by Robin Helm
Chapter Seven
Colonel Fitzwilliam was as good as his word. He and Mr. Darcy returned in a nicely-appointed black landau, with Lady Catherine and Anne following in the carriage. Its top was down, and both ladies held parasols as a safeguard against the sun.
Of this Sir Walter heartily approved; the sun was most destructive to the complexion! Once again he found himself lamenting that, for gentlemen, use of the parasol was taboo.
But there was no sense in dwelling on what could never be. His bluebell outing was shaping up nicely. The only hitch was Mr. Collins. Although hints had been given that he was not to join their party, the man had brought out his gig and was waiting. As usual, he would talk.
“Mrs. Collins is resting in the house, in accordance with your excellent advice,” he said to Lady Catherine. “But young Maria, here, is longing to see the bluebell wood.”
This, thought Sir Walter, was entirely in character. Mr. Collins did not wish to be left behind, but it was easier to place the blame on young Maria. His little speech was followed by an anxious silence, during which Mr. Collins waited for Lady Catherine’s verdict.
“Oh, very well,” she said at last. “Mind you, follow at the rear.” She turned to her daughter. “Anne, you are to get down at once and ride with your cousin. As for you, Miss Bennet—”
But Elizabeth Bennet was already being handed into Mr. Darcy’s landau, apparently at his invitation.
Lady Catherine clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Obstinate, headstrong girl! She ought to ride with us, not them.”
Sir Walter did not agree, for Miss Bennet would be very much in the way—but he could hardly say so to Lady Catherine. “I quite understand,” he said as soon as the carriage was rolling along. “Is Miss Bennet an undesirable connection? A cit? Or, perhaps, a nabob’s daughter?”
“I have no idea who she is. Her father is said to be a gentleman. For all I know, he is as poor as a church mouse.”
“Oh, no,” said Sir Walter, “there is no chance of that.”
Lady Catherine turned to face him fully. “You are very positive, sir.”
“You have only to look at her attire. In particular, her shoes. You can tell much about a person from the shoes they wear.”
Lady Catherine gave a dismissive sniff. “Yours are certainly in a state.”
Sir Walter was betrayed into a grin. “Disgraceful, are they not? Blighted by a stroll through Mr. Collins’s garden. My valet will be beside himself.
“As for Miss Bennet,” he went on, “her mother deserves high praise. Five daughters, did you say? She has dressed this one beautifully.”
“A happy accident.”
“Such things, my dear, do not happen by accident. There was considerable forethought involved, as well as expense.”
Lady Catherine shifted in her seat. “You seem preoccupied with attire, sir.”
“I most certainly am,” said Sir Walter. “Appearance is very important. We do judge a book by its cover.”
“Moralists would advise us to do otherwise.”
“That is because moralists are usually unattractive and cannot afford to dress well. Thus they must seek refuge in egalitarian ideas.”
Lady Catherine laughed—a genuine, hearty laugh. Sir Walter’s spirits soared. He was making headway! “The scourge of our nation, egalitarianism,” she added. “It is positively un-English.”
All this time Lady Catherine’s carriage had been following the landau along a country lane to the top of a rise of land. The lane wound downhill, through a copse to an ancient stone bridge, and then ran alongside the stream. Presently Mr. Darcy gestured to something on the left, and the landau rolled to a stop. Lady Catherine’s driver pulled up as well.
There, in a shaded meadow edged with trees, grew a carpet of bluebells. The sweet scent of blossoms hung in the air.
“Oh, how beautiful,” someone said.
“A magical spot,” said someone else.
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s comment came drifting on the breeze. “Is there anything more English?”
“Truly Rosings is the most excellent of estates! Majestic in every way; blessed with beauty beyond compare.” This was called out from behind by Mr. Collins.
Sir Walter knew he must likewise give an opinion. “Charming,” he said quietly. “Absolutely charming.” What else could one say? They were, after all, just flowers.
Lady Catherine did not go into raptures; she was too intent on critiquing her driver. With help from her suggestions, the man accomplished the turn-around without pitching the carriage into a ditch. Soon they were headed back to the parsonage.
Sir Walter was left with a choice, for all too soon his tête-à-tête with Lady Catherine would be over. He could sit silent, or he could work to advance their friendship. The most effective way to do this was an exchange of confidences, a time-honoured practice of lovers. It would hurt his pride to make the confession he had in mind, but its value was great. Besides, it did not concern him too personally.
“It’s odd that we should be discussing the subject of cits and undesirables,” he said, by way of introduction. “Such a thing happened to me, you know. That is to say, a fortune gained through Trade entered our family.”
“Indeed?”
Sir Walter gave a heartfelt sigh. “My heir—yes, the heir to my beloved Kellynch Hall and the title—married a tradesman’s daughter. Her grandfather was a grazier, for heaven’s sake! I was mortified. We all were. Fortunately, she did not live long.”
“Dear me.”
“William Elliot ought to have married my daughter Elizabeth; it was the dearest wish of my heart. As well he knew! But the stupid fellow was too eager for a fortune to wait for the inheritance.”
“Young people,” said Lady Catherine, “can be hopelessly stupid. My Anne is promised to her cousin Fitzwilliam—but she knows her duty.”
Sir Walter leaned forward to better study the occupants of the landau. Colonel Fitzwilliam sat beside Anne. She was hunched in the corner, obviously done in. He was gently conversing with her. Mr. Darcy was pointing out various landmarks to his seatmate, Miss Bennet.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam seems a kindly fellow. Very good-looking and of such excellent lineage.”
Lady Catherine gave an impatient huff. “I meant Fitzwilliam Darcy, not Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
Sir Walter rolled his eyes heavenward. Names again! “I do apologise,” he said. “What is it with names? We English are altogether too fond of repeating them. My family is littered with Henrys and Williams and Elizabeths—so confusing! Even my own name, Walter, marches through the generations.” He paused to twinkle at her. “Posterity will have a devil of a time deciphering the family tree.”
“I’ll have you know,” said Lady Catherine tartly, “that there is nothing of the devil in my family tree.”
“I’ll —take your word for it, madam,” Sir Walter said unsteadily. He bit back a grin.
But she noticed this, oh she did, and she gave his forearm a rap. “Really, sir!”
Ah, but she was smiling a little as she said it. Sir Walter returned the smile. Violence at the hand of a lady was an excellent sign. His plan was progressing very nicely indeed.
⸟ﻬ⸞ﻬ⸟
As luck would have it—or was it destiny?—the entire company was asked to dinner. “Since the Collinses are to dine with us,” said Lady Catherine, “you might as well come too.” Not, perhaps, the most elegantly-worded invitation, but Sir Walter was not about to quibble.
Back he went to The Crown to surrender his shoes to Roberts and to change into his resplendent evening attire. Dining at Rosings after only two days! Destiny was certainly efficient.
Lady Catherine’s dining room was exceedingly handsome, with a small army of servants on hand to attend them. At its threshold Sir Walter paused to sigh. Glittering articles of plate, an enormous silver epergne, and candelabrums with crystal prisms graced the table. Magnificent! He was seated to the right of his hostess, an honour that was not lost on
him. Mr. Darcy sat to her left.
As the meal progressed, Lady Catherine took admirable care to ensure that her guests were conversing amicably. “What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam?”
Sir Walter now knew that she meant Darcy, not her military nephew—who was looking very smart in his regimentals.
“What is it you are talking of?” Lady Catherine went on. “What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.”
“We are speaking of music, madam,” said he.
“Of music! It is, of all subjects, my delight. I must have my share in the conversation, if you are speaking of music.”
She turned to Sir Walter. “There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better natural taste.”
“I know precisely what you mean,” agreed Sir Walter. “Do you know, if I had ever learned to play I should have been a great proficient.”
Lady Catherine opened her eyes at him.
“It has been left to my daughter, Anne, to be the musician. And let me tell you, Lady Catherine, you and I have invested our time in more worthy pursuits. Think of the countless hours spent learning a musical skill—and then practicing to keep it up—when the same enjoyment can be had simply by hiring musicians. They play while we dance.”
“The last time I danced,” said Lady Catherine dryly, “was at Almack’s years ago.”
Sir Walter was impressed. As the daughter of an earl, Lady Catherine certainly had the necessary connections. Here was more proof that she was just the wife for him.
“Almack’s,” she announced, “is bidding to become a den of depravity. You may well stare, Sir Walter, but I am told that members are requesting that the waltz be allowed. The waltz!”
The others at the table fell silent.
“I should certainly hope so,” said Sir Walter promptly. “It will never do to be behind the times.”
“You approve of this indecent display?”
“I beg to differ, dear lady. The waltz, or rather a milder version of it, la sauteuse, is not as scandalous as you suppose. In fact, if you will allow, I will gladly instruct you.”
“You dare to teach me the waltz?”
Sir Walter’s smile remained undimmed. It now occurred to him that the way to deal with a strong woman was to display confidence. “I shall teach you, your daughter, and everyone else,” he said easily. “The alternative, my dear, is to sit against the wall. The waltz is taking the polite world by storm, and there is nothing you or I or anyone else can do about it. Shall we have a little class tomorrow afternoon?”
“Here? In my house?”
“But of course. You cannot tell me that Rosings does not possess an elegant ballroom.”
“It does, but—”
Sir Walter looked down the table. “And I am sure that the excellent Mrs. Jenkinson knows some waltzes and will be delighted to play for us.”
“But—” stammered Lady Catherine. “But—” She looked at the others seated around her at the table. “Well?” she demanded. “Haven’t you anything to say?”
Apparently no one did.
“Darcy?”
Sir Walter hid a smile, for Mr. Darcy had been gazing at Miss Bennet. He raised his eyes to meet his aunt’s. “As it is only a version of the waltz, ma’am,” he said slowly, “and as this is not a public assembly, I can see little harm in—”
“Bah!” cried Lady Catherine. She rounded on Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was grinning. “I know better than to ask for your opinion,” she said wrathfully.
He spread his hands. “We’ve been dancing the waltz at our embassies for several years, ma’am. It’s rather fun.”
“No thanks to the wretched Viennese!” she cried. “Well, Mr. Collins? Have you anything to say? What is your opinion?”
If ever there were a rabbit clothed in human skin, it was Hunsford’s rector. Sir Walter felt rather sorry for him. Mr. Collins’s eyes bulged in fear and he wrinkled up his nose, exposing rabbit-like teeth.
“I—I,” he squeaked, looking from Lady Catherine to Darcy to the grinning Colonel Fitzwilliam. “If it is danced at our embassies…”
“Oh!” cried Lady Catherine. “You are no help at all.”
“Come, dear lady,” said Sir Walter, more gently. “Tomorrow I shall give a demonstration, and you may decide for yourself whether or not you wish to learn.” He lowered his voice. “Wear the rose gown, my dear, and dance…”
Her silence told Sir Walter everything he needed to know.
Chapter Eight
Dawson came into the dressing room with a slim gown cradled in her arms. “Here you are, milady. For tomorrow.”
Lady Catherine’s brows knit into a frown. “This is not one of my evening gow—” She broke off speaking as Dawson tenderly laid the dress on the armchair. It was of blush-coloured silk, overlaid with delicate lace.
The Chantilly lace gown. “What in the world?” said Lady Catherine. “Where did this come from?”
Dawson’s voice was hushed. “I laid it away in lavender, milady, in hopes that you would one day wear it again, or perhaps Miss Anne. Lady Anne had one like it. Oh, you were a pair! Do you remember?”
“Of course I remember,” said Lady Catherine crisply. “A foolish, extravagant purchase! I dare not recall how many years ago it was.”
“Fourteen, milady.”
In spite of herself Lady Catherine sighed. She reached out to finger the still-beautiful lace. Fourteen years ago this gown had been rather daring, as it was made in the new Grecian silhouette. Her sister Anne had insisted that they each order one—and in a moment of weakness Lady Catherine acquiesced. Poor Lewis, when he received the dressmaker’s bill.
“I was but thirty-five. Gracious, my Anne would have been only twelve! Where have the years gone?”
“It does a body good to see this gown, looking so fine and all. And not yellowed a bit.”
“I thought then that I was old. But I was young, Dawson. So very young.”
Had not Sir Walter said the same?
“This wants washing and pressing before tomorrow,” said Dawson, “but the moths haven’t been at it. The lace is as beautiful as ever, milady, and the style is—
“—antiquated,” announced Lady Catherine. “A relic of antiquity. I shall look a fool if I wear it.”
“Nay, ma’am, the style has aged well. Your figure is as slim as it always was.”
Lady Catherine felt a flush rise to her cheeks. Sir Walter again! What cheek! Without meaning to she gave a tug to her dressing gown; the sash held firm.
“Shall we have it on, milady, for old times’ sake?”
“Oh, very— No! Of all the foolish things! I—no!”
“It’s not every lady as can wear a gown from years ago,” said Dawson. “I daresay your wedding dress would fit just as nice.”
Lady Catherine rounded on her maid. “Have you that old thing in lavender as well?”
“No, milady, just the Chantilly gown. Because of the lace. We could have a new underdress made.”
“We could not! Or rather, we should not! I have no intention of making myself a laughingstock.”
But again Lady Catherine reached out to stroke the gown. The lace was so very fine—incomparable, even after all these years. How beautiful she and Anne had looked that night! How the other guests had stared!
“We cut quite a dash, my sister and I,” she admitted, smiling.
“You did and all. No blushing young miss could carry it off, as you said yourself that night.”
Lady Catherine was betrayed into a smile. “I suppose it would not hurt to slip it on,” she said slowly, “for old times’ sake.”
And Dawson was right; the bodice fit beautifully—like a glove. “But the skirt is not long enough,” Lady Catherine complained. It would never do to allow Sir Walter to see her ankles!
“Nay, milady,” said Dawson. “Your feet must be free to move. It’s been too long since you’ve worn a dancing gown.”
How did Dawson know she would be dancing? No, she would not dance; she could not dance! Not the waltz—or whatever Sir Walter had called it! It was too improper!
“This is absurd,” she said, speaking her thought aloud. “I ought to bar the door against him.”
“You’ll do just as you like, ma’am,” said Dawson, “same as you ever did. But I say that if a handsome man like that was come express for me to dance with him? I’d dance.”
Lady Catherine pressed her fingers to her flaming cheeks. “Oh dear,” she said without meaning to. “He is handsome.”
“Fine as five pence, he is.”
“I daresay you think he is a flatterer and a fortune hunter.”
“Doesn’t matter what I think. Doesn’t matter if he is a fortune hunter. He can’t waste the ready, not with the lawyers and your nephews and all.”
Dawson had a point. The trustees kept the de Bourgh fortune well protected.
“None of us is getting any younger, milady,” Dawson went on. “Take time by the forelock, my old dad used to say. If a fine gentleman like that, with nice manners and a face like a hero out of a storybook, asked me to marry him, I’d not think twice.”
“Marry him?” cried Lady Catherine. “Good heavens, he shall never ask me to marry him. Of all the ideas!”
“It certainly looks that way to us, ma’am. If ever a man was a-courting, Old John says it’s him.”
Exactly how much of their conversation had her driver overheard? It wasn’t as if she had flirted with Sir Walter. Well, not very much.
“Nonsense,” said Lady Catherine. “Sir Walter Elliot is not courting me. He is simply being an amusing guest—and isn’t that a nice change around here? You may tell John—and every other member of my too-busy staff—that I refuse to allow it.”
Dawson made an adjustment to the gown and stepped back. In the tall looking glass, her eyes met Lady Catherine’s. “What I say, ma’am, is that you’d best have your answer ready when he asks.”
Lady Catherine discovered that her heart was hammering. “A fool at forty is a fool indeed,” she muttered. And she was a good deal past forty! Nevertheless—