I am the only other person here. No one of importance heard it. You can be assured of that. Everyone has taken themselves into the dining room for supper.”

“It is not that which prevents me from returning! I care not who heard—did you not hear what your cousin said ? I have given him my word ! I agreed to marry that horrible man.”

He sighed, resigned to her words and becoming visibly angrier by the second.

“I hoped I heard wrong,” Sir Lewis said gravely.

“You did not—surely you understood which daughter of an earl was being spoken of! For he described me quite specifically. Why must I be compared to a goose or a hawk? Only large birds with hooked beaks—why not a songbird with a pretty little bird call? Why do only the petite and dainty ladies receive such compliments?”

This seemed to soften him. “Your noble nose is just as it should be,” he said, running a finger from the top of her forehead to the end of her nose. “My cousin is not worthy of your notice and never will be.”

Mortification flooded her being. She was angry and hurt and felt a defeat that she had never known.

“I am nothing, sir,” she said so softly that she had to wonder if he would even hear her.

“Do not say such a thing.”

“It is true!” She spoke more loudly now. “Mr Darcy chose my sister over me with less than a fortnight of acquaintance, and now Mr de Bourgh was going to use me to raise himself up in the world! What more proof do you require?”

This time his finger set upon her lips, quieting her and ending her ramblings.

“You are not nothing! You are Lady Catherine Fitzwilliam! Daughter of an earl! Great niece of a duke! You are everything .” He told her.

At last, the emotion of the evening overtook her, and she fell against Sir Lewis’s chest. The sobs that escaped her felt foreign and embarrassing, but she had no power to stop them.

“I will help you out of this mess,” he said into her hair. “Whatever I can offer, it is yours.”

His gentle touch—arms wrapped around her shoulders and chin set upon her head—softened her. It awoke something in her that felt like home—like safety. She felt comforted by his nearness. It was a softness she had not expected from him.

“Promise me,” she whispered.

“I pledge my fealty to you.” She felt his beard move against her forehead as he answered her.

It was a relief to know he might help her, but it did not stop her unseemly weeping.

“Hush, little songbird. It only becomes a scandal if you allow it to be so. Hold your tongue, woman, and plan your fearsome retribution for another day. How many of your friends know of your promise to him?”

“Only my aunt,” she said after a rather unladylike hiccup. “But the identity of my betrothed was a mystery to her before the ball.”

“Lady Rosamund will protect you. And it is only his word against yours. I knew he was up to no good! I had seen him in my gardens with you, but I could not stand guard each hour of each day. Even my gardener and steward attempted to keep him away from you, but we could not be watchful at all times. How he came to find you so often, I shall never know. I should have spoken to your aunt of my concerns ages ago, but I let my pride get in the way. I did not want all of the neighbourhood to know that I did not trust Arthur. She will not forgive my lapse.”

“She will not hold you responsible. You knew nothing.”

“I knew enough. And while many in this county know my cousin’s honour is flimsy at best, he remains a favourite of many with whom he spent his childhood. I was right to worry about his fascination with you and attempt to keep him away.”

“How does one go about banning their guest from walking in the garden?” Catherine laughed lightly at the absurdity of it all.

“He is not a guest in my house.”

Mr de Bourgh was not allowed on the grounds at Rosings? She could barely comprehend the new information sinking her further into desolation. Her breath quickened once again, sobs pouring out once more, due to the enormity of her blunder about the worst gentleman in all of England.

“If he is so untrustworthy, if he is not even a guest in your home as I was led to believe—then I have been a supreme fool. He told me you were handing over Rosings . . . that he was receiving his inheritance early so you might travel the continent . . .”

“Hand over Rosings? My grasping cousin has not been invited to Rosings for many years. And yet I found him staying in a guest chamber, managing my staff, when I returned from Manchester. I sent him to the Green Lion in Hunsford weeks ago! I could not for the life of me determine why I kept finding him wandering my grounds regularly like a rat. I told myself I was overreacting when I saw him trotting you about the gardens. When I worried his objective could be you , I reasoned . . . well, I had hoped I was interpreting his actions wrongly. I assumed it was me—something to do with me that kept him returning to the estate.”

Mr de Bourgh had her convinced that he had the full run of the estate! Her foolishness was only the beginning of her defeat—her unfounded, na?ve trust, her complete stupidity, her ill-advised belief that a man could care for her, could choose her. It was all too much.

“If he is a known rogue and you attest that he is not permitted at Rosings, then why is he here in the neighbourhood? How has he been allowed at all of the events of such quality people?”

“His charm and our shared name allow him far too much latitude. And he was a favourite of my elder brother. He never did see our cousin’s shortcomings. I do not trust him, but I never thought him a villain—just a selfish creature who liked to take advantage of his relations. I thought him an idle man with delusions of becoming rich with little to no effort. I never thought the young ladies in our neighbourhood were at risk. I would have warned you. I assure you, I would have.” He ran a hand down his face and through his beard, “And I do not like to speak ill of my family publicly. I thought it was best, but I was wrong. This is all my fault. I take full responsibility, my lady.”

Despite her great dislike of the man, she once again found herself wrapped in the arms of Sir Lewis, clawing at his lapels and wishing to God that the events of the past hour had never happened. Unsure if she had reached for him or he for her, she found herself clinging to him—praying the consequences would disappear—hoping beyond hope that it was all a bad dream.

“Shall I find your aunt and bring her to you?”

“No, sir,” she whispered, taking a step back. “Perhaps you could call for our carriage and carry word to my aunt that I am feeling poorly. I cannot return to the ballroom in such a state.”

“Of course. It is the least I can do. Wait here. I shall speak to a footman about your coach and then find your aunt. Once I have done so, I will return and walk you around to the front of the house myself. I would not want you to encounter any of those gentlemen in the garden on your way.”

Catherine sighed and thanked him for his kind attention.

Lady Rosamund said very little on the drive back to Whitmore. She was holding her tongue, and Lady Catherine was conscious of it. Every time her aunt looked at Catherine in the darkness of the cab, she felt the weight of her aunt’s disappointment. Apparently, they were not going to speak of her behaviour that night. And that was just as well, because Catherine could not make heads nor tails of her decisions at that time. She wondered what Sir Lewis had told her aunt. Did he confide the truth in his old friend? Would she be punished come morning? And what of the earl? What would he say when he arrived?

Catherine had thought she knew disappointment in herself, but nothing could be worse than the self-defeat she felt on that ride to Whitmore. When last she was brought this low, her sister and Mr Darcy could share the blame. What had felt like a short ride on their way to the ball felt like an eternity upon their return.

Once they arrived back at the estate, Catherine quickly took herself to her chambers. If her aunt could not be roused to speak in the carriage, it would not do to have this conversation in the small hours of the night with servants greeting them in the main entry.

Dawson was ready to help Catherine dress for bed when she arrived in her room. Evidence of her ruined evening must have been unmistakable on her face, for even in her exhaustion, Dawson clearly saw the truth of it.

“What has happened, my lady? Are you unwell? Shall I call for a sleeping potion?”

Catherine stopped Dawson’s speech, holding up her hand. “I do not require any potion. Please, help me undress and that shall be all.”

Dawson looked uneasy and worked quietly. She removed the gown and then her beautiful skirts—visibly noting the mud on the hem but never saying a word. After she helped her from her stays, she brought in a fresh chemise for Catherine to sleep in. She looked bewildered. Catherine was under the impression that the girl was staying her tongue—fighting against the desire to know more.

After Dawson released perhaps her twentieth sigh, Catherine finally gave in, “I confess, it was a terrible evening.”

“My lady! What can I do for your health?”

“I am not ill. A gentleman I had considered a friend spoke unkindly of me tonight.” It was not all, but it was the truth.

Dawson was clearly shocked. “Who would do such a thing? And on the night of your engagement!”

“My engagement?”

“My apologies. I am ashamed to say that the servants have been gossiping all night. A footman overheard your conversation with your aunt earlier today. The kitchen girls have been making guesses at the fortunate gentleman.”

Mortification upon mortification.

“I promise you I took no part in it,” Dawson declared. “I would never divulge what we speak of behind closed doors, though I can assure you I had not a guess at the gentleman. But you did seem rather enthusiastic this evening.”

“It was Mr de Bourgh—Sir Lewis’s cousin. But I trust you will not repeat it.”

Dawson looked confused.

“He was also the gentleman who insulted me this evening, so I hope I can convince my father to ask him to go quietly. I wish nothing from him at all.”

“What a snake in the grass!” Dawson cried out, followed by a vastly unladylike curse.

Catherine was shocked by her candour.

“My lady, you could not know this, but he was involved earlier in the week in a scheme that saw the coachman, Harold, removed from his post with no references and sent away.”

“What can you mean by that?” Catherine queried.

“Mr Allison—the butler—discovered the scheme. Harold was taking money from a man for information about the goings on in the house, my lady. We had no notion of why the man sought these reports, only that he was paying rather handsomely for details about the family and your movement in the neighbourhood. The man was a Mr Arthur de Bourgh.”