So it was that Lady Catherine sat alone that evening, her memories agitated, her ire poking the embers of her thoughts into flames as if bringing a dimming hearth fire to life on a winter morning.
It is insupportable…that he should look so well, never missed me at all, the ingrate! Where is the loyalty among the young these days? He’s even gained a little weight! Dread flooded her confused brain . Or, perhaps that is water retention. Oh no, the poor dear is retaining water. Oh, dear God, he probably has developed serious heart ailments of which he is not even aware!
Fitzwilliam burst into the room. “Do we grow peas?!”
She was startled, her thoughts still agitated. Already mourning the passing of her beloved Darcy, she stared at him several moments before she could respond. “What… yes, I believe we have lentils, peas, and barley on some farms to the north.” She gulped back the sense of foreboding that always arose when Fitzwilliam attempted anything agricultural. “Why do you ask?”
“Nothing… nothing…” He began to close the door then stopped, staring intently back at her, nearly obscured within the deep shadows of the doorframe. “By the by, have you ever heard of gray mold?” She could see he was clutching a written report her estate manager had prepared shortly before the accident that had incapacitated him for nearly eight months. She let out a whimper.
Chapter 9
The day following the funeral an exceedingly kind note was delivered from Elizabeth to Rosings Park. Among many pleasantries and concerns expressed for her health, Elizabeth thanked Lady Catherine for attending the funeral and expressed her sincere hope that they would see her again soon.
Very courteous, very proper, Lady Catherine thought to herself, so pleased was she that her heart began to thump again, the cavernous labyrinth of her rather bizarre mind beginning to expand and contract with plans and machinations.
“It is as I have always said,” she spoke aloud to her daughter, Anne, as the young woman sat testing her vision by placing one hand alternately over each of her eyes. “Breeding is inbred, Anne, remember this. It cannot be crushed by paucity of means. A gentleman is a gentleman to his bones, and his offspring cannot help but absorb this.”
Anne gave an involuntary shudder and checked the pulse on her left wrist. She compared this to her right. They differed. She was doomed.
“Perhaps I was too harsh on the girl, even though she rudely spurned all my attempts to help her. The poor thing must be in want of a mother’s direction now. It really never was her fault that she was so impertinent or ill mannered; after all, she never had the advantages that should have been hers, had she had a more civilized upbringing.” Catherine glanced toward her daughter for verification, a daughter who now held two fingers against her neck to verify her previous pulse readings. “Anne, you have such exquisite posture, and you know you look absolutely glowing in that shade of lavender.”
Anne wheezed.
As excited as Catherine was becoming, she was hard put to retain any sort of dignified expression. “Imagine that mother attempting to raise five daughters without a governess! My goodness, how can a young girl possibly be expected to acquire any polish in that havey-cavey sort of atmosphere? I always felt that was odd, didn’t you? Her mother alone was obviously not up to such a task. Yes. Well, I can understand now how dear Elizabeth could have resented my kind offers of assistance.”
Catherine turned sharply toward her butler, the man innocently bringing in her afternoon tea and cakes. “It was never her fault, after all. I hope you realize that now!” she snapped.
Jamison automatically inclined his head for forgiveness.
“The poor dear had no training. None whatsoever! Think on that, Jamison, and try to show a little compassion in the future!”
“I am desolate, your ladyship.” The penitent Jamison bowed and backed out of the room.
“Fitzwilliam, are you in there? Fitzwilliam!” she called out as the footman forced the business-office doors open. “Why has this door been bolted?” When she looked closer at her nephew, she saw that he looked like death itself, his hair standing on end, a half-empty bottle of whiskey at his side. “Whatever is the matter?” She saw nothing but disaster in his bloodshot eyes.
“Evidently we took care of that gray mold, but now—brace yourself, woman—now we may have leaf yellowing. Damnation for this cursed bad luck of ours!” He took a giant pull straight from the bottle. “By the way, what the hell is leaf yellowing?”
“Do not tell me that you spent two hours last Easter boring me to tears with your explanation of Linnaean taxonomy and you cannot figure out what leaf yellowing is. They are leaves that turn yellow, and we eliminated them last month.”
He growled, slamming his hand down on the desk in exasperation.
Crossing to his side Catherine began to rummage wildly through a disordered pile of receipts from the desk. “Are you still trying to do those books?” she demanded incredulously.
“I am not altogether convinced that your estate manager had an accident.” He snatched the receipts back. “He was more than likely taking the easy out and attempting suicide.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! I would never allow him to commit suicide before he finished the books! You must be mad.” She promptly walked around to the front of the desk.
“We are going to visit Longbourn tomorrow morning. Please arrange for the carriage to be ready at nine.”
Fitzwilliam grimaced and rubbed his hand raggedly over his face, slouching farther into the chair. She had a scrawny old neck that he could break like a twig. Tossing his pen onto the desk, he cast a malevolent look at her.
“Gracious, toughen up, will you? Why, when I was your age, I was a wife and a mother and the most brilliant hostess in all of London. I could throw a party for three hundred, go without sleep for days on end, and yet be ready at a moment’s notice for Lord Louis’s political meetings. I will have you know, young man, that in those long ago days, my opinion was greatly regarded in the highest circles of government.”
“Excellent,” he said as he handed her the ledger and walked from the room. “Then you finish up—I’m going to bed.”
Late the following morning, Elizabeth and Jane were resting in their mother’s room, looking through some of her keepsakes. To Elizabeth’s amusement, there was little to be found among them of her childhood or, for that matter, the childhood of any of her sisters, but Jane’s life was on display from birth until her marriage. Locks of hair, notes on her progress, dance cards from assemblies.
“I seem to have been somehow misplaced in here”—she smiled and indicated the albums—“along with my poor sisters, save but one.”
Jane was humming a lullaby as she sat in her rocker, nursing her baby. “I was the first born, Lizzy. Firstborns are always fussed over more.”
“I am not offended, Jane. I only wish I could have had the kind of closeness with my mother that you enjoyed.”
“I truly think she would have wanted that, too, but then you were always much closer to Father, weren’t you? You and Father were both cleverer than the rest of us. I imagine it probably intimidated her.”
Lizzy leaned over to stroke the head of the baby as it nursed, then touched her own stomach absently. Darcy and she had decided that no one would be told of her pregnancy until they were reasonably certain that it would be successful.