Page 8 of The Making of Lady Catherine de Bourgh

Chapter eight

A fter taking her morning meal on a tray in her room, Catherine was very pleased indeed to join the ladies in the drawing room for morning callers. It should not have surprised her that the rain from the day before precluded anyone from visiting, but she still cherished the conversation she had with her aunt.

Unfortunately, the day did not continue on in such an easy fashion. It all began with Reynolds, who was late to prepare her for dinner because “Lady Anne was in such a state” that Reynolds was unable to leave her side.

Catherine came rushing down the staircase at half past five to find that no one remained waiting for her in the drawing room. She supposed that Reynolds’s message to the housekeeper to hold dinner had been lost in the business of preparing the meal. Her mother would have her head for her tardiness.

Catherine tried to make herself as small as possible as she entered the dining room. She took her regular seat, across from Ashby, and realized they had company.

Her face reddened with shame.

Luckily, her father had a plan to smooth her way by making introductions.

“Please allow me introduce my daughter, Lady Catherine Fitzwilliam—”

Before her father could continue the introduction, providing Catherine with the name of her father’s acquaintance, the guest interrupted the earl.

“We have already had the pleasure of meeting last night upon my arrival to Oakley,” he responded kindly.

Catherine turned slowly to the gentleman on her right.

He was smiling at her—all friendliness and a little bit of mischief.

Catherine stared at the stranger and was perplexed.

She regarded his short and wavy brown hair, sharp jaw, and strong shoulders. He wore a dark blue frock coat with a high turned-down collar and wide lapels. A less than fashionable beard was lightly tinged with an auburn hue. His grey eyes danced with mirth.

And then it dawned on her. The man from last night. The man she had assumed was a servant . How did he come to be at their dinner table?

She looked frantically to her father for direction, and he looked at her with a question, too, in his own eyes.

She cleared her throat as the recollection of her behaviour the night before unsettled her.

“Erm, Mr Lewis, was it?” she asked desperately.

A gasp from her mother caught her attention, and then she was conscious of being the object of the entire family’s notice. Everyone was staring at her.

“Sir Lewis de Bourgh, at your service, my lady.” He broke the tension before anyone else could.

The self-same smirk adorned his face—the one from last night. A smile that revealed that he was full of obstinance and recklessness.

But she saw it in a new light now. This man was taunting her! He had had the nerve to ask her to call him Lewis . And now he was laughing at her!

Oh, but her blunder was much worse—astronomical! She had accused him of being a servant, sent him back out into the rain, and had watched as he made his way in the direction the carriages had gone.

She stared back at him in horror. What if he told her parents what she had done?

He must have seen the fear in her eyes, for his smile softened and he murmured kindly, “It is lovely to see you again, Lady Catherine.”

It felt as if he was throwing her a lifeline.

“And you as well, Sir Lewis.” She could not take her eyes from him. His light eyes were in such contrast to his rough exterior.

Lady Rosamund cut the tension with a well-natured explanation that Sir Lewis was her neighbour in Kent. The one Catherine had inferred the night before was a tradesman until her aunt told her that landowners often dabble in other money-making schemes.

A full picture of this gentleman was converging in her mind while her aunt engaged the rest of the table in tales of their travels north. He was addressed as Sir , making him a knight or a baronet, and her aunt also mentioned he was a landowner. He looked of an age with her brother, though he did not wear a wig as Ashby did. His hair was unpowdered, a sign of the changing times. And the oiled beard, which was in better shape than the night before, gave him an edge of mystery and cunning.

Catherine quickly observed the table and noted that a wife had not accompanied him. Had he left his family at home? He looked of an age to be married. Most men his age were—or were making attempts to be so.

The earl and countess seemed taken with his easy manner, especially her father. The viscount seemed less intrigued, but then again, he was impressed by few.

Catherine offered very little to the conversation. She was not worthy of it after her performance the night before. And he showed her a kindness by not sharing the truth. Even if he appeared somewhat coarse, he had saved her from additional scrutiny that her fragile heart could not bear.

Catherine awoke early the following morning—a surge of energy pulsing through her knowing she would gather with her family in her mother’s private sitting room during the breakfast hour for a “chat.”

Fielding questions about the prospects of her future without giving vent to her emotions would be a trial. She had rather find something to distract her until then. Pulling on a simple dress and wrapping her plaited hair into a simple bun at the nape of her neck, she slipped out of her chambers.

The library seemed the best location for a welcome retreat ahead of heavy conversations, and so she let her feet carry her to a room with no judgment and no rules. Reading could be a sanctuary as equally as it could be a diversion—and that was necessary to keep her nerves settled and still.

As her slippered feet arrived at the bottom of the staircase, the front doors opened at the end of the front hall.

Sir Lewis and an unknown man entered while in deep conversation. The gentleman handed off his gloves and hat to the man he entered with, stopping only when he discovered he was not alone.

“Lady Catherine,” he said, bowing in an overly exaggerated way, each flourish of his hands displaying his distaste for her haughty behaviour two nights prior.

Should she admonish him for the exaggerated greeting—one fit only for the queen and clearly putting her in her place? Or should she thank him for not telling her father of her ill behaviour?

Sir Lewis dragged his eyes from the gleaming marble floors up to meet Catherine’s gaze.

“Good morning, Sir Lewis.”

The gentleman crossed the room and stood before her.

“An early riser, are you? I had thought the entire family was still abed.”

Catherine could think of nothing to say to that, and the silence between them was heavy. He, with a questionable gleam in his eye, and her, wary of what the gentleman would do next.

“Well, I must take my leave of you, my lady. Please thank the earl and countess for their hospitality. I am off within the hour.”

Catherine curtseyed with practiced precision. “Thank you. I shall pass on your kind words.”

Imagining the conversation was quite through, Catherine was surprised when he took a few small steps closer to her, leaning in close to her left ear to whisper something she could not hear well enough. He pulled back to meet her gaze with a chuckle—surprised, it seemed, to receive no response from her.

“I cannot hear well on the left, Sir Lewis. Perhaps you might speak more loudly so that all may hear you,” Lady Catherine responded tartly, eyeing his servant who awaited Sir Lewis by the doors.

His presumption irritated her. She was not accustomed to telling the truth about her trouble with hearing, but she had no need to protect her reputation with him. He could assume her deaf and blind, and she would be relieved to no longer be forced to communicate with the confounding man.

He smiled softly at her and this time said at a regular volume, “My apologies, my lady. I was saying how gladdened I was to be allowed use of the front door.”

Catherine’s embarrassment was physical—she felt her cheeks heat, her skin dampen with sweat, and her hands shake. Her ill choices from two nights prior would never be forgotten—by him nor her, it seemed. A resentment unlike she had ever known burned in her, in complete opposition to the smug smile on Sir Lewis’s face.

“I wish you safe travels,” she responded with gritted teeth and a forced smile, turning to return immediately to her chambers rather than seeking refuge in the library. She wanted to be as far away from Sir Lewis as possible.

She called for her morning meal and continued hiding from their guest until she was certain he had taken his leave.

Later that morning, she joined her family in her mother’s private sitting room to finalize details for Anne’s removal to Kent and Catherine’s precarious trip to London. Why could her mother not just say it—they were gathering to decide the fate of her and Lady Anne.

It became very clear upon entering the room that no one wanted to have the first word. There were uncomfortable, stilted greetings among the family as everyone took a seat.

Lady Ashby and Anne were not present. Strange to think that Lady Anne’s future was the object of the discussion, and she was the lone person not allowed to participate.

Lady Barringer was the first to speak. “Anne will go with Rosamund to Kent at the earliest possible date, and I will spend the coming weeks preparing Catherine for her second Season in London. I should like to see if Mr Darcy has had a change of heart once we arrive. With Anne out of the way, hopefully the boy will see reason and propose. That will be much simpler than finding a new groom altogether.”

The earl looked less convinced. “I know that you and Mrs Darcy have plans of your own, but you cannot coerce the boy into marriage.”

“If the children would only spend additional time together, I am certain all will be well. Mrs Darcy is as committed as I to seeing her son do his duty.”

“His duty!” The earl finally erupted. “If the young man knew anything of duty, we would be planning a wedding just now.”

“Darcy is an imbecile,” Lord Ashby drawled from his comfortable chair in the corner, looking bored as ever. “I cannot imagine why we are still considering this match. I, for one, have lost all respect for the man.”

Her brother’s opinions were as capricious as ever. Did he not tell Catherine he would ensure that his friend proposed? Why then did he suddenly seem disinterested in her reputation?

“What about Lady Anne? Does not the boy feel more for her? Why are we not considering the match?” Lady Rosamund appeared confounded.

Catherine’s mother looked stricken by the comment. “Because she is not yet out —our neighbours, society, the greater part of England knows of our intentions! What are we to say? That we changed our mind? That we allowed Darcy to select whichever daughter he preferred? That we set Catherine aside? I will not forsake the reputation of one daughter to secure a marriage for the other. It is insupportable.”

The earl broke in. “I did not believe we were still contemplating a marriage between Mr Darcy and Catherine. Let us take her to London and find an alternative option. I know many gentlemen of good breeding and status who desire a wife and many others who have sons seeking one. Do you not have any other gentlemen in mind?

Lady Barringer sighed. “I cannot simply write letters to the mothers of the ton asking about quality suitors. They will all know something is amiss. The tittle tattle will begin before we even arrive in town. If we are to find a new suitor, we shall have to go about this very carefully and discreetly. It will take much time for me to inquire cautiously, and without rumours beginning, once I am in London. Is it not easier to attempt to change Mr Darcy’s mind?”

“Your plans shall make Lady Catherine a spinster before long, mother. This is tedious, indeed. Tell me why you are still putting any faith in Darcy.” Irritation pervaded Lord Ashby’s voice.

Catherine winced at the mention of her becoming a spinster and brought her eyes to her lap. The cruelty of it!

“Why do I not take Lady Catherine with me to Kent?” Lady Rosamund asked. “Take Lady Anne to London. Host her first Season as planned. Advise the ton that Catherine was always to go to Kent for the Season. Host Anne’s ball, have her make her curtsey, and tell Darcy to propose after a short but appropriate amount of time. When they remark that they thought it was Lady Catherine who was promised to Mr Darcy, you shall laugh and titter at the absurdity. Ensure they feel it was they who remember wrong. Once she is married, I shall bring Lady Catherine home, and you can plan her second Season for next year.”

The room was contemplative. A quiet roar of excitement pulsed through Catherine. It was an interesting point. And one that brought her some hope. But it did not resolve the state of her reputation. Society would know . Their memories were long, and the whispers of why Mr Darcy married Anne instead of her would haunt Catherine for many years—perhaps even impede her own chances of a good marriage.

“And how do you propose we sustain Lady Catherine’s reputation through this ruse of yours?” Lady Barringer asked sharply.

“Ruse of mine ?” Lady Rosamund’s tone was laced with disbelief. “Your suggestion that removing Anne will increase Mr Darcy’s affection for Catherine is just as false—and nearly as harmful as rushing her to London for a hasty marriage.”

Lady Barringer huffed in frustration.

Lady Rosamund continued, “Perhaps first you require the engagement to Lady Anne. Immediately. Send the earl to Pemberley now and obtain Mr Darcy’s agreement. Allow Mr Darcy and Lady Anne a quiet, secret engagement—one that is supported by documentation. This would sustain Anne’s reputation, because we all know that servants talk. Ensure they dance together at every ball. He shall make morning calls at Barringer House and send flowers. The ton will begin talking of his interest in her on their own. Tell them Lady Catherine is visiting her aunt; or say I am ailing, and she is caring for me—I care not which narrative you share. And then, once Anne has had four weeks in town, you announce the engagement formally.”

“It will send Catherine directly into spinsterhood . . . they will still question it. Everyone knows what it means when you send away an eligible daughter for an abbreviated time. It spells scandal,” Lady Barringer mumbled. “Not that I ever had great ambitions for the girl.”

The comment stung.

Her mother continued. “Even with her large dowry, there will be some who consider her jilted.”

“Not if you control the narrative, my dear,” her father cut in. He was obviously considering this ruse.

Ashby rose from his seat and mentioned more important business he must attend to than “husband hunting.” His disinterest in what became of her injured her pride further.

“We shall all think on this,” the earl said. And then he walked over to Catherine and kneeled before her. “I want you to consider these paths—for they are exceptionally different and very significantly affect your life. I shall speak to you in my study early tomorrow morning. I will want to hear what you have to say after a good night’s rest.”

“I am certain Catherine shall do what we think is best. She knows what is owed to her family,” Lady Barringer chimed in. And know this, Catherine did.

The earl looked up at his wife, “Nevertheless, I shall hear what her thoughts are on the morrow. And I wish for you to leave her to her own contemplation, wife.” Lord Barringer gave the countess a pointed look.

Her mother’s pursed lips were the last thing Catherine saw as she excused herself.

Sensing apprehension from the countess, Catherine knew not where to begin when sorting out how she felt about her options. It seemed clear, however, that the option to travel to Kent with Lady Rosamund was not her mother’s wish. Likewise, it was not in Catherine’s favour to upset the countess.

So, Catherine would be married as quickly as possible. She would go to London soon and continue to pursue Mr Darcy or an alternative precipitous marriage would be arranged by her parents. As Mr Darcy’s dependability was imperative to the former scheme, it was easily deduced that the latter, finding a new suitor, would better befit the situation. Unpredictable or not, her brother’s new distaste for Mr Darcy raised concerns—not to mention the uneasiness she felt in seeking to marry a gentleman who preferred both of her sisters to her.

She felt some relief that it would be decided in a few short months, perhaps even weeks. She would be a wife by summer and begin the life she had been trained for since her infancy. Who could object to their parents arranging their lives so well?

There had been trepidation, however. It was unlike Catherine to question her mother’s abilities, but even the countess seemed to think they could not begin the search for a new suitor in earnest until they arrived in town. And could a man of good breeding and good family and wealth be found so quickly?

In Catherine’s first Season, her mother had been so focused on ensuring Eloise welcomed Mr Darcy’s advances that she gave no direction to her younger daughter. That liberty had been the envy of all of Catherine’s friends. While her acquaintances laboured for gentlemen’s attentions, she had paid little heed to her future matrimony.

And yet, not once had she wondered who the gentleman would be that her parents would arrange to marry her. She only knew that choose they would, and that she would be relieved when that decision was revealed.

If her own marriage had never been decided, and it appeared that it had not, Catherine wondered if her mother would indeed have enough time to seek a man as worthy as she had claimed Mr Darcy to be.

The idea that her mother still considered Mr Darcy the best candidate did not improve her faith in this plan. Ever the planner, though, Lady Barringer would make the right decision once they took their place in town.

Catherine wondered what Anne would think of this plan. Did her sister desire to go to Kent, or did she want to marry Mr Darcy? The idea made Catherine’s stomach turn. Marrying a man who desired her sister, whose feelings were returned, did not sound pleasing. It felt dreadful. She did not want to be Mrs Darcy, and the realization broke her heart in a way she had never expected.

Could she tell her father that? She had never gone against her mother’s wishes—in any aspect of her life.

Her mother’s opposition to seeking a new suitor, though, confused her. Was it really that complicated? If the countess found the idea insupportable, it was likely not an excellent choice. The entire business was disorienting.

Lady Rosamund’s suggestion that Catherine travel to Kent in Anne’s place felt like an option in some obstinance. Would her mother ever forgive her if she voiced an interest in that path? She did not know. The earl paid Catherine quite the compliment in letting her decide—and yet all she found herself considering was how others should perceive her choice.

Was it possible to travel to Kent with Lady Rosamund and find a gentleman of her own choosing? That would impress the countess—overcoming this obstacle without her mother having to lift a finger. And Catherine dearly did love to solve a problem.

The freedom of it was strangely appealing! She let out an excited breath. It was the most daunting—and yet, thrilling—of the selections before her. To her dismay, it was unlikely that Catherine would consider going to Kent. Not really. Not when it could incite resentment from the countess. Could she really forge ahead on her own and choose her own groom? A moment of maniacal excitement flowed through her, and she released a foreign laugh—a brash and persistent cackle that surprised even her. Let Anne go to London and parade around on Mr Darcy’s arm! What did she care?

Oh, but care she did. That was the problem.

Perhaps her forbearance would be rewarded. For her part, Catherine dearly hoped so—for whatever choice she made would be the making of her.

“Lady Rosamund said I could go to Kent in Anne’s place . . .”

Catherine had asked Lady Ashby to join her while she dressed for dinner. She wanted the truth from her sister by marriage about what the best way forward was.

Catherine let the sentence drag out in the space between them before adding, “And I wonder if I might have a better chance of securing a husband on my own.”

Catherine had dismissed Reynolds to avoid any additional gossip reaching the lower floors. In her place, Lady Ashby was putting the finishing touches on Catherine’s hair and selecting jewellery.

“Do you?”

“Well, if Anne goes to London and has her come out . . . and if she and Mr Darcy become engaged . . . it was not my idea, it was our aunt’s . . . she suggested that perhaps the earl and countess might convince the ton that it was Anne all along who was promised to Mr Darcy. And, if they went to London, I could have some time to—to sort through what has happened. A time to . . . explore my options?”

“There are not likely to be many eligible gentlemen in Kent,” Lady Ashby said, but Catherine could tell she was considering it. “Most will be in London for the Season, but it might be good practice for you to enjoy some society on your own and converse with other gentlemen outside of the common way.”

“Could it truly be a sound choice?”

“Perhaps. But I will remind you, your parents will only tolerate a marriage to someone of your sphere, so you are not to go traipsing about the countryside falling in love with the first farmer who smiles in your direction.”

Catherine chuckled. “What a farce!” She batted Elinor’s arm as the viscountess threw her hands up feigning innocence.

Lady Ashby whispered conspiratorially, “You know, they call your aunt the black widow of Kent. Thrice widowed, with no children of her own, and wealthier each time . . . No gentleman is safe! We might warn Sir Lewis, the poor man.

“Sir Lewis?”

“Why else would an eligible man chaperone a woman grown on her travels? They are both widowed. Why not? I wonder if it is already a torrid love affair . . .”

“You jest!”

Catherine was shocked by the accusation. Lady Rosamund was likely two decades older than Sir Lewis, but what would she know about what her aunt looked for in a gentleman?

“One would never know,” Lady Ashby continued. “They have both been married. People look the other way when a person is widowed. Some of the happiest women I know are widows. No one worries about them going anywhere unchaperoned, and they run their own homes. They answer to no one. No one takes notice of them.”

“How could you say such a thing! And who are you implying you answer to, Viscountess ?”

Lady Ashby looked appalled at Catherine’s reaction. “You think I answer to myself? I reside in your mother’s homes, which I am allowed to remain in because they are my husband’s parents. What power do you believe I have in the world?”

“But you are a member of the peerage!” It seemed like an empty sentiment when she considered the world the way the viscountess had just described.

“Yes, and I am happy to be a viscountess, and a wife to your brother, and especially delighted to be a sister to you, my dear.”

Catherine had always looked up to Lady Ashby, but the past few months had certainly brought them closer together. She felt raw in the face of such affection.

“I too, Lady Ashby.”

“Call me Elinor. I insist,” she said. “And I know we Fitzwilliams rarely speak of such absurd philosophies like fate, but I feel as if you are on the precipice of something. Finding your voice, perhaps? Follow the path that feels the most correct. And I will ensure that at least your brother supports whatever decision you make.”

This was certainly a new page in their friendship. Elinor. Could she make this selection for herself?

It was an idea that Catherine had rarely considered. She had never made a decision with such meaningful and possibly lasting consequences. What would it feel like to find one’s voice? She would wonder about that comment for days, indeed.

And that little voice inside whispered once again, run, run, run . But run where? She would rather not run away from something, but the idea that lit some hope in her belly was that she might be running to something.

“First, I have some questions.” Catherine sat opposite her father, each of them in a comfortable chair near the fireplace in his study.

“As I would hope you would,” the earl responded.

“It has occurred to me in my contemplation that Eloise’s partner was chosen for her at such an early age—nearly her infancy. Were there also young gentlemen chosen for Anne and myself?”

“Why do you ask?”

“If such gentlemen exist, why are we not considering them now?”

“Ah, I see—no, Catherine. We did not select husbands for you and Anne. And if we had, you would have known of them for many years. We would not keep that knowledge from you.”

“I see,” Catherine was disappointed by his answer. It was hard to keep her hands from fidgeting and giving away her anxiousness. “May I . . .” She was uncomfortable questioning her father’s reasons.

“Do not be timid now. Ask me what you must know.”

“May I know why? Why was a husband chosen for Eloise and not for your other daughters?”

The earl removed his spectacles and set them on a nearby table. He rubbed his furrowed brow. “Mr Darcy was chosen for Eloise because of the close relationship of your mother and Mrs Darcy. They have had it in their heads since they were girls that one day two of their children would marry. When Mr Darcy was born, your mother prayed she would soon birth a daughter. And it took five years from that time for her to have another child at all. When Eloise was born, the ladies were elated and began their plans immediately.

“It has not been a Fitzwilliam habit to make these choices for their children, only I did not see any harm in the scheme. It was a relief to know that one of my children would be taken care of so well. I only hoped we would find such fine matches for you and your sister.”

“Oh.” She had not realized.

“And of course, I am sure you have uncovered that I was not as motivated to renew the scheme in the wake of Eloise’s death. But I could see that continuing the plan—for Mr Darcy to marry you—brought your mother joy after the loss.”

“I see.”

“You have always been such a devoted daughter, Catherine. Your mother knew you would go along, and when you seemed relieved and open to the idea, it felt as if once again the scheme removed the burden of seeking someone worthy of you.”

“But I was not Eloise, was I.” It hurt Catherine to admit it.

The earl took her hand in his. “No, you are not. But do not allow that knowledge to sink you. I am not disappointed in you, but with myself. I should never have gone along with this scheme without knowing Mr Darcy was as committed as your mother and her friend. Look at me. This does not define you. Mr Darcy has missed out on a life with a lovely, delightful young lady.”

Catherine shrugged a very unladylike shrug. She felt fragile at his kind words.

“Now, are those your only questions?”

“Yes, sir,” Lady Catherine responded.

“And what have you decided?”

Was this really happening? Was she truly being offered an opportunity to decide for herself? She took a deep breath and responded with as much confidence as she could pretend, “I should like to go to Kent with Lady Rosamund.”

“Good girl.”

Catherine gasped. “Was that what you hoped I would say?”

Her father patted her hand and chuckled softly before responding with great feeling, “I hoped you would choose for yourself.”

“I think that’s it for the morning gowns, my lady,” Reynolds said as she closed the second trunk.

They had been packing all afternoon. Apparently, Lady Rosamund was eager to return to Kent. Catherine could not say the same for herself. While it had been her idea, she was not yet certain this was the wisest decision for her future.

“Well, then,” Catherine said, “we shall move on to the hats now.”

Catherine had a rather substantial collection of large hats, adorned with ribbons and feathers, made of straw and silk. As she began pulling out her favourites to take to Kent, they were interrupted by a soft knock on the servants’ door.

A young lady, likely not much older than Catherine herself, entered the room with the housekeeper.

The housekeeper, Mrs Culpepper, explained that the maid was Martha, a servant from the upper floors who had been selected to accompany Catherine to Kent while Jones was away caring for her mother. “Martha has been working with Reynolds to learn more about dressing and hairstyling.”

Lady Catherine asked Martha, “Are you packed and ready to depart on the morrow?”

“Yes, my lady.”

Hopefully that time spent with Reynolds had been adequate for Martha. Catherine excused them both and returned quickly to the job at hand.

“I must return to Lady Anne shortly, my lady. She is also packing,” Reynolds said.

“Is she? I had not heard.”

“We are to leave for London in two days’ time. She is overjoyed, and I have never been to town myself.”

“Well then, it appears that our time to prepare for my travels is shorter, and as such, I require your assistance. You can help my sister tomorrow when I am gone.”

It was difficult to hear about Anne’s joy. She was angry with her sister. When she had lain awake the night before, considering her father’s offer to choose her future, she had felt some guilt for potentially separating Anne from someone she cared about. But on this day, she would quiet that voice in favour of keeping the distance between them. Perhaps one day that would change. But it would not be any time soon.

Catherine took a dinner tray in her room. There was much to oversee before her departure.

It was a surprise, therefore, when she found her mother entering her chambers.

“You are not at dinner?” Catherine asked.

“No. I took a tray as well.”

Her mother looked tired. Her sunken cheeks and sharp angles conveyed her distress very easily. Dark circles under her eyes told Catherine that she too had slept little the night before. Was her mother worried for her?

“The earl informed me that you will accompany your aunt to Kent.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The hard expression on the countess’s face revealed that she did not agree with the decision. And it reminded her of what Lady Ashby had said the night before—about women with true freedom. It appeared that even the Countess of Barringer had been overruled by her husband. Catherine felt guilty for her choice and worried it was the wrong one.

“I came to check that your trunks were ready and to wish you well.”

“Thank you.”

“And—and to tell you that I shall see you soon. When the Season is over, I expect you back at Oakley for the summer.”

The countess looked about the room, nodded her approval that all was in order, and told her she would see her off in the morning.

Her mother had never been one to be emotional. Fitzwilliams never gave way to dramatics.

After she watched her mother go, Catherine sat down on the nearest trunk and beheld her room. She would miss Oakley, but most of all this perfect refuge she had created for herself.

The room felt a flawless reflection of her taste, and yet, she still was thinking about Lady Ashby’s comment about finding her voice. Was that what was reflected before her? Was her purpose to discover more about her own style and taste?

If Lady Ashby was implying she needed to discover more about her own wants and desires, she was not certain that was possible. Her sense of self was nowhere to be found and apprehensive when it appeared. Her mother’s opinions were buried so deep they had taken root—like the weeds that crawled up the beautiful roses in the gardens at Oakley—and she had no longer any room to thrive as her own person.

Her private self-deprecation only increased her nervousness. And yet, she was heartened by the little voice inside that screamed that she might be meant for more than this life had yet offered her. More than even her mother, perhaps.

Saying “yes” to the unknown—that was why she was going to Kent.

Maybe Elinor was right. Perhaps she was on the precipice of something truly splendid.