Darcy and Anne

by Judith Brocklehurst

  The next few days continued in the same pattern; her friends took her to the baths each morning, and in the afternoon they walked. The country around was magnificent, and Anne found she gained strength every day. Still there was no response from the Darcys, and Lady Catherine decided that Anne's letter had gone astray, otherwise they never would have neglected her. Clearly, it was Anne's fault; Anne had written the direction too ill. But it did not matter, she did not need them.

  On Thursday, Anne returned to the hotel toward the end of the morning. She entered her sitting room, and found two people there. One was her cousin Darcy; the other, a young lady, tall and handsome. It must be Mrs Darcy—but surely the lady she remembered did not look like this? Surely Miss Elizabeth Bennet was smaller, livelier-looking, and had not such dark hair?

  The lady crossed the room, took both Anne's hands in hers, and cried, “You are my cousin, Anne. Oh, poor Anne, what an unpleasant time you have had! We are so sorry!”

  It was her cousin, Georgiana Darcy.

  Chapter 7

  Darcy's greeting to his cousin was as affectionate as Georgiana's. He expressed over and over their concern, their desire to support and comfort her, and their regret that she had been left for so many days, unassisted by them. His manner to her was that of a kind and affectionate brother, rather than the distant, haughty cousin she had always known. Marriage, she thought, had wrought a great improvement in him.

  Anne's letter had, by exceptional activity on the part of the post office—that is, a nephew of the postmistress having a sweetheart in service at Pemberley—actually been delivered to the house on the Saturday evening. But it was addressed to “Mr Darcy,” and he was away from home on business. His steward, recognising the name “de Bourgh,” had paid the postage, but pretty well knew that his master would be in no especial hurry to get a letter from that particular sender. The significance of the initial “A” instead of “C de Bourgh” had escaped his notice. The letter lay on Darcy's desk until he returned, late on Wednesday.

  “And nobody looked at it,” Georgina said. “His man of business saw it, but seeing it was a private letter, he did not open it. Oh, Anne, to think of your letter lying there, and you alone here, and wretched!” It was clear that Georgiana's tender heart was wrung. Anne felt, in her own mind, that it was a quite providential occurrence, for she had not been wretched, at least beyond the distress of the first day or so. She had enjoyed herself, and more to the point, she had thought and acted for herself for the first time in her life. Her time in Burley had done her a great deal of good. But they had got her in their minds as an ill-used heroine. It might be ill-natured, and would certainly be difficult, to disabuse them. In any case, it was causing them to treat her with very affectionate solicitude, which it would surely be ungracious to refuse.

  “The letter was discovered so late in the day,” Darcy said, “that we could not set out, and we decided to leave very early this morning.”

  He and his sister had come to Burley with the intention of staying, if necessary; of hiring a house, if it were thought advisable; of bringing them both to Pemberley, if it could be done; in short, of doing anything and everything that might be of use or comfort.

  But Lady Catherine refused to be moved. The doctor had assured Mr Darcy that her arm was well strapped up, and that she would feel little discomfort from the jolting of a well-sprung carriage. She thought otherwise; she was sure that it would hurt her a great deal. The truth was, Lady Catherine was not at all anxious to get to Pemberley, where the former Miss Elizabeth Bennet was mistress. She was extremely comfortable in the hotel, where her presence was highly valued. She was being very well looked after, and her slightest wish was obsequiously carried out. And the Duchess was arriving in a day or so: “I should like to meet her. I would be pleased to make her acquaintance, for the family is a connection of ours. And, Darcy, my carriage will be arriving at Pemberley sometime; see to it, will you?”

  Anne might go with them, she said; it would be well to remove Anne from Burley, where she had been associating with the scaff and raff of the place. Mr Darcy had tried in vain to make her understand that the Caldwells were old acquaintances, and that Edmund Caldwell was a friend of his childhood. “I even explained to her that Mrs Caldwell is a second cousin, by marriage, of Lady Louisa Benton,” he said. “But she would have none of it; she said she had heard that their son was a stonemason, or a quarryman, or some such thing. Nothing will convince her that he is one of the most respected men in the country, and a very good fellow. Never mind, cousin, we will get them to Pemberley, and you shall meet them again. His home is little more than five miles from us. He and I will have some good talks, too. Nobody is so good a talker as Edmund Caldwell!”

  Whether all of Mr Darcy's present good temper derived from his happiness in marriage, or whether some of it was due to the fact that he was not going to have to act as host to Lady Catherine in the near future, it would perhaps be as well not to enquire. At all events, he was in a fine flow of spirits, ready to do anything that would promote his cousin's comfort, and anxious to get her to Pemberley as soon as might be.

  To Anne's great satisfaction, Darcy and Georgiana insisted, before they would quit Burley, on calling on Mr and Mrs Caldwell to thank them for their kindness to her, and to engage them to spend a few days at Pemberley. The promise was willingly given; they would come, as soon as their son should be able to be of the party.

  By late afternoon, Anne was sitting in an open carriage, admiring the magnificent countryside, on the way to Pemberley. In an open carriage, she had no tendency to biliousness, and felt, indeed, as well as she had ever been. It was a clear, windy day, the shadows of the clouds chased each other across the hillsides, and the fields and trees were resplendent in their summer green. On every side of her was beauty; as she gazed around, she could not keep from smiling, and her eyes were bright with pleasure. No one would have recognised her as the forlorn little figure who had wept her heart out on the Caldwells' sofa a few days before.

  Mrs Darcy had sent her love, they told her, and had wanted to come, but she was expecting shortly to be confined, and they had felt that the fifteen-mile journey was too much for her to undertake. “What my brother means is,” said Georgiana, “that she is so precious to him, he would not dream of letting her do it, though she wanted to. He put on his black look, and she had to stay. She has had to be content with getting the prettiest possible room ready for you. But we thought a lady should come, so I accompanied him. Mrs Annesley is with her, of course, and Colonel Fitzwilliam is there, too. He is always so kind.” How pretty she looks, Anne thought; the fresh air has turned her complexion pink.

  “Is Colonel Fitzwilliam staying with you?” Anne asked. “We heard that his regiment was sent overseas, and that he was dreadfully injured in action.”

  “Yes, he is here,” said Darcy. “A bullet grazed his face, and he is somewhat disfigured; and another lodged in his shoulder—he has some trouble using his right arm. But the doctors are pleased with his progress; he will be well again in time.”

  “Oh, how terrible!”

  “Do not say so to him,” Darcy said. “He makes nothing of it; he will only say that appearances do not matter to a soldier. All he wants to do is to rejoin his comrades.”

  “He was mentioned in the dispatches,” Georgiana said. “His regiment is very proud of him. Look, Anne, there is Pemberley; there, you see, through the trees and across the water. This is one of my favourite views.”

  “It should be,” said Darcy, smiling. “She has drawn and painted it twenty times at least.”

  He began rallying his sister, teasing her that whenever she could not get the drawing right, she put in a tree branch; she was laughing. Anne looked at the sunlit reaches of the park, and the house in its splendid setting. She had lived in an imposing house all her life, and the size and magnificence of Pemberley did not impress her. But Rosings stood on level ground, with no views beyond its formal gardens. Here was an open prospect,
the dappled light and shade, the fine trees, the stream, all leading the eye out to glorious views over hill and valley. She thought, “This is what my mother intended for me, that I should be mistress of this.” To be mistress of Pemberley would indeed be something!

  But none of its wealth and grandeur, she could see, was of any value to the owner of Pemberley, compared with the beautiful young woman who stood waiting on the terrace, in all the bloom of expectant motherhood. He leaped out of the carriage toward her; she ran to him. There was that lighting glance that she had seen between them at Rosings; but now it was more: it was a look of perfect happiness, perfect delight! After a few words with her husband, Elizabeth Darcy came toward her, and greeted her with a kind smile and handclasp. It was no wonder, she thought, that her cousin was a different man; marriage with Elizabeth would make any man happy. Suddenly the thought darted through her: more than anything in the world, I would like to make someone as happy as that.

  Chapter 8

  “Well, Mrs Darcy,” said her husband, as soon as they were alone together, “what do you think now?”

  “I shall never forget the sense of relief, as the carriage came into view. I saw only two ladies in it; one was Georgiana and the other was clearly not Lady Catherine,” Elizabeth said. “We have been spared! But I was never so surprised in my life as when I saw your cousin Anne! she is just as thin and small as ever, but she holds herself better; she looks so much livelier, and she smiles and talks much more readily.”

  “I never realised before how much she resembles her father,” said Darcy. “I am sorry you did not know him; I was very fond of him. Dr Lawson asked to speak to me, before she arrived at the hotel this morning. He believes that this poor health of hers is due to nothing more than bad medicine and lack of food. He told me she has been taking a mixture of substances that would damage the constitution of the healthiest person; they have depressed her appetite and harmed her nerves, and she has been eating far too little. I never did like that doctor my aunt employs; I believe his only concern was to flatter her, and feather his own nest by prescribing more and more rubbish, for which, of course, she pays him. And since he declared that Anne was ill, ill she had to be.”

  “The poor girl! It is monstrous!” exclaimed Elizabeth indignantly.

  “No,” said Darcy, musingly, “my aunt is not a monster. She means no harm. She is a capable and clever woman. Rosings is as well managed as Pemberley, and her tenants speak of her with respect, though not with affection. She would never, for example, tell a lie, or swindle one of her tenants. She has two serious faults: one is that she has far too much regard for rank. The other is that, whatever is going forward, whatever is needed to be done, she must be the one to do it; the one to plan, to arrange, to carry out. She cannot allow anyone else to control anything. Her man of business must always consult with her first, and do exactly as she sees fit; she leaves nothing to his judgment. Did you know that the Rosings property is not entailed? Sir Lewis made a will soon after they were married, leaving everything to her, house, land, and money; for he said that he knew she would look after it well, and that where there is an entail, the eldest son always becomes expensive, and selfish.”

  “Yes, because he cannot be disinherited. It is a great pity that they had only one child, and that a daughter. She would have managed any number of noisy, self-willed sons.”

  “She reminds me sometimes,” Darcy said, “of Queen Elizabeth. I am sure that, if she were in charge of the parliament, the country would be well governed.”

  “I seem to recall,” said Elizabeth, “that Queen Elizabeth took almost twenty years to think whether she would cut off the head of the poor Queen of Scots. If Lady Catherine had to decide, I do not think that she would take twenty minutes. But now, what about Anne? It seems to me that now she is here, and without her mother, we have a heaven-sent chance to do some good. I should like to, for I feel she has had but a poor life of it, at Rosings.”

  “I believe that my aunt is, in a sense, right; we owe Anne something—or at least, I do. Because of me, she has been allowed to spend years in the vain expectation that we would marry.”

  “Could you not have made it clear that you did not intend to marry her?”

  “You may well ask, but though clearly it was, for Lady Catherine, a thing understood, it was never referred to, or not plainly. I was frequently asked to Rosings, but there was always a reason: Fitzwilliam was coming to stay, or the pheasants needed shooting, or my advice was wanted about some matter on the estate. There was never a moment when I might stand up and say, 'Madam, I am not going to marry your daughter.' It is not an easy thing to do.”

  “I think,” Elizabeth said, “that we must do precisely what your aunt has asked us to do; we must find a husband for her.”

  “It will not be as easy as my aunt thinks; her portion is very large, but she is five-and-twenty, and although her looks have improved, I would not call her handsome. I would not wish her to marry a man who only wanted her for the sake of her money.”

  “Do you think,” said Elizabeth, hesitantly, “that she and your cousin Fitzwilliam might like to marry?”

  “Fitzwilliam? He has known her for years, and I have never seen anything of affection—anything beyond cousinly regard.”

  “Well,” said his wife, “I think they would be very well suited. They are close in age, equal in rank, and they know each other. Her money would be in good hands, and it would be very useful to him.”

  “But he is a soldier, and he loves the life. If she married him, she must go where he goes, and follow the drum. Would her health be adequate for such an existence?”

  “Well, there is another matter that I think I should mention to you. My dear, has it occurred to you that Georgiana is becoming very fond of him?”

  Darcy looked astounded. “I think it is only a schoolgirl's admiration,” Elizabeth said, “but it might become more.”

  “Fitzwilliam is as good a man as ever lived—but he is too old for her.”

  “I believe,” said Elizabeth, “that your cousin's wounds, and his courage, have had a great effect on her. There is a sort of chivalry in Georgiana. I think that she fell in love with Wickham, you know, because he represented himself as ill-used, neglected, and lonely. I talked with Colonel Fitzwilliam a little today—no! of course I did not mention my suspicions—but I am pretty sure that there is nothing on his side beyond the natural affection of a man for a younger cousin. He is a man of honour, and would never try to gain a young girl's affection for the sake of money. But it might make Georgiana unhappy.”

  “Good heavens! What can I do? This place is his home, until he is fit to rejoin his regiment. I cannot send him away.”

  “No, you cannot. The best we can do is to make sure that she has other choices, other interests. We have lived here, you know, very happily since we married, and, my love, I would wish for nothing more—but our comfortable, elegant family circle is very restricted. I believe that, for Georgiana, there should be a more varied society. In the ordinary way, she would have had a season in London, but as things are, we cannot give her that. Let us see how many things we can do to provide her with other people who she might admire or love. It could not be other than good for Anne, too.”

  “We must go to the assemblies,” her husband said, “in Lambton and Burley. We have neighbours whom we can invite for dinner parties, and musical evenings. We can do much more than we have done. Summer is coming, there are race meetings, there are even cricket matches. I would see Anne more occupied, too—stay!—suppose we engage Georgiana, as an affectionate cousin, to help us with Anne? Would not that chivalry of hers be well engaged—to give Anne new interests and occupations—to look after her health— even to look for a husband for her?”

  “Yes, indeed it would; it is the very thing. I will talk to her tomorrow.”

  The morrow, for Anne, brought surprises indeed. She and her cousin Georgiana had a delightful drive around the park in Mrs Darcy's pony carriage. In the cou
rse of it, it transpired that Georgiana had an inordinate number of dresses, outgrown or outmoded, that only needed a little cutting down, and a few stitches, for Anne to be able to wear them. “And Anne dear, the Caldwells are coming soon, maybe next week. You must have something fashionable to wear!”

  Anne was a little doubtful. What would her mother think of her wearing such thin, fashionable muslin gowns—she would call them flimsy and unseemly—as Georgiana was wearing?

  “Oh, but everyone wears them,” said Georgiana firmly. “Do but try, let us go back to the house and try. It would oblige me so much, for I made several foolish purchases in London, and I have a green sprig muslin that does not suit me at all, and a dark blue silk, and I know that they would look pretty on you, and I would not feel so badly about having spent my brother's money; not that he cares, for he would buy me anything that I wanted. And you know, Anne, your mother need never know!” They did indeed look very pretty, even with the hems trailing past her ankles, and onto the floor, and the sewing maid promised to alter them as rapidly as might be.

  Then Mrs Darcy's maid, who, it seemed, had very little to do, got at her hair, and created a new, very becoming style for her. Mrs Annesley offered to teach her to play the piano. Her cousin Darcy gave her the freedom of his library. And Colonel Fitzwilliam, quite unprompted, pointed out that Mrs Darcy could not, in her present circumstances, exercise her mare—such a gentle creature!—and offered to teach Anne to ride, thus raising Mrs Darcy's hopes quite considerably.

  Chapter 9

  The making over of Georgiana's clothes, for such a small lady as Anne, proved quite difficult, for Georgiana was sturdy as well as tall. However, Mrs Reynolds, the Pemberley housekeeper, got to hear of the matter. She had loved lady Anne Darcy, who had always been very well dressed, and thought it a great pity that her niece should be wearing unfashionable clothes that did not become her at all; the Pemberley ladies should be elegant! she produced several lengths of silk and muslin, bought at one time or another but never used. If Miss did not object to quite a simple style, she said, a couple of day dresses and an evening gown could be very quickly made up. And as for the style—yes! maybe in France, where they did nasty things, the ladies wore them with so little underneath that the unseemly creatures must surely catch their death, but Miss would see how comfortable such dresses were, and quite proper, with a nice thick English petticoat underneath!