***
As the door closed gently behind the young couple, Lady Catherine settled more deeply into her chair, her hands clasped before her like a general surveying a well-laid plan. A satisfied gleam lit her eye, but her tone, when she spoke, was modulated into that curious form of modest gravity reserved only for moments of perceived triumph.
“Well,” she said, with the dignity of one whose expectations had been handsomely confirmed, “I believe that went as well as could be wished.”
The Marquess inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable but not unkind. “Better, perhaps. I had feared anawkwardness—Mary is not always at ease when pressed. Yet I thought her manner remarkably composed.”
“Composed, yes,” Lady Catherine agreed, “and suitably deferential without descending into vulgar simpering. She curtsied well, which is always a sign of breeding in a girl raised outside London. The rustics never learn to sink properly. But Miss Fletcher is perfect.”
Lord Ashford permitted himself the faintest smile. “My daughter is not easily managed, Lady Catherine, but she is uncommonly sensible. She thinks with care, and feels no less sincerely. I should not wish for her to be hurried.”
“Naturally,” Lady Catherine replied, with a wave of her hand, “though I dare say the matter may be safely left to unfold at its own pace. Colonel Fitzwilliam is not a man given to idle trifling, and I have long known that he would require a wife of steadiness rather than mere sparkle. Your daughter has both.”
“I thank you, your ladyship,” the Marquess said quietly. “As a father, I cannot be indifferent to the character of the man who might one day have the care of her happiness.”
“I should hope not,” Lady Catherine replied. “But you may be easy on that score. My nephew is honourable to a fault—if anything, too scrupulous. He has seen more of war than is suitable for a man of such refinement, but he has come through it with his sense intact and his heart uncorrupted.”
The Marquess nodded. “That was plain enough. His manner with Mary was courteous, even attentive, but not practised. I much prefer a man who does not waste his art on performance.”
“As do I,” Lady Catherine said firmly, although she believed otherwise. “Flattery is the refuge of those who have nothing better to offer. Colonel Fitzwilliam is a man of real distinction, though he would be the last to proclaim it.”
There was a pause. The Marquess nodded again, his expression now touched with quiet satisfaction.
“I am not unaware,” he continued after a moment, “that such a connection, though not grand in fortune, would place Mary within a circle of considerable influence. Her comfort, and her safety, are all that truly concern me now.”
“By all means, Lord Ashford,” Lady Catherine replied, with a gracious nod not entirely free of condescension.
The gentleman offered no reply beyond a slight bow. He had known Lady Catherine long enough to recognise the subtle rearrangements of pride and policy when one plan had been overturned and another not yet secured.
“In any event,” she continued, with an air of conclusive satisfaction, “I am most gratified by what has passed this evening. One cannot always command events, but one may, at least, prepare the ground. I believe we have done so admirably.”
“I shall speak with my daughter in due time,” the Marquess said. “If she remains inclined, I see no reason to discourage the acquaintance.”
“Then we are agreed,” Lady Catherine said, rising with the gravity of a woman confident that her preferences would be mistaken for principle. “It is always a pleasure to work with those whose judgment does not require correction.”
Lord Ashford stood as well and offered a parting bow. “Good evening, Lady Catherine. And thank you—for the hospitality, and the… arrangements.”
“They are not yet arrangements,” she said archly, “but if all parties behave with sense, they soon may be.”
He smiled faintly and, without awaiting dismissal, withdrew with the quiet elegance of a man accustomed to courtrooms, drawing rooms, and careful negotiations.
***
The Marquess had scarcely departed when Lady Catherine de Bourgh rang the bell and addressed the footman in a tone that bespoke both expectation and authority.
“Go at once,” she said, lifting her hand with composure, “and inform Sir Henry and his son that I have the honour of requesting their company in the little parlour. Kindly impress upon them that it is a matter of some personal importance.”
The man bowed and withdrew. Left alone once more, Lady Catherine allowed herself a moment’s reflection—not of uncertainty, but of calculation. The evening had thus far progressed tolerably well. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s interview with Miss Fletcher had not resulted in immediate rejection—a circumstance she deemed, under the present state of society, almost equivalent to success. But the night could not end with only one potential triumph. It was imperative, absolutely imperative, that her niece Georgiana be properly settled, and quickly.
The assembly had afforded opportunity—she had organised it with that very aim in mind—but opportunity was a delicate thing, for it required management and some degree of expertise in diplomacy. And who better to manage it than herself?
Miss Darcy was not without attractions, nor entirely lacking in social consequence. Her fortune was ample, her manners unblemished, and her countenance—though reserved—possessed the kind of elegance that promised refinementrather than boldness. Yet Lady Catherine knew too well how men of sense could be dissuaded by the very qualities that should inspire constancy. She required, therefore, a match that could not easily slip through her fingers—or Darcy’s, whose leniency she often found exasperating.
The baronet’s heir was suitable in every respect—solid, reputable, not too ambitious, and, more importantly, not already entangled. Lady Catherine had long observed that baronets were often eager to marry upward, and Mr. Darcy’s sister offered a connection far superior to any their own acquaintance might provide.
The footman returned with the expected announcement. “Sir Henry Dashwood and Mr. Dashwood, your ladyship.”
“Very good. Show them in—and remain.”
