The Road to Pemberley

by Marsha Altman

  “I am Mrs. Annesley, and this is Miss Darcy,” says my companion. I smile and curtsy to Michelle.

  “How do you do, Michelle?” I say, hopeful that she will be different from the nine other boring and identical girls.

  “I am well, merci,” she replies. She sits down and then asks, “Your maid...she is gone?”

  “Yes,” I volunteer, which is unusual for me, as I ordinarily let others who would talk do so. “She left us a day ago.”

  My good companion continues by asking the same questions of Michelle that she asked of the other nine girls. Michelle likes to talk, apparently, and mixes her French and English, but they are all words that I can understand. She talks of her cousins, who are farmers and soldiers, and of her uncle, who is a baker. She came to London when she was fifteen.

  When she leaves, Mrs. Annesley asks me whom I liked best of the ten, and I smile a little. “Oh, I liked Michelle the best,” I reply, uncertain of her own opinion. “She seemed the most straightforward.”

  “That is just what I thought, too,” she replies, sitting down with her needlework.

  “You did?” I ask, a little surprised. “You think Michelle is the best choice?”

  “Oh, I think she is the most straightforward,” she clarifies. “Strictly speaking, I think perhaps Mary is the most prudent choice. She is the most skilled of all the girls.”

  “Oh.”

  She smiles up at me for a moment. “This is a choice you must make on your own, Miss Darcy. All of the girls are qualified; my sister would not have sent them to interview for a position with the Darcy family if it were not so. It is you the girl must work for; you who must manage her. If you liked Michelle best, then why not choose her? Have a little faith in your own ability to judge character, my dear.”

  My heart plummets into my stomach, and my expression falls with it. “That is not something that I can do,” I say, shaking my head.

  Mrs. Annesley puts her work in her lap and gives me a curious look. “Is there something you wish to talk about, Miss Darcy?”

  “No,” I reply loudly, rising. “No, not at all.” I rush to the door and turn to look at her. “I am going to retire now. Good night.”

  She stops me at the door with a hand on my upper arm. “Miss Darcy, please turn around.”

  I do as she asks, to find her looking at me with kindness in her eyes. “Yes?”

  “It is three o’clock in the afternoon, Miss Darcy.”

  I look away and want to cry. “Yes,” I say. “Of course. I meant...I just want to rest a while.”

  Mrs. Annesley takes my chin in her hand and turns my head so that she can look at me. “If you ever do want to talk,” she offers gently, “I hope you feel you can talk to me.” She pauses to let the offer settle between us for a moment.

  I look back at her, incredibly uncomfortable. “Thank you,” I say quietly. She smiles at me and I turn toward my rooms.

  The next morning, I am forced to make a choice—I cannot continue to try to instruct Silent Greta, as she clearly wishes neither to learn English, nor to be a lady’s maid. Reminding myself that if Michelle ultimately does not succeed, she can be quickly replaced with no harm done, I write to Mrs. Annesley’s sister to request that Michelle come to work for me.

  She joins us three days later, and shopping ensues. I confess I do love to shop and have a bit of an obsession with bonnets. I must have something pretty to cover my awful hair, after all. I almost cannot wait to be married, so that I can wear a cap to cover it all the time.

  Michelle is fitted for a wardrobe suitable for a lady’s maid, which she almost does not accept. It takes quite a bit from both Mrs. Annesley and I to convince her that it is all quite proper and perfectly all right, and then her thanks are profuse. When we return from Mildred Townsend’s shop one afternoon, in the hall we meet my brother, who greets me and kisses my cheek. “Shall we have tea together?” he asks me. “I will leave in the morning for Hertfordshire.”

  I smile. “Of course,” I reply, and hand him Mrs. Townsend’s bill. “For Michelle,” I explain. “Oh, and one for me.”

  He takes the paper and glances at Michelle, who turns crimson. After looking at it, he looks up at her again. “Do not fret about this,” he says to Michelle. “Georgiana, you are to be congratulated. I did not think it could be done.”

  “Of what do you speak?” I ask, confused.

  “You now own bonnets enough to cover every head in England.” He kisses my cheek again and heads to the library.

  I smile after him and look at Michelle. She smiles back at me, a little more at ease, and follows me up the stairs to my rooms. A few moments later, the footman knocks on the door to deliver the bandbox containing the newest addition to my collection. I thank him and hand it to Michelle to be put away.

  “I do not yet know where to put it,” she says, a little embarrassed.

  “Oh—in my dressing room. I will be right in to show you where.”

  I follow her after a moment and find her staring into an open closet. My bonnets are all inside—some forty-five of them—all arranged neatly in order of season, and then type, and then color, from the darkest blue to the brightest yellow. Looking over her shoulder, I spot my favorite one—it is light pink with little roses made of ribbons and the loveliest ivory lace trimming it.

  “You can put it next to this one,” I say, tapping the shelf.

  Michelle turns to me with an awestricken face. She shakes her head. “Mon dieu!” she exclaims. It is all she can muster...there are quite a few bonnets, I suppose.

  My dear Georgiana,

  There is not much to tell about the past week. I hope the same is true of your week, excepting perhaps a new piece of music from the formidable Mr. Pritchard.

  Mr. Bingley and his sisters all send their best to you. One, in fact, is watching over me at present, eager to ensure that I have someone to mend my pen if it should break. I am sure you can guess who the solicitous young lady is.

  After my arrival last week, there was an assembly held in the little town of Meryton. You can imagine that I attended with some reluctance, but as Mr. Bingley is my host and he was eager to go, I obliged him. There was not much to be seen there, except the overly eager new acquaintances of Mr. Bingley’s. I did meet one young lady, however, whose company I think you might enjoy.

  Miss Elizabeth Bennet is the second in a family of five daughters. Her father has a small estate near Netherfield, entailed away from the female line. Her older sister, Miss Jane Bennet, is the only other that merits mentioning. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst have taken a liking to the eldest Miss Bennet. She is, however, quite reserved. The younger three Bennet sisters are, in my opinion, too young and too silly to be out. Miss Elizabeth, however, is possessed of a sharp mind and quick wit. You and she would get along well.

  Yesterday, Miss Bingley invited Miss Jane Bennet to dine with her and Mrs. Hurst while we were dining with the officers. It seems Mrs. Bennet sent her eldest daughter on horseback. She rode in the rain and was wet through by the time she reached Netherfield. She has taken ill and so must stay with the Bingleys and recuperate. Miss Bingley also invited Miss Elizabeth to stay when she came to nurse her sister.

  That was an odd enough circumstance in itself. It seemed that Miss Elizabeth’s father had needed the carriage—again—on the day following Miss Bennet’s falling ill; however, her sister was not to be deterred. Rather, she chose to walk the three miles from Longbourn to Netherfield, in ankle-deep mud. Miss Bingley observed, after Miss Elizabeth had been shown to her sister’s sick room, that Miss Elizabeth was not fit to be seen. Miss Bingley was all astonishment at what she perceived as a spectacle made upon Miss Jane Bennet’s behalf. She immediately demanded my assurances that I should not like to see you do the same. Of course, I acquiesced, but I could not help teasing her a little by commenting that Miss Elizabeth’s eyes had been brightened by her exertion.

  My brother goes on for another quarter page, in his smooth handwriting, about Miss Eliza
beth Bennet. He has never mentioned any of his new female acquaintances to me in his writing. I had assumed this was because he had made no new acquaintances—he is not an easy person to speak with. And when he is with Mr. Bingley, his sister Caroline—who has quite made up her mind to marry Fitzwilliam—tends to circle round my brother like a vulture when there are other young unmarried females in the room. I used to think her kind, before I realized the motive behind her attention. Now I do not know what to think, and try to avoid her as much as possible. Most of the time it is easy, because she is dressed all in beads, feathers, and swooshing silk, and can be seen and heard a mile away. Mrs. Reynolds calls her a peacock when she thinks no one is listening.

  I ponder this Miss Bennet and wonder what she looks like. I assume she is at least tolerable, because there is no mention of her looks anywhere in the letter.

  I have gotten another letter today, from my cousin Anne de Bourgh—the daughter of my mother’s sister, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Anne is only about five feet tall and wears saffron shades of yellow (but does not look good in them). She has hair so dark it is almost black, skin the color of spoiled milk, and eyes that are small and gray. I was afraid of her as a child and have always thought her looks putrid. However, she is as warm-hearted as a person who has been raised to think chiefly of herself can be. She writes brief but constant letters to me, and when I visit Rosings she does her utmost to sit with me, which can be difficult at times, as she is always being shown to her rooms to rest.

  This letter is no different than most that I receive from her. The lovely thing about them is that she never bothers with opening pleasantries, and she writes just the same as she speaks—bluntly.

  Dear Georgiana,

  It has been at least three weeks since your most recent letter; I had expected one from you sooner. You know you are the only person with whom I ever correspond. I am not allowed out, and my other cousins do not have time for me.

  Mother is well and sends her best wishes. She will assist me in selecting a new maid this week. Nicole has gotten too old. I did like her, inasmuch as I have ever liked any servant, so I wonder what she will do after she is finished here.

  Anne’s kindness is not perfect—she has had almost as many abigails in two years as I have bonnets, dismissing all of them either because of age or attitude. I do think her more sincere than curious about Nicole’s future employment, however. She may be just as demanding and blunt, but she is more gentle and generous than her mother. I do not mean to say that Lady Catherine is not charitable, rather, that her charity is limited.

  I believe Anne when she says that I am the only person to whom she writes. I try to make my replies cheerful and interesting, but I am sure I fail miserably most times.

  Sighing, I put down her letter. Each time she writes she speaks of the same things—first her mother, and then herself, and then, if she is permitted to write so long, of other goings-on in the world with which she is acquainted. It is a very rare occasion indeed when I receive a letter from her that does not bore me to tears. However, it is a nice challenge for me to come up with things to write about. I have the same difficulty thinking of things to speak of in company.

  I leave the letters on my writing table and wander to the music room. My fingers dance across the keys involuntarily as I sit down. I wonder on the young lady mentioned in my brother’s letter—Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Hertfordshire. Given that my brother clearly likes her, I am predisposed to approving of her. Second of five daughters, living in an estate entailed away from such children... she would not be so very self-important or imposing, as Miss Bingley is. I wonder if she has any fortune to speak of, or whether she has any noble family. I should like nothing more than to have a sister to love—a friend of my own gender and near my age.

  Ensuing letters from Netherfield are quite full of Miss Bennet. Fitzwilliam talks about the day on which the Misses Bennet leave Netherfield and how quiet the evenings become. He talks of meeting her at other homes in the neighborhood, and says that he watches her interact with young Lucases and older Philipses, and how much he enjoys talking with her when he does speak. And in one letter, I am struck by his saying, quite bluntly, “She is so expressive, and so full of life, with such striking eyes.” He gives no indication, however, that his sentiments are returned. When he speaks of their conversations, it occurs to me that they debate more than they discuss, so I wonder whether there is any tenderness of feeling for him on her side.

  He does, apparently, pay her more attention than he has ever paid any woman, excepting perhaps Miss Bingley, but that can only be because she asks for such attention. In his most recent letter, he mentions that Mr. Bingley is not as satisfied with Netherfield as he had hoped to be, and that they will return to London as soon as matters there are settled.

  He arrives sooner than expected. Within a few days of his return, we fall into that same, comfortable routine that we have both come to rely upon. I adore my brother and cherish every moment that can be spent with him. It does not really matter that neither of us is terribly inclined to speak.

  My dreams of Ramsgate are becoming less frequent, but they still trouble me. I do not sleep well and am afraid that Mrs. Annesley notices my fatigue. The dreams are generally the same—my mind flashing back to moments when I was alone with him—with the beautiful, charming, and deceitful man who followed me there. The dreams feel so real that I wake up confused, and then feel my anger at him renewed.

  One morning, after I have slept very, very little, I try to plead illness with Mrs. Annesley.

  “You are not ill,” she says gently. “Miss Darcy, I know that you are not sleeping well. Is there not something that I can do to help you? Will you not tell me what is troubling you?”

  I remember the day that she told me she hoped that I would talk with her if I ever felt like talking. There is not anything to tell her that my brother does not already know, so I take in a breath.

  “If I were to tell you something in utter confidence,” I begin in a low voice, “would you keep it to yourself?”

  “I will keep any secret you tell me, as long as it is not to your detriment.”

  I sigh. Taking Mrs. Annesley’s hand, I lead her to the settee and sit myself upon it. She sits next to me. “Let me first assure you that there is nothing that I am about to disclose to you about which my brother does not know every particular,” I say. Tears begin to well in my eyes; Mrs. Annesley squeezes my hand and readies her handkerchief. With a deep breath, I continue. “When my brother was a younger man—a boy, really—he had a good friend named George Wickham. He was the son of our father’s steward, and our father was very fond of him. He supported him at school after his father’s death—the elder Mr. Wickham died so very young, you see. My father had intended him for the church, and had left provisions in his will for the living at Kympton to fall to him.” I pause and let a smile come over my face.

  “Your father must have been a generous man,” says Mrs. Annesley in my silence. “I had wondered where your brother got his example.”

  I nod. “My father was an excellent man. I wish I could have known him better. He had such faith in Mr. Wickham. My father, you see, lost both of his parents at an early age, just as Mr. Wickham did. I suppose that was why he was so fond of him.” My smile falters and I heave another sigh. “But his faith was misplaced. Mr. Wickham learned to enjoy gambling and whiskey, and other things a young lady is not supposed to know of, more than his studies. His relationship with my brother crumbled. Mr. Wickham asked him for money, and he asked him to lie.

  “Fitzwilliam, of course, would have none of it and tried to encourage Mr. Wickham to be an honorable man. He did not succeed. Of all of this, of course, I was perfectly unaware.” I pause here, letting out a breath and looking around the room a little.

  After a moment I breathe deeply again to steel myself for Mrs. Annesley’s reaction, and then continue, determined not to stop until I am finished. “My companion, Mrs. Younge, whom my brother and I liked
very much, suggested that we holiday in Ramsgate this summer. She did this knowing that my brother would not be able to accompany me—there is simply too much to be done at Pemberley during summer. But with his blessing, we set out.

  “When I first met Mr. George Wickham at Ramsgate I was surprised—I recalled a young man who paid almost no attention to me as a child. I had always thought him handsome, and if I am at all honest with myself, I still do. I was quite surprised that he even approached me—but unbeknownst to me, he was there by design. I did not recall at that time, as he smiled charmingly at me, that he had left Pemberley the same morning my father was discovered to have passed away. I did not know at that time, that upon leaving Derbyshire he left debts, knowing full well that my brother would discharge them. I did not recall that he did not write my brother at all, and though his relationship with my brother was quite thinly worn, Fitzwilliam was distressed by this. All I could see was that he was paying attention to me. It was not many days later that he told me that I was beautiful, and that I played the pianoforte more brilliantly than ever he had heard. A few days more and he was falling in love with me, until a fortnight after he first encountered me—quite unexpectedly, mind you—he declared himself and made the suggestion that, because he and Fitzwilliam were estranged, we should marry first and then seek consent. That way, Fitzwilliam could not help but give it. He would see that his sister was happy, and he and Mr. Wickham could renew their friendship.

  “All the time he knew what he was doing—he knew what he wanted and it was not me. I trusted Mrs. Younge, and she deceived me. I was completely taken in by him, by her design and by his. But I ought to have known that none of it was true—nobody falls in love in two weeks’ time, except in romance novels.”

  I pause for a long time and examine my fingers. “I was thoughtless, and I hurt my brother,” I finish finally.