Page 19 of The Making of Lady Catherine de Bourgh

Chapter nineteen

“I meant to tell you,” Sir Lewis said over breakfast some two weeks later, “I have recently commissioned an artist from London to visit later this summer so you might sit for a portrait.”

The gentleman certainly had a manner of surprising her with some consistency. Their lives were made up of two types of interactions—those where he shocked her with the outrageous things he said, and the other half, where he appeared to be a very fine husband. For the former, she had learned her own manner of retorts, and for the latter, she often knew not what to say.

“Why?” she asked softly.

“My father always had a portrait of my mother in his study, and I should like to do the same.”

If it were not for her staunch hubris, she would tell him that this news increased her affection for him. His piercing gaze held her own, and she was finding it harder and harder to look away from him when he said such lovely things—when she forgot he had a first wife and thought that one day she might be the centre of his world. But that was not what this marriage was. This marriage was an alliance that saved her from a much worst fate, and she would be forever grateful. But she must be careful not to project her growing feelings onto him. He should not be repaid for his good deed with a romantic wife full of delusions of grandeur about their partnership.

Lady Rosamund had visited four times since she began sitting for receiving hours at Rosings, and each visit her aunt spent the entire time speaking of Sir Lewis’s past charitable deeds, family, and known history. She had an obvious sentiment for the gentleman and wanted her niece to feel the same fondness. It warmed her heart to know how greatly her aunt wanted her happiness. Letters from London arrived from her mother, Lady Ashby, and Anne with congratulations, though Elinor’s words had carried more warmth and candour.

After the morning meal, Catherine sat down with Mrs Owen per usual. She had found some growing confidence in her interactions with their servants. Watching as Sir Lewis scolded his servants into harmony increased her desire to be worthy too of her position. Where once she found him self-important, she now found him formidable—and likewise, where she once found him a scoundrel, she now found him exceedingly droll.

The previous night, they had spoken of some ways she might involve herself in the community. He felt the neighbourhood would desire her guidance and management. Initially, when he would make recommendations to her that suggested he found her worthy, she responded defensively—for she assumed he was aiming for a laugh. But she was learning to accept his flattery without rolling her eyes or scolding him.

It was only late at night that she still felt some sadness over her circumstances. She had indeed been abandoned in Kent by her family. If it were not for Lady Rosamund’s dedication to her happiness and Lady Ashby’s regular correspondence, she would assume her family had all forgotten her existence. Barringer House, London May 22, 1782 My dearest Catherine, I am much obliged to you for writing to me again so soon. Your letter yesterday was quite an unexpected pleasure. The London air is thicker now that the cool, spring breezes have passed over and sunshine now abounds. I believe most of the city has been abandoned in favour of the countryside, with the exception of those waiting to see the earl’s youngest daughter married in three weeks’ time. The viscount says we can depart London for Oakley as soon as your sister is married. We have already sent the boys ahead with Nanny Mary. The event will take place on the morning of the eleventh of June. Lady Anne will be married from St George’s in Hanover Square. I should ask your sister to sit down and add to this letter, but alas, she is out of doors, for she always rides Rotten Row at half past four. While I am certain the event shall be one the grandest the ton has ever seen, it is your wedding that I have been much thinking of. I deeply regret that I was not able to stand up with you on your wedding day. I do not regret, however, that you have already found a partner in this life. I am relieved that I will not have to chaperone you through the squeezes next Season where you would be forced to flirt and seek a husband. Next time we are together in town, we shall be required to attend only those events that will bring us joy. Friday last, we attended a ball at the home of the Earl of Grover, marking the engagement of his eldest daughter, Sarah. The dancing was held in a lavishly gilded Great Room on the first floor, with an exquisite, ornate Neo-Classical ceiling that spoke to their great wealth. I know you appreciate a rich scheme of architectural decoration, and I wondered what you might have thought of it—you have such an eye for ornamentation. Rumour has it, there were near to four hundred of our closest friends pressed into their home, and I can believe it. At one point I found myself nearby an open window and considered leaping into the formal garden so I might take a full breath. The servants were forced to open the state rooms downstairs, including the earl’s library, where they hosted supper at half past two in the morning. We shall be very glad to see you whenever you can get away, but I have no expectation of your coming to Oakley until Autumn—or perhaps we could find time to open the house in Bath? Or we might persuade our husbands to London, for which we both agree is the most advantageous. I found the loveliest rose patterned fabric this week that I must send you for your newly styled “Rose Room at Rosings.” Do say the word, and I shall have some length cut for you and sent to Kent forthwith. Take care and be well. Your affectionate sister, Elinor

Lady Catherine carried the letter from Elinor with her as she entered her husband’s study. She had lost her fear of his domain very quickly, for he often invited her in to give her opinion on estate matters.

“Lady Ashby has written,” Catherine walked around his desk, rather than taking a seat. She leaned against the large mahogany desk, her skirts spilling around her. “She carries news about my sister’s wedding which will be held on the eleventh of June in town. At St. George’s, of course. And she speaks of when we might see one another. Do you think we might travel to Oakley before year’s end? We could also meet in London. You know how I want to visit the warehouses. Or we might invite Lord and Lady Ashby for a visit? It could be this summer or later in the year—”

Busy re-reading the letter to ensure she shared the most vital information, Catherine had not realized Sir Lewis was not responding.

She finally looked up to see clear amusement on his face and returned his smile. “Are you out of countenance or simply neglecting me?”

“I was only listening. I look forward to meeting the incomparable Lady Ashby again, for if she always makes you smile like this, we shall be ready friends.”

“You tease, but I hope it shall be so,” Catherine responded.

Sir Lewis leaned back in his leather chair, the ends of his long legs hidden under her skirts.

“Then it shall be.”

Then he added quietly, “Would you like to attend your sister’s wedding?”

Guilt squeezed at Catherine, for her first reaction was resoundingly in the negative, however selfish that would sound. She could not imagine finding any joy watching her sister marry Mr Darcy, no matter how settled she felt in her new life. Even for her sister, with whom she had always held some little affection, the chasm between them now was too great.

“I think not,” she replied without meeting his eyes.

He sat forward and reached out a hand to cover Catherine’s free one. “Write to Lady Ashby and make whatever plans you like. Our servants are capable, and we are free to travel.”

The smallest touch from Sir Lewis had been setting Catherine into a frenzy for days. A brush of her hand here and a pat on her shoulder there. It mattered not how long or short the duration, it was affecting her. She could no longer deny that she desired to be near her husband.

She lifted her thumb to brush over the top of his hand and held his gaze. She still wondered at his failure to visit her at night. When he found ways to physically interact with her so often throughout the day, it led to even more confusion.

She had not mentioned the conversation of an heir again. Conceivably, her happy mood may be what she needed to find the courage to ask again.

“If we have no children together, does Mr de Bourgh stand as the only living heir to Rosings Park?”

She had clearly surprised him with the change of subject.

“He has a younger sister. If he were to perish before I, she could inherit. She is not constituted of the same wickedness as her brother, but she is a social climber just the same.”

“I see.”

“He is only my heir on paper, but he is not worthy of the position. He would drain the coffers at Rosings in under a year, mark my word. A responsible landowner understands the full weight of the ownership—from his duty to care for the land and livestock to the people who depend on such.”

“Yes, of course. And you remind me how important it is that we have a child of our own,” she said measuredly.

He sat forward in his chair, pulling Catherine’s hand into both of his. “That is what I want.” His thumb was moving back and forth over her wrist in a manner that was distracting. The intensity of his gaze was appealing all on its own. Her breath began coming short and fast, her entire person desiring to be closer, closer, closer .

She felt nearly ready to vocally agree with him—to say something that might entice him to come to her that night. But they were quickly interrupted by Mrs Owen, who had just admitted a guest for her husband into the drawing room.

She knew Sir Lewis noticed her hesitation to leave him. And she hoped he understood what she sought without telling him directly.

Catherine never made small demands or asked trifling questions now. She had found her voice, as Lady Ashby suggested, and as Sir Lewis encouraged. No one wondered at what she meant or how she felt any longer. She had been Lady Catherine de Bourgh for nearly a month, and she felt the weight and triumph of the position.

After receiving or visiting hours were complete, her previous habit of many years was to adjourn to her chambers for some rest before dressing for dinner. But in the intervening weeks of becoming a wife, she had begun seeking out her husband for some conversation. They often spoke of the estate, the events being hosted in the neighbourhood, or of how they spent their mornings. It felt a true partnership and something she had never experienced nor expected for herself. This was not the way of the earl and countess who seemingly lived incredibly separate lives, often dwelling in different homes and having opposite schedules. This was not the marriage she had prepared herself for, but she was warming to the idea that Sir Lewis, being the unique gentleman he was, might be perfectly suited for her.

Today they walked to the folly in the warm, late afternoon sun. A new hat, sent from London by Lady Ashby, was propped at a very fashionable angle upon Catherine’s coiffure.

Her husband carried shears so Catherine might cut some roses for the front hall.

“When are you going to explain to me why William cannot cut your flowers? I seem to remember a time my gardener was expected to do this work.” Sir Lewis smiled at his wife and handed her the shears.

Catherine bent to examine the newest blooms from the rose bushes that curved around the folly. While beautiful, the hat was an imposing creature, getting in her way of making her cuttings expediently.

“I require your assistance,” she said to her husband. Taking his hands in hers, she guided them to her head, showing him that she could not succeed in removing the hairpins that secured her hat. His fingers moved nimbly, releasing each one. “William is perfectly capable of cutting flowers, but his eye for balanced arrangements is lacking. I prefer to choose the colours and varieties myself.”

Her husband removed the hat and stood back, and she walked around the structure to examine the blooms. As she made her first cuts, he was at her side, ready with a basket to carry them back into the house.

“So, William is removed from his duties, and I have been promoted to flower mule,” Sir Lewis teased.

“An apt description.” Catherine smiled to herself and looked back at her husband to see his reaction. “Mules are well known both for their stubbornness as well as their strength.”

His smile did peculiar things to her, especially when he approved of her retorts. She felt seen and appreciated.

The basket near full, she approached a bush with light creamy coloured blooms but was so caught up in watching Sir Lewis that she pricked herself in her distraction.

The thorn was a sharp pinch on her skin, and a bubble of blood rose from the tip of her finger. “Ouch,” she said, bringing her hand up to examine it.

Sir Lewis set the basket down and put her hat upon it, coming quickly to her side. He reached for her hand and pulled it to his chest. It was quick work for him to remove a handkerchief from his breast pocket and cover up her blunder. “All is well. It will stop bleeding if I keep some pressure.”

For all her efforts to not stare at her handsome husband, it was moments like this—standing close, with her wrist being cradled in his hand—where she was unable to do so. A light laugh escaped her. Only he had ever been capable of disrupting her equanimity in this way.

He tugged playfully on her arm, bringing her to stand much closer. She now stood inches from her husband, and that longing once again made an appearance. She wished to be held by him, like the night of the ball, but she did not know how to ask for it. She had too much dignity to beg.

He held her gaze and smiled, removing the handkerchief and kissing the tip of her finger. “All better,” he whispered.

Her breaths were coming in and out frequently, and her body warmed rapidly under his gaze in combination with the sunshine.

His attention and her growing attraction made her uneasy, and so she removed her hand from his grasp and picked up her hat.

“I have enough roses. Shall we return?” Her breathless response was evidence of her desire, and she picked up her pace to ensure her husband would not notice.

Upon arriving at the house, she handed over the flowers to Mrs Owen and told her to put them in water until she could arrange them in the morning. Her hat was given to a footman, and she took herself upstairs to dress for dinner.

Entering her room, she was quickly taken aback when she saw herself in the mirror. Physical changes in her were so obviously on display. Golden streaks swam through her tresses—a shimmering blonde that must have appeared for all her time spent out of doors—brazenly joining light brown hair. One obstinate curl, striking out on its own, refused to bend to the will of her hairpins. The sun-lightened hair and new freckles across her nose were not only evidence of time spent out of doors but of her recent happiness. And yet, only some weeks ago she would have found it especially appalling. Lady Barringer certainly would have. But how it suited her! She looked more alive than ever before.

Later that night, after dinner, Catherine and Sir Lewis took coffee in the library together as had become perfunctory.

“I wished I had learnt to better play the pianoforte so I might supply us with some entertainment in the evenings,” Catherine lamented.

Musicianship had always come so easy for Eloise and Anne. Sir Lewis deserved a wife who might play for him.

Sir Lewis stood and approached her, leaning over to kiss the top of her head. “No one in England shares your true enjoyment of music or has such natural taste, my dear. If you had learnt, you would have been a great proficient.”

She batted him away, always uncomfortable with his flattery.

“And we shall have plenty of music on the morrow at Whitmore,” he said as he took his closed book and returned it to a shelf. He was a much faster reader than she.

While their evenings mostly looked like this, they did partake in some neighbourhood events. And her aunt would host a musicale the following evening. Sir Lewis was right, she did enjoy music more than most. Perhaps that was enough.

“You are correct, of course.” She stood to join him, placing her book on the low, polished table beside the settee to finish at a later time.

He reached for her hand and placed her arm on his. This had become their habit. They would take coffee and read for a time, and then he would accompany her to her chamber door.

There was always an intense feeling swirling in her belly when he brought her to her door each night. She longed to pull him inside, and yet, she always hesitated. She needed more proof that he would welcome her attentions. She was certain she had felt it—more than once. Catherine wondered too if he was waiting for her to make an advance. In all of her education, this was never discussed—the ways of husbands and wives.

On this night, she held onto his arm even after they arrived at her chamber door. She thanked him for a pleasing evening and for transporting her flowers that afternoon.

“Your flower mule, my lady,” he responded and bowed to her with a regal flourish. Always making sport.

And this night was like so many others. He pulled her close and raised her hand to his mouth where he left a burning kiss on the back of her hand. She nearly asked him to join her. Instead, she simply bid him sleep well and bemoaned her cowardice once behind her closed door.

A few days later, the fabric arrived. After many quick letters back and forth, and an embarrassingly unfortunate sketch on the part of Elinor, Catherine was finally in possession of the fine, brocade fabric that would soon be upholstered on all the seating in the Rose Room. The light and dark pinks were divine, and the cream-coloured roses, tied in a bow, were just as she had pictured.

Dawson and Mrs Owen helped carry the large packages into the room so she could lay out one of the swatches upon a chair.

“It is very beautiful, my lady,” Dawson told her.

Catherine nodded but was immediately drawn to the sound of loud boots outside the room. Her husband!

“Sir Lewis!” she called and walked towards the front hall. “The fabric has arrived.”

His smile reflected her own as he followed her into the room and praised her good taste. Soon she would be hosting guests before dinner in the Rose Room, just as his mother had.

“I think this calls for a dinner party soon,” her husband said. It was just like him, these days, to say what she was already thinking. They were in such delightful accord.

“Perhaps something small? Some dinner and cards?” she wondered aloud.

“Or something grander, my dear. What say you to hiring some musicians to come perform?”

She beamed. Hosting her first event at Rosings Park would be pleasant indeed.

“Excuse us, if you will,” he said to the servants. Both Dawson and Mrs Owen dispersed quickly, closing the doors behind them.

He was still smiling at her—he looked so pleased. His hands came up to both of her cheeks, framing her face.

“It is beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“Truly. I have long hoped that Rosings would feel a family home again, and you are bringing it back to life.”

His expression was so full of awe that she could hardly contain her happiness too. She was content—fully and wholly blissful, if she were honest.

He was looking at her so intently, and then his gaze shifted to her mouth—and quickly back to her eyes. Hands shaking and pulse racing, she smiled in response. If he was looking for permission, she was only too happy to grant it in that encouraging manner.

“Catherine, my girl,” he whispered, and then his lips were on hers.

His mouth was softer than she expected and a lovely dissonance with the roughness of his beard. She moved her lips against his, eager to learn the correct movements with him leading the way. His kisses were delicate, and she could scarcely believe how deeply every inch of her was affected by his interest. No part of her body, from her fingers to her toes, was not altered by his touch.

His breath mingled with hers, each kiss promising another, it seemed. Her body softened at his attention, and she melted into his embrace. It was the moment she had been waiting for—a signal that he welcomed her attentions and an opportunity to show she would welcome his.

A soft knock on the door had them stepping back from one another, but not too quickly, and not before she saw the disappointment cross his expression.

“Come,” he said, once they were at an appropriate distance.

The butler entered the room and handed a letter, edged in black, to Sir Lewis. “This just arrived. The rider said it must be passed directly into your hands.”

Sir Lewis looked at Catherine in concern. The blackened edging on the correspondence indicated that the letter carried news of someone’s death.

“Does he require a response?” Sir Lewis asked.

“No, sir.”

“See that the rider has a meal before he departs.”

And with that, they were once again alone. Sir Lewis crossed the room to stand more closely to the sunlight coming in from the windows. Catherine followed, her hands shaking vaguely, though she tried to hide it. Her husband skimmed the letter quickly, betraying no emotion.

“Your ladyship,” he said formally, looking into Catherine’s eyes with sadness. A sense of foreboding pooled in her stomach. “I regret to inform you that the Earl of Barringer has died.”

Father .

Catherine reached out for the nearest seat and sat herself. She was in a daze, her mind reeling from the news. Suddenly, Sir Lewis was at her feet, kneeling before her and asking if he could provide her anything—some tea or he could accompany her upstairs—she heard not what else he offered. Her thoughts were in such disorder that she could not comprehend the news.

“Tell me what else the letter says,” she finally said.

“The letter was sent from an inn outside of London. Your mother and your brother travel now to Oakley to bury your father,” he said.

“I see.”

Women were not often invited to burials, but they would be expected in Derbyshire as soon as possible. “Does mother want us at Oakley?”

“It is not your mother who writes, but your brother,” he murmured, looking up from the letter with a gentle gaze. “He does not mention our travelling, but we can leave at first light if you wish it.”

“He does not mention us travelling to Oakley? Does he mention what happened to father?”

She pulled the correspondence from her husband’s hands and skimmed the missive herself. No details on her father’s death were included or her brother’s expectations of her—only that Anne and Elinor remained in London for some days to close up the townhouse before following their party to Derbyshire.

She looked up at Sir Lewis’s kind eyes. “He mentions that Elinor and Anne are prepared to welcome us in London.”

“Was not your sister’s wedding to take place this week?”

Oh, Anne! Only four mornings away.

“Should you like see your sisters?”

“Yes.” It felt wrong to remain in Kent and mourn alone. She should be with family if they were not expected in Derbyshire.

“Well, then, let us to London.”

After a rest and some private weeping, Catherine took a tray in her room. It arrived with a note from Sir Lewis that informed her that he would be in the library after dinner. As she had requested, her husband had personally gone and told Lady Rosamund of the earl’s death.

When she joined him, he approached her with some hesitancy but, in the end, he held her in his arms like he had at the ball. His physical touch was a deep comfort to her.

Sir Lewis pulled back to ask her, “Shall we stay with your family at Barringer House, or should I send ahead my man to secure rooms in town?”

“You do not have a house in London?” Catherine was surprised at that. Her husband had mentioned many properties.

“I do, only it is leased through Michaelmas. Remember when I travelled to Manchester? I have leased the house to a businessman—a Mr Bingley. He has done well for himself in textiles—a real innovator. And he means to find himself a gentlewoman for a wife.”

Catherine chuckled. “Good luck to him in town. The gentry will not take lightly to an unknown man coming to London to purchase a wife.”

“There will be some ladies for whom marrying a man like Mr Bingley will mean keeping herself in the manner to which she is accustomed. He is a good man. Not all fathers plan so well for their daughters as yours.”

“You mean to say you are in support of his efforts? To bring himself up in the world by way of a marriage to a lady of the gentry? Is that not the same as what your cousin attempted? You cannot imagine he will be welcome in most good homes.”

“I mean to say that Mr Bingley is an excellent man—more so than I can say of many so-called gentlemen in London, my cousin included.”

She pondered that.

“So not Barringer House?” He asked, uncertain still of her preferences, for she had never given him an answer.

“No, no—We shall stay with my family. It is only that so much has changed. I will hardly know what to say to any one of them.”

“You have changed, too, my dear,” Sir Lewis said, smiling at her with great fondness. “And they will love you just the same.”