Chapter 4
When Anne announced her intent during dinner to return to Matlock for the waters the next day, she found Elizabeth volunteering to accompany her. Mrs. Darcy’s stated reason was to visit some of the shops, but she had been making steady efforts to befriend Anne since Margate, and Anne found the carriage ride there marked with her cousin’s continuing endeavours on this front.
They were generally successful endeavours: Elizabeth had a great deal of conversation, when she wished to, and as Anne’s health had improved she had found herself far more receptive to such conversation. Before, she would not have thought herself in possession of the wits required to banter with Elizabeth, but on this day, she felt herself happily equal to such topics as Elizabeth introduced.
It helped that the sky, while cloudy, did not spill over, allowing them to alight the carriage and walk about with no more encumbrances than a footman following them. Anne had tried both the New Bath and the Old Bath during her previous visits, and had determined she preferred the Old. She had always been greeted enthusiastically by the proprietor there, Mrs. Cumming, but this enthusiasm seemed to increase when that woman learned Anne was accompanied by Mrs. Darcy, for Elizabeth’s husband was part of the consortium of men who owned the inn housing the bath. In vain did Mrs. Cumming attempt to convince Elizabeth to take the waters or have a bath; Elizabeth announced her intent to do no more than take a cup of tea in a private parlour – if one was available – before she would walk the half-mile between the establishment and Matlock itself, leaving her carriage for Miss de Bourgh.
Anne watched with some amusement at Mrs. Cumming’s reaction to this, an itinerary no normal lady of quality would have taken. Elizabeth was of quality, no doubt, but a different – and very likely better, Anne thought – quality than the other ladies Fitzwilliam might have married. In her last glimpse of Elizabeth, Anne watched her cousin’s diverted expression at being led off with great pomp toward what might very well be the most elaborate cup of tea she would ever take.
Emerging from her bath and then the Old Bath itself, Anne briefly considered the path to Matlock. The weather had held, and so the walk would have been pleasant, a stroll along the Derwent. The Darcy carriage was waiting there for her, however, and Anne sighed and climbed the stairs. She rendezvoused with Elizabeth as planned, at Miss Millns’s Repository and Circulating Library, finding her cousin perusing the bonnets on offer.
“Look at this,” Elizabeth said in a low voice, gesturing that Anne should come closer. “Is this not the ugliest bonnet you have ever seen? If my sister Lydia was here, she would buy it and we would think her mad for doing so, and then in a fortnight or so, she would come out wearing the bonnet, completely reconstructed and retrimmed, and we would all think it was brilliant.”
“She must have a true taste for fashion,” Anne said. “She is your youngest sister, is she not?”
“Yes, she is,” said Elizabeth. “She certainly has a true taste for scouring Ackermann’s Repository. I ought to send her copies, now that I think on it – she has moved to America.”
Anne had never heard anyone say this directly, but she had caught enough of it at Longbourn for this statement to not be a surprise, and she said only, “Oh – America. I suppose she would be very happy to have copies of Ackermann’s Repository there.”
“Yes, I think she will. But I shall not purchase this bonnet for her. She will have to find her own hideous American bonnets to make over, for I intend to go to the library. Take your time, however, if you wish to make any purchases.”
Anne’s mother had always outfitted her in the very latest fashions, even if no one more important than Mrs. Jenkinson was to see a great many of them. She had more than enough bonnets worthy of gracing Ackermann’s, and she readily followed her cousin. In truth, it was a little strange that Elizabeth Darcy should have any need for a subscription to a circulating library, when she could walk across her own house and have access to all of Pemberley’s collection. Fitzwilliam had his own taste, though – largely overlapping with his wife’s, but falling, Anne had been told, a bit short when it came to certain genres of novels – and so there were certain new books Elizabeth preferred to borrow, and then if she truly liked them, to suggest their addition to the Pemberley library. When they entered the library, Elizabeth made for the novels, and Anne poetry, her own preference. She was entirely shocked, however, to enter that aisle and find Mr. Smith perusing the titles.
“Oh – oh – Mr. Smith!” Anne stuttered. “I would not have expected to find you here.”
“Miss de Bourgh!” he replied, looking as embarrassed to be found here as Anne had been to find him. “Yes, I – I am a subscriber here.”
“That does not surprise me,” Anne said. “It is your choice of subject that does. You are an admirer of poetry, then?”
“I am,” said he, “although I enjoy prose as well. I know neither is what is expected of me. You must think I should be taking out the agricultural reports.”
“Oh, I assure you, I thought no such thing. I would have presumed that a man such as you has already studied them so far as is beneficial,” Anne said. “Anything beyond that is only cause for worry in this season, and if – ” she glanced at the volume in his hands – ” if The Corsair is useful in distracting you from your worries, then I wholly approve of it.”
He smiled. “I am glad you think so, Miss de Bourgh. Have you read The Corsair?”
Anne’s mother had not approved of Byron, and thus she had not had any access to his work until she had arrived at Pemberley. Then, she had read all of him she could, and she could not decide how she felt about him. There was always the hint of something scandalous in his verse – perhaps the more so for knowing whom it was written by – and yet he often reached an undeniable quality. Anne still did not prefer him to Scott, however, and she said, “I have not, but I believe I shall. I am still determining my opinion of Byron.”
He gave her a long look, one heavily perplexed. “Are you not already set in your opinion of Byron? I had thought everyone of – of your status – was already decided on him, regardless of his literary merit.”
“Oh, I assure you, I have never met him. My mother might – ” Anne’s mother might have some overlapping acquaintances with Byron, due to his nobility, not his artistic merit, but Anne determined this was not useful to her point and continued on “ – my mother might care over his status, but my only concern is where to rank him amongst Scott and Wordsworth.”
“That is what I would rather do, too,” he said, smiling.
He could say no more, however, for Elizabeth burst into the aisle, saying, “Anne – Anne, can you be ready to go? Dr. Alderman just found me – they have sent a messenger for him from Pemberley – my sister begins her birth, and Powell has hired on an extra pair of horses from the Old Bath, so we may be back faster.”
“Yes, yes, of course, I can be ready to go,” Anne gasped, glancing at Mr. Smith and wishing she could have a little more time in relative privacy with him.
“Good-bye, Miss de Bourgh. I will pray for Mrs. Bingley. I hope we may continue our conversation, when next we meet. I cannot say I have a great many people to converse with, as regards poetry.”
“I should like that conversation very much – speaking about poetry, I mean,” said Anne.
“Very well, then I will look forward to our conversation.”
Anne curtsied hastily, and exited the shop behind Elizabeth, to find that in addition to two extra horses, they had acquired an additional outrider – presumably the groom who had brought the message from Pemberley. The presence of Dr. Alderman and the impending birth of Elizabeth’s latest niece or nephew meant there was little they could converse on, and so Anne stared out the window as the carriage bowled along, thinking of her encounter with Mr. Smith. It had aroused a dangerous reaction in her, one made more dangerous to have discovered he was an admirer of poetry. It was for the best that Elizabeth had interrupted them, she thought, and she ought to be caref
ul in the time she had left before her presentation.
Their arrival at Pemberley found Elizabeth bursting from the carriage before the footman could so much as touch the stairs and running into the house, followed after by Dr. Alderman at only a slightly less rapid clip. Anne followed them until she reached the hallway to the apartment where the Bingleys lived, and was required to slow her pace, finding herself heavily winded. She wondered why she had felt compelled to echo the urgency of the others: after all, Mrs. Bingley was merely a connexon to her by marriage; she was a very kind woman, so far as Anne had known, but they were not so well acquainted that she would want Anne’s presence in her bedchamber at such a time, and there was little else Anne could do to be of use.
She was offered assistance rather than rendering it, for after he had opened the door to the bedchamber to allow his wife and the physician in, Fitzwilliam turned to Anne, gasping and coughing there in the hallway, and exclaimed over the state of her health.
“Good God, Anne, what has happened to you? You look very unwell,” he said.
In winded gasps, Anne explained that she had run after Elizabeth and Dr. Alderman, and should not have done so.
“Indeed you should not – your health is much improved, but not enough, I think, for running,” he said, shaking his head and leading her to where several chairs had been placed in the hallway. “Sit here and allow me to get you a glass of wine.”
When he returned from this errand he was flanked by a footman, who carried an entire decanter and several glasses. Fitzwilliam poured out one of these and handed it to Anne, then knocked on the bedchamber door, and, when it was opened by his wife, handed in another glass of wine to her.
“For Mrs. Bingley?” Anne asked, when he returned to sit beside her.
“No – Mr. Bingley,” he said, drily. “However, I cannot judge him over his anxiety, for I am not certain I was any better than Charles is now, when Elizabeth gave birth. To watch one’s wife go through such a thing and be powerless to help her cannot but provoke agitation and worry.”
Anne wondered what it would be like to give birth, to have an husband who was anxious over the outcome of such an event. That, however, was a ridiculous thing for her to wonder over; someone who had been so winded by merely attempting to run through Pemberley’s hallways. Yet her health did improve, she thought, and some day it might improve so much as to render it possible for her to bear a child – to have a child of her own, who would inherit Rosings. This was a pleasing thought.
In order to bear a child, though, she was reminded that she would have to marry. Last year, this had seemed a possibility; even in her old cloud of illness, Anne had seen the logic of marrying her cousin Edward, and although she bore only familial love towards him, she had liked the idea of being married to him. Edward and Fitzwilliam – always diligent visitors to Rosings every year, at least until Fitzwilliam had married – had always treated her kindly, and with respect. Edward would have taken her to the seaside, would have supported those things she had wished to try to improve her health – those things that had in fact proven so effective. He had fallen in love, though, and Anne could not begrudge him that. She had thought he would help her live a life nearer to the life she wished to live, but now she realised there had never been anything preventing her from living that life on her own. Her cousins had not married her, as her mother had wished, but Anne had no doubt they would provide the support she needed, and if she did marry, it would be of her own choice.
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Elizabeth had come running into Jane’s bedchamber, expecting that her sister’s second birth should go as quickly as her first. Yet although this had been her fear, echoed by Dr. Alderman, who had followed her into the room, it seemed their fears should be warrantless. Jane was sitting in the same birthing chair she had used to bear Bess, and upon the physician’s entering, calmly acknowledged that she had already had the water, and she did not think it should be long, now.
Her closest sibling was glad to see such firmness, such assurance, for this event, and took to bathing her sister’s face and neck with a towel that had been soaked in lavender water, as Jane groaned with the inevitable pains. Elizabeth continued doing this until Jane’s legs began spasming, in an unfamiliar and worrisome way, and to Elizabeth’s concern, within minutes Jane’s entire body was twitching.
Elizabeth’s concern was echoed by all within the room: Charles clasped the chin of his wife, gazing worriedly at her countenance, while Dr. Alderman said, “We must have the child out, immediately – she is convulsing. Mr. Bingley, do I have your permission to use the forceps?”
“Good God, do whatever you must!” cried Charles, wholly overcome.
“No, no, it’s too fast,” screamed Jane, and Elizabeth wrapped her arms around her sister and murmured, tears streaming down her face, “Jane, Jane, all is well. We will help you through this. Dr. Alderman will help you.”
The physician went to the wash-stand, where he had laid his few instruments, and picked up the largest of them, an iron contraption with handles like scissors and two long, curved blades on the other end. He rushed over to Jane with the instrument and knelt before her legs, lifting up her skirts – no longer concerned with preserving modesty so much as life, now. Jane’s legs continued to spasm, and the doctor called out, “hold her still – now!”
This command was obeyed by Charles and Mrs. Padgett, and then the physician positioned the blades between Jane’s legs and slid them inside her. Jane shrieked, and those holding her legs were required to apply more force; Elizabeth was relieved she had not been required to take up that duty, for she was not certain she could have performed it. She was weeping as heavily as Jane, although Jane soon descended into sobs, pleading with them to stop. Elizabeth stroked her sister’s hair and said, “It will be over soon, Jane, it will be over soon. You need to let the doctor help you. You’ll be better soon. Jane, Jane – I love you – we love you – ”
Dr. Alderman emerged from between Jane’s legs holding a wet little female infant, who seemed startled to have been dragged into the world so violently. The child coughed, made a soft little cry, and then was quiet as the doctor cut the cord binding her to her mother and handed her off to Mrs. Padgett. Elizabeth watched all of this happen in the periphery of her cares, for Jane still sobbed and trembled with some frequency. With a mother in such a state, the infant was not left to be admired by her parents, and instead bundled up and carried out of the room.
Jane’s body had finally ceased shaking, but she sat there in the birthing chair in a state of limpid shock. She was such even when the afterbirth passed, and it became clear to those who loved her that their concern should not cease, not for a long time.
Elizabeth had kept her arms wrapped tightly around her sister for comfort, but when Charles approached and indicated his intent to pick his wife up, Elizabeth stood up and stepped back, allowing him to do so. He laid Jane down on the bed and tenderly wiped the latest of her tears from her cheek, then indicated he would stay with her, providing the comfort Jane had the utmost need for at such a time. Elizabeth could not but wish it was her, who would keep watch over her sister’s condition through the night, but it was now Charles’s right to do so, as her husband.
To give them privacy, she stepped out into the hall, still weeping, and found it empty save a maid, a footman, and her husband. The latter looked at his wife in the deepest concern, and she could only manage to say, “she is resting, now,” before descending into sobs. He drew his arm around her and led her away – not to their own apartment, but to the nearest bedchamber, which appeared to have been made up for their use. Elizabeth felt a tremendous rush of gratitude towards him, that he should know she would not wish to be far from Jane at such a time, and this gratitude increased when he led her to the settee before the bed, encouraged her to sit, and then held her tight as she cried.
How long they were thus, she knew not, but when the knock at the door finally came, it was dark outside. Petrified that it was someone c
oming to tell them her sister’s condition had worsened, Elizabeth stared trembling at the doorway. It was not, however: it was Mrs. Reynolds and a footman, quietly entering with a tray of food and tea things.
“I thought you could do with a little food,” Mrs. Reynolds said. “We’ll just leave it here.”
More because she knew she should than because she was hungry did Elizabeth move with her husband to sit before the tray and eat. Even though the items thereupon made clear that Elizabeth’s staff knew her palate – there was a fine helping of the water-cress sallad – every mouthful still seemed a labour. The tea she found more of a comfort, yet it did not remain so for long, for it brought her thoughts to all those evenings at Longbourn when she and her sister had prepared tea and coffee alongside each other. Jane – poor Jane – she could not lose Jane!
As if sensing his wife’s thoughts had drifted back towards the distressing, Darcy said, “Would you like a laudanum draught, to sleep tonight? We put Dr. Alderman in a bedroom just down the hall – I can have him prepare you one.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Just a little – I want to be awakened if – if anything changes.”
He left the room and returned with a draught glass in hand, then quietly helped his wife remove her dress and stays. A nightgown had been draped over the bed for her, and Elizabeth changed into it while he removed his clothes, then she drank down the draught and climbed into bed, to be held tightly there by her husband until the effects of the draught pulled her into sleep.
Chapter 5
The draught may have helped Elizabeth sleep, but it did nothing to suppress the situation from her mind, for immediately on waking, she gasped out, “Jane!”
Darcy, who had apparently been sitting in the bed with her, reading, dropped his book and reached over to grasp her hand, saying, “I went to check on her a quarter-hour ago. She is still resting, and seems well.”
A Season Lost Page 28
