A Season Lost

by Sophie Turner

  “I have. I love him so very much, and I know he loves me,” said Anne, gazing up at him with certainty.

  “I’m so glad, cos. I’m so glad things worked out the way they did – for you, and me, and all of us,” he said.

  “I’m so very glad, too,” said Anne.

  Edward’s was not the last blessing from the Fitzwilliams Anne was to receive, although her cousin Andrew’s came a few days later, and was only precipitated by Anne’s encountering him in the library. Andrew had taken advantage of Pemberley’s size to generally lose himself within it, presumably to hide himself away from so many happy couples, an act Anne could not begrudge him of. When she went into the library to re-shelve the Wordsworth Mr. Smith had borrowed, she found him there, quietly reading by the window. He stood at the sound of her approach, greeting her with his usual grave countenance. She sighed, in sympathy for him, and felt still more sympathetic when he made an obvious attempt to smile and said, “I know I have given my congratulations with the others, but please let me give them again now. Smith is a good man, Anne – I like him very well.”

  “Thank you, Andrew,” Anne replied, with a more genuine smile. She began to seek out the correct location for the volumes – Fitzwilliam Darcy was liberal about loaning out his books, but rigidly fastidious about their being replaced in the right location – and she did not hear Andrew draw nearer to her. She was surprised, therefore, when she slid the books in, turned, and found him standing before her.

  “You love him, Anne? And he loves you?”

  Anne nodded. “Yes, very much so, on both sides.”

  “Then good God, do not take a single day for granted. Because someday – whether it is in five years or fifty – there will be no more days, and whichever one of you is left will want nothing more than one more day.”

  In time, Anne would absorb this advice, and she would share it with Mr. Smith and they would both act upon it, but in the present moment all she did was burst into tears and throw her arms around her cousin.

  “Oh, Andrew, I’m so sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

  Chapter 21

  With the Fitzwilliams all indicating their approval of Mr. Smith, he seemed to relax into his role as Anne’s future husband. It helped, perhaps, that Elizabeth’s own family was beginning to arrive at Pemberley – the Bennets, Philipses, and Ramseys had travelled together, although Captain Ramsey had had the good sense to bespeak a separate post-chaise for himself and his wife, so they could travel in peace. Mrs. Philips, encouraged by her sister, made every vulgar reaction possible to Pemberley, and spent her days quizzing poor Mrs. Reynolds as to the cost of everything imaginable. Mr. Philips, however, had much experience with tenant contracts, and proved very helpful to Mr. Darcy as he began the process of adjusting Pemberley’s farms. Darcy had made good on the substantial reshuffling he had promised to his wife, and every farmer who wished it was to gain land, a process that would involve much amending of contracts.

  Still, Elizabeth was relieved when the day of the wedding finally arrived without the groom expressing any second thoughts. Anne’s health had improved once her betrothal had been settled, and she looked as well as she ever had, to be walked down the aisle by Lord Brandon. Elizabeth and her husband had been asked to stand up with the couple, and as she stood there facing the church door, she felt seized with a fear that Lady Catherine would come bursting through that door at any moment to disrupt the ceremony.

  Yet the ceremony and the wedding breakfast went off without any such appearance, and soon enough Anne was being assisted by her husband into a fine new landaulette. It had been very important to him, to do all things right by his future wife, and so while a new carriage was not by any means needed, it had been purchased. And the landaulette was more to the bride’s taste, as well. Anne thought she would give her mother the barouche – which she had never really liked – and would make her way about in this and her pony phaeton quite happily.

  They kissed as the carriage set out, then rode back to his house quietly but happily, holding hands. There was one piece of unpleasantness Anne knew she had to accomplish: write to her mother to inform her of the wedding. She had decided that could wait until the morrow, though – today should be a day for nothing but happiness. Mr. Smith – Thomas, his Christian name, he must now be to Anne – looked dubiously at his bride as the carriage came to a halt in the drive.

  “You are certain you don’t wish to stay at Pemberley? I fear this house will not be fine enough for you.”

  “I do not require a fine house, and once our income is righted at Rosings, I intend on refurnishing it to be less ostentatious,” said Anne. “I would rather live in a home than a house.”

  With this settled, they entered the farmhouse and he showed her up the stairs, saying, “You will be right in here, and my room is just across the hall.” He led her into a room where the bed-linens, at least, were evidently new, and where a vase of hot-house flowers had been set upon the table, then said, “Anne, I wished to ensure you understand that I will not be visiting you tonight, nor for many more nights, I expect. Not until we both agree we’re ready to risk a child.”

  “Oh – but I had been given to understand that there are ways for a married couple to lie together that – that minimise the risk of a child. I would feel badly if you were to have to forgo the entire wedding night.” Anne knew about these ways because she had put a query to Marguerite Fitzwilliam, who, being French and twice-married, had seemed the woman of Anne’s acquaintance most likely to know about such things and speak frankly on them. Know about them Marguerite did, and speak frankly she did as well, and as a result Anne suspected she was one of the better-prepared brides England had ever possessed.

  “Perhaps there are,” said he, “but they cannot be without temptation and risk. I would rather avoid it entirely until your health improves further.”

  Anne nodded, feeling a strange mixture of both disappointment and relief, and said, “Perhaps after Margate, then.”

  “Yes, perhaps after Margate.”

  “Will you at least kiss me again?” she asked, and found that he was perfectly willing to comply with this request.

  +++

  They breakfasted together the next morning, and Anne found it strange to meet him in the simple dining-parlour, to be the only two people who would occupy that room. Strange, too, to feel herself in essence a guest in his home. If their tenure in the farmhouse was to be of longer duration, she would have been seeking to make it her permanent home, as well, but it was impossible to forget that Rosings was their future.

  Still, when he asked if she wished to take up the responsibilities of the house’s mistress, she agreed. It would give her some little practise, before she must shoulder such demands for a much larger house, and still more it would give her a sort of occupation, something to fill a part of her days. For while the couple enjoyed intimate conversations and more than a few kisses during the course of the day, those kisses were always undertaken with an understanding that they could not be allowed to progress. Anne still enjoyed them, enjoyed this private time with him, and it was with a feeling of reluctance that she finally asked him where she might find pen and paper, for she should write to her mother.

  Anne had long since gathered that the house had been furnished at some time in the past with such articles as would make it more palatable to a wife, and while she was glad he had not found one until her, she still gave a rueful smile to the pretty little secretaire that Thomas carried in. He left again to bring her paper, pen, ink, and a sandpot, placed a chair before the secretaire, kissed her, and then stepped out of the room.

  This left Anne to be seated, and to stare at the blank paper, wondering what she could possibly write to her mother. Even beginning the letter, a simple task, was rendered more difficult by the thought that she would need to list her location as Stonebridge Farm. Yet there was no location that would be palatable to her mother, Anne realised, nothing she could write that could possibly prevent her mother’s w
rath. It would be best to be quick and simple about it, and to include no location at all. Let her mother think her returning from Gretna Green, travelling to town from Pemberley, embarking on a honeymoon, or any other place than hidden away in a quiet farmhouse in Derbyshire. With this thought, she wrote, simply:

  “December 17, 1816

  “Dear mama,

  “I wish to inform you that I have married Thomas Smith, Esq. of Derbyshire. I do not believe he is a person who is familiar to you, but he is well-known to the Darcys, and Fitzwilliam particularly knows and approves of his character. I believe we will be very happy together and hope you will wish us well during our honeymoon.

  “I give you joy of the present season,

  “ANNE”

  She did not realise she was weeping until she finished the letter and thought she would need to wait to sand and seal it, for she did not wish for her mother to see any sign of emotion, of weakness, from her. Thomas did see it, however. When he had returned to the room, Anne did not know, but he approached and knelt before her, concern deeply marking his countenance as he took up her hands.

  “Do you have regrets, Anne?”

  She shook her head. “No, I do not have any regrets. I wish that I had a more affectionate mother, a more understanding mother, but it remains that I do not.”

  “I wish that you did, too. It grieves me to see you so upset.”

  Anne slid from the chair, into his embrace, and they stayed there for a very long time, sitting together on the floor, Anne’s tears broken only when she murmured, “I have you, though, thank God, and you love me for me.”

  “I do, with all my heart,” said Thomas, which made her weep all the more.

  Chapter 22

  Although Anne Smith had vacated her apartment, Pemberley continued to see its bedrooms fill. The Gardiners arrived next, to everyone’s delight, and they were followed a few days after by Mary and David Stanton. As David was unwilling to leave his own parishioners to a curate for Christmas, he and Mary had agreed they should make the journey back to Wincham on the twenty-third. Mary would in no way be deprived of the company of her family, however, for at least some of them intended to journey on to Wincham after Pemberley, there to await the birth of her first child.

  Once everyone had made a reasonable recovery from the shock of seeing a very pregnant Mary alight the post-chaise that had been sent for the Stantons – everyone had of course known she was in the family way, but it was still strange to them to actually see Mary in such a state – they all settled into the enjoyments of Pemberley. Grandmothers, great-aunts, and aunts were often to be found in the nursery, while many of the party delighted in the library – Mr. Bennet hardly left it – and there were also games of billiards and cards, hunting and fishing parties, and drives around the grounds in open carriages, all of them bundled up against the cold, which were as much Mrs. Gardiner’s particular delight as the fishing parties were her husband’s. The Gardiners, as well, took much enjoyment in calls on the Watsons and others in Lambton. It was agreed by all that they should leave the newly wed Smiths to themselves, which was something of a relief to Lord and Lady Brandon, for while they had supported the match, they could not quite bring themselves to call upon their niece at a farmhouse. While the Smiths were avoided, the Bingleys were not, and the Bennets, Darcys, Stantons, Ramseys, Gardiners, and Philipses made a trip out to Clareborne, to see how the house and the children progressed. All expressed their enthusiasm over the improvements that had been made; Mrs. Philips asked how much the chimney-piece had cost.

  Elizabeth was more concerned with whether Jane was in a state to receive so many visitors, but her sister seemed further improved and happy to have her family about. During this trip it was agreed that in addition to the expected Christmas feast, they should have a large family dinner on the twenty-second, with the Bingleys coming out to Pemberley and staying overnight, so they could all be together before David and Mary returned to Wincham. Bess was promised she should have much plum pudding, which delighted the child even though she did not yet know what it was.

  The plum pudding was finished, and the Bingleys and Smiths arrived at the house in good time on the twenty-second. Anne was still looking remarkably well – even better than she had on her wedding day, Elizabeth thought – and blushed to go in to dinner ahead of her aunt as a new bride. Elizabeth had a moment’s panic that Mr. Smith would forget his place as a landowner when the line formed, but he did not, although he seemed almost as embarrassed as his wife to be going in where he did. After this, they were all a convivial family party, their enjoyment of Cook’s excellent meal only halted for toasts, which were frequent.

  Elizabeth no longer worried over hosting dinners such as this, for she had given many, and they had all gone well. When, however, she had risen and said the ladies would go through, her father rose also and said, “I realise the strangeness of this request, but I wonder if rather than the usual separation, my daughters – and their husbands, if they so choose – might stay behind here on this evening. I have something to say to them.”

  Everyone regarded him in puzzled silence, until Lady Ellen rose and said, “Of course. If you do not mind, we shall have them begin bringing the children down from the nursery.”

  Those who were to leave were all silent as they filed out, save Edward, who clapped Darcy on the shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, Darcy, we shan’t start snap-dragon without you.”

  Darcy chuckled lightly, but appeared as curious as Elizabeth as to what had prompted her father to request the presence of just his daughters and their husbands. Mr. Parker and the footmen appeared just as confused as those around the table, until Elizabeth indicated they should serve out port and brandy to the gentlemen still in the dining-room, then do the same office for those who had gone through. When Parker showed signs of remaining – presumably to be of service to them, although perhaps also out of curiosity – Elizabeth dismissed him as well, sensing this was an event that required privacy. Once Parker had left, the Bingleys, Darcys, Stantons, and Ramseys all looked expectantly to Mr. Bennet. His health appeared to have improved since the summer, although it was in his usual low voice that he finally spoke:

  “I have paid a town solicitor entirely too much, for too long, for the sole purpose of understanding what happens to the entail of Longbourn given the decease of Mr. Collins. He, in turn, has paid his men entirely too much to seek out any possible descendants through the male line of my grandfather, who established the present entail.” Mr. Bennet paused and took a sip of brandy. “There are none living, aside from myself, and none to come into being. Therefore, the entail is broken.”

  Elizabeth felt certain her mother would react violently to such news, but it became clear she had already had it, for she sat there quietly, with a pleased smile upon her countenance; pleased in the manner of a cat that had just caught and consumed a very tasty mouse. The rest of the table seemed to emit a common sigh, particularly Mr. Bennet’s daughters, who, although no longer materially affected by it, had spent their formative years under the oppression of the entail, thinking it would someday turn them out of their home if they did not marry.

  “I am, therefore, left with a strange new freedom, that I may leave my estate to whomever I choose,” said Mr. Bennet. “I considered going by traditional methods, that the eldest of my children should inherit; I considered amusing myself and leaving it to the most eccentric choice possible; and I considered a luxury few gentlemen have – to leave their estate to that party which, after long and careful deliberation, is most deserving.

  “Strangely enough, in my case, I have the opportunity for the latter two. For there is one lady here who has twice sacrificed her own happiness to be there in support of myself and Mrs. Bennet, and of the estate. She is, however, my fourth daughter, which I find satisfactorily eccentric. Catherine will inherit Longbourn.”

  Catherine received this news by dropping her wine glass, fortunately without it shattering, and having it picked up from the t
abletop and unceremoniously filled with port by Charles.

  “Me?” she whispered. “But why me?”

  “When I was ill, you married before you had intended to, and in a much quieter way than I suspect you would have liked, so as to travel to assist your mother and myself. And during this horrid summer, when you might have enjoyed your honeymoon at Bath for many months more, you and Captain Ramsey came to us and gave your much-needed assistance,” Mr. Bennet said. “Jane and Elizabeth are mistresses of their own estates, and Mary is well-settled, although there is something I would do for her, and I will tell you of it shortly. But you have earned your inheritance, Catherine. I can think of no-one more deserving.”

  They all nodded their agreement, while Catherine began sniffling with the inevitable tears, took a great sip of port, and had her hand grasped by her husband.

  “Thank you, papa,” Catherine whispered. “What is it you would do for Mary?”

  “Your mother and I have agreed that we should act more economically in the future, of which we have had some exceptional practise this summer, thanks in large part to your encouragement, Catherine,” Mr. Bennet said. “We intend to live on 1,400 a year, as we should have all along, with a hundred pounds promised to Lydia, and the remainder, whatever it is, going into savings, for the education of Mary’s sons, or the portions of her daughters. If Lydia has a child, the money will be divided amongst those grandchildren.”

  Elizabeth, at least, was pleased by this, for Mary and Catherine had each married into a little more than a thousand pounds a year, and this made things more equal between them as regarded their children’s prospects, although Elizabeth completely agreed that Catherine had the greatest merit, in inheriting Longbourn. It seemed she was not alone, for Mary laid her hand on her belly and said,

  “I thank you, mama and papa, for your prudence and generosity on behalf of our children. It will be very helpful in their future lives.”