John sat with his legs stretched out before him, leaning back in his chair. A newspaper was folded beside his plate, which held the crumbs of his breakfast, and he was scribbling some correspondence, pausing to sip from a cup that steamed by his elbow. As I watched, he pushed the hand not occupied with his quill through his pale hair, and exhaled a breath that sounded of frustration. But his head came up when I managed to force one foot forward, and then another, his rugged, plain-featured face going quite slack when he saw me so that, all at once, I burned with shame for the trouble I had caused him. He was up from his chair, pen dropped with no concern for the resulting trail of ink, and looking down at me within seconds, worry in his very whiskers.
“Anne!” he said. “Are you feeling better?” And then, with a shake of his head and a laugh, “Well, of course you are; you are out of your room. Carter assured me you would survive well enough, but . . .” He ran a hand over his face. “I shall have him fetched back to look at you—he asked me to keep him apprised of your condition.”
“I am much improved,” I said, and let him lead me to a chair, which he did as gently as if I were made of china.
“By God, you had me frightened.” He sat as well, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees. For all that he was in the army for years, John was decidedly unmilitary in his bearing, and he looked up at me now, his smile sweet and twisted as it was when he was a boy. There was no condemnation there, only a gentle question, and I blinked and looked down at the fine whitework tablecloth, thinking of the boy he was, coming to me where I sat in forced repose on a garden bench at Rosings, his pockets bulging with pretty stones he’d collected to show to me.
Grown-up John now saw the way my mouth twitched into a smile, and offered his own puzzled smile in response. “What are you thinking?”
I shook my head. “Only that you have always been . . . very kind to me.” My smile fell away. “I am sorry I did not write before arriving. I did not mean to—inconvenience you.”
He was silent for so long that I was sure his next words would be a scolding. But “Nonsense,” he said. And then, ducking his head so his eyes were level with my own, “Anne, what happened?”
I thought of the dead boy, his greasy palm against my own, and my fingers twitched. I could not say anything so alarming. So instead I said, “Do you remember my governess? Miss Hall?”
John frowned. “Yes,” he said after a moment, drawing the word out slowly. “Young? Quiet?”
I smiled, just a little. “She was . . . only quiet in company. With me she was . . . opinionated.” Almost, I thought to recite from her letter—it would be so much simpler than coming up with words of my own.
“She had a brother,” I began at last, and then Miss Hall’s story—and with it, my own, intertwined like snarled thread—came rushing forth.
“She recognized the same . . . trouble her brother had in me, and tried to . . . but I did not want to hear her.”
He watched me with an intensity that was difficult to bear. “But you did anyway.”
“Not immediately. Not for years.” I swallowed again, but my throat was so dry there was nothing to bring down. “May I—may I have some tea?”
“Of course.” John was on his feet, pouring the tea himself, before I could reach for the pot. “I apologize, I should have asked—what about breakfast? There’s plenty—” He gestured toward the sideboard, where platters of bread and eggs mingled with glass dishes of colorful preserves and sun-yellow butter.
But my earlier hunger had disappeared. “No—thank you—just tea.” I took a sip, then put the cup down again. But now I had nothing to do with my hands. “I would not—I did not want to listen.”
If you were not stupefied—
“My mother would have dismissed her, had she heard some of the things Miss Hall said to me.”
Of course, it never came to that; I managed to drive my governess away very well on my own.
John was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Do you recall the time Edward and I came to Rosings, and the rain kept us confined all morning to the nursery? To pass the time, you told us stories you’d invented.”
I stared at him, seeing in his face suddenly all the enraptured eyes of my cousins fixed upon me. It was the only time I could remember feeling large, swollen with the power of their attention. “I . . . yes. But I did not invent those stories; my nurse used to tell them to me.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “Well, I remember how well you told them, so that even Edward, who thought he was too old and dignified for such things, was quite in your thrall. But I also remember your nurse, and the little glasses of quietness she brought you. Upon drinking them, you were transformed: animated storyteller to only half-conscious in mere minutes.” He turned his cup around on its saucer. “I’ve often thought of that, particularly on more recent visits, when I saw you driving out with your little steeds in the mornings, and then turned so . . . lifeless by the afternoons. I often wondered at the nature of your illness. It was not until you came here, and I saw you in such misery that I realized . . . well. I’ve seen such things before. Since the wars—too many men have found themselves in a similar predicament. Men under my command, good men—strong—turned into slaves to laudanum after they began taking it.” A grimace. “Forgive the impertinence. But—we should have paid more attention to you. The family, I mean. Myself. Edward. Darcy. My parents. We worried and wondered over your health among ourselves, but not one of us intervened, and I am more sorry for it than I can say.”
“I do not know what you could have done,” I said, weak-voiced, and oh, how I loathed this. My fingers clutched the seat of my chair to prevent me from flying from the room. “Papa tried—he brought me to Brighton, against Mamma’s wishes, against our doctor’s advice. After that . . . debacle . . . Mamma would not hear of anything else being tried. Not even Bath, though more than one person urged us to try it.”
“Yes, she is . . . quite fierce in her protection of you.” He pushed his fingers against his eye sockets. “But still, your governess—who has been gone from Rosings Park for years now, has she not?—succeeded where we did not even try. I am . . . deeply ashamed.”
It was not Miss Hall, in the end, though without her prodding I do not know whether I would have been so affected by the story in the newspaper. But I hardly wanted to tell my cousin that a dead boy showed me I must leave my home or risk death, myself; and so I closed my eyes and said instead, “I understand that my mother was here?”
John’s voice turned wry. “Very much so, I’m afraid. I do not think she could have been so formidable even when Darcy announced his engagement.”
I flushed.
“I told her you were ill and could not be disturbed. She was—distraught. Angry. And worried, I’m sure, somewhere under all that noise. She is staying with her friend, a Lady Mary, I believe, near Portman Square.”
The address meant nothing to me whatsoever. “And where—where is that in relation to this house?”
He smiled, just slightly. “Only a short drive. I am sure she will return here today to see how you do. That is why I am here—Harriet and her brother have gone out, and I could not leave you to face Lady Catherine alone.”
“Thank you,” I said in a whisper. “And thank you for—keeping her away from me when I was . . .”
John chuckled. “Anne, I was in a war—even Lady Catherine holds no terrors for me, fierce though she is.”
My own laugh came cracking from my mouth, loud and startling as gunfire, and I pressed the back of my hand to my lips.
“May I assume,” he said, grinning, “that your stay with us will be a lengthy one? What do you say, Cousin—assuming Dr. Carter gives his blessing, would you like to experience a London Season?”
I would—oh, how I would. And yet, too, I would not; not in the least. I’d only a faint idea what a Season in London entailed, but I knew there were balls and parties. I was far too old to think of anything like a proper debut, even if the idea did not terrify
me. People—so many people. And everything else the Season implied for an unmarried woman of fortune, even one who was nearly thirty. Men’s eyes, weighing my purse as they slid over my form like water over rocks. I looked at my cousin without speaking until at last he chuckled.
“All right. What about a single evening out, to start? When you are fully recovered, Harriet and I can introduce you to some of our set.”
“I . . .”
“They are none of them fearsome, I promise you, Anne. Indeed, some of Harriet’s friends will no doubt be in awe of you; their connections are . . . not so elevated.”
I nodded, slowly and without conviction, but it was enough; John grinned.
“My father will give me hell,” he said, almost as if he looked forward to it. “And I doubt my aunt will let you go quietly. But once they see how well you are, they cannot help but be—overjoyed, I think, that you are able to take in the Season’s delights.”
It was inevitable, I suppose, that Mamma arrived at dinnertime. She always had an unerring sense of how to best inconvenience those with whom she was out of humor.
Mrs. Fitzwilliam took the news that I was to remain in London with a smile that more closely resembled a grimace, but said that of course it would be an honor to host the heiress to Rosings Park.
“She is not the heiress,” John said. “Rosings Park belongs to Anne.”
And his wife grimaced again, said, “Of course—how foolish of me,” then swept away to dress for dinner.
We were all seated, the first course half-eaten, when there was a knock at the door, and then raised voices in the entryway. Everyone stopped eating, spoons forgotten midair, soup dripping back into bowls. I let my own spoon drop back down entirely, my eyes closing as Mamma’s voice and footsteps grew, inescapably, louder and nearer.
I opened my eyes again when the footsteps stopped and I heard two chairs pushing back from the table as John and Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s brother stood to greet my mother. My cousin wore an expression of resignation, Mr. Watters one of civil curiosity.
Mamma stood in the doorway, looking at our assembled company with lips pressed together and a tightness to her jaw that made me think, with faint, frightened amusement, of Miss Hall’s fingers tapping my own jaw to stop me grinding my teeth during one of our first lessons. Ladies, I thought a little wildly, looking at my mother—her face framed by silver hair, carefully curled, and the wide brim of her bonnet; her pearl cross at her throat and the brooch with Aunt Darcy’s hair on her bosom; her expression one of such profound displeasure that there was nothing of ladylike reserve there at all—Ladies do not do that.
“Aunt,” John said. “You received my note?” And then, before Mamma could say anything else, “Please, do join us. Have you eaten yet?” He gestured to a servant for another place setting, and came himself to lead my mother to the chair beside his own, opposite mine.
But then—oh, dear God—behind her, my companion followed like a shadow, stealing in without looking at me. John paused, then said, “And you, too, of course, Mrs. Jenkinson,” as servants hastened to fetch two bowls and fill them with soup, and the butler, who had been hovering ineffectively, stepped forward to take bonnets and wraps.
When Mamma was seated, I hardly knew where to rest my eyes, her fury so strong that I imagined, were I under my medicine’s fantastical influence, I might actually see it emit from her skin in sparks. John and Mr. Watters resumed their seats, and we all sat in uneasy silence. No one ate, no one spoke; I glanced from face to face, stopping at last on Mamma’s, full of hauteur and something else I could not define, but which made me shrink like a forest plant under the full strength of the sun.
“I do not think I need to explain the extent of my shock when I returned to Rosings Park and found you gone,” she said at last. “And to learn from Peters that you decamped to London, of all unhealthful places—! I never in all my life imagined you could be so reckless, so insensible of what you owe to your estate and your family.”
John licked his lips. “Aunt—” he said, but Mamma rounded on him.
“And you. Keeping me from my daughter—my daughter! I know it was you, Nephew, who encouraged this madness. Do not think I have forgotten how you whispered in Anne’s ear when you came to us at Easter! Talking of concerts and amusements—you have upset us all and endangered your cousin’s health. You ought to be ashamed.” She looked down the table at John’s wife, who sat watching us all with perfect expressionlessness. “I do not know how much you had to do with this, Mrs. Fitzwilliam; but if I find so much as a hint of your influence here, be assured you will feel my displeasure.”
Mrs. Fitzwilliam inclined her head. “I promise you, Your Ladyship, I neither invited Miss de Bourgh to London nor condoned your being kept in ignorance of her whereabouts.”
Mamma raised one eyebrow, then turned away from Mrs. Fitzwilliam with a sniff, looking back at John, who raised his hands, fingers spread wide.
“Anne was truly ill, Aunt. I did not wish for you to be distressed. I had the best doctor I’ve had the privilege of meeting attend to her, and he said this very afternoon that she is quite well—”
“Mrs. Jenkinson tells me you have stopped taking your medicine,” Mamma said to me, cutting John off.
I glanced at my companion, who looked down at her bowl.
“It is true,” I said. “But Dr. Carter said—”
“You would take his advice over the doctor who has labored to keep you well your entire life? Ungrateful child!”
“My dear aunt,” John said, attempting to draw her ire his way, as a farmer will coax an enraged bull away from the child who has wandered into its pen. “Anne is much improved, as you can see; and she has not taken her medicine in many days—since she left Kent. Surely if some harm were to befall her as a result, we’d have seen it by now.”
Mamma ignored him utterly. “Anne, you will return with me to Rosings in the morning. Lady Mary will happily have you at her home for the night; you needn’t endure my nephew’s meddling any further.” A cutting look at John. “I do not know what you hoped to achieve, but you may be sure my brother will hear of your officiousness. You and your wife need not come at Easter this year; perhaps by next year Anne and I will have forgiven you.”
I could feel John looking at me, but I could not look back, could not raise my burning eyes from the dregs of my soup, covered with a tight skin and looking thoroughly unappetizing. My whole body stung with heat, as if the flames of Mamma’s anger had leaped out and given me a thousand tiny burns.
Mamma took up her spoon and tasted the soup, then made a face. “Pah,” she said. “Gone quite cold.” She stood, nodding to Mrs. Jenkinson and me. “Come. Your maid can bring your things once they are packed.”
Belatedly, both John and Mr. Watters rose as well, and Mrs. Jenkinson was already at my mother’s side. Still, I felt John’s eyes, and the eyes of everyone else, fixed upon me. A look at John, and I knew that he would speak for me, should I wish it; though what could he say that he had not already? Shame held me as fast as fear.
I am the most fortunate of creatures, I thought—Miss Hall’s words again; Miss Hall’s words, always.
“Anne.” Mamma’s voice brooked no dissent; she commanded with the easy assurance of a general. Yet still I sat.
“I am sorry, Mamma,” I said.
“What are you talking about, Anne? Get up at once.”
I held the seat of my chair; I would be up and beside her otherwise. “I—no. I am staying, Mamma. With John. For a time, at least.”
My voice was so quiet that I wondered if anyone heard me, but when I raised my head at last it was clear that everyone had. John grimaced; Mrs. Fitzwilliam glared at him. Mrs. Jenkinson seemed to be making herself as small as possible, back humped and shoulders drawn close to her ears, while Mr. Watters looked, if anything, highly entertained.
And my mother—my tree-rooted mother, my cavalry commander mother—reeled, grasping the back of her chair in hands like a winter tree’s bra
nches.
“You most certainly are not,” she said. “You will come home immediately; you will rest and recover from this—this fit.”
“I will not,” I said, and flinched back as she buckled a little, leaning over so the chair back pressed into her abdomen. Mrs. Jenkinson, ever my mother’s echo, gasped in tandem with her.
Mamma’s mouth worked for a moment without making a sound, before she straightened abruptly, a general once more. “We can discuss this more later. Come.” She nodded to my companion, still standing beside her. “And you, Mrs. Jenkinson—come.”
“Mamma, I am staying here,” I said, like a tree branch snapping underfoot. I stood and my feet spread themselves wide, planting me firmly as if they, too, had been watching my mother all my life, learning her tricks for commanding respect. Her head whipped to look at me, but I looked at Mrs. Jenkinson, who seemed to have stopped breathing. I felt rather as if I had, as well.
My mother’s eyes were mere chinks of brightness between her upper and lower lids. “You would truly disobey me in this?” she said, a touch more astonishment than anger in her voice. But then more anger rushed to displace any other feelings. She shook one arm like a fighter, said, “You are headstrong—ridiculous! Running off to London without even a companion. You dishonor yourself—you dishonor me, and everything that I have done for you. You will keep Mrs. Jenkinson with you, at least.”
I folded my arms across my rib cage, pressed my palms into the points of my elbows, a desperate self-embrace. “No,” I whispered. My blood rushed through my body so quickly I felt I might faint, but I could not—would not—have Mrs. Jenkinson there, for all that a companion meant freedom, of a sort, for a woman alone. She belonged too fully to my mother.
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