As I delved into the historical context for this story, I discovered the real-life historical figure George Henry Dashwood, the son of Sir Henry Watkin Dashwood, 3rd Baronet of Kirtlington Park, Oxfordshire. I incorporated some details from his biography into my fictional narrative.
George Henry Dashwood was, in fact, married on 8 September 1815 to Marianne Sarah Rowley (1792–1877), who thereby became Marianne Sarah Dashwood. This lady bears no relation to Jane Austen’s fictional heroine, Marianne Dashwood (later Mrs. Brandon) of Sense and Sensibility.
Among the children born of this marriage was a daughter named Marianne Georgiana Dashwood (d. 3 February 1903). Whether Jane Austen ever heard of this family, was aware of the names, or whether the parallels are coincidental is uncertain. Nevertheless, the alignment of names and dates is intriguing—and seemed too evocative and delightful a footnote not to share.
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Darcy did not return to his chair. Instead, he turned back with the same composure he had maintained throughout the humiliation, yet with an altered stillness in his bearing—an exactness that suggested the patience of years had been gathered, not spent. Darcy had endured too much.
“Madam,” he began—his voice low, controlled, and perfectly clear—“before we proceed to dinner, there is one matter which must be understood.”
Lady Catherine had resumed her seat with as much dignity as could be reclaimed after a miscalculation, her spine rigid, herhands clasped tightly upon her lap. Georgiana remained a little apart, near the window, where the late light caught the pale edge of her profile and made her stillness appear almost luminous. The baronet’s son had looked at her as one looks at a prize; Lady Catherine had spoken of her as one speaks of property. Georgiana, for all her quiet, had understood the distinction.
“Then allow Georgiana to leave the room,” Lady Catherine said, as if granting a concession.
Miss Darcy glanced at her brother, as though awaiting his decision.
“On the contrary, Aunt. I would prefer to speak in her presence,” Darcy said calmly. Then he crossed the room, not quickly, but with a decisiveness that admitted no doubt as to his purpose. He stopped where all could see him, and where Lady Catherine could not pretend that what followed had been said in a corner and therefore did not count.
Lady Catherine lifted her chin. “If you intend to lecture me, Fitzwilliam, I recommend you choose your moment with more discretion. We have been delayed already.”
“We have been delayed,” Darcy replied evenly, “because you arranged a conversation of consequence without first ensuring that you possessed the necessary information for it. That is inconvenient. What is more serious, however, is not the error, but the assumption that made it possible.”
Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “Assumption?”
“That my sister’s future may be disposed of,” Darcy said, “as though she were a portion of the estate, and that her guardian may be informed of it after the fact, as one might be informed of a choice of curtains.”
Georgiana’s gaze lowered, not in shame, but in a controlled effort to remain quiet while the argument, at last, was fought on her behalf.
Lady Catherine’s colour rose. “You are exaggerating.”
“I am stating what has occurred,” Darcy answered, his tone firm rather than heated. “You issued an invitation. You summoned my sister. You praised a gentleman in her hearing. You proposed a union—no matter how advantageous you believed it to be. And you did so without consulting me, without asking her, and without granting either of us the courtesy of warning.”
“You speak as though I were a stranger to her!” Lady Catherine retorted. “I am her aunt.”
“You are her aunt,” Darcy agreed. “And I have never denied you that claim. But you are not her guardian. Even Cousin Fitzwilliam, were he inclined to such interference, would not presume to act without consulting me first.”
Lady Catherine’s mouth tightened. “Guardianship ends at one-and-twenty.”
“It ends on paper,” Darcy said quietly, “and even then only in the sense that the law ceases to compel obedience. But my duty to Georgiana does not expire with a birthday next year, and I will not behave as though it does. Nor will I allow anyone—however near in blood—to treat her as though she may be pressed into ‘understandings’ for the convenience of another person’s pride.”
Lady Catherine gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Pride! This, from you!”
Darcy’s gaze did not waver. “Yes—this, from me, Aunt. For I have learned, madam, precisely how much damage pride may accomplish when it mistakes itself for principle.”
The words landed with a force that was not loud, yet unmistakable. Even Georgiana’s stillness altered; her breath caught, and her eyes flicked—only briefly—toward her brother, as if she had not expected him to say quite so much to Lady Catherine de Bourgh in her own house, and could not decide whether to fear it or admire it. She lowered herself into the nearest chair.
Lady Catherine’s voice sharpened. “And what do you call it, then, when a young woman insists upon choosing her own future without guidance? Folly. Romance. Nonsense. You are encouraging her to imagine she may marry where she pleases, like a shopkeeper’s daughter.”
“I am encouraging her to imagine,” Darcy replied, “that her feelings are not irrelevant.”
“Feelings!” Lady Catherine repeated, with disdain so practised it might have been habit. “A girl’s feelings are always unsettled. They cannot be relied upon. They must be directed.”
“Directed,” Darcy said, and the word, repeated, took on a different meaning in his mouth—cooler, more exact. “You directed mine, madam. You directed Anne’s. You did not cease until the arrangement you preferred had been secured, and you congratulate yourself upon it still. You have employed the same methods with countless others, both within the family and beyond it.”
Lady Catherine stiffened. “I did what was necessary. No one has complained before. Such ingratitude.”
“You did what you desired,” Darcy corrected, and there was no heat in it—only the calm of a man finished with pretence. “And because I have endured it—because Anne has endured it—because the household has learned, for the sake of peace, toaccommodate your certainty—I will not now watch the same methods applied to Georgiana.”
