by Blake Smith
She was napping on the afternoon of the fourth day when the door opened and soft footsteps came near the bed.
“Miss Anne,” Harris whispered. “You have a visitor below.”
Anne groaned and opened her eyes. Not Sir Henry again. “Who is it?” she croaked.
“A Mr. Jeffries.”
That was even worse. Anne wanted to see Mr. Jeffries, but she knew that she sight of her, so weak and ill, was sure to distress him. Thank goodness he had not arrived yesterday, when she could not speak without coughing.
But no matter the timing of his visit, she could not turn him away. After meeting with such treatment from Lady Catherine, any slight toward him on Anne’s part would surely provoke him to regard Number Twelve and its inhabitants with dislike. “If Lady Catherine is not in the drawing room, have Mr. Jeffries shown to there,” she said.
“And if Lady Catherine is present?” Harris asked, then, seeing that Anne was wearied even by a short sentence, answered her own question. “I’ll show him to the dining room, miss. It’s rather singular, to be sure, but I think the gentleman will understand.”
“Thank you, Harris. And then will you come to me?”
Harris nodded. “I shall return in a moment to help you dress, miss. You’re hardly strong enough to be out of bed without help.”
Anne knew this to be true, and though she was able to sit on the edge of the bed before Harris’s return, she did not attempt anything further.
“Lady Catherine is in her room,” Harris announced as she came back into the room. “Mr. Jeffries said he’d be pleased to wait for you in the drawing room.”
Anne thanked her, and with Harris’s competent assistance, she was dressed and reasonably presentable in only a few minutes. Her dress was plain and her hair uncurled, but she was unequal to anything more. Even walking down the stairs on Harris’s arm tired her.
Mr. Jeffries was in the drawing room, as promised, and as soon as Anne entered, he sprang to his feet and came forward. “Allow me to assist you,” he said, gently taking her other arm and guiding her to a seat. Anne sank into the chair with a sigh of relief.
“Shall I ring for tea, miss?” Harris asked.
“Yes, Harris, thank you,” Anne said faintly. Perhaps a little refreshment would bolster her strength and spirits.
Harris was gone shortly, leaving the door properly open. Anne shivered at a draft of air, and Mr. Jeffries was at her side in an instant. “Miss de Bourgh, you are very ill,” he said quietly, kneeling so she was not obliged to look up at him. “You should not have attempted this; I would have been quite pleased with any note or message from you; I’m sorry; I should have said so directly but I did not realize you were so very unwell.”
“I couldn’t,” she began to say, but was forced into silence by lack of breath. Mr. Jeffries waited in patient silence until she began again. “I couldn’t bear to turn you away, not after my mother’s behavior to you.”
“You are not responsible for Lady Catherine’s speech or manners. I hate to see you exert yourself when you are so weak.”
But even a few moments of rest had restored a bit of Anne’s strength, and she determinedly sat more upright and said, more clearly, “You are very kind. I am ill,” she admitted, “but not so ill that I cannot see a friend who has come to call.”
“Were but I a female, that I might visit you in your room, where you are surely more comfortable,” he mused.
“Nonsense,” Anne said, momentarily diverted by the thought. “You would be a terribly awkward female.”
He sighed. “And I am not such a very good friend, either. I have come to say that I must leave you and Scarborough.”
This was a blow, but Anne rallied her spirits. “Your uncle?”
Mr. Jeffries nodded. “He is also ill, and has asked me to attend him. I am sorry I will not be here to see you recover.”
“Of course you should go to your uncle,” Anne said, because it was proper. “And your aunt must wish for your support at this time.”
“She does.” At that moment, the maid entered, bearing a tea tray, and there could be no conversation until they were again alone and each was possessed of a cup of tea and a macaroon.
Once everything was again in order, Mr. Jeffries said, “I wish I could divide myself in two, that I might attend my aunt and uncle, and be here to know the instant you are better.”
“Perhaps your brother will correspond with you. Or,” because she could little imagine Mr. Hurst writing a long letter full of news of their acquaintances, “more likely, Mrs. Hurst will write to you.”
“I will charge her with that duty.”
“When must you leave?”
“Today. Almost this moment; I have only to return to Number Eight, say my farewells, and I will be gone.”
“I am sorry to see you go,” Anne said, “though every time we meet, I seem to be in a state of utter mortification.”
Mr. Jeffries looked briefly alarmed. “I hope I have not caused this state in you.”
She smiled. “No, it is often the fault of my relations.”
As if the mere thought of Lady Catherine was enough to summon her, Anne heard her mother’s voice on the stairs. “Oh, no; not this again,” Anne murmured. No doubt Lady Catherine would see Mr. Jeffries’ visit as an unwelcome intrusion; she might even accuse him of harming Anne’s health by his company.
Mr. Jeffries looked rueful. “Shall I leave you?”
“Will you? I’m sorry,” she said. “I do not want you to leave, but…”
“I understand.” He pressed her hand. “I shall return soon; I hope to see you well recovered.”
Anne thanked him but doubted he heard it. He was already on his feet and moving toward the door with alacrity. She heard the front door close, and hardly a moment later, Lady Catherine swept into the drawing room.
She halted abruptly upon seeing Anne, who set down her cup as though nothing was amiss. “Anne, what on earth are you doing?” her mother demanded. “You should be in bed, not gallivanting about.”
So she had not seen Mr. Jeffries. Thank goodness. “I thought a change of air might agree with me,” she lied baldly. “And the housemaids must do their work, and the sight of their activity in my room was distressing to me. So I thought to come down for a moment. Harris will aid me back to bed once everything is in order.”
“You need not have dressed for such an excursion.”
“Oh, Mamma; I have not worn anything but a dressing gown for nearly a week, and I have not had my hair arranged since Sir Henry’s visit. I wished to feel normal, if only for a few minutes.”
“I hope you will not suffer a relapse because of it,” Lady Catherine said. “I am sure you would have done better to remove to one of the other bedrooms if you wished for quiet. Going up and down the stairs must be tiring to you.”
And this, from the woman who’d thought Anne should receive callers only a few days before! “I am feeling much better, though I am sure I am not fully recovered. Your Ladyship must not judge my strength today by my appearance a few days ago.”
This was not completely false, though she still felt weak as a kitten. But being fussed over, particularly by Lady Catherine, had lost its charm by the second day of her illness. Anne was bored with being ill, and eager to recover as quickly as possible. There was much that remained to be seen in Scarborough, and she did not want to waste time playing the invalid.
It was a delicate balance, allowing herself time to recover from a genuine illness while at the same time not sinking into slothful habits. But since she could not say any of that to her mother, she said, “Will you not have some tea, Your Ladyship? And these macaroons are quite good; I think the cook has attempted a new recipe, with great success.”
But Lady Catherine refused all refreshment, and turned to leave the room. “I shall send Harris to you directly. Surely even such slow housemaids as those girls must have finished tidying the room by now.”
“Yes, Your Ladyship.”
&n
bsp; Lady Catherine swept out of the room, and Anne was at leisure to think on the subject that interested her the most.
Mr. Jeffries had gone. This was a great disappointment to Anne; he had been one of her foremost protectors against the attentions of Sir Henry, and besides that, she would miss his conversation.
Of course he must visit his family, and assist his uncle in whatever Sir William required of him. Even so, Anne wished he was able to remain in Scarborough.
And when was he to return? He had not said, and she could not imagine his business could be easily resolved. Berkshire was a few days’ journey from Scarborough, even for a young man travelling at speed; she must account for that as well.
It was unlikely that she would see him again within a fortnight. And, Anne’s spirits sank upon the realization that he may not return to the north at all while she was in residence. Summer was just beginning, but if his business took longer than he anticipated, or he was invited to friends elsewhere, he might forget all about Scarborough. It wasn’t as though Anne had any great claim to his attention, only the friendship of a fortnight’s standing.
But there was nothing she could do to hurry his return. She resolved to inquire of him the next time she saw Georgiana, and leave it at that.
I must not be wishing, she told herself firmly. Aside from the likely disappointment of allowing her thoughts to stray too far in that direction, she had more immediate things to think of.
Such as, her recovery, and how she was meant to regain her bed. Fortunately for her weary ankles and fragile lungs, Harris appeared in the doorway a moment later, and Anne accepted her assistance in returning to her room, which smelled of lavender and soap from the housemaids’ efforts. She was undressed in a few minutes and asleep in another few more.
CHAPTER Fifteen
Anne recovered as quickly as could be expected, and by the end of another two days, was able to rise and dress every day, to sit in the library or the drawing room for a few hours each day, and to wish that she was well enough to go down to dinner.
Lady Catherine forbade this exertion, but she did not forbid Georgiana from calling, and the cousins sat together for a little while each day, talking over any tidbits of news Georgiana could bring, and pretending to work.
The Hursts’ upcoming ball was one of their main points of conversation. It was to be held a month hence, and promised to be one of the finer entertainments in the town. This did not speak particularly well for the society to be found in Scarborough, as the Hursts were respectable but hardly of the first stare. But Anne was determined to be pleased. Georgiana mentioned that nearly two hundred invitations were to be sent; surely, in such a large crowd, Anne would find someone worthy of talking to.
She must convince Lady Catherine to allow her a new gown for the occasion. Any number of shopkeepers clamored for her patronage; to say that they had supplied a gown to the daughter of Sir Lewis and Lady Catherine de Bourgh was a coup for any modiste wishing to be noticed.
But Anne must first prove that she was well enough to attend the forthcoming ball. That was her object, and she set to it with a will- one of the first long-running goals she’d ever had. Her life had been so circumscribed until this summer that she’d had no need of forward thinking, or the strength of will to carry out even the simplest plan for more than a few days at a time. Her scheme to avoid Sir Henry was the first time she had ever engaged in any such sort of plotting. Regaining her strength in time for the ball was a goal that meshed nicely with her wish to keep Sir Henry at arms’ length.
Twelve days after she’d been stricken, Anne ventured outside, with Mrs. Jenkinson supporting her and Georgiana walking on her other side, ready to assist if she began to feel weary. They only walked to Number Eight, took tea, and returned to Number Twelve, but Anne was cheered by the sights and sounds of the street. The wind was in a fair quarter, and she smiled when the salty breeze caused the ribbons of her bonnet to flutter. Even the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the rattle of carriage wheels over the cobbles were objects of interest to her, after so many days of sedate silence either in her room or in the drawing room, where she was not allowed to look out of the windows to see who was passing in the street.
“Well, Anne,” Georgiana said as they ascended the steps of Number Twelve, having made a very respectable assault on the refreshments at Number Eight, “are you strengthened or wearied by your outing?”
Anne returned her cousin’s smile. “Strengthened, of course. I have grown so bored of seeing only the inside of Number Twelve; even simply removing to another house raised my spirits.”
“When shall you take up your walks by the sea?”
She wished to say, ‘tomorrow, of course,’ but practicality won out. “Perhaps the day after tomorrow, if the weather continues fine.”
“Shall I join you?”
Anne nodded. “Yes. I would like that.”
***
The days passed, sunny and warm, and Anne was happy. She walked every day by the sea, visited the shops in the company of Georgiana and Mrs. Jenkinson, and dined out once or twice a week. If Lady Catherine pressed her to be more in company, Anne could always plead weariness or a headache. Her mother was so accustomed to thinking of Anne as ill, that she hardly noticed, and of course, Mrs. Jenkinson was always ready to think Anne on the brink of death.
But in truth, Anne had never felt so well in her life. She’d recovered from her cold quickly enough and had not forgotten her intention of walking to the top of the hill. Scarborough Hill, as Georgiana called it, was not an interesting object for its own sake; the crumbling ruins of a castle perched upon its height. They could not be seen from the beach, but Anne had heard of their existence from an acquaintance and, having never seen a ruined castle, was determined that she should walk among the stones before the end of summer.
She outlined this plan to Georgiana one day as they walked, having managed to draw her cousin a little away from their companions. Ascending Scarborough Hill was a perfectly respectable intention- Georgiana and Mrs. Hurst had done so last week- but Anne had no wish to hear Mrs. Jenkinson’s protests.
Georgiana was naturally pleased at Anne’s determination. “I think it an excellent idea,” she said. “Scarborough Hill is a little less than two miles from Brooke Street, if Mr. Jeffries is to be believed- he was often going there to examine the ruins. In a month’s time, if you continue this regimen, a walk of that distance might be difficult for you, but hardly impossible.” She gave a little laugh. “A few years ago, it might have been impossible for me, but-” her amusement vanished.
She feared to mention her sister-in-law. But Anne was not Lady Catherine, and she took up the thread of her cousin’s thought. “I believe Mrs. Darcy enjoys outdoor exercise; are you often her companion?”
Georgiana’s wary expression instantly disappeared. “I am, and I’ve derived much improvement from her example.”
That was certainly true. And Georgiana had benefitted in other ways from Mrs. Darcy’s liveliness. She had always been polite and well-mannered, but now much of her shyness had gone, and Anne found her not only a comfortable companion, but an amusing one as well. Mrs. Darcy was quite a worker of miracles.
By the time she’d been six weeks in Scarborough, Anne was able to walk to the house of nearly any acquaintance she chose. To be sure, this was not the feat it seemed, as most of her acquaintances lived within a mile of Brooke Street. But to travel even that far under her own power was gratifying to Anne. Georgiana was frequently her companion, and of course Mrs. Jenkinson could not be left behind, though she was occasionally put out of mind as the young ladies made their way to visit with friends or favor the shops with their custom.
Her closeness with Georgiana made Anne privy to many of the preparations for the ball. Indeed, she could hardly escape seeing and hearing of Mrs. Hurst’s plans, every time she visited Number Eight or the ladies of that house called upon her.
The house must be cleaned from top to bottom, flowers and rosettes or
dered, extra candles brought in, and so on. Anne was treated to a long speech by Miss Bingley about the inferiority of food stores in Scarborough, and why couldn’t the town have a place like Gunter’s to produce all of the delicate confections that were absolutely indispensible at any proper party?
Two weeks before this event was to take place, Scarborough was buried under a snowstorm of invitation cards. Even Anne was pressed into service as the cards were addressed. She had a fine hand, and didn’t mind the task, though she could have done with Lady Catherine’s presence. Her mother had insisted on accompanying her and Mrs. Jenkinson to Number Eight, though she flatly refused to assist in addressing invitations, choosing instead to look over their shoulders and comment on their work, before examining the guest list that was held in Mrs. Hurst’s lap. This list was the source of many remarks from Lady Catherine, ranging from, “I am acquainted with this person; you have done well to invite him” to, “Why on earth do you keep company with that encroaching mushroom?”
Anne tried hard to be diverted by her mother’s conduct, and was assisted by significant looks and hastily disguised giggles from Georgiana, who was sitting across from her. But she could not ignore one exchange.
Lady Catherine asked, “Have you invited Sir Henry Thornton? I do not see his name on this list,” as she plucked the paper out of Mrs. Hurst’s grasp and perused it minutely.
Anne made a slight movement at the mention of that name, and was conscious of Miss Bingley’s gaze. But that lady only said, “I do not believe we are acquainted with Sir Henry.”
“I shall introduce you at the earliest opportunity,” Lady Catherine pronounced.
“I shall ask Mr. Hurst to inquire,” Mrs. Hurst put in, “and he will determine if Sir Henry’s society is agreeable.”
