Lady Catherine’s eyes flashed. “Do you speak of ‘methods’ to me in my own house?”
“In your house,” Darcy replied, “you may position the chairs, arrange the guests, and command the servants. But you may not command my sister’s heart, nor dispose of her future as if it were an ornament to be placed where it pleases you to see it.”
Georgiana’s hands had tightened in her lap; at those words, she loosened them slowly, as though some invisible cord had been cut.
Lady Catherine, sensing that she was losing ground and unwilling to be seen to lose it, shifted her attack.
“You are remarkably bold for a man who has produced no heir,” she said. “It would be more becoming to show humility, Fitzwilliam, when the continuance of your line is not assured. Mr. Collins, for instance, has a son already—and another child is expected.”
Darcy’s face tightened—a brief, involuntary reaction he did not wholly conceal. Georgiana saw it at once.
Mr. Darcy’s voice did not rise; it cooled. “Enough,” he said.
Lady Catherine paused, affronted. “How dare you—”
“I said, enough,” Darcy repeated. “You are fully aware of Anne’s health. You are fully aware that there are matters not to be used as weapons. If you cannot remember that from tenderness, remember it from propriety. You are speaking of your daughter.”
Lady Catherine’s lips parted, then pressed together.
Darcy continued. “My family is my concern, madam. It has never been yours to measure, nor to compare, nor to reproach. And Anne—” he turned slightly away, mastering himself “—shall not be harassed upon that subject again. Not by hints. Not by comparisons. Not by public remarks disguised as maternal care. For what it is worth, maybe you should also know that she didn’t feel well and she withdrew to her room before we got here.”
Lady Catherine’s spine stiffened like a steel rod beneath her silk gown. “You take a great deal upon yourself, Fitzwilliam.”
“I take what has been mine since my father died,” Darcy replied, “and what has been mine since Georgiana was placed in my care. I will not apologise for fulfilling it. If you wish to advise, you may advise. If you wish to suggest, you may suggest. But you will not contrive.”
Lady Catherine’s gaze flicked toward Georgiana. “And what does your sister say to all this?”
Georgiana lifted her head slowly. “I wish to be treated as though my understanding were not an inconvenience, Aunt,” she said quietly. “And as though my happiness were not an afterthought.”
Lady Catherine stared, her eyes widening with imperious disbelief as she fixed her gaze upon her niece. “Georgiana, how dare you?” she demanded, her voice sharp with the authority she had long wielded without challenge.
Darcy spoke at once, his tone calm yet unyielding as he stepped forward slightly, shielding his sister with quiet resolve. “That is the matter, madam,” he said, his voice steady and firm. “It is settled.”
After a long moment, during which the air seemed charged with the weight of unspoken years, Lady Catherine stood, her posture rigid with barely contained indignation. “Very well,” shedeclared, her chin lifting in a gesture of regained command. “We have expressed ourselves with sufficient freedom. I shall not have my guests kept waiting because of domestic disputes.”
Darcy inclined his head with measured courtesy, his expression composed though a subtle firmness lingered in his eyes. “Nor would I, madam,” he replied, his words conveying both deference and quiet finality.
Lady Catherine turned toward Georgiana, her gaze attempting to restore her authority with familiar imperiousness. “Come.”
Georgiana rose gracefully, her movements composed though a faint tremor betrayed the emotion she mastered within. She paused only long enough to glance at her brother, her eyes meeting his with a mixture of gratitude and quiet strength that drew a subtle, reassuring nod from him. Darcy offered his arm; she took it—not as a child clinging for protection, but as a young woman choosing steadiness and alliance in the face of trial.
And as they moved toward dinner—because etiquette demanded it, because guests were waiting, because Lady Catherine would not allow even a quarrel to rob her of display—Darcy’s expression remained composed, revealing nothing of the inner triumph he felt.
But something had altered all the same. Lady Catherine had spoken and reigned for years. Darcy had endured with patient forbearance. And now, at last, he had answered—not with anger, but with the quiet authority of a man who had chosen his own path.
***
The guests already seated by the long table—extended to its full reach and dressed with a precision that would have satisfied Lady Catherine’s own eye—occupied the greater part of the Great Drawing Room, for her ladyship had long maintained that a room, like a household, was improved by being made to serve her purpose rather than its own. The chairs were placed close enough to enforce conversation, yet not so close as to suggest familiarity; the lights were arranged to flatter rank before beauty; and the very centre of the room, cleared earlier for dancing, remained visible beyond the table’s end—an empty stage kept, as it were, in readiness for whatever display she might next require. The servants began to move with that silent efficiency which, at Rosings, was less a habit than a law. The
Lady Catherine herself sat at the head, elevated by nothing more scandalous than a slightly higher-backed chair and the natural advantage of posture, which she employed as other people employed wealth, not that she lacked that aspect. The principal guests were disposed near her, with a care that was neither accidental nor subtle. Colonel Fitzwilliam, newly arrived from the Continent and still carrying in his manner the tempered discipline of the army, had been stationed within her immediate influence; Sir Henry Dashwood—baronet, secure in consequence, and old enough not to be impressed by any woman’s certainty—was placed so that her ladyship might address him without turning; and those of lesser note, though by no means insignificant, were arranged down the line like persons admitted to observe the working of power and to be grateful for the privilege.
Mr. Darcy and Miss Darcy were not, as a less generous hostess might have pretended, “put away;” they had chosen their place with a quiet independence that Lady Catherine, had she reflected upon it, would have called obstinacy inanyone not named Fitzwilliam. They sat far enough to avoid being perpetually handled, near enough to be seen, and—most importantly—near enough to command, by their own observation, what Rosings did with everyone: weigh, measure, and attempt to place.
Two seats away across the table, the Bennet brothers had been admitted with that particular species of courtesy which acknowledges a gentleman’s right to be present while still reserving judgment on whether he deserves to be remembered. James Bennet bore it without resentment; he had been trained by inheritance, and by the daily responsibilities of Longbourn, to endure scrutiny without appearing to notice it. Elias Bennet endured it differently—less as a duty, more as a study—and it was perhaps for that reason that, though he spoke little, his silence was never empty.
The first course progressed with the restrained animation proper to a large dinner in a great house: conversation formed and dissolved, laughter appeared and was moderated, compliments were offered with an air of being unavoidable, and the servants moved in disciplined tides, changing plates, presenting wines, and receiving instructions with faces carefully emptied of all personality.
Lady Catherine, who disliked any sound that suggested the company might be entertaining itself without her direction, allowed the usual preliminaries only so long as was necessary to establish that she could have allowed more and had chosen not to. She spoke of the weather as if it were her responsibility, of the roads as if she had laid them, of the harvest as if she had ordained it, and of Cambridge as if learning were improved by being mentioned in her hearing. She questioned one gentleman about drainage; corrected another upon the subject of fencing; and, when a young lady ventured an observation about a rosebush that had flowered twice in the season, Lady Catherine informed her—without malice, but with crushing completeness—that roses were not to be admired for novelty, but for consistency.
