Chapter Text
It is a fact commonly acknowledged that any younger son of a respectable gentleman- or even a great lord- must, by necessity, be in want of a rich wife.
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. He felt his good fortune exceedingly, for since he had as yet excited no ungovernable passions in the heart of some young heiress, it very much behoved him 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.
“I see no dishonour in seeking a decently-dowered bride.” He had once told his cousin over their port. “I do not resent any accidents of birth, but t’would be a fool indeed who did not seek to improve his lot in life, and I have outgrown my taste for folly.”
Lady Viola Morton had acquired something of a reputation among the members of the ton in London. Not eccentric, not silly, and certainly not a bluestocking– 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 several seasoned ladies who had crossed swords with her could attest to the razor-edge concealed under all that muslin and grace. Witness how she had destroyed the reputation and prospects of Miss Letitia Ainsley with but a few well-chosen words; instead of the heir to an earldom, Miss Ainsley had been quickly and quietly married off to some no-name Sussex merchant and, some had heard, spawned some no-name child within the year!
Lady Viola, upon hearing the scandal, had blinked and asked the identity of the lady in question. “What puzzles me most of all is why I am thought to know such a person.” She had said before driving on.
She had little fear of what Father would say; he had as little patience with ill virtue or folly as she did.
She was now interested in the news that was slowly filtering around London, breaking many a heart as it did. Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy had at last taken a bride– and a country lass at that. Viola had a good laugh, alone in her room. Darcy and his country miss! She wished she might know the story, for a prouder man she did not know (aside from Father, of course, but no one was like Father 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!
Unlike many of her friends and other young ladies in town, she had never nursed the smallest tendre for him. Her pride made her all too aware of his, and she both understood and reviled him. Her lineage was a matter of intense pride– pride that she certainly had, she owned– 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.
“To be sure,” Viola observed to her cousin and companion, Emily Ashton, “She must be either a raving beauty or an unrivalled minx. Mr Darcy is no fool, but even clever men are allowed one great folly, are they not?” Emily merely raised her eyebrows in reproof, opting to keep her counsel.
It was not to be supposed, however, that Lady Viola Morton valued lineage and fortune above all else. She placed a value on them, but she was hardly blind to the claims of honour and character! It may well be that the new Mrs Darcy was an intelligent and good woman, with a sincere affection for England’s most eligible bachelor that was returned. But it did not seem likely, in truth.
Viola sighed, turning her thoughts from Darcy. 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, 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–! But Father had made it clear that he would like to see her honourably wed, and so she must marry, for his sake.
Only one condition had she set before him.
“I will marry of my own free choice, Papa. That is all I say.”
She wondered why he had agreed, but only a fool would look a gift horse in the mouth. Though considering that she had rejected an Earl, a Duke, and the heir to a minor barony in the last two years alone, he may well be regretting his acquiescence. Ah well, she thought wryly, there was no cleverer man than Father, but all clever men were, after all, allowed one great folly.