by Robin Helm
That was rather clever, was it not?
Even so, Sir Walter put it off until his calendar said February 12th. This was the day he must send it on its way in order to be delivered on time.
“Come Valentine’s Day,” he said aloud to the empty room, “we shall have a magical transformation. Postmen will be converted into Cupids.”
There now, his wit was flowing! Sir Walter smiled gently to himself, for he was a very clever man. And yet, how tragic that no one was on hand to hear this clever statement. Ah, but marriage would change all that. Who better to appreciate his witty intelligence than a wife?
With renewed vigor, Sir Walter applied himself to crafting an amorous epistle.
He boldly wrote across the top:
Good Morning, Valentine ~ ~ 14th of February
For surely the delivery would be on time! His Majesty’s post would never fail him on Valentine’s Day.
That he could not clearly recall Lady Catherine de Boeur’s face did not trouble him in the least. The first stanza he copied from a book of verses.
Love is a virtue that endures forever,
A link of matchless jewels that none can sever.
A splendid beginning, this. To liken a woman to valuable gemstones was a compliment indeed! Anyone would appreciate that. Heartened, Sir Walter decided to go it on his own.
Thy worth exceeds great treasures men have seen,
With regal bearing worthy of a queen.
For of course she would be regal. She was the daughter of a marquis, for heaven’s sake!
Now how to end? Sir Walter sat thinking for some minutes, for he must speak of tender love. And then it came to him. This was a Valentine; what need was there for subtlety?
As thou, my Catherine, art hale and fine,
Complete my joy and say your heart is mine.
There, that should do it. If Lady Catherine received several cards—at age 31, he thought this most unlikely—his needed to be memorable.
Sir Walter had written a poem to his late wife while they were courting, and she saw nothing amiss. Had she not confessed that he was the embodiment of a fairytale prince? Emboldened by this memory, Sir Walter decided to sign Lady Catherine de Boeur’s card accordingly.
My lady, I remain the sincere and humble
Prince of your heart,
Walter Elliot, bart.
In a courting letter, he would ordinarily leave off the bart. But he wished her to see his title—a hereditary title. He was, after all, not a knight.
Sir Walter searched the Gazette’s society page, but could find no mention of her name. He would therefore send his charming card to her ancestral home. A bit improper—but then, this was Valentine’s Day. His cause was noble and just.
Now for the direction. Squinting, Sir Walter found the place in The Baronetage. For some reason her surname was not spelled as he remembered, but no matter. In his flawless running hand (a gentlemanly skill he knew she would appreciate), he wrote the address:
The Rt. Hon. Lady Catherine de Bourgh
Rosings Park, Hunsford, Kent
Chapter Two
Long and hard did Lady Catherine stare at the card, with its riot of hearts and roses. A Valentine! At her age! Who would dare to send such a thing?
Its message sent her brows climbing skyward. So love was a link of matchless jewels, was it? The man must be a fortune hunter, whoever he was.
And she possessed treasures men had seen? Well!
Lady Catherine hitched up the neckline of her gown. The nerve!
Whoever this Walter Elliot was, she would soon send him packing—and with a flea in his ear, too! Would she be his Valentine?
“Not in a million years,” she said, rising to her feet. She could not get to her writing desk fast enough. Sir Walter Elliot would soon discover that he was barking up the wrong tree.
My Dear Sir, she began.
No, this was not right. He was not dear, nor should she use the possessive pronoun my.
My Dear Sir,
While I can appreciate your kindness intelligence in singling me out as your Valentine on Valentine’s Day, I beg leave to inform you that I have no intention of indulging in foolishness inclination for courtship at this time. My life has enough trouble without “falling in love” with an idiotic fool of a man, even one who styles himself a prince.
Whatever I need done on the estate, I can hire.
Here Lady Catherine paused. Sir Walter expressed romantic interest, and yet the wording of her reply implied that she could hire—
Botheration! Trust a man—any man!—to take an innocent statement the wrong way. Lady Catherine scratched out the last sentence and continued writing.
Even if I were of an amorous nature (which I am not) I have little desire to take on—
She gave a cackling laugh. Why mince words with a fortune hunter?
—to take on the reformation of yet another gentleman. My late husband would doubtless advise you to move on to a more compliant prospect.
Please accept my sincere wishes for good health and prosperity.
I remain,
Independent of princes and well-content,
The Rt. Hon. Lady Catherine de Bourgh
As she copied out her letter there came a sound—was it laughter? She looked toward the windows, and a movement on the lawn caught her eye. She pushed back her chair and went to investigate.
Well. Here were not her groundskeeper and his assistant, but those annoying Howell boys. Really, Sir Charles should keep his sons in better order! They were always sneaking onto her estate, as if they had nothing better to do at Fairview Manor. She would write to Sir Charles and offer suggestions. Hadn’t they ponies to ride or dogs to train? Boys needed lessons in shooting, but Lady Catherine would never suggest this. Knowing those two, her windows would be used for target practice!
Back to the desk she went, grinding her teeth. The sight of Sir Walter’s Valentine only fanned her irritation.
Midway through her letter to Sir Charles, however, a new thought occurred. Was Sir Walter Elliot the sender of the Valentine? Or was it a cruel jest designed to taunt her? This was just the sort of thing the Howell boys would do—choose a gentleman’s name and then compose a fraudulent love note!
Yes, and they were running about in her garden and stealing glances at the house. Were they expecting to see a lovelorn reaction? She would give them a reaction. At church she would find them and box their ears!
Lady Catherine now studied the Valentine with new eyes. Of course this was a hoax. As thou, my Catherine, art hale and fine was something no gentleman would say to his ladylove! But a coltish youngster certainly would, laughing at every word.
The postal marks indicated that the Valentine originated in Bath, but Lady Catherine was not born yesterday. The eldest Howell girl was at school there. How simple it would be for her brothers to include her in the ruse!
Perhaps, then, the reply to Sir Walter should be more moderate. Lady Catherine drew forward a fresh sheet of paper.
Dear Sir Walter,
I thank you for the Valentine card and the message it contained.
However, I do not for one minute suppose that you are its true sender. That honour belongs to Masters James and Richard Howell of Fairview Manor, gentleman’s sons with nothing better to do than taunt a poor widow on Valentine’s Day. Doubtless they found your name in Debrett’s and, with flagrant disregard for the havoc it would cause, boldly (and unlawfully) signed your name.
I am writing to warn you. Knowing these two, I am not the only recipient of a Valentine bearing your signature. If you receive a reply from a Mrs. Stuart-Morton or a Miss Kipp, be on your guard! They are husband-hunters of the worst sort—as the Masters Howell (and indeed, all the inhabitants of Hunsford!) know.
When next I see these young rapscallions, I shall certainly give them a piece of my mind. I expect to run them to ground at Sunday service. For once, their prayers for mercy shall be heartfelt!
Cordially,
The Rt. Hon. Lady Catherine de Bourgh
⸟ﻬ⸞ﻬ⸟
It took Lady Catherine’s reply a fortnight to reach Sir Walter in Bath, as she had addressed it to his residence at Kellynch Hall. He was giddy to break the seal, and as he spread the single sheet he noted the quality of the hot-pressed writing paper. The finer things of life were important! It was never wise to scrimp on stationery, and it appeared that Lady Catherine agreed.
However, as Sir Walter read her words, a frown descended.
She thought the Valentine was a jest? The sincere sentiments of his lonely heart were cast aside as a boyish prank? And what was this—she described herself as a poor widow!
Even an unlettered rustic knew that an unmarried woman in her thirties would never call herself a widow, poor or otherwise. Exactly who was the writer of this letter?
Sir Walter hunted up his spectacles and sat down to more closely examine The Baronetage. When he realized the mistake, he gave an anguished cry that brought a footman running. Sir Walter waved him away and began to pace the length of his drawing room. What a mistake! What a disastrously awkward faux pas!
Lady Catherine de Bourgh was a widow all right. Granted, she was younger than he, but not by much. She was almost 50, a full 19 years older than the other Lady Catherine.
This was what came of the gentry’s fondness for using royal names! Hideous errors of identity!
The mistake had been his, but it was honestly made. There was nothing to be done but begin again, this time with the younger Lady Catherine. Such a shame, for his Valentine scheme had been so very clever…
Sir Walter looked through the rest of his letters in dismay. March was nearly upon him—and that meant demands for payment. Blast, he had forgotten Elizabeth’s wedding trousseau and the breakfast he had hosted. The mantua-maker, the modiste, the confectioner, each expected to be paid. Why, the total came to nearly £100!
Fortunately, payment would not be due until Lady Day, nearly three weeks away. He would forward these to his solicitor—and leave it to him to discover how to raise the funds. The man was always after Sir Walter to sell acreage adjoining the Kellynch estate. As if this would ever happen!
If not for Elizabeth’s greedy husband, there would be a few more pounds available. Was there a way to get his son-in-law to pay for the wedding? Sir Walter knew better than to ask.
But there were other ways to have debts settled. Not by the young Lady Catherine, but the older one. A middle-aged woman, eager for a second lease on life and grateful to be singled out by such a bridegroom. For Sir Walter knew that, among a certain set, he was counted as the prize of the Bath marriage mart.
Again the spectacles came out, and again Sir Walter examined Lady Catherine’s reply. Perhaps he had been a bit hasty. She seemed concerned for his welfare, and given what she thought to be true, her irritation was in good form. But the term poor widow was unsettling. Just how poor was Lady Catherine de Bourgh?
The answer could lie in Rosings Park. Was it a commonplace country manor? Or—Sir Walter took a deep breath—could it be one of the Grand Estates? He had purchased a book describing such places, expecting that his beloved Kellynch would be named.
Rain drummed against the windows as he searched for the book. It was here somewhere. He would never have allowed Anne to give it away, nor did he wish to leave it behind for the Crofts. Hope was buoyed along by the fact that this Lady Catherine was the daughter of an earl. Such women did not marry paupers.
When at last he located the volume—and Rosings Park—he sat back and thought deeply. Who cared if the woman was a wrinkled hag? For here was an estate worthy of him. There was one unmarried daughter, who had doubtless inherited. If there had been an entail, the fellow would now be in residence.
Now, then, how to proceed?
Hunsford, the closest town, was in Kent—a journey of some length. No matter that it had been raining for days, Sir Walter must go to Hunsford and present himself to Lady Catherine. Moreover, he must court her properly. With old birds, courtship could take time—time he did not have!
He came to a bold decision. Never was anything undertaken without the risk of danger. If pressed, he would sell a small parcel of land. For in Hunsford was a prize worth the sacrifice.
Besides, those acres could always be repurchased…
Chapter Three
As it turned out, Sir Walter experienced numerous delays in leaving Bath. Chief among these was the fact that his cousin, Lady Dalrymple, had requested his presence at a series of concerts. It was unwise to offend a well-born relation, particularly one as socially useful as a viscountess.
But while his noble cousin desired his companionship—for a man as handsome as he was a definite social asset—Sir Walter could detect no amorous or matrimonial interest. Indeed, she would be a fool to exchange her name and title for his. Then too, her ladyship exhibited parsimonious tendencies. It would never do to be married to a close-fisted, stingy wife.
Lady Day’s deadline pressed Sir Walter mightily, and it was with relief that he left for Hunsford on the 20th of March.
The Crown, which was the best Hunsford had to offer, was everything one would expect in a backward country inn—clean, but unremarkable. The rates were reasonable, and it was simple to hire transportation. Sir Walter expressed an interest to see the great houses in the area. Without prompting, the innkeeper suggested Rosings Park.
Thus he was deposited at the gates of the estate, to stroll about the grounds and see the gardens, with the boy to return in an hour’s time. Sir Walter spent this hour taking in the beauty of Rosings, and his spirits rose to smiling admiration. What glorious vistas and dignified formal gardens! Laid out precisely as he liked, with immaculate gravel paths that were edged with precision. Later in the spring, the colours in the rose garden would be splendid.
By then he might well be living here!
All that was lacking, he decided, was pleasing garden statuary. Granted, there must be a marble angel or a nymph lurking about, but Sir Walter’s ambitions were more extensive. There, to the right of the rose garden, was the perfect spot for what he had in mind. He would commission a bronze statue of himself, standing beside his new wife.
Never mind that he had never seen Lady Catherine, the idea was quite perfect. There they would be for all posterity to admire: a graceful and attractive couple. For garden statuary immortalized one at his (or her) most youthful and beautiful best.
An impulsive expenditure, surely. But Sir Walter knew that the best time for making permanent additions to an estate was shortly after the honeymoon, when romantic love was in full bloom. He tilted his head to one side, thinking it over. White marble would be more attractive, but bronze would enable him to have two identical statues cast. How he’d regretted that there was no tribute to himself in the gardens at Kellynch! And now there would be.
Twirling his walking stick, Sir Walter retraced his steps. It was then that he recalled something that the boy had told him: the house just there, adjacent to the estate, was the parsonage.
And what was this? A carriage was coming along the lane at a brisk clip. Sir Walter stepped behind a conveniently-placed yew hedge. It would never do to be seen as an uninvited trespasser!
As the carriage neared Sir Walter saw the parsonage door open, and a fellow dressed in clerical garb rushed out. He stood at his wicket gate, hat in hand, bowing low. A woman came to the door—was she his wife?—and lifted a hand in greeting.
So this was the rector. A bumbling fellow, rather in need of town polish. Sir Walter clicked his tongue in disapproval. The universities were taking just anyone nowadays! Here was proof that education was unable to impart a gentleman’s dignified manners.
The carriage swept through the gates, and the clerical fellow and his wife went back inside. The next step in Sir Walter’s plan instantly became clear. He would attend service on Sunday. One needed no formal introduction to a parson, and this would pave the way to meet Lady Catherine.
Of course,
he must learn more about her before taking the fatal step, but there was plenty of time for that. His first objective was to be a pleasant diversion, a thing much needed in a country place. Sir Walter suffered no qualms, for was he not one of the wittiest fellows in Bath? Then, too, gentlemen of his face and figure were always welcome.
This thought brought a smile. Yes, Lady Catherine de Bourgh would one day thank her lucky stars for his misdirected Valentine.
⸟ﻬ⸞ﻬ⸟
Hunsford’s parish church was typical for a village of its size. There were several fine stained- glass windows, including one commemorating the late Sir Lewis de Bourgh. Now here was the sort of charitable giving that Sir Walter could endorse! A tasteful work of art (a thing that generations could admire) was well worth the expense. Instead of, say, the unending pleas for monetary help for this or that needy family. Why must the vicar of Kellynch parish be so pastoral?
The bells began to ring at the appointed hour—promptness was apparently a virtue—and the congregants filed in and took their seats. Out of consideration for his campaign (for normally it would not concern him), Sir Walter lingered in the narthex, unwilling as a stranger to sit in the wrong pew. But someone—the sexton, perhaps?—came forward and brought him to a very nice seat.
Just in front of Sir Walter sat a trio of women: a plainly-dressed young matron, a nervous schoolgirl, and lovely young woman, probably unmarried. She wore a pretty sprigged gown, with the ribbon of her darling hat tied attractively beneath one ear. Her dusky curls were beautifully arranged, and she moved with particular grace.
