A Season Lost

by Sophie Turner

  “It should have been! I would have told you not to throw yourself away on some nobody named Smith, some upstart who did not know well enough to remain in his own sphere. You have thrown yourself away, Anne – you have ruined your life.”

  “Ruined my life?” cried Anne. “The years of my life that were ruined were those years I spent miserably ill, under your management. If anyone has endeavoured to ruin my life, it was you. Now, I am healthy, happily married, mistress of my own house, and in control of my own life. So do not tell me I have ruined it, for I am far better off now than I was a year ago.”

  “Anne, listen to me!”

  “No, I will not! If you had come here with an olive branch I would have, but you must accept that I am my own mistress now, and I will not be cowed by you.”

  “I will not stand idly by while you make such mistakes, Anne. I will continue this point until I carry it,” said her mother. She seemed as though she was going to resume her argument, but then changed her focus, turning her glare upon Sir Robert. “I should have known you would be here, ingratiating yourself.”

  “If that is what you call greeting my new neighbour and happily learning Mr. Smith intends to aid me in doing more for the parish poor than scolding them for their poverty, then so I am,” said Sir Robert, blandly.

  “Their poverty!” exclaimed Lady Catherine. “Such a fool you are to claim poverty! ‘Tis laziness, not poverty. There is hardly a household in Hunsford that does not buy its bread from the bakery. Were they more frugal, they would bake it themselves, and then they would not need to complain of poverty.”

  Sir Robert exhaled in a particular pitch that even Anne – hardly knowing him – could recognise as frustration. “They purchase their bread in the bakery because they cannot afford fuel for their own fires to bake it, my lady. And they have no fuel because they could no longer gather furze from the common as they used to, once your husband enclosed it.”

  “That is nonsensical slander,” said Lady Catherine. “Anne! Are you to welcome such a man into your home, such a vulgar, reaching mushroom who would say such things against your father?”

  Anne gaped at her mother; there was sense in what Sir Robert said, and yet as her mother said, she did not like the idea of slandering her father. In her indecision, Sir Robert replied:

  “If I am a mushroom, it is one with deeper roots than the de Bourghs can boast. Yes, I am the first of my family to be elevated to a knighthood, but the Averys as gentlefolk have been here for many generations, in service of the Lords Rosing. We serve ourselves, now, but I am hopeful that a partnership with Rosings will resume, now that a reasonable team holds the helm.”

  “You dare call me a mushroom? I am the daughter of the eleventh Earl of Brandon!” cried Lady Catherine.

  “Yes, but upon your marriage you became a de Bourgh,” said Sir Robert. It was quite a marvel that he could keep his tone as level as he did, when confronted by such a personage speaking at such a volume, and yet his voice retained the same tone he had first used, when speaking to Lady Catherine. This, perhaps, was what prompted a nearly inhuman screech from her, which promised to be followed by a string of insults.

  “Why, you – ”

  “That is enough!” cried Anne. “It is bad enough that you should come here and say such things to Sir Robert, but I will not have you demean a guest within my house. Burford, please show Lady Catherine out.”

  Burford, in receipt of an imperious look from Lady Catherine, stood where he was. Anne once again ordered him to escort her mother out, and still he stood.

  It was then that Thomas surprised Anne by saying, with perfect firmness, “Burford, your mistress gave you an order, and if it is not obeyed, you will be dismissed without a character.”

  Burford’s countenance seemed to indicate that he felt certain a character would be coming to him from another quarter.

  “Very well, Burford, you are dismissed. See that your things are packed and you are gone before breakfast tomorrow,” said Thomas. “Leave an address where we may send the wages owed you.” The two statues standing on either side of the door were Jack, the first footman, and Oliver, the third, and he commanded they both see Burford and Lady Catherine out. Jack remained standing exactly as he had been, almost as though he was a statue. Poor Oliver stepped forward and appeared desirous of carrying out the command, but surely could not see two men and one woman out of the house who did not wish to leave. He was not without assistance, however.

  “Jack, you are dismissed as well,” said Thomas, and then he moved quickly to Burford’s side, grasping the butler’s arm and twisting it behind his back. “Oliver, would you be so good as to open the door?”

  Oliver opened the door, and Jack finally began to move, looking about him in some confusion about what to do. He was clearly loyal to Burford, but an assault on his employer would put an end to his career in service, character from Lady Catherine or not. Sir Robert lent his assistance perhaps a touch eagerly, taking up Lady Catherine’s arm and saying, drily, “My lady, allow me to see you to the door.”

  With Oliver seeing to Jack, in addition to the door, and Leyland running in to lend his assistance, Lady Catherine – shrieking that Sir Robert should unhand her the entire time – and her loyal servants were escorted out of the house without a brawl occurring in Rosings’s entrance-hall, which Anne had begun to fear. She followed them out and said to the two servants: “If you presume my mother will hire you on at the London house, you are incorrect. If she wishes to let a house of her own out of her jointure, she may do as she pleases, but you will never work on my property again.” This did seem to bring them some concern, and in an endeavour to heighten it, Anne said, “Oliver, allow me to congratulate you on your promotion to second footman. I thank you for your loyalty, and I promise that if Harvey proves disloyal as well, it will not be long before you are first footman.”

  Anne returned to the entrance-hall, gazing ashamedly between her husband and Sir Robert. She had presumed her mother would make some sort of scene, but wished it had not been in front of company. Then again, she thought, without Sir Robert’s ready assistance, the situation might not have been managed so easily.

  The three of them were silent for some time, until finally Sir Robert said, “Madam, you may be assured that I shall not speak of what just passed here.”

  “I thank you for that,” said Anne, and then added, “Would you like to come into the drawing-room and take a little tea? I would love to hear more about what you wish to do for the parish poor.”

  “I would like that very much,” said Sir Robert. “I believe between the two of you and young Ramsey, things have turned very much in their favour, in this neighbourhood.”

  +++

  The invitation to tea was soon enough amended to become one for dinner – Mr. Ramsey had already been invited to join them, for Anne wished to become better acquainted with her rector – and it was a surprisingly convivial dinner, considering what had come before it. The men departed in good spirits, Sir Robert offering Mr. Ramsey a ride home in his carriage, and following this, the Smiths retired.

  Rosings had separate apartments for its master and mistress, and Anne went to her chambers, was changed by Rachel, then decided to go see Thomas before she retired for the night, for certainly the events of that day must be discussed privately by them. He knocked and came in, however, just after Rachel had departed.

  “Oh Anne, I am so sorry you had to suffer what you did today,” he said. “This is what I was afraid of, that I should be the cause of discord within your family.”

  “Thomas, please do not be mistaken. There is no discord except with my mother, and she would not have approved of any marriage I made without her sanction. She has lost her position as mistress of this house and the control she exercised over me, and now she intends to be a bitter old woman about it. I expect this would have happened after my return to Rosings regardless of whether I had married or not. I am only glad you were here to help enforce my word.”
/>   “I was not glad that I had to do it, but I would do so again, were it necessary.”

  “I suppose I am relieved to have removed the most disloyal of our servants, although I would rather it not have happened in such a manner. I half suspect now that it was Burford who wrote to my mother.”

  “Yes, in that I suppose we should be relieved,” Thomas said. “There was a hint of disobedience about Burford that was beginning to trouble me.”

  “My only regret is that it happened in Sir Robert’s presence, but there is nothing that can be done about that now. And I suppose if it had to happen, it was better that it was before someone already on poor terms with my mother.”

  “Do you know what the cause of their initial disagreement was?”

  “I do not, but it seems likely it had to do with the enclosure of the common, and if not that, than some other matter in which he would not bend to my mother’s – or perhaps my father’s – will,” Anne said.

  “Anne – how do you – what is your opinion of what he said, about the common? About the enclosure?”

  “I am ashamed to say I gave it little thought until today,” said Anne. “I was twelve, when my father died, and I would never have given second thought to his actions until now. I suppose I have always believed what my parents told me, that the enclosure of commons was necessary to the war effort, to increase production.”

  Thomas nodded. “That is the tale commonly told by those seeking to enclose them.”

  “Is it not true?”

  “There is truth in it, but the truth leaves out those who have been able to scratch out a living because of the common – those who are able to keep a few chickens, or a pig, or a cow, because they may graze them there, and those who glean furze and other resources from it, in order to maintain their lot.”

  “Those who now suffer most, where commons have been enclosed,” said Anne quietly, feeling a pang of remorse for the actions of her parents. Her mother, she could think of having acted without understanding the consequences of her actions – even now, she failed to comprehend what the loss of the common had done to the Hunsford poor – but what of her father? Had Sir Lewis de Bourgh been seeking to aid the war effort, or to improve his own profits at the expense of those he should have considered his dependents? In a last attempt to defend her forbears, she said, “But I thought commons had been enclosed everywhere – that this was what every landowner was required to do.”

  “They were not enclosed in Lambton and Kympton,” said Mr. Smith, with a hint of pride in his voice. “Old Mr. Darcy was staunchly against it, and his son followed him.”

  “That is why you like Sir Robert Avery, is it not? He reminds you of our cousin.”

  Thomas’s countenance took on an odd cast, at the reminder that Fitzwilliam Darcy was now his cousin, but he was not so unsettled as to avoid responding. “I do like him, and I suppose there is a similarity to Mr. Darcy. They both have the appearance of modern men, but I think at heart they are still old lords of the manor, and they believe in the responsibilities of the old lords, not just the privileges.”

  Anne smiled. “Yes, I believe you are right, and I find I like him very much as well.”

  “The only way I might like him better is if he were to find a wife, to give you more female companionship here.”

  “Thomas! I had not figured you for a matchmaker,” Anne said, which prompted him to chuckle. “Although I fear your matchmaking will do no good in this case. I believe Sir Robert is a very well-established bachelor.”

  Thomas smiled, and then kissed her deeply. “Everyone thought I was a very well-established bachelor, too, but when the right woman comes along, any man can fall in love.”

  Anne smiled at him, a tender, loving smile. She felt very hopeful for the society in their neighbourhood, and for all the future would bring. Thomas returned her smile, gave her a more staid good-night kiss, and then made to leave the room, but Anne grasped his hand and said,

  “Stay tonight, please, and let us be completely man and wife.”

  “Anne, we said we would consider it after the seaside.”

  “Look at me, Thomas – do I appear at all unwell to you?” Anne asked. She did not feel at all unwell; she felt as she had ever since he had agreed to marry her: loved, happy, and growing stronger every day. And on this particular day, she felt the invigoration of having made this final stand against her mother.

  “No, dear Anne, you do not,” he said, laying his hand on her cheek.

  “I do still want to go to Margate. I do still want to share the place where my life began to change with you, but let us not wait any longer. I love you. I want to be with you in this way.”

  He kissed her deeply. “You are sure?”

  “I am.”

  “There is something I must tell you, then.” Thomas cast down his eyes. “I have not the – experience – that you might expect of a man of your class. I had never been to London until our own stop there, and the only way a man might experience – ahem – pleasures of the flesh – in my old neighbourhood is to have a dalliance with a serving girl or one of the other farmers’ daughters, and I could countenance neither.”

  Anne had never thought his own inexperience might have formed part of the reason for his wish to delay the marriage bed, and found herself touched by it. “Do you think I should hold it against you, that you have acted honourably?”

  “I suppose not, but I fear neither of us will have much idea of what we are about, and I would’ve liked to, for this is an event I know must bring you some pain.”

  Anne smiled fondly. “‘Tis true that my inexperience matches yours, but I have the benefit of a great deal of instruction.”

  It may be presumed that a man in love with and eager to please his bride – and acting under the benefit of French tutelage – did manage to please both himself and his wife, despite more than a few moments of awkwardness. When they finished, both of the couple were quite happily rosy-cheeked, and Thomas said to his wife, “Oh, Anne, you have never looked as well as you do now.”

  “I am glad, for neither have I ever felt so well.”

  Chapter 26

  Elizabeth would have liked to have stayed at Wincham for longer, but it had become clear to her that her husband was growing increasingly restless to be away from his own estate, and so she had proposed they return home. He had spent most of his time at Wincham engaged in the reshuffling of Pemberley’s fields: studying maps, making notes and plans in pencil, and writing out more of the correspondence he had been carrying on with his steward via grooms riding hither and thither.

  The reshuffling had not proven easy, thus far. In another season, many of the farmers would have been eager to add fields, but they were overextended, almost to a man, and had been hesitant about taking on additional rent – particularly those that had already taken on fields from the old Barrowmere Park in recent years. Some had come around, but Darcy expected to hold a portion of his acreage to be farmed as part of the home farm, until such time as the farmers who wished it could take it on under lease. It was a complicated process, and Elizabeth thought perhaps it was the occupation her husband needed at this time; she would often catch him at dinner or in the drawing-room seemingly deep in thought, and was almost certain that his mind was on the map of his estate, moving a field to this farm or that one.

  She was glad of such a distraction for him. While the progress of their sons had done much to return him to the promised optimism, there had still been times when she had glanced at her husband and caught him in a moment of low spirits. Even his voluntary presence in Wincham for half of January said much: he had instructed that the Pemberley hunt should continue on in his absence, and shown no reluctance to miss it. This was unsurprising, for those outings that had gone out before his departure had seen him cycling through the other hunters in his stable with little enthusiasm. Those last hunts with King and Georgiana, Elizabeth thought, must have always been strong on his mind.

  For her own part, Elizabeth w
as in better spirits, to have seen Mary so happy, so maternal, and to be returning with her own healthy sons. Seeing Mary’s daughter had returned her mind to her own desire to have a daughter, something she thought more possible now that her courses had finally returned with some regularity. She was happy, as well, that the farm for the Kellys had seen its boundaries established, so that it should soon be time to inform Sarah of it.

  First, however, her sons needed to be settled back into the nursery, and as the carriage came to a halt in Pemberley’s drive, Elizabeth roused James, who had been sleeping with his head upon her lap; he was no longer of a size where he could be carried about in a basket. He opened his eyes, looked at her sleepily, and said, for the first time, “Ma.”

  This statement was rewarded with much enthusiasm from his parents, who emerged from the post-chaise still speaking their praise in that breathy pitch used by adults to speak to little children, as Mrs. Nichols and Sarah alighted the carriage behind them, Mrs. Nichols carrying her own George, and Sarah holding George Darcy. Perhaps it should not have been a surprise to Elizabeth that Rachel had chosen to follow Anne Smith to Rosings, accepting a position as Anne’s lady’s maid, but it had been, although she was happy to see the maid earn such a step. Elizabeth was grateful that Sarah and the other maids had been willing to lend their assistance in the nursery; one of them would have the good fortune to be promoted to nursery-maid. She had also determined that she would finally hire an undernurse, for such a number of boys now walking were quite a handful, and if she did wish for an infant girl, the nursery’s servants ought to be completely settled well before said girl made her entrance into the world.

  James, still sleepy despite the fuss that had been made over him, was quiet as he was carried up to the nursery. Elizabeth made many attempts to convince him to say “ma” again, but he stared at her from within his cradle, seeming to have forgotten he had ever said such a thing.