“Yes.” Granfield regarded him briefly, uncertain what warranted the question.
Matlock held his gaze a moment longer. Then the corner of his mouth curved.
“Then I am not surprised they did not suit.” He leant back at last and took an unhurried sip of his brandy. “Richard is a social being. He would reside in Town nearly year-round if left to his own devices.” A trace of amusement lingered in his expression. “In some respects, he is better fashioned for an earldom than his elder brother. But primogeniture is inconveniently clear, and I have yet to discover a means of correcting it.”
The smile did not quite fade.
Granfield, however, felt something else stir within him—a faint, unwelcome recognition that he may have been wrong to press his granddaughter towards the colonel.
He had weighed Richard’s steadiness, his honour, his usefulness—but not whether he would have been content with the life Elizabeth would choose, nor whether she would have been content with his.
It was a miscalculation he had not anticipated when, on the Continent, he first considered the match. He had been hard onDarcy during the last few weeks, and though he had ultimately given his consent, he knew his reluctance had tempered Elizabeth’s joy.
He drew a slow breath and reached again for his glass.
“Be that as it may,” he said at last, setting the matter aside for one of more immediate concern, “we must consider what is prudent now.”
Matlock inclined his head, the trace of amusement yielding to deliberation.
The remainder of their conversation was devoted to strategy—how best to approach the Regent, and by what means each gentleman might be persuaded to accept what was offered. By the time they rose from their chairs, the outline of a plan had taken shape, but a great deal of its success would depend upon timing and discretion.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Lady Catherine accepted the express from her rector with a visible restraint of impatience, her lips tightening slightly as she broke the seal. It was rare that Mr Collins troubled her without cause; yet it was equally rare that the cause proved worthy of the urgency he so confidently assigned to it. Still, whatever he had written would undoubtedly demand her guidance—and very likely her judgement.
Mr William Collins had occupied the living at Hunsford for little more than six months. During that period he had demonstrated himself to be precisely the sort of clergyman she valued: obsequious, diligent in trifles, and unfailingly deferential. Unfortunately, he had also shown himself incapable of the smallest independent judgement, consulting her on matters so insignificant that she had begun to suspect he feared to draw breath without her sanction.
During his absence he had already written once—an unnecessary communication, in her opinion—but this had been dispatched by express. Whatever subject it contained, he must have believed it of consequence to her.
She scanned the first page swiftly; yet at the mention of her nephews, her eyes sharpened. She returned to the beginning and read the entire letter again, this time with deliberate attention.
His suggestion that her nephew—long intended for her own daughter—should be directing particular attention elsewhere was insupportable.
The matter of the supposed kidnapping did not interest her. Such vulgar disturbances belonged to provincial society and might be managed by those immediately concerned. Nor did Mr Collins’s matrimonial ambitions merit serious reflection; whom her rector chose to burden himself with was of little consequence to her comfort. She was inclined, in principle, to agree with the young lady’s father; yet, lacking the full particulars, she would defer her judgement.
If the girl possessed any discretion, she would have declined the offer without hesitation—at least if she understood the distinction between ambition and propriety. Mr Collins would make a poor husband to anyone; yet Lady Catherine could only hope he might secure a wife sufficiently sensible to receive her direction with gratitude and firmness enough to execute it tolerably well—for her sake.
But Mr Darcy’s name was not one to be attached lightly to provincial conjecture—least of all by some inconsequential country miss residing in a cottage.
Anne’s future had been long understood. It would not be unsettled by country interference.
That required attention.
Lady Catherine read the concluding lines once more before lowering the letter with unhurried precision. Her expression did not alter; only her eyes grew distinctly more intent.
“This must be corrected,” she said at last, the words spoken into the quiet of the room.
“Mr Collins is rarely deficient in zeal,” she continued coolly, delivering her judgement to the empty air, “but in this instance his alarm may prove useful to me.”
If there existed even the slightest foundation for such speculation, it would be addressed—thoroughly and without delay.
The letter was folded neatly along its existing creases and placed upon the table. The afternoon light had already begun to fade; departure that evening would be impractical.
Reaching for the small bell at her side, Lady Catherine rang it once—precisely.
When her housekeeper appeared, she did not rise.
“Anne and I will depart first thing in the morning. You will have our maids prepare trunks sufficient for a fortnight’s visit. See that Anne’s finer things are included. Inform the coachman that my carriage is to be ready at first light. We shall go to Hertfordshire.”
