Page 20 of The Making of Lady Catherine de Bourgh
Chapter twenty
June 1782
C atherine woke in a daze. Dawson was carrying a candle and attempting to gently coax her from slumber.
“My lady, it is time to dress,” she said lightly.
It was difficult that morning to go through the motions. Without Dawson, she would have been lost. Catherine had slept fitfully, and while she moved her arm when needed and stepped into her skirts as directed, she did not fully feel herself. She had chosen three of her least favourite gowns to be died black until they could procure bombazine and crepe in town.
Once her hat was secured and her gloves pulled on, Dawson informed her that all was in readiness for removal to town.
Catherine had begun a note to Lady Rosamund the evening before but had been unable to finish it. She wished she had accompanied her husband on his visit to Whitmore the day before. Lady Rosamund had always been fond of her brother. Seizing the unfinished letter from her escritoire, she handed it to Dawson.
“Please see that this note reaches Lady Rosamund today and give her my apologies for my correspondence not being complete. Any other details she requires, I hope you will provide. I do not want to worry her,” Catherine said numbly.
“Yes, your ladyship.” Dawson curtsied and added, “And please accept my condolences. The earl was a fine master. He will be missed.”
Catherine swallowed hard. She did not have it in her to respond and instead nodded and departed as quickly as possible.
Sir Lewis was waiting outside of her chambers, and she felt an instant relief at seeing his lovely face. The tension in her shoulders immediately dissipated. How had he become her dearest friend in such a short amount of time?
He held out his arm, and she took it, leaning into his sturdy frame more than was necessary. His steady gait was reassuring and his strong arms at the ready, she knew, if she needed more comfort.
He led her out into the darkness of early dawn to their waiting carriage and four. All was in order, and she silently thanked her husband for his efficiency. She could not have done this on her own.
Sir Lewis helped her into the carriage. And instead of taking his customary place on the backward facing bench, he took the seat next to her and held her hand in both of his as they departed Kent.
The de Bourghs arrived on the outskirts of town by mid-morning. Sir Lewis had sent fresh horses ahead, so they were not forced to stop for long. Mrs Owen had packed a basket, too, that carried sustenance. Sir Lewis had thought of each detail to ensure her comfort and ease their travels.
Catherine held tight to her husband’s hand as they made their way through the crowded London streets. While it was still morning, the city was alive with activity and noise. She felt an ache of longing to be back in the country that amazed her. How had Kent already begun to feel like home?
When they reached the front of Barringer House on Grosvenor Square, Catherine closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She would have to face the truth of her changed circumstances. She was a daughter without a father in this world. And while daughters might logically always know that this day could come, no one could have prepared her heart for the loss. Only Sir Lewis’s strong grip and steady nature urged her to make her way up the lavish front steps.
A barouche better suited for use in town had followed their closed carriage, carrying Sir Lewis’s valet, Elliott, and Dawson. She watched their conveyance continue past them and turn at the end of the block to enter from the servant’s entrance near the mews.
Barringer House had a fashionable address and a pristine reputation. Nothing to Oakley or Rosings Park, the house had a few reception rooms on the ground floor, rooms for entertaining guests, a music room, and a great hall on the first, and the bed chambers and a private family library on the second. There would be little room for privacy, save for their bedchambers.
Lady Ashby had written about the heat, but the prevailing winds in London tended to blow eastward, bringing a soft breeze that made being out of doors tolerable.
A mourning wreath was suspended above the front doors. Because the knocker had been removed, Sir Lewis announced their arrival by banging his gloved fist on the door. Mr Porter, the butler, answered wearing black gloves and a black band tied to his sleeves. He welcomed them into the hall, taking their hats and gloves and asking them to wait in the Blue Reception Room. “Lady Barringer will be with you shortly,” he told them.
It was a strange thing to be a guest in your own home. Sir Lewis and Catherine were not forced to wait long. Soon enough, Elinor arrived to greet them.
Catherine greeted her sister by marriage with enthusiasm, holding tight to her and exchanging a perfunctory greeting.
“You know my husband.” Catherine stood back to acknowledge him saying, “Sir Lewis.”
“Of course, my dear. It is lovely to see you again, Sir Lewis,” Elinor replied.
“And you, Lady Barringer,” Sir Lewis replied and bowed.
Lady Barringer . Elinor was no longer Viscountess Ashby, but The Countess of Barringer. The thought had not yet crossed her mind. And her mother, now The Dowager Countess of Barringer. The realization seemed to steal away her breath and thoughts in rapid succession. Had not Mr Porter just indicated they would be received by Lady Barringer? Due to the familiarity of such a statement, she had not particularly noticed what he said. But this, too, was another of the very great changes that her father’s death would initiate.
“I am relieved to finally see you both in person so that I might offer my sincere congratulations on your marriage,” the new Lady Barringer said. “And it appears that marriage suits you.”
She beamed at Catherine. Wishing them joy, while welcome, felt peculiar under the circumstances of their meeting.
“Thank you,” Catherine responded.
“I wish you were here under more favourable conditions.” Elinor began walking out into the hall, and they followed her. “I am sure you will want to refresh yourselves after your journey. Mrs Price will show you to your chambers. Once you are rested, I shall be in the drawing room or the library and ready to receive you. I have not seen Lady Anne today, but she might be found in the music room this afternoon.”
Catherine swallowed her response. When did her own family begin to feel so foreign? The formality. The empty etiquette.
“Thank you, your ladyship,” Sir Lewis answered for them both, offering Catherine his arm as they followed Elinor into the front hall.
The housekeeper, Mrs Price, met them at the bottom of the principal staircase and asked them to follow her. Thankful for her steady and solid husband, Catherine leaned on him for genuine support. Everything felt so wrong, except for the gentleman at her side.
Shock upon shock, the housekeeper stopped in front of the Ashby Apartments on the second floor. Her mother had redecorated the set of adjoining guest chambers upon Lord Ashby’s engagement. These rooms had been used by Catherine’s brother and Elinor for these past five years.
“Why are we staying in my brother and sister’s apartment?”
Mrs Price’s gaze betrayed her displeasure. “The new Lady Barringer ordered her things and her husband’s moved to the master and mistress’s chambers. Her ladyship requested that we prepare these rooms for your use.”
Catherine gasped. Her father was not even laid to rest, and Elinor was having the servants rearrange the house. She felt the sharp sting of betrayal from the female in her family that she had felt the closest to.
Catherine had begun to realize the plight of a lady living with her husband’s parents. Through both Diana and Elinor, she had seen clearly that they were not mistress of their homes—their husbands’ mothers were. And she could understand their frustration, but this felt cruel. Her mother was being moved where? Had she even been notified? Would her brother remove her mother from her chambers in Oakley upon their arrival to Derbyshire also, or had he sent a messenger ahead to begin airing the dower house? The entire situation made Catherine feel more sickened than she had upon learning of her father’s death. If Catherine bore a son one day, would she too be swept away upon her husband’s death?
All her life, Catherine had listened attentively as her mother and tutors and governesses explained her place in society. The social structures were in place for a reason, she had always been told. And Catherine had listened and honoured those practices and rules without question.
And now she was seeing it for what it really was—and unending cycling of power and wealth that left dreadfully few happy or content in their lives.
And she did not want any part in it.
After changing her clothes and washing the dust from the road off her face, Catherine paced her chamber with angst and resentment. After many months of longing to see Elinor, she now did not wish it, and visiting with Lady Anne was no better. If she had been put in her typical chamber, she would feel some greater comfort. But God only knew what the new Lady Barringer had planned for that space. Catherine wanted to throw something—something sharp and fragile that would break into hundreds of little pieces. But to punish the servants for her family’s failings would be unkind, she knew.
A soft knock on the door interrupted her heated thoughts.
“Come,” she said a little more sharply than she meant to.
But it was not the door to the corridor that opened, but the adjoining one—from her husband’s room. He was wearing new clothing. A pair of tight black breeches under tall, polished boots and a loose-fitting linen shirt opened at his neck with the sleeves rolled up. She had never seen him in such a state. And he had never looked so handsome.
Her expression must have betrayed her emotions, for his gaze held such sympathy and kindness. “Are you well?”
“No,” she said. “How can I be?”
He nodded. “I thought I heard you pacing the floor, and while I have always allowed you your privacy, I could not abide knowing you were uneasy. I had to see to your welfare.”
She felt the tears welling in her eyes. She bit her lip in some embarrassment for her dramatics, trying hard not to weep in front of her husband. But his sympathetic expression did her in. At his approach, with open arms, ready to hold her and carry her through this, she became a well of emotions needing to overflow. She had been trying not to drown from the weight of it. And those arms—solid and abiding and comforting—pulled her to his chest, finally allowing it overtake her.
Some while later, Catherine woke in a bleary-eyed state, confused about where she was. Until she realized she had fallen asleep on Sir Lewis. They were seated side-by-side on a sofa in her bed chamber, and she must have dozed off on his shoulder. After holding her for nearly half an hour while she exorcised all of her emotions, he had gently sat her down and told her to rest while he read. And here they were. Him, reading, and her, waking feeling much clearer minded. She was tempted to hold still so that she could prolong their closeness, but he had hearing like a hawk and had already noticed her waking.
She sat up, straightening her bodice and brushing her hands down her skirts in a failed attempt to smooth out the wrinkles. It was no use; she would have to change once again.
“It is nearly time to dress for dinner,” Sir Lewis said quietly.
Catherine gasped and laughed. “Are you teasing me?”
“No, madam. It is past four in the afternoon. What time does your family sit to dine?”
“I slept all day!” It was a shock. Her neck would surely ache for it later, but she was not certain she would regret it.
She hurriedly pulled the bell to call Dawson while responding to her husband, “At Oakley, we dine at half past five. But I cannot know if we are keeping to country hours here in town. I will ask Dawson, and then we shall know how to proceed.”
Dawson entered and relieved her nerves. Dinner was at six, and so she sent her away and asked her to return in an hour.
It did not go unnoticed, however, that Dawson was surprised to find Sir Lewis in Catherine’s chamber—in his shirtsleeves no less. What Dawson would never know is how novel it was to Catherine as well.
Sir Lewis reached out to her, and she gave him her hand. He pulled her back down to sit with him. “Let us rest a little longer, hmm?”
Sir Lewis tucked her in close to him, his legs hidden under her wide petticoat. And then he raised his arm on the back of the sofa and nodded his head at his shoulder—an invitation for closeness that she deeply desired too. And so, she rested in the arms of her husband until it was time to dress for dinner.
Catherine left her chamber with five minutes to spare and found her husband awaiting her just outside their rooms. Though he leaned against the wall in the most informal manner, his dress was the complete opposite. It was rare to see her husband in evening wear. Even when they attended parties in Kent, he often chose tall, polished boots rather than the white silk stockings and low-heeled, buckled shoes he wore this evening. Though the black silk was subtle, his double-breasted waistcoat was indeed fashionable.
“You forgot your powdered wig, my dear,” Catherine said, her tone saturated in sarcasm.
That made him chuckle, and the enjoyment she gained from making him laugh was shameful.
She had, at first meeting, found him crass and casual. And now, seeing him dressed like her brother or father felt all wrong.
“Shall we?” He offered his arm, and she took it, leading him down the stairs and into the drawing room.
Elinor was present and waiting when they arrived. She looked beautiful, and Catherine forgave some of her anger when her sister by marriage pulled her in for a very unexpected hug, kissing both of her cheeks and inquiring if she and her husband had settled in.
Catherine was about to answer her when Anne entered.
Catherine turned to greet her and was suddenly surprised to see her sister so changed. Where her face had been round and freckled, she appeared to have slimmed, and her unblemished, porcelain skin was astounding. From her gown to her hair, she was everything a woman in her first Season in town should be. She looked grown, and it tugged on Catherine’s heart in a way she would never want to admit aloud.
Catherine curtseyed to her sister and began making the necessary introductions.
“May I present my husband, Sir Lewis de Bourgh of Rosings Park in Kent. Sir Lewis, this is my sister, Lady Anne Fitzwilliam.”
“Sir Lewis,” Anne said. “It is lovely to meet you.”
“And you, Lady Anne.” His manners were impeccable. She was relieved to have him by her side.
“Shall we go through to dinner?” The new Lady Barringer halted the tension in the room with remarkable aplomb.
Being the highest-ranking lady present, Sir Lewis offered Elinor his arm and led them into the dining room. Sir Lewis took a seat at her left, and Catherine at her right. Lady Anne pondered her options and selected the seat next to Sir Lewis.
Dinner was a strangely quiet event. Once the necessary pleasantries were dispensed with, the small party found little to speak of. Catherine thought the silence unnerving and decided to seek answers to some of her questions.
“Do we have word from my brother?” she asked.
“They should reach Oakley tomorrow if the weather and state of the roads did not impede them,” Elinor replied.
“And then you will follow them to Derbyshire?”
“Yes. I have been tasked with closing up the house. There was much to do with the wedding breakfast cancelled.”
A small sound—almost a whimper—escaped Anne’s mouth.
Catherine turned to Anne and asked delicately, “Have you discussed when you will marry?”
“In December. As soon as six months have passed. I begged Darcy to consider a quiet, private country wedding later this summer, but he will respect my mourning period.” Her shoulders slumped. It was obvious that she was hoping he might bend the rules for her.
“Does Mr Darcy remain in London?” Catherine asked.
“Of course!” Anne responded. “He shall not depart until we do. Lady Barringer has agreed to permit him to visit the house, discreetly of course, in the late mornings and after dinner until we depart for the country. I cannot go on our daily rides or expect to see him at events, so I am grateful for her granting his visits.” Anne nodded to Elinor in appreciation.
Elinor leaned to Catherine to further explain, “Your sister had a habit of riding at Rotten Row with Mr Darcy each afternoon. We delayed dinner until nearly seven each evening so they might enjoy some time out of doors.”
Catherine nodded. Hearing about her sister’s courtship did not appeal to her.
Anne went on. “I tried to explain to Darcy that people in the country are more forgiving. No one should have to know that we have wed . . .”
“Mr Darcy is very correct,” Catherine responded, appalled at her sister’s lack of sympathy. “Our father has died. His death deserves respect.” This, she said unabashedly, looking to both Elinor and Anne.
“You must forgive me for bringing up such a topic at dinner, but no one has explained what happened to my father,” Catherine said with care.
Elinor’s fork halted in the space above her plate. “My apologies, Catherine. Of course you deserve to know. Your father had been somewhat unwell for a period of a month. Your mother requested that I not mention it in my letters to you because your father wanted privacy. Two doctors visited, dispensing tinctures and attempting other procedures. This is why your brother rushed to Kent instead of your father when you received your proposal from Sir Lewis. It is also why he did not stay for the wedding and instead left behind Fraser in his stead.”
“I see,” Sir Lewis responded solemnly.
Catherine joined in, frustration fuelling her honesty. “I understand not wanting to spell out my father’s private business in the post, but why could my brother not tell me the truth of it in Kent?”
Elinor’s attempt at a sympathetic expression failed to dissuade Catherine from anger. “I cannot speak for your brother.”
“Of course, you cannot,” Catherine blustered, setting her napkin on the table and rising.
Sir Lewis immediately stood.
Catherine placed her hands on the table. “And then? He continued to become more ill, and you did not think to call me to town?”
“No, dear,” Elinor responded. “It all happened so fast. One day he was feeling much better—attended dinner and sang with your mother while she played the pianoforte. The next morning, he did not wake. The doctor said it was apoplexy.”
Catherine’s heart surged in her chest, beating with grief in a profound way that brought her to mind of the days that followed Eloise’s death.
Catherine wondered why they had even come to London. No one here was mourning her father. Her own brother had made no mention of the de Bourghs traveling to Oakley to see her father buried. Not one person in her family had sought to call her to London when he was ill. Whereas she had heard of his death and made immediate plans to depart for town, Elinor and Anne appeared as if nothing had changed except a shift in power and foiled plans.
The weight in her chest began to ache. She sought the gaze of her husband and nodded in the direction of the doors. She was finished with the meal.
She felt lost in her own family and wanted only to return to Kent.