Chapter Text
It is a fact commonly acknowledged that the younger son of any respectable gentleman- even a great lord- must be in want of a rich wife.
The Honourable Colonel Fitzwilliam had been exceedingly lucky that, in all his thirty years, he had never formed any tendresse for a woman that had not been easily overcome by time, distance, or other circumstances- usually pecuniary. This fact did not trouble him overmuch, for he very much desired to make his fortune before placing his heart at the feet of any young lady, ready to be broken from material considerations.
The Colonel was a rational man, less governed by flights of passion than by his reason and sense of honour. That he had a warm heart, no one who knew him could doubt; his fair cousin-in-law (“Though I shall ever claim you as my sister.”) was endeared to him by the vivacity of her looks and the wit of her conversation; but in his wife, he sought something a little different.
“She should have conversation, certainly,” He had told his cousin Fitzwilliam over a drink in the library one night. “But also a value for silence, as I do; I have often observed that silence speaks just as eloquent a language as the finest poetry, and I should be glad of a woman with an understanding of both.”
He could foresee many such conversations in his immediate future; one wedding always made everyone look for another, and on the occasion of a double wedding, he shuddered to think of the young damsels and matchmaking mammas who would be watching every eligible man like hungry hawks. Fortunately (for the first time), he was unlikely to be of much interest to them, but it was always best to be on one’s guard. A connection to an Earl, even if there was little money in it, would not be sneezed at by a very determined (or very desperate) lady.
At any rate, it would all be over in just over three weeks, and he would perhaps then visit Matlock Hall to see his brother. Christopher had written last week, after all, and his father would not be sorry to see him either…
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The Lady Viola Morton had acquired something of a reputation among the members of the ton in London. Not eccentric, not silly, and certainly not vulgar- the daughter of the Marquess of Rotherham was one of the most charming young ladies to be met with anywhere in England, and so very accomplished as she was! No, she was charming; but she had the alarming habit of- of bluntness. It would have been diverting if she were still a young lady, but in a woman of five-and-twenty, with several seasons under her belt, the effect was… uncomfortable. One really did not know how to look when she had, for instance, politely informed Mr Ainsley that his frequent visits to the brothel were showing on his skin. Certainly Mr Ainsley’s libertine ways were the subject of many a household harangue, but to actually throw them in his face! The sheer embarrassment!
“If a man wishes not to have his follies laid bare, he should maintain some level of discretion. But it would be better if he gave up associating with me, and if that is accomplished, I regret nothing at all.” Was all the lady in question had to say about it.
She had little fear of what Papa would say; he had as little patience with ill virtue or folly as she did. Mr Ainsley may count himself fortunate; Papa would have been infinitely worse.
She was now interested in the news that was slowly filtering around London, breaking many a heart as it did. Mr Darcy had at last settled on a bride- and a country girl at that. Viola had had a good laugh, alone in her room. Darcy and his country miss! She wished she might know the story, for a more proud man she did not know (aside from Papa, of course, but no one was like Papa at all). To have been caught- if that had indeed been the case- to have been snared by country wiles and a pretty face, what a fall for Fitzwilliam Darcy!
The wedding was to be in Hertfordshire, of all places- not a place Viola had ever heard of, not that she would have cared for it if she had. It seemed that the future Mrs Darcy hailed from there. A very civil invitation- more than civil, a very pretty letter indeed- had come from Mr Darcy himself. He had addressed himself to Papa, had begged him to grace the occasion with his presence along with his amiable daughter (who laughed to think what the epithet had cost the gentleman) and her companion, Miss Ashton, and had dutifully asked that his regards be passed on to both ladies. In short, everything proper was said, the invitation was prettily given, and Papa, his complexion slightly purple, had written a most gracious acceptance.
“A country girl!” He had expostulated, when that distasteful task was done. “A Miss Elizabeth Bennett, when Lady Viola Morton was on offer!”
Whatever Papa chose to think- and he knew the truth, no matter his grumbling- Viola had never nursed the smallest tendre for Mr Darcy. Her pride made her all too aware of his. Her lineage was a matter of intense pride, and his was nothing to turn up one’s nose at either. The Darcy name, so far, was unstained and proud; she wondered how his country bride would affect it.
Her value for lineage notwithstanding, Viola was not blind to the claims of honour and character. It may well be that the new Mrs Darcy was an elegant- by country standards- and intelligent woman, with a sincere affection for England’s most eligible bachelor that was returned.
Lady Viola sighed, turning her thoughts from the matter. A new eligible bachelor would emerge, after a brief mourning period, for all the ladies to set their caps at; but she remained, as she had for nigh on six years, the most eligible young lady in the country, and no closer to being wed.
Not that she needed to; as her father’s lone child, she had no need for marriage as a security, save against society, and when one was as rich as she-! Neither, in her five-and-twenty years, had she felt the need for such companionship as marriage offered. But Papa had made it clear that he would like to see her honourably wed, and so she must marry, for his sake.
One condition only had she set before him.
“I will not marry where I do not love, Papa. That is all I say.”
She wondered why he had agreed.
Another sigh escaped her. They departed for Hertfordshire in two weeks; in the morning, she would tell Mary to send her pink silk gown to be cleaned, and perhaps a new underdress could be made. It would be the very thing.