“I speak of the entire family.” Lady Catherine continued prowling across the room, her skirts lashing at her ankles as her pace increased. “And particularly of one young woman whose habits would be unremarkable were they not so persistently disruptive.”
Darcy crossed his arms. “You will not speak of her in that manner.”
Lady Catherine rounded on him. “I speak of her as a woman whose conduct has been remarked upon. Her cousin was at pains to correct her want of modesty when he perceived it. He was not thanked for the effort.”
“You mistake illness for artifice,” Darcy said. “And generosity for license.”
“I mistake nothing. I observe patterns. A young woman falls ill with remarkable frequency. She recovers with equal suddenness. She exerts an influence that unsettles households and distracts gentlemen from their obligations. You yourself were altered, Darcy.”
She gestured to him, openly now. “It is said you were pale when at Netherfield. Drawn. I should say overtaxed. One might suppose such proximity ill-advised.”
Darcy’s voice hardened. “Your suppositions are unwelcome.”
“And yet, they are necessary! If a young woman is the cause of disorder—social or otherwise—then propriety demands she be removed from the centre of it. Either by distance, or by settlement. I am told she has now been taken away.”
“Yes,” Darcy said. “Her father thought it best.”
Lady Catherine regarded him with a look of measured approval. “Sensibly done, then. It is always preferable when families act before matters are allowed to harden into impropriety.”
Darcy narrowed his eyes. “And you believe her removal resolves it?”
“I believe,” she replied, “that it removes the distraction.” She settled once more in her chair. “You have allowed yourself to be misled by coincidence, Darcy. A young woman falls ill. You observe her with unmerited concern, unbefitting your connexion to her. Her condition alters, as illnesses often do, and you ascribe meaning where there is only fluctuation. Remove the object of attention, and the fancy dissolves.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “You reduce too much.”
“I restore proportion,” she returned. “And now that Miss Bennet is properly out of the way, you are free to attend to what actually requires settlement.”
She paused, letting the implication take shape before she spoke it aloud. “There is a reason such matters have always been resolved within established lines. Not by indulging impressions, but by placing responsibility where it belongs.”
“In Kent,” Darcy said, before he could stop himself.
Lady Catherine inclined her head, satisfied rather than triumphant. “Precisely. Where order has been maintained, where precedent is preserved, and where there is no temptation to mistake novelty for significance.”
Darcy shook his head. “You reference one source—only one, and it is likely suspect—to assert such a claim.”
Her expression cooled rather than sharpened. “You have been speaking with Lord Matlock, I perceive. He has always had an unfortunate habit of mistaking antiquarian curiosity for authority.”
Darcy did not answer.
“The Liber held at Rosings,” Lady Catherine continued, “is the most accurate and most carefully preserved version in existence. It was copied under direct oversight, not left to the whims of scholars who prefer speculation to stewardship. It is unambiguous on this point.” She leaned forward slightly. “The centre is where continuity has been maintained. Where responsibility has been inherited and upheld. Not in counties given over to fluctuation and neglect.”
“Hertfordshire is not neglected.”
“No,” she replied. “It is indulged. That is far worse.” She drew a measured breath. “Too many hands. Too many opinions. Too much interference from persons who mistake proximity for influence. That is precisely how disorder is allowed to masquerade as necessity.”
“And who has given you this impression?” Darcy asked. “Surely not I.”
“Do not play ignorant with me, Darcy,” she scoffed. “I know very well you have dallied with that adventuress from Hertfordshire. Her arts and allurements—”
Darcy stepped menacingly toward her. “You have no business slandering a lady who is so entirely unconnected with you.”
She straightened, her face blanching in some horror. “You already defend her! You see, you see what your carelessness has wrought! You invent meanings where none exist. Miss Bennet’s removal has already clarified the matter. What you perceived as consequence will resolve itself in her absence. What remains is your obligation to place yourself where judgment is not clouded.”
She rose then—not in anger, but with the assurance of a matter settled. “You will come to Kent, Darcy. We shall see this put right before further imprudence invites comment.”
It was only when Darcy did not move, did not agree, did not even incline his head, that her composure faltered. He stared back at her, unblinking, watching her expectation crumble into silent rage.
Her voice cooled. “I see,” she said at last.
