The candidate’s words were remarkably free from the excess to which she had grown accustomed, and, for that reason alone, they commanded her attention. There was, in his manner of expression, a restraint which suggested either judgement or calculation; in either case, it was preferable to the indiscriminate flattery she so frequently endured. He neither presumed too far nor abased himself unnecessarily—an uncommon balance.
Lady de Bourgh read the letter again, more slowly now, her eye resting upon the final sentence. A recommendation—from a gentleman whose opinion she valued. The implication was not lost upon her. Few men could be described in such terms without impropriety, and fewer still would venture to invoke such a name without confidence in its effect.
“Wilkinson,” her ladyship called, her voice cool and perfectly distinct, requiring no elevation to command attention. Her secretary appeared at once in the doorway, her habitual anxiety sharpening into alertness at the tone.
“Have this gentleman attend at Rosings at the earliest moment his convenience permits,” Lady Catherine said, placing the letter into Mrs. Wilkinson’s hands with deliberate precision.“I shall judge for myself whether his conduct answers to his professions.”
“Very well, your Ladyship. I will see immediately to the summons,” Mrs. Wilkinson replied, glancing only briefly at the signature before withdrawing with due haste.
Left once more to herself, Lady Catherine did not immediately resume her seat. Instead, she remained where she stood, the letter no longer in her hand, yet very much present in her consideration. If the recommendation proved what she suspected—if it were indeed connected to Mr. Darcy—then the matter assumed a different complexion altogether. Her nephew was not a man to lend his name lightly; nor would he, without cause, advance the claims of one unworthy of notice.
That alone distinguished this Mr. Wickham from the rest.
It was not, however, sufficient. Lady Catherine’s judgement did not rest upon borrowed authority, however respectable. She would see the man, question him, and determine—by her own standard—whether he merited the advantage he sought.
Her thoughts turned, not without a degree of impatience, to Mr. Collins. His letters, so regular in their arrival and so uniform in their content, had long ceased to recommend him. He praised; he deferred; he anticipated her wishes—yet had done nothing to prove himself equal to them. That he should suppose himself secure in her favour, merely by perseverance in flattery, was an error she had neither encouraged nor intended to correct prematurely.
No—it would be far more instructive to allow him the comfort of his expectation a little longer.
When the moment came—and it would come—the contrast would speak more effectively than any admonition she might choose to offer.
A slight smile touched her lips, brief, restrained, and carrying more spirit than her usual silence allowed others to suspect.
The time for decision was approaching, and Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who neither shrank from judgement nor delegated it where it most properly belonged to herself, was fully prepared to meet it.
***
In possession of Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s invitation, Wickham journeyed to Rosings Park, in Kent, where he requested the footman to announce his arrival and to convey that he attended in obedience to her ladyship’s summons.
The footman conducted him to the parlour and left him there alone, surrounded by a degree of elegance which, though impressive, did not distract him from the purpose of his visit. His eye moved quickly over the room, not in admiration, but in calculation; such surroundings were to be understood, not merely observed.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh made her appearance a few minutes later. She strode into the parlour with a composure that admitted neither haste nor uncertainty, her manner suggesting not display, but habitual authority. Her attire, though rich, was worn with such natural authority that it appeared less an ornament than an expression of rank itself.
“Your Ladyship,” Wickham said, executing a measured and properly respectful bow, “I am George Wickham, and I have the honour of presenting myself in consequence of your summons.”
Lady Catherine did not, at first, approve—but she most certainly observed.
He was not what she had been led to expect—namely, a man of modest pretensions, whose appearance would at once declare his inferiority, and whose manners would betray that anxious deference which so often attends it.
There was, in his countenance, none of that immediate presumption of consequence which she considered the proper foundation of a gentleman’s address. Instead, she perceived an ease—a composure too readily worn, too little earned. His figure was well-formed, his posture unstudied yet assured, and his dress, though entirely proper, sat upon him with a familiarity that suggested not respect for society, but comfort within it.
His face—handsome, undeniably so—struck her as the most objectionable feature of all. Not for any defect, but for its effect. The softness about the mouth, the brightness of the eye, the faint colour rising so becomingly beneath a smooth complexion—these were the very tools by which weaker minds might be deceived. There was a smile there—half-formed, as if perpetually on the verge of offering itself—that spoke less of humility than of practice. Lady Catherine, who valued sincerity only when it presented itself with proper gravity, found such ease quietly suspicious.
His hair, of a lighter cast, was touched by the light in such a way as to soften the whole of his appearance, giving it an ease that bordered upon the studied. Slightly disordered in a manner that seemed almost intentional, it lent him an air of careless distinction; yet she could not but think that true distinctionrequired effort, and that effort must be visible. Nothing in him appeared laboured. That, to her mind, was his least fault.
Lady Catherine noted, too, the eyes—quick, attentive, and altogether too ready to engage. They suggested not merely deference, but a kind of lively intelligence that bordered upon familiarity. It was the look of a man who understood his own advantages and did not scruple to employ them.
Somewhat disconcerted to find himself so closely observed by Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Mr. Wickham judged it prudent to add something further that might secure her favour.
“I have also the honour of bearing a letter from Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, of Pemberley.”
“From Mr. Darcy, you say?” Lady Catherine inquired, extending her hand without rising further, her attention sharpening at once as she received the letter.
“Indeed, your Ladyship. I should not have presumed to address you without such support.”
She broke the seal without ceremony and read, her expression altering only in the slightest degree, though her attention did not waver from the page. Wickham remained silent, perfectly composed, allowing the letter to perform its office without interference.
When she had finished, she returned it with deliberate care, and seated herself more fully. “You may sit.”
