Page 25 of The Making of Lady Catherine de Bourgh

Chapter twenty-five

October 1783

“T hat will be all,” Catherine told the wet nurse and nanny after their daily meeting in her study. After a long recovery from birthing her daughter, Catherine still found herself often out of breath by mid-afternoon. She seldom sat to receive callers and even more rarely went out of doors, with the exception of attending church on Sundays.

She ate without savouring, listened without concern, and commanded without deliberation. She was a shell of her former self, moving like a general who has gone to battle many times, directing with an emotionless precision.

Lady Anne remained in Kent, and in a strange twist of fate that Lady Catherine would never have guessed, Anne was brought to bed and delivered of the heir to Pemberley at Rosings Park. Master Fitzwilliam George Darcy was born plump and red-faced, with exceedingly large lungs that carried his cries throughout the manor house. Born on a beautiful afternoon in October, his mother remarked that he was strong and handsome at her first viewing of the child. And while his father said very little, Catherine saw a small tear drop from George Darcy’s eye. His parents were attached to him from the start, adoration pouring out of them and love abounding.

Catherine found it hard to watch her sister and brother by marriage coo over their son. She wondered how differently these past months would have been if Lewis had been by her side when their own child was born.

No matter. Catherine felt stronger for standing on her own. She was the mistress of one of the largest properties in England, and her daughter the heiress to a great fortune.

She often found herself speaking to Lewis. His wisdom and guidance had made her the confident woman she was, and she would carry that conviction throughout the remainder of her life. The black fabrics she wore not only honoured his life but the future she lost when he died—rushing home to Rosings in a storm that washed away bridges and lanes as surely as it carried away the father of her child and the love of her life.

But she knew better than to look back. It hurt her too greatly. If her late husband had taught her anything, it was to look to the present and the future. And in doing so, she was more certain than ever that the future was not promised. She had the knowledge and wherewithal to endure whatever came their way, and she would shield her daughter the best she was able.

When Catherine’s recovery had taken far longer than the expected six weeks, Lady Anne had refused to leave her sister’s side. She oversaw the care of her namesake, Anne de Bourgh, making promises to Catherine that she was not alone. But now, in four weeks’ time, she too would be gone. And Catherine would be as she had long ago feared—alone.

But now the thought of being lonely was not such a frightening condition. Her mother, the dowager, had warned her of becoming a spinster, but she was something entirely different now—she was a wealthy widow. The kind Lady Ashby had envied. A lady of her own property and a woman who could move in the world without answering to anyone. Fitzwilliams never bow to anyone , her mother would say, and yet, this was truer for Catherine than any of the ladies of her family.

The dowager countess wrote infrequently, but her words of wisdom from Catherine’s upbringing were a constant companion. While one year of her life had been full of love, the other twenty had been shaped by a cold knowledge of the way of society—an existence that had shown its truth to Catherine boldly and without apology.

Catherine’s relationship with her mother was much as it had always been—never ending instruction and guidance. Living in the dower house at Oakley had not been much to her mother’s liking, and so the new earl had opened one of the family’s lesser townhouses in London for the dowager countess’s use. There she could reign over society and bend other mothers to her will on all manner of subjects.

Lady Rosamund visited Rosings often, but Catherine found her romantic notion of marrying again one day dreadful. Having her aunt nearby was a blessing, though, especially when she was in low spirits.

Virginia, Diana, and Emilia were regular visitors, but their pitying countenances and concerns for her well-being were exhausting. Nothing escaped her observation. Friendly, they tried to be, but none knew quite what to say. And Catherine would not know how to direct them if she could. It would likely require much time to feel at ease in their company again. Until then, her movements were long practiced, and no one but her husband would comprehend how often she told untruths to appease her company.

Her sister often tried to slip some furtive optimism into their conversations, but Catherine was well settled in her frank melancholy by the time little Fitzwilliam joined them. It was like a cloak protecting her wounded heart.

Lewis would have no need to worry over his legacy or his properties, for Catherine had been trained and educated in these matters. She would not succumb to sadness. She would take the reins and ensure Anne de Bourgh’s future was settled. She would give Anne every advantage in life, but she could not allow her heart to be touched.

It was better, she decided, to protect herself from ever feeling such pain again. And the only manner by which she could think to do so was to keep herself at a distance from emotional connections. With anyone.

Control, she could endeavour to keep. Her heart—it was long gone.

It was better to be strong and shrewd and cautious—better to be forthright and meticulous—better to protect her heart and keep only that particular joy she felt with Lewis in her mind and memory. Locked away for only her to visit in her dreams.

Reality was not the happy endings one finds in frivolous novels. Nay—the world was just as her mother had cautioned. The same mother whose place in society was usurped when her husband died. The same that required her daughter-in-law to stand down and obey until a great power shift had allowed her a first taste of control. Her mother had been right, and Catherine would not take her position for granted.

Thoughts such as these kept Catherine in control, and maintaining that strained facade of strength would be her life’s work.

But she had seen that type of strength in the dowager countess her entire life. It was the mask her mother pulled over any expression of emotion—that quick flip from kindness to coldness that had kept any affection at bay throughout her life. It was an appearance that she could feel moving through her like a physical change as she donned it day in and day out, telling anyone who asked that she was well—sometimes convincing even herself—and smothering all but the icy bitterness that cooled her features.

The formidable mother, the redoubtable mistress of her domain. That was who she would become.

The burden of all her good intentions and past mistakes began to dissipate. No longer would she stand by and watch her life swept under the flood of another human being. Standing on her own and seeing to Anne’s future—that was the objective.

One day in early November, Anne suggested that the children be introduced and demanded Catherine join her. She and her husband would be leaving for Derbyshire soon, and Anne had become quite sentimental about leaving her elder sister on her own. The little master of Pemberley was carried gently in his mother’s arms as they walked the corridor to Anne’s nursery.

It was rare indeed for Catherine to visit the nursery beyond the two fixed appointments per day.

Lady Catherine looked coldly upon her sleeping daughter. She could not pretend the tender, maternal emotion her sister evidently felt for her own child. Baby Anne was still so tiny. Even little Fitzwilliam seemed stronger—and Lady Anne had a week yet before she would be churched.

Seeing the two little cousins together was painful. The juxtaposition between the loving mother and her strong son to the fragile daughter and her broken mother was so clear to her. It nearly caused Catherine to weep. How could she ensure their safety? Was their security inevitable? How would Catherine guide her daughter when even the strongest among them—the Dowager Lady Barringer—had been unable to protect Catherine from surrendering to something so foolish as love ?

Guilt wracked her, wrapping around her fully and threatening to undo all of the work she had done to maintain her facade of strength.

Not only would she have to protect Anne from herself, but also from men like Arthur de Bourgh, who could be lurking around corners trying to snatch up unsuspecting and hopeful heiresses! She knew better than most that young ladies should always be properly guarded according to their station in life.

And guard her, she would. Anne would never go traipsing about the countryside looking for a husband—she would rather not even take her to town for a Season. Not when Catherine could settle it herself.

A lady could only hope to secure a safe place in the world. And Catherine could help ensure that now—she need not even wait, for the answer lay in her sister’s arms.

Lady Anne was sitting next to her, staring at her beautiful baby boy in a way that Catherine could not fathom. Did not Anne see what had happened here at Rosings Park? Did not she see what free will and choice and temptation and passion had led to? Did not she see the risks she took in her deep devotion to Mr Darcy and their son?

“You have to promise me, Sister. Now. On your child’s life. We must secure their futures, and we can today. We need not wait. And we will succeed where our mother did not. We shall see our children married—joining two of the grandest estates in all of England. They shall know an alliance was established while they were still in their cradles and shall never have to spend a day worrying over their prospects, for we have resolved to guard their fortunes. Do you not agree?”

Anne looked over her shoulder at Catherine with a pitying expression that made Catherine feel small. “Whatever you say, Catherine. It would be a joyful day indeed if they were to marry.”

Catherine pulled a deep breath in through her nose and out through her mouth. It was a relief to find that they were in accord. She would not have to worry over her daughter’s plight as she had worried over her own.

For it was settled and done.

The End