Darcy and Anne

by Judith Brocklehurst

  Signed, ma'am.”

  “But I am not sure that I should sign it, without understanding what is in it.”

  “There is nothing different, miss, you sign it every year.” “

  Well, that may be so, but I think I should not have signed it, Without understanding it.”

  “It is just your name, miss, and it makes over the income.”

  Anne began to feel confused, and frightened. Mr Colby seemed So sure; why was she being so stupid? It must be right, to sign; but why could she not know what she was doing?

  Just at that moment, Mr Edmund Caldwell came in. “Oh! Excuse me, Miss de Bourgh. I was looking for Darcy.”

  “I believe he is in his study,” said Anne; and he made to leave. Suddenly she called out “Oh! pray, Mr Caldwell, do not leave, pray help me.”

  He came back into the room. “What is the matter, Miss de Bourgh?”

  “It is only… Mr Colby has brought this document for me to sign, and I do not know… I do not understand… I am sure it is right, but should I sign something I do not understand?”

  “Certainly not,” he replied, calmly. “Mr… Colby, is it?… that seems to be a legal document that you have there; can you not explain its nature to Miss de Bourgh?”

  “Oh, sir,” the agent replied, smiling patronizingly, “young ladies do not want to understand the intricacies of such things, young ladies and legal language do not mix.”

  “Then young ladies will be swindled, as older people have been before them,” Mr Caldwell replied, holding out his hand for the papers. He perused the top ones swiftly.

  “This seems to be a document handing something over three hundred pounds into Lady Catherine's keeping,” he said. “How comes this about, that Miss de Bourgh should be in possession of such a sum? And this being the case, why should she be expected to surrender it? Do you know anything about this, Miss de Bourgh?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” the agent said, “but this is a private family matter, and…”

  “You are right,” said Mr Caldwell. “It is a family matter, and Miss de Bourgh needs the advice of a member of her family,” and ringing the bell, he ordered the butler. “Request Mr Darcy to come here immediately. Miss de Bourgh is in distress, and needs him.” The butler disappeared. “Oh, do not leave me,” Anne whispered, almost ready to sink. “Do not be afraid, Miss de Bourgh,” he said. “I will not leave until Mr Darcy arrives,” and, taking her to an armchair, he compelled her to be seated, and sat down opposite her in silence, smiling reassuringly at her, until her cousin appeared, whereupon he quietly left the room.

  Mr Darcy quickly ascertained the situation, as far as Mr Colby understood it. Sir Lewis de Bourgh had, it appeared, in a codicil to his will, left money in trust to provide a personal income for his beloved Daughter, for her use until such time as she should marry, when a proper provision was to be made. The income, it seemed, was to have been handed over to Anne at each anniversary. Instead, Lady Catherine had always insisted—from no better motive, it seemed, than that love of controlling and dictating that ruled her life—on its being paid over to her, to be used on Anne's behalf. Anne, understanding little of what was happening, since nobody explained it to her, had always signed it away. There was nothing improper about this arrangement, since Anne had always agreed to it; but if she did not like it, she was at liberty, said Mr Darcy, to change it, and have the use of her own money: “For it is her money, is it not, Mr Colby?”

  “Yes indeed, sir,” said the agent, “But Lady Catherine wanted…”

  “It is a case,” said Mr Darcy, “of what my cousin wants. What do you want, Anne?”

  Anne took a deep breath. “I want to have the money, sir.”

  Mr Colby said, “But where do you want it assigned, miss? Are you asking to have the capital, which is in trust, or the interest? Do you have a banking account?”

  “No, but…”

  “Do not be afraid, cousin,” said Mr Darcy. “Mr Colby, my cousin is five-and-twenty years old, she is not a child. Why do we not take this matter elsewhere, and see to it together that the money is put into an account at a bank, in her name, and I will myself instruct her in the use of it. Cousin Anne, will you allow me to act for you in this matter?”

  “Oh, yes, cousin, if you please.”

  “Very good, it shall be done. Come, Mr Colby.” And he led the agent from the room.

  Chapter 12

  As soon as she was alone, Anne went to a secluded corner, where there stood a writing table, with a comfortable chair placed beside it. Set beside a window, it commanded a fine view over the park and stream, and in the past couple of weeks she had taken to using it every day. Whatever books she was reading, the writing upon which she was engaged, always lay there undisturbed, and she had come almost to regard it as her own. Here she sat, waiting for her cousin to return, and trying to understand what had happened. Her mind was in turmoil.

  She had defied her mother; she had disregarded her expressed wishes!

  She hoped her cousin would return soon; she needed to talk to him—or, rather, she needed him to talk to her, to explain, to tell her that she had not done something wicked. How strange that she, who had feared and disliked her cousin, should now be regarding him as a protector! he had changed so much, since his marriage; a happy husband, and soon to be a father. But he could not protect her from her mother's anger. She had accepted her cousin as her authority, rather than her mother—and Lady Catherine was already angry with Darcy, so angry that, as Anne knew, she had not wanted to come to Pemberley at all, and only desperation had driven her to it. Yes, thought Anne, desperation to get me married—not to someone who would love me and cherish me, but to someone who would be useful to her! But one could not hate a parent—one could not disobey. Affection, obedience were owed to a parent. Even, wondered Anne, if that parent had no knowledge, no understanding of one's needs?

  But before Darcy came, Edmund Caldwell had helped her. She could not have stood up to Mr Colby, she would simply have done as she was bid, if he had not been there. How kind he had been, how steady! Edmund was no hero: stocky, by no means handsome, never well dressed, he cut no figure beside the elegant Darcy, or the soldierly Colonel Fitzwilliam. Yet when he had entered the room, she had immediately had the sense, in the middle of her confusion, that here was someone with whom she was safe. And she had been; she must thank him. But he could not keep her mother away from her. She remembered with a shudder her mother's rage when she had discovered that Cousin Darcy was indeed going to marry Elizabeth; her furious ill-temper with her household; how she had railed at Mr and Mrs Collins; and then had learned, to her fury, that Mr Collins could not be put out of his living.

  Then she thought, But then I was ill. Then I had no money. And Mr Collins could not be put out. It had all died down, and between the lady of the manor and the parish priest an uneasy peace had descended. Civility, if not friendship, had been restored. When people must live together, Anne thought, they do.

  Now she was well. Now, suddenly, she had money. How miserable could her mother make her, when she could still learn to play the piano, for now she could pay for a master? When she could hire a maid for herself? I will buy myself some new dresses, of my own choosing, she thought. I will buy myself a horse, and ride it!

  But I do not want to go back to Rosings. Oh, why does my cousin not come?

  In the end, it was Georgiana who came to find her. The walking party had returned, she said, “And there is a cold collation in the dining room, and there is a visitor as well, whom I think you will like.”

  “Is it Lady Louisa Benton?” Anne asked, for she knew her mother's friend was expected that day.

  “No, she is not here yet, but it is Elizabeth's papa, Mr Bennet. I do not like her mama so very much, but he is the greatest dear, so droll. He always turns up when we do not expect him. And Anne, he has come from Longbourn, to give us the news that Elizabeth's sister, Mrs Bingley, has been brought to bed, and she has a
little girl. Come, you must come!”

  They found the party in the dining room gathered round the table, and with them a small, elderly, bright-eyed gentleman in a long, grey travelling coat. Elizabeth was happily perusing a letter, apparently from her mother: “Jane is well, very well, and the baby is to be called Elizabeth Caroline. Caroline Bingley and I are asked to stand godmothers, and the godfather will be a Mr Robinson, a school friend of dear Bingley.”

  “Oh, why not my brother?” cried Georgiana.

  “They are saving him for a boy,” said Mr Bennet.

  “But tell us more, papa! What does it look like? Whom does it resemble? Mama says it looks like dear Bingley, but do you think so?”

  “Oh, I do not know. It is either a boy, or a girl, and it looks like a baby; that is, there are a great many long clothes, and nothing much else. Bingley allowed the lease to expire, you know, on Netherfield, for he thought they would be in this part of the world, in their new home, long before the child was born. He would—he always expects that things will be for the best. But it was not so, and the new people wanted to get in, so he and Jane came to stay with us. I do not know when we will get them out. I came away because the women were making such a cackle, you could get no sense from any of them.”

  “You mean, you could get no attention, sir,” said his son-in-law, laughing. “But things will be no better here, you know, within a few weeks.”

  “Well, well, I think, my dear sir, that you will retain a few shreds of good sense; and my daughter Elizabeth has more of quickness about her than my other girls. Whatever happens, your library is bigger than mine; I shall be able to retire into my own small corner, and get away from the noise.”

  “Come to us, sir,” said Mr Caldwell. “We will take you walking in the hills, and tell you all about our fossils, and our remarkable curiosities.”

  “But it will be such a happy event!” said Mrs Caldwell, not quite understanding.

  They were all talking; they were all laughing. She could not get to her cousin; she could not get to Edmund. Anne's head ached, she could eat nothing; she could feel sickness coming on. Suddenly she heard kind Mrs Annesley's quiet voice: “Miss de Bourgh, I think you are not quite well. Come, let me take you upstairs, you should lie down on your bed.” Georgiana jumped up immediately, and insisted on taking her to her room, and got her maid. The housekeeper herself brought her up some lime leaf tea. She lay down; she slept.

  Later that afternoon, she woke. She felt quite well, and when she came downstairs, Mr Darcy took her on one side. “As far as Mr Colby and I can ascertain,” he said, “the original sum provided by your father must have been five thousand pounds. In the usual way, that would have given you an income of two hundred and fifty pounds—a very proper provision for a young woman of your rank, coming out into the world, to buy her clothes, etc, and get used to the handling of money.”

  “Two hundred and fifty pounds!”

  “Wait, there is more. In the normal way, that would have been the case; as it was, your mother decided to continue living at Rosings, you were never presented at Court, or brought out into society, and you never had the use of the money. With the interest never being spent, but always added back into the capital, the original amount—how long ago was it, when your father died?”

  “Ten years ago. I was fifteen years old, and am now five-and-twenty.”

  “Yes, we thought so. In that time, you see, the capital has increased to well over seven thousand pounds, and the income to almost four hundred: three hundred and eighty-seven, to be exact. Of course, you understand that, once you begin spending the interest, the capital will not increase.”

  Anne was not sure that she understood anything! The situation, her cousin reflected, was an excellent lesson in the power of compound interest, but was completely outside the range of Anne's knowledge and experience. The cottager's child who takes a shilling to the baker's, and brings home the change in pennies, he thought, probably knows more about money than she does.

  However, Anne surprised him.

  “Cousin, I must learn to keep track of my money. How can I do so? I might write a sort of list of the things I would like to buy, and how much they might cost. Do you think that would help me? If I do that, will you look it over for me?”

  “Certainly. In fact, I have a better idea, which is that you should consult with Elizabeth. From being brought up in a family that is not rich, she has a far better idea of the planning and spending of income than either Georgiana or I—she knows, for example, how much clothes ought to cost—and I know she will be happy to assist you. And if you wish, I will be your banker until an account is arranged for you. Would you like to have something now, to be going on with?” he asked. “Would twenty pounds suffice?”

  Twenty pounds! It was more money than she had ever seen!

  “And when you have your bank account, you can write me your first draft, to repay me. One other matter: Edmund Caldwell must go home tomorrow, his business does not allow him to be longer away. I have arranged for Fitzwilliam to ride with him, and go into Burley to visit your mother. It is time one of us went and enquired after her health. While he is there, he will talk to her about this business. Trust me, he will get her approval. She likes Fitzwilliam, and he can usually get her to see things from his point of view. But for now, this must wait. I see a carriage coming up the drive.”

  Chapter 13

  Lady Louisa was a kind and sensible woman. She had been a close friend of lady Anne Darcy, and for her sake, held her son and daughter in affection. She had never been as fond of Lady Catherine, though she corresponded with her regularly, and Anne she hardly remembered. She had come to Pemberley out of concern for Georgiana. Mr Darcy, in his letter of invitation, had hinted that it was time Georgiana was thinking of a husband, and that there seemed to be few suitable young men available. Lady Louisa, from a wealth of experience, wondered if an unsuitable one were in the picture.

  Now, she realized, the picture was complex. It did not take her five minutes to recognize Georgiana's admiration for Colonel Fitzwilliam, and to discount it; the Colonel, at his age, was not likely to fall in love with a young girl. Nor, if he did so, would he think it right to persuade his wealthy cousin to marry him. Georgiana was young enough, she would get over it; but another admirer or two would certainly help. And, if she were in the habit of falling in love (there had been rumours), it would be as well to get her suitably married as soon as might be.

  Anne was another matter; her mother had described her as sickly and frail, but she was nothing of the kind. However, she was five-and-twenty if she was a day. Catherine was a great fool, Lady Louisa thought, to let her hang around all those years after Darcy, who anybody could see would only marry a woman of the greatest charm and beauty, a woman to sweep him off his feet. This was not such a girl, though she would not make a bad wife, either. Edmund Caldwell obviously thought so, but that was no use—he could not aspire to the heiress of Rosings and thirty thousand pounds. Lady Louisa began making a list of the men she knew—not too young— deserving of Anne and thirty thousand pounds. It was a quite encouraging list, and she decided to give a ball within the next few weeks.

  The evening was warm and sultry. Dinner was late, and afterwards, everyone was too hot for dancing. The doors of the drawing-room opened on the terrace, and at first everybody strolled about, feeling listless; presently they were all assembled inside. “Would Miss Georgiana play for them?”

  Georgiana played two or three pieces, but seemed disinclined for more. Then Mr Bennet quietly said, “If the company would like it, I will read to you.” Everyone expressed an inclination—to be read to was the very thing, for all they need do was sit, and listen.

  Mr Bennet began, reading from some papers in his lap. It was an historic tale—a prose story, written in such a vein as to be almost poetry; a tale of a castle by moonlight, and a young girl waiting, sadly, for someone who did not return. The water fell plashing into the fountain, the white roses bloomed,
the young girl wept. When Mr Bennet stopped, Georgiana drew a deep breath, and Mrs Caldwell wiped away a tear.

  “Who wrote it?” was the question on everybody's lips, and “Was there more?”

  “Papa,” said Elizabeth, “you do not usually read romantic tales— where had you such a story?”

  “Why, my dear,” said Mr Bennet, “did you not write it? I found it on my table in the library, and thought that you had put it there for me to see.”

  “No indeed,” said Elizabeth, “I never wrote anything in my life, longer than a letter; and surely the handwriting is not mine.”

  “All women,” said her father, “write the same vile hand.”

  “The story is mine,” Anne said shyly. “I left the sheets on a table in the library; I did not know, sir, that the table was yours.”

  There was immediate clamour. They had an authoress in their midst—how long had she been writing? Why had she said nothing? How did the story continue? And how did it end?

  “I have written for years,” said Anne. “I had a governess who recommended to me the copying of extracts, to improve my handwriting. I found it very dull copying other people's writings, and began to invent my own: little stories, poems, essays. Then I read a couple of novels and thought them rather silly. I thought I could do as well, and just to amuse myself, I began that story.”

  “And how does it go on?”

  “Oh, she runs away to the Crusades, and has all kind of adventures. It is all nonsense.”

  “But, we must hear it!”

  “One moment,” said Mr Bennet. “Miss de Bourgh has been imposed on; I would not have read these pages, if I had known whose work they were. Only she can decide whether to allow us to hear more.”

  What authoress is really reluctant to have her story read to an admiring, encouraging crowd? Anne took the manuscript, and began to read. It was a strange feeling to be reading what she had written. All eyes were upon her; but her confidence increased as she read. After three or four chapters, her voice grew thick. “Come,” Said Mrs Darcy, “the rest must be for other evenings, it is too late now. The Lambton assembly is tomorrow,” and the party broke up. Anne was thanked and praised; everyone wanted to hear more. Only Edmund Caldwell was silent.