Page 17 of The Making of Lady Catherine de Bourgh

Chapter seventeen

T hey were married in a small ceremony three mornings later. Catherine participated in the movements of the ceremony with little emotion. She held her chin high and repeated Mr Sedgwick’s words when prompted.

She brought her dowry to the union, but little else. No father, mother, brother, or sister was in attendance, and no trousseau would follow her to Rosings Park. She had opted to wear a favourite gown rather than have some local woman put together a hasty wedding ensemble.

When they returned to Whitmore after the ceremony, the formal parlour was decorated in flowers chosen by Lady Rosamund, and the breakfast that followed included all of Sir Lewis’s favourites. She had provided no guidance and held her emotions in check at every turn.

After her argument with Sir Lewis some mornings before, she had resigned herself to her fate and had simply gone through the motions.

The gentleman across from her smirked when she promised to obey, and that was the only moment during the ceremony when she felt some semblance of levity. Perhaps he would be a reasonable husband.

Ashby’s man of business, Mr Fraser, had stayed for the ceremony in order to report back to the viscount that the wedding was completed. He was the only symbol of her previous life.

At the wedding breakfast, her friends were quieter than she had become accustomed to. All three had been wide eyed and surprised when she had announced her engagement the afternoon before over tea, although they each wished her well. Virginia had been contemplative and more quiet than usual, Diana pleased for her, and Emilia elated.

They were likely displeased that they had been kept in the dark about the circumstances. No doubt, there were whispers of some scandal or compromise that had led up to it. She hoped her friends thought better of her. Although, if they believed it had been Sir Lewis who stepped outside of propriety, they would be extraordinarily wrong.

After the breakfast and all the well wishes for a happy future, Sir Lewis handed his new bride, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, up into his carriage. She sat in the front facing seat, and he took the rear. They were quiet for the ride that took under ten minutes by carriage and might have been managed in the same amount of time by foot.

When she arrived at Rosings Park, they pulled up to the front, and she saw a bevy of servants awaiting them on the steps, ready to greet their new mistress. Dawson was a friendly face among them and allowed Catherine some little confidence as she took her place next to her husband and ascended the staircase that led into the hall.

The grandeur of the house, at first notice, was reminiscent of Oakley. At the very least, she had not married below her station. Oak panelled walls lined the receiving corridor, and the floor glistened from a fresh polish.

Introductions to the butler and housekeeper complete, she was shown to the mistress’s chambers and told that dinner would be served at half past five.

Her rooms were lovely. Every surface polished to a pristine gleam, and a palette of light blues and creams covered the walls and furniture. She could see that it had been aired and cleaned for her use. She wondered at his previous wife who had likely decorated the rooms. It was Catherine’s right to request her own renovations, but for now, she was content. Before starting any changes, she would write to the housekeeper at Oakley and request that the rest of her things be sent to Rosings Park.

Her chambers included a large bedroom and private sitting room. She began exploring where the other doors went—the servant’s corridor, a large dressing room, and finally, a door that led into a masculinely decorated room—that of her new husband. That door was shut very quickly, and her breath was caught in her chest knowing of his easy access to her now.

In the early morning hours after Lord Metcalfe’s ball, in the privacy of only her own mind, she had returned to that balcony and thought of the physical comfort Sir Lewis had given her. His strong arms and kind words—the murmurings of a friend who would help her find a solution. The physical reaction she had to him. It had all meant something—she knew it—it had been sufficient that when she had felt entirely trapped, she had sent for him the next day. And it would be this night that she would see an intimacy with that same man that she had never shared with another living being. And it frightened her.

She had always imagined the marriage bed to be a duty, but something about Sir Lewis told her that it would be unlike her expectations.

Lady Rosamund had cautioned her to be open and trusting with her husband. She had explained some of what would occur on a wedding night, and if anyone knew, it would be her—for she had had three wedding nights of her own. Of her three different husbands, Catherine hoped Sir Lewis would be gentle and sensible, as Lady Rosamund’s first had been. Her second husband sounded quite the rogue, if she could trust her aunt’s description. And her third a beastly predator—though her aunt explained all with a snicker and a look of fondness. Catherine was not prepared for such theatrics.

She returned to the dressing room, where she had found Dawson already unpacking her things.

“Are they treating you well downstairs?” Lady Catherine asked Dawson.

“Yes, my lady. Everyone is ever so kind.”

“I know your time with me was supposed to be of a short nature, but Jones will undoubtedly not join me here. She likes to be of use to her family and had arranged to return to Buxton at the time of my marriage. So, consider the position of lady’s maid permanent, should you wish it.”

Catherine hoped she would stay, otherwise she might feel woefully alone in this mysterious house.

Dawson grinned and accepted quickly. She had hoped the same, and it was a great relief to Catherine.

Instead of resting, she sat at the fine writing table in the corner of the room and wrote a letter to Lady Ashby. She knew, of course, that her brother would have told everyone of her marriage, but she wanted Elinor to hear it from her—to not fear for her. If she were to be truly honest, she was sad to see that Elinor had not joined her husband when he rushed to Kent. Lady Ashby would have known the correct path to take, and Catherine wondered if her sister by marriage would be disappointed in her now.

Lady Barringer, she had no desire to write. She had not received a letter from her mother in above two months. If one really considered it, it was her mother’s interference in her life that had led her to this point. If she were to bother herself to write, perchance it was best to relinquish anything that arrived by her hand to the fire anyway.

After her letter to Elinor, it was nearly time to dress for dinner, and she felt strangely obligated to stay in her rooms until that time. She had never been in the house before, had not been offered a tour, and would surely find herself lost. It would be better not to delay her first meal as mistress.

The two removes of the meal were taken in near silence. Only mentions of passing different food at times and pleases and thank yous were murmured. If she would live her life at Rosings Park, it was best to begin how she planned to go on—and so she began with quiet dignity and polite silence. She would much rather be taking a tray in her room, but the mistress of such an estate must show her face on her first night. It would not bode well to have the servants whispering about her so quickly.

The butler oversaw the serving of a custard tart, and Catherine picked up her fork, eager to see the dinner come to a close.

“Leave us,” her new husband commanded.

Sir Lewis’s demand, said rather more loudly than was necessary, shocked Catherine out of the oblivion of mindlessness that she had settled into.

At his command, the butler and the footmen promptly left the room.

“We are capable of serving ourselves, are we not?” Sir Lewis asked her. “And I can see that you are uncomfortable.”

“I certainly am not!” Lady Catherine was affronted by his suggestion.

“You have said less than five words all night. You have been cloistered in your chambers all day. Surely you do not wish for a silent, solemn meal?”

“Not solemn—I have been perfectly dignified! What would you have me do instead, sir?” she demanded.

“Speak, my dear. This is your home. You are its mistress.”

She let out a long sigh. “You want the truth? Do you want me to say everything on my mind when I think it? I have no words to say. It has been a long week. My life is suddenly changed—my name, my home. I do not rejoice in it.”

He smiled at that.

“Is that really what you want from me? To defame you in front of your servants?”

“Certainly not,” he responded. “But when it is just us, I want the truth.”

“And I have given it to you,” she responded.

He seemed pleased with himself, and that made her irritated. There was no one else she had ever met whose happy expressions irked her more.

After their desserts were finished, they sat in a more companionable silence for some moments before Lady Catherine remembered that as mistress, the meal was finished when she indicated it was. She stood from her chair, and Sir Lewis followed her action.

It was a rather silly thing, then, that upset her. She had no idea where to go! The housekeeper had brought her directly into the dining room at half past five, and she had no notion of where a drawing room or parlour might be—or if even that was where Sir Lewis spent time after dinner. Perhaps he typically retired to a billiard room or his study? A library or a morning room or a private sitting area . . . the possibilities were endless, and she had no idea what came next.

He grinned as he watched her contemplate her next move.

“Will you stay here and take some brandy, or should we adjourn to another room?” she asked.

“I could show you the library.”

She nodded and followed him out into the large entryway that housed the principal staircase that led to the family wing of the house. From there, he opened two French doors and began a short, impromptu tour of the house.

“My mother called this the morning room. The easterly windows are large and allow for an abundance of sunshine. The space is quite dated. I rarely use it.”

The room was stuffy, and no fire burned in the grates. She could see the outline of many fine pieces of furniture and a lightly coloured stucco on the walls.

“You may update it as you like,” he said casually as they moved into an adjoining room. “This is one of the drawing rooms. When I was a child, my mother held receiving hours in this room. As you can see, it is used very infrequently.”

White sheets covered the furniture, but she could see from the light in the corridor that it was a large space with big windows that overlooked the darkened garden. It would be a pleasant aspect by day.

They departed the drawing room through a small antechamber. From there, he turned down a long corridor and began pointing as he walked. “My study is here, a small parlour is there, billiards in here, and we have small summer breakfast parlour through those doors where we shall break our fast tomorrow . . .” And then he stopped and turned to face her. “And here we are . . .”

He opened the doors with a dramatic flourish that nearly made her laugh. “The library, my lady.”

But the laughter that was bubbling up stopped in her chest when she took in the room. It was the largest of the principal rooms she had seen. Polished wood gleamed on nearly every surface, and small conversation sets of furniture were placed throughout the space. It was beautiful—far lovelier than the library at Oakley or her parents’ house in town.

“It is beautiful.”

Sir Lewis looked pleased. “There are other rooms in the west wing that I can show you at a later time—another drawing room, a parlour where you might host friends and have tea—oh, and a room my mother used as a study but was later turned into a music room.”

The house was vast, and she was suddenly excited to see more of the manor. If she thought some renovations to her room in Oakley pleasing, revitalizing Rosings would be the making of her—she could feel the creativity simmering inside her, seeking a release.

Sir Lewis stood next to a pair of chairs and waved his hand to invite her to precede him in sitting.

“I usually read in the evening. What did you and Lady Rosamund do?”

She took a seat in the chair he had indicated.

“We often retreat to her drawing room to read or talk.”

“Which would you prefer tonight?”

Catherine had no interest in talk. She was uneasy about what was to come later, and any conversation she had with him now would be a poor reflection of her nerves. Catherine immediately stood and announced that she would find something to read.

And so, she did. Grabbing the first book of any familiarity and bringing it back with her, Catherine spent her first evening at Rosings pretending to read a book.

After bathing and dressing, Dawson left Catherine with a kind smile and wished her a good night’s rest. Catherine sat by the fireplace for some time awaiting Sir Lewis.

And then she paced back and forth across the room.

And after, she sat on the bed.

Later, she stared out the windows into the darkness of the night.

Where was her husband?

It felt like one of his taunts—letting her squirm in worry and self-deprecation in the mistress’s chamber while he chuckled to himself next door. He likely had a wicked little peep hole where he was watching her pace and laughing maniacally at her disquiet. Naughty boy.

Finally at her wits end, she opened the door to his chambers to find it empty. The fire crackled in the grate, and his bedclothes were turned down, but there was no husband to be found.

She was not sure whether to be relieved or offended that he had forgotten it was their wedding night.

In the end, she exited his chamber and was too exhausted to determine his motives, falling asleep as soon as her head hit her pillow.

They broke their fast in the quaint breakfast parlour he had pointed to the night before. At least she had known how to find it and did not require a chaperone in her own house. And yet, she itched to see the remainder of the house that morning. It was only that she first must get through a meal with Sir Lewis before she might find the housekeeper and beg her assistance in becoming acquainted with the place. There would be meals to plan and fabrics to order and rooms to open and air. She felt enlivened by the possibilities.

“Did you sleep well?” Her thoughts were interrupted by her husband.

“Yes, thank you. I am eager to engage the housekeeper to see more of the house today.”

“I am sure Mrs Owen would be happy to give you a more thorough and thoughtful tour.”

That she hoped.

Sir Lewis continued, “Please make any changes you see fit, open any room you like. It will be awfully obvious which rooms have been in use and which have not.”

“Thank you.”

“Before you go in search of Mrs Owen, might we have a quick chat in my study?”

Hopeful prospects for the day fizzled out of Catherine. Meetings called in a man’s domain often were foreboding. She had no interest in receiving a set down on her first full day at Rosings.

“Of course, sir.” She responded and followed him out into the corridor they had walked the night before.

Once in his study, Sir Lewis began opening a safe and removing boxes.

“For you—” he said, waving at the small containers as he continued removing more. “There is another safe in your dressing room where these might be better stored. Or you can advise Mrs Owen which ones you are most fond of, and she can move only those.”

Catherine opened the first box to find a necklace of sapphires with intricate gold detailing surrounding each jewel. “Oh,” she gasped, running her fingers softly on the delicate piece. “How beautiful.”

“My mother wore that one often; there is a matching set of earrings somewhere.”

Catherine gently opened another box, finding a dainty hair piece—woven metal meant to look like leaves and diamonds for flowers.

“I shall send Mrs Owen to you now so you might direct her where you would like them.”

She turned to her new husband, wide eyed. “These were all your mothers?”

“Some were gifts from my father to her, but many have been in the family for generations. These are the de Bourgh jewels—some date back centuries.”

A small sliver of jealousy wove through Catherine’s chest at the idea that she was the second woman to have been presented the de Bourgh jewellery by Sir Lewis. “Were many of these your first wife’s?” she asked carefully.

He looked surprised at the mention of the lady. She bit her lip in contemplation as she awaited his answer.

“Caroline. Her name was Caroline,” he said quietly. “And no. The jewellery she brought into our marriage was returned to her family. None remained here.”

Catherine could only nod at that.

“I rarely speak of the past, you shall find, for I am always focused on enjoying the present and looking to the future. But do not let that stop you from inquiring. If you have any questions about her, you are free to ask.”

It seemed their brutal honesty went both ways. “No. Not at this time.”

But she did have one more question—not about his wife, but about why he had not come to her the night before. And for a reason she could not fathom, she did not want him to leave.

"Was there something else?" He had a way about reading her expressions that never ceased to shock her.

“I wondered if you want an heir,” she said quietly, and then with more confidence, “How quickly do you require an heir?”

He approached her slowly, coming around his desk to stand before her. “It could be an heiress. My family does not see the necessity of entailing properties from the female line.”

He moved closer to her, looking her up and down, breathing more slowly, more decisively. She glanced at his lips, and he caught her. He must have felt the same pull that she had, wanting to be nearer, for he took a step forward and leaned into her, pressing the back of her legs against his desk and lining his body up with hers.

She could feel the fabric of her skirts shift against her own legs as he moved into her space, and his breath on her neck as he whispered into her right ear, “How quickly do you want a child?”

Catherine was frozen in time. She had forgotten how to breathe or speak. It was taking all of her power to keep herself from shaking or from pushing herself even more closely to him. The memory of nuzzling his neck and folding herself into him only days before came rushing back to her all at once. His comforting hold and welcome scent were once again at the forefront of her mind. Where once her body told her to run, run, run , she now felt a sense that she wanted to be closer, closer, closer . No echo of warning sounded in her mind.

“I—I do not know.”

He backed away slowly, taking with him every semblance of intimacy he had instigated. “When you know the answer to that question, you tell me.” And he departed the room.

She could only catch her breath once she was well and sure he had gone.