by Robin Helm
For Sir Walter wished to hear about her childhood home as well. Gracious, how long had it been since she had revisited those memories?
There must be a fault in this man, and Lady Catherine was determined to find it. But not until after she finished explaining the excellence of the Fitzwilliam family line. It was refreshing to find so appreciative a listener.
Presently, however, something he said sparked a question. “You have newly removed to Bath, sir?”
“For reasons of health, yes.”
Lady Catherine gave a crow of victory. “That I cannot believe. You are the picture of vitality, sir.”
He smiled charmingly and made a little bow.
“Unless,” Lady Catherine went on, “it is something one cannot easily perceive. Do you suffer from gout, Sir Walter?”
She saw him flinch. Excellent. She must follow this lead. “Rheumatism? Lumbago?”
His chin came up. “I’ll have you know that I enjoy perfect health, ma’am. Er, that is, I do now.”
Lady Catherine could not suppress a smile. She had rattled him.
Sir Walter leaned forward, his expression intent. “When I took up residence in Bath,” he said, “I discovered the true source of my suffering. In short, it was this: boredom.”
Lady Catherine blinked. “Boredom? You cannot be serious.”
“But I am,” said Sir Walter. “You have no idea of the isolation of my Kellynch estate—or perhaps you do. At any rate, I have learned that the society of one’s fellows is crucial to well-being.”
“Harrumph!” said Lady Catherine, loudly enough for the group gathered around the pianoforte to hear. She saw them turn and look her way. Excellent.
“I cannot agree, Sir Walter,” she continued. “I daresay Mr. Darcy agrees with me, and Colonel Fitzwilliam, too.” Her smile became triumphant. “On one’s own estate, one has all the society one needs. Do you not agree?”
She meant to draw her nephews into the conversation—for they were far too entertained by Miss Elizabeth Bennet—but it was Sir Walter who answered.
“But are one’s efforts appreciated?” he said earnestly. “For example, when I wear a fine new frock coat, one that suits me to perfection and is in the very latest mode, it is tremendously disappointing if only the villagers see it. Of what value is their admiration?”
Lady Catherine hesitated. He had a point. But it would not do to allow him the advantage. “Of what value indeed,” she scoffed. “As if I wish to be admired solely for my attire.”
“You only say so because it has been too long since you have been dressed, as the young bucks say, slap up to the mark, my dear. And thus have astonished an assembled company of your peers with your taste and beauty.”
Lady Catherine blinked. Was this an insult?
“You, sir,” she said crisply, “are nothing but a fop.”
“I am happy to hear you say so,” said Sir Walter serenely. “It has become my life’s work.”
Lady Catherine was surprised into a laugh. “You admit it?”
“But of course,” he said easily. “My object, dear lady, is to live a life of social significance.”
“In what way, may I ask, does a dandy achieve this?”
“Ah, but I am not a dandy. You have been absent from the London social scene for too long if you think that of me.” He wrinkled his nose. “I mean, really. Their clothes! High shirt points—what the young bucks call winkers. Coats fit for a circus performer. Cherry-striped waistcoats sporting huge buttons.”
Lady Catherine was surprised into saying, “I quite agree.”
He leaned in. “Instead of managing the tenants on my estate—a thing you have obviously made your life’s work—I offer assistance to the gentry.”
“What assistance, pray, do they require?”
Sir Walter leaned forward. “You have eyes, Lady Catherine. Crimes of dress and manners and social usage are everywhere. When one’s sensibilities are offended by the gentry, opportunity is given to cits and social climbers.”
“As if you are not a social climber,” she scoffed.
“Me?” His surprise was genuine. “I have no need to be. Nor,” he added, “have you. But the generation beneath us? Horrors, all these egalitarian ideas. It is shameful.
“And it begins,” he went on, “with dress and manners. The gratifying thing about advising the well-born is that they—unlike the tenants on an estate—are in the position to do something about their errors. They can mend their ways.”
Lady Catherine blinked. “You speak like an enthusiast, Sir Walter.”
He laughed—a surprisingly warm laugh. “I suppose I am, my dear,” he said, “but only as it pertains to society and decorum.”
Lady Catherine did not know where to look, for the words my dear brought warmth to her cheeks. Did he think her a simpleton? He would soon learn better.
“A self-styled expert, I see,” she challenged. “Well? Have you any advice for me?”
That should shut his mouth!
And it did—but not his eyes. Sir Walter Elliot’s gaze was not lustful, but intense. He was a deeper thinker than she realized.
“Tell me this,” he said at last. “Do you mean to sit against the wall while others dance?”
“Of course I do. Dancing at my age!”
“You cannot be much above forty.”
Lady Catherine opened her mouth and then shut it again. “Not… much,” she stammered.
“If you must wear black—as so many women do—you will appear older. Granted, black will make a fleshy, rotund woman appear more slender. Your youthful figure has no need for such subterfuge. I suggest,” he added sagely, “that you wear dusky rose.”
“Pink?” she squeaked.
“Not pink,” he said severely. “I have in mind the colour of Grenache Noir.” Sir Walter lowered his voice. “That is a wine made in the south of France. In the Rhône, a region of mistral breezes and Mediterranean sunshine.”
Lady Catherine knew what Grenache was, and she knew about France. But why did the words mistral breezes tug at her heartstrings?
Why did she have an irrational wish to wear a dancing gown and twirl while music played?
Who was this man?
“I wear black,” she said tartly, “because I am a widow, sir.”
“Which serves to strengthen my point. Do you not think it is time to put black behind you? Dusky rose will suit your colouring splendidly. In a lightweight silk, so that when you dance your skirts will swirl.”
Lady Catherine could only stare. At her age, swirling one’s skirts ought to be a crime!
Sir Walter’s dimples appeared—dimples, in a man of that age! “Never tell me that you do not adore dancing, Lady Catherine.”
“When I was young, I—”
“No!” Sir Walter interrupted. “When you were younger.” His voice became gentle. “My dear Lady Catherine, you are young still.”
Somehow, she felt inclined to believe him.
Chapter Six
Sir Walter pushed the bowl of porridge aside. What was the innkeeper’s wife thinking, to serve him such a thing for breakfast? Only farm laborers and foot soldiers ate porridge! He might be forced to patronize this fourth-rate inn, but eat like a villager he would not.
On the other hand, the concoction of meat and cabbage—a thing called bubble and squeak—was surprisingly good. Since the alternative was starvation, Sir Walter thought it wise to capitulate. He chose to flatter the innkeeper’s wife by asking for a second helping.
Once the breakfast things were cleared away, Sir Walter applied himself to thinking.
On the whole, his campaign to win Lady Catherine’s hand was progressing splendidly. She was not as ill-looking as he’d feared—not nearly as bad as those frights in Bath. Although she was not in the first bloom of youth, anyone could see that she had once been quite handsome. When properly gowned and with her hair attractively arranged (instead of sporting a style that was three decades old), Lady Catherine would be a credit
to him. She certainly had the correct opinions.
Now came the challenging part: waiting for boredom to set in. Lady Catherine would certainly be bored, even with her nephews in the house. She was pleased to entertain them, but this was plainly a duty visit. These two young bucks would escape from her drawing room on the flimsiest of pretexts. And when they did, he would be ready to step into the breach.
Sir Walter refilled his teacup. Now then, what sort of activity would interest Lady Catherine?
Every ancestral estate possessed a portrait gallery—so dreary, but useful in flattering one’s host. Lady Catherine would not be able to resist displaying her— Sir Walter made a face. The portraits would be of her late husband’s forebears, not her own. So her familial pride would not be engaged by this activity. Sir Walter abandoned the idea and returned to thinking.
A tour of the gardens? Here would be a chance to display the numerous improvements she had no doubt authorized. Ah, but she could too easily fob the tour off on her gardener.
His head was beginning to ache!
First things first. What was his objective? To beguile Lady Catherine by spending time alone with her. Not for the purposes of seduction—heavens no!—but to accustom her to the idea of being a couple.
Sir Walter cast his gaze to the ceiling. There must be something on the estate that would interest her, but what? Something having to do with springtime? Not the rose garden; it was too early for roses. But what about … a bluebell wood?
Here was a worthy idea! And a romantic one, too! Every estate had a bluebell wood. Ladies went into rapture over the beauties of nature, just as they did over Byron. Speaking of Byron, there was a line from Childe Harold about woods; Sir Henry had recited it to Lady Dalrymple at that dinner last month. If it could bring a heartfelt sigh from that old tartar, it would surely impress Lady Catherine.
Now, what was it? Sir Walter’s eyes narrowed in thought. Woods, woods.
There is pleasure in the pathless woods…
Sir Walter nearly crowed aloud. He remembered! Here was proof positive that he was not a mere fribble or a fop. He was a man of many parts, a soulful thinker, a deep well.
A very great man.
Now then, how to get Lady Catherine to this bluebell wood? In a carriage, of course. He’d hire one—or suggest that they use hers. Ah, but she would wish to bring her daughter along, and probably her nephews, too.
Well, what of it? He was able to entertain Anne as well as her mother. Being out of the house might improve Anne’s spirits.
But Sir Walter now realized something else: he must do something about Anne. Otherwise Lady Catherine would bring her along on their wedding trip. There was nothing for it. He must find a husband for her.
This was no easy task for Anne was a sallow, unattractive girl, wholly devoid of spirit. On the other hand, she possessed a mighty fortune. It would almost be worth it to—
No! Sir Walter had no desire to court Anne for himself. She must marry someone of equal birth, preferably with a need to live elsewhere, such as London. In this way, Rosings Park would be vacant for Lady Catherine and her new husband.
But he was getting ahead of himself. First things first.
Today, if possible, he must find a way to encounter Lady Catherine. She was no doubt out and about, managing the lives of her tenants and the villagers. And her rector. Say! To leave the estate meant driving past the parsonage. Today, when Mr. Collins came rushing out to greet her, Sir Walter must be by his side. This would mean—oh dear. Must he spend the afternoon with Mr. Collins?
Perhaps this was not such a good idea.
Sir Walter took a fortifying swallow of tea.
What nonsense, to allow a bore to stand between him and the life he desired and deserved! Therefore, to the parsonage he must go.
⸟ﻬ⸞ﻬ⸟
Mr. Collins spoke over his shoulder as he loped along. “My wife encourages me,” he said, “to spend as much time as possible out here in the garden.”
It was certainly large, but not very tidy. Sir Walter gingerly stepped across a muddy patch littered with vegetable mold and who knew what else. His man Roberts would have plenty to say about the condition of his shoes!
Collins claimed to do most of the cultivation work himself, a thing of which he was inordinately proud. He seemed intent on leading Sir Walter through every walk and cross walk. “I have found my work here to be most helpful,” he said a little breathlessly, “in the writing of my sermons.”
“On what theme?” grumbled Sir Walter. “Cleanliness is next to godliness?”
Unfortunately Mr. Collins heard this aside, and he gave an awkward laugh. “There are profitable lessons to be learned here in the garden.”
“I daresay,” said Sir Walter politely.
Mr. Collins carried a stick, though Sir Walter could not see why, and with it he gestured to a cluster of hives. “We can learn much from our winged friends, the bees.”
Sir Walter did not trust himself to reply. Was the man serious? Bees were anything but friendly! Other than working themselves to death, what was there to learn?
“Such attractive little fellows, the bees,” Collins went on fondly. “Each wearing his yellow- striped waistcoat.”
Did the man expect him to converse about fashions relating to bees? Sir Walter looked around the garden in desperation. There must be something, anything, to divert Mr. Collins’s attention. Cold frames! He knew that gardeners were devoted to their use.
“I should think,” he began, “that in winter you grow marrows using—” Sir Walter broke off speaking. There, carried by the light breeze, was an unmistakable sound. A carriage was coming along the lane.
Mr. Collins spun round, mouth agape, listening hard. With a gasp, he cast aside the stick. “Make haste, Sir Walter, make haste,” he fairly squealed. “This could be her ladyship’s carriage!” He took off running along the path that skirted the house.
Sir Walter followed at a more moderate pace. It would never do to run!
Sure enough, he found a carriage halted before the parsonage gate. Mrs. Collins was conversing with whomever was inside, standing in such a way that the coat of arms was hidden. Sir Walter did not need to see the doors; he knew. What else could it be but destiny? Here was Lady Catherine herself.
⸟ﻬ⸞ﻬ⸟
“Do we have a what? A bluebell wood?” Lady Catherine did not bother to hide her astonishment. She honestly had no idea, but she did not like to admit this to Sir Walter.
The man continued to smile at her. “The weather has been so fine,” he explained, “and a bluebell wood is so very English. It would be a treat to see such natural beauty on your fine estate. Only the great estates are large enough to have one,” he added.
Here was a fine thing! Of course Rosings was large enough! Annoyed, Lady Catherine leaned out the window to speak to her driver. Before she could say a word, she caught sight of her nephews. So this was where they’d been hiding themselves—strolling about the countryside with Miss Elizabeth Bennet and Miss Lucas.
Lady Catherine’s lips compressed into a line. Apparently Sir Walter was not the only one intent on enjoying the natural beauty of the estate. She did not like the way Darcy was smiling at Miss Bennet.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she called, “you know the estate well. Have we a bluebell wood?”
He gave a look to his cousin. “I don’t exactly—”
“Indeed we do,” Darcy finished for him. “Just over that rise of land, down along the river. The primroses are just finishing up, and the bluebells are coming into bloom.”
“Splendid,” said Sir Walter. “Might we drive to see it?” His smiling gaze took in the entire party.
Elizabeth Bennet made a soft sound, rather like a sigh. This did not escape Darcy’s notice, much to Lady Catherine’s annoyance. “I would like that very much,” Miss Bennet said. “That is, if it is not too much trouble.”
“Trouble? It is no trouble at all,” cried Colonel Fitzwilliam. “It is a gloriou
s day for a drive. We’ll have the top down.”
“Nonsense,” cried Lady Catherine. “We cannot all fit.”
“I can hire something from The Crown,” said Sir Walter. “They have a pony trap or some such thing. I daresay it will be rather rustic. But it’s in keeping with the spirit of our outing, don’t you think? Shall I arrange it?”
Darcy spoke again. “Will my landau suffice? It seats four.”
“Certainly not,” said Lady Catherine. “Mrs. Collins, you should not be fatiguing yourself. And your sister will like to stay with you.”
Mrs. Collins was a sensible woman, and at once she agreed. Her sister Maria said nothing. Lady Catherine next turned to Elizabeth Bennet. “You, my dear, will like to remain with your friend.”
“No, she won’t,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.
“We’ve plenty of room,” said Darcy. “Of course you must come, Miss Bennet.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam grinned. “Give us twenty minutes, and we’ll be back for you and Sir Walter. Come along, Darcy, in with you.”
“Twenty minutes?” said Lady Catherine scornfully as Darcy found his seat. It would take far longer than that to pole up Darcy’s landau. The entire idea was foolish!
Meanwhile Colonel Fitzwilliam was climbing up beside the driver. “Less than twenty, if I have my way.” He took the reins and slewed round in his seat. “All set? Hold on tight. I’m going to spring ‘em!”
“Good gracious!” cried Lady Catherine.
The carriage shot up the lane at an alarming speed. Lady Catherine gave an anguished look to her daughter—and discovered that Anne was smiling.
“This is insupportable! Insupportable, do you hear?” she shouted to her nephew. “We shall be killed! Or, barring that, rattled to death!”
“Oh, but Mother,” cried Anne. “This is such fun! And Fitz is a very good driver.”
Lady Catherine would have folded her arms across her chest if she hadn’t been holding on for dear life. “He is nothing of the sort,” she snapped. “Furthermore, you should not be calling him ‘Fitz’.”
Anne’s smile disappeared, but the shine in her eyes did not.