Darcy and Anne

by Judith Brocklehurst

  “Writing a book? Why, what nonsense is this? Do you mean—a novel? Do you intend to publish such a thing? to put our family name on the cover of a vulgar work of fiction, like some parson's daughter who is glad to make twenty pounds, or thirty, out of publishing her work?”

  Anne's heart was hammering against her ribs, but she must not give up; she must not give in to her mother.

  “Setting that aside for the moment, I am not a parson's daughter, I am your daughter, madam. Would you allow others to tell you to marry a man whom you did not want to marry?”

  Lady Catherine was not a loving mother, but she was not an unnatural one, either. She genuinely believed that, by encouraging Anne to this marriage, she was promoting Anne's best interests and doing what would make her happy; most people think that what is good for them must be right for others, and at Anne's age, such a marriage would have made Lady Catherine very happy. With her improved health had come an improvement in temper, and she had no intention of alarming or distressing her daughter. But she could not understand. “Why? What is this? How comes this about? You have barely met him, and yet you are sure that you do not want to marry him? How is this possible?”

  “It is very simple, madam; I believe his only reason in wanting to marry me is his lack of money. I have money, but he has nothing to offer me except his rank. You are interested in rank; I am not.”

  Lady Catherine had every wish to be affectionate, to be conciliating; but this was too much for her. “So! Are you one of these people who wish to overturn the way our world is run? Do you wish to do away with all the distinctions of rank, and have every plough man the equal of a lord? Unhappy girl! You are being offered a position that anyone in the kingdom might envy. We have never been ennobled; the Stilbury connection would put all of us at the centre of influence and power. Do you realize what it might mean for your family? for Darcy's boy? for any children you might have? And you turn this down, on a whim? Is this some theory that your stonemason has taught you? Do you still cherish the desire to lower yourself by associating with such people?”

  As she spoke, Lady Catherine rose from her seat, and stood over Anne. Anne tried to rise, but as she did so, Minette, sensing Anne's distress, began barking and growling, clearly terrified, backing and showing her teeth. Anne stood up, turned away, caught her skirts in the little dog's leash, tried to right herself, fell, and knew no more.

  Chapter 21

  Lady Catherine felt no inclination to blame herself on seeing her daughter unconscious on the floor; after all, the accident was caused by that ridiculous little dog: it was not her fault. She did as much as she felt any mother ought to do by ringing the bell, and sending the butler for help; and she would undoubtedly have dashed a glass of water onto Anne's face, if such a thing had been available. In spite of these attentions, it was known to every servant in Pemberley—house, gardens, and stables—in the space of a quarter of an hour, that Miss de Bourgh was dead, and that her mother had murdered her. It was even the subject of speculation whether she would be hanged, or whether, as some opined, being such a great lady, they could never stick it to her in a trial.

  Anne recovered consciousness almost at once, and found that her mother was nowhere in sight, but that her maid, Georgiana's maid, Georgiana, the housekeeper, and Mrs Annesley were all hovering over her, and trying to attend to her. She declared that she was well, very well, so foolish of her! Nothing had happened, she had tripped; there was nothing the matter, only a slight bump on her head. However, when she tried to walk, she felt so faint and dizzy that she was obliged to sit down at once, and Mrs Annesley had no hesitation in directing that she was to be taken upstairs, and put to bed. “But Minette; let me take Minette with me.”

  “No, my dear,” said Mrs Annesley. “Minette must stay; see, Miss Darcy will look after her, will you not, Miss Darcy?”

  “Of course,” said Georgiana.

  “No, no,” said poor Anne. “Someone may hurt her; it was not her fault,” and nothing would persuade her that the dog was safe with them. She became so agitated that, in the end, Mrs Annesley, who was pretty sure that Anne had a concussion, and that she should be kept quiet, herself carried Minette up to her bedchamber.

  Meanwhile it fell to her cousin Darcy's lot to deal with Lady Catherine. As they paced the terrace and entered the formal gardens, his aunt made the full situation pretty clear. While not knowing precisely what had happened, he understood that Anne had received an offer of marriage, that there had been some kind of altercation, which did not surprise him in the least, and that in spite of her wish to be ingratiating, his aunt's temper had got the better of her. She was angry, but even more she was surprised.

  “Such a marriage as she could never have dreamed of! For even now, and I must say her looks have much improved, she is not remarkably au fait de beaute, but the Duchess is very much impressed with her, and so is he; and you know, nephew, he could look for a wife in the highest circles in the land. I am very much shocked, I am very much disappointed. Think what it could mean to the whole family, to your son, when he is grown, to have relatives in such a lofty position!”

  “That is possibly true, but I do not think it would much gratify Lewis or myself to have his elevation due to his cousin's marriage, rather than to his own character and efforts.”

  “Nonsense! Everybody utilizes their family connections to their advantage, it is the way things are done—families rise or fall together. The gravel on these paths is very coarse; we use a finer one, at Rosings.”

  “This gravel dries better, when it has been raining.”

  “When it rains, we stay indoors. And I wish to know, for one thing, who has been encouraging Anne in these revolutionary opinions she seems to have adopted. For I am sure that she has not learned them from you?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “She reads too much; that is what has done the damage. By the way, that topiary, how often do you have it cut back?”

  “About every six weeks.”

  “If you get them to do it once a month, you will get a better result. No, I am very disappointed. If you had some other suitor to propose…”

  Darcy mentioned Sir Matthew, Mr Granby, and Mr Kirkman, but in vain; his aunt was clearly familiar with the old saying about the “bird in the hand.”

  “Yes, but that is not the same as an offer, a direct offer of marriage. Their attentions may mean nothing—and as for taking this Mr Kirkman, an elderly widower, with no title, instead of Lord Francis Meaburn! Certainly not!”

  “Dare I mention, aunt, that Lord Francis is a widower, and by no means young?”

  “Nonsense, he is hardly more than forty. Your father brought that marble figure from Italy; we have a far finer one at Rosings. You would do well to cut back those laurels; you would get a better view of it from the wilderness.”

  “I think there is one thing I must make clear to you, ma'am: my cousin is five-and-twenty years old, and she knows her own mind. She dislikes Lord Francis, as she has made abundantly clear; and for my part, given the differences between them, I cannot believe that it would be a happy marriage.”

  “Pooh! Nonsense; he is as good-natured a man as ever lived. There is no reason why he would not make a perfectly amiable husband. If she is so foolish as to wish to write books, he is not likely to raise any objection.”

  “No, as long as he has money to spend on his gambling and profligacies. I am surprised, ma'am, that you would wish to see the resources you have husbanded so well, at risk of being wasted.”

  “Oh! He has given up his gambling; all that is at an end. Of course Anne's money would be tied up, in some way. The lawyers would see to it. In any case, she cannot stay here for the rest of her life. Well! She must come back to Rosings with me. We will have the Duchess and her brother down to visit, for she has several times said that she would like to see the place, and we will see if Anne cannot be persuaded. But she is not to bring that detestable little dog with her; I cannot abide it. It is savage, and should be sh
ot.”

  “I beg you, madam, do not attempt to persuade her into an unhappy marriage.”

  “You married to please yourself, and it has turned out well; now you think that every marriage, made for family reasons rather than love, must be unhappy. It is not so. And Anne is not the girl to choose well, left to herself. Stay—she has not done so? Is that the reason for all this high-flown sentiment? Has she said anything to lead you to think that she has some person in mind?”

  “No, madam.”

  “Then answer me: who gave her the dog?”

  “I could not lie to her,” Darcy told his wife, later. “I made it clear that Caldwell had abandoned all pretension to her hand, and is leaving the country besides, and that she has said nothing as to any attachment; but I could not lie.”

  And Lady Catherine marched back to the house to speak to her daughter. When she went to climb the stairs, however, she found herself confronted by Dr Lawson. He had ridden over to take a look at Mrs Darcy, and found that she was very well. But Anne was a different matter. He remembered Lady Catherine, and waited for no greeting.

  “If you are thinking of seeing your daughter, madam,” he said, “it is impossible; you must wait.”

  “Must? Must? Nonsense, man! It cannot hurt her to see her mother. Stand aside.”

  Dr Lawson was a large man, and his bulk effectively blocked the stairway. He did not budge.

  “Do you want to kill her, madam?”

  “Out of my way, sir!”

  Dr Lawson repeated, “Do you want to kill her, madam? She has had a severe concussion; she is sleeping; she must not be disturbed.”

  “Oh, very well. But I cannot be hanging about here all day, I wish to be on my way. I will write to her. Darcy, I must ask you for the use of your writing desk.”

  “Very well, ma'am. But my cousin is not well. I beg you not to write what will distress her.”

  “I think, nephew, a mother is the best judge of what she may write to her daughter.” And Lady Catherine sat down to write.

  When Anne read the letter, it threw her into a fever. Her worst terror was the threat to Minette. She could even bear to go back to Rosings, she thought, but she would rather die than go there and risk her dog's life. No, she did not trust anyone. Her mother might promise to spare Minette, but then if she so much as growled at some servant or keeper, there would be the excuse to get rid of her. If Minette died, she would die, too. Or, if worst came to worst, rather than die, she would marry Lord Francis, at least he had said that he liked the dog—but would she be able to keep Minette alive until the wedding day? Perhaps she could leave Minette at Pemberley for a while—but the idea threw her into a passion of tears. Dr Lawson became anxious.

  Chapter 22

  Anne was ill with misery all that day and the next. Then something strange happened. At some time, in the middle of a sleepless night, she began, instead of suffering, to think. It was not good enough to cry; crying would not save her or Minette; she must do something. It was never of any use to appeal to her mother's sympathy—she never felt sorry for anyone. Nor was maternal affection a powerful impulse with her. She got her way by being forceful, by being determined, by always being sure that she was right. Well! she was her mother's daughter; she would use her mother's weapons; supposing her to be in this situation, what would Lady Catherine do?

  She could not refuse to go to Rosings; no young woman could do such a thing; it was beyond the bounds of possibility. Nor could she ask her cousins at Pemberley to house her in defiance of her mother's expressed wish; such a request would place them in a position of great embarrassment. However, suppose she could make it clear to Lady Catherine that she was a different person now, that living at Rosings would be a different experience for both of them?

  As soon as it was light, Anne rang for her maid, got herself put into a dressing gown, and writing materials brought, and wrote a letter. It took her several hours, and we will not enquire how many sheets were left torn up on the floor, but the letter was eventually written:

  Madam,

  The respect due to a parent makes it impossible for me to propose disobeying your commands; but I do request you to reflect. You wish me to come to Rosings with you, and I have no intention of refusing, although because of the injury to my head, it will not be possible for me to travel, probably for many weeks.

  You wish me to accept Lord Francis's offer of marriage, and out of respect for your wishes, I will re-consider his offer, but only when he comes to me, and makes it himself. He can do so, if he wishes, more expeditiously from Burley, than by going into Kent. That is, I will consider it—I do not say that I will accept it. My wealth and rank have, as you know, prevented my thinking of marriage with a man with whom I believe I could have been happy. Wealth and rank are not going to force me into marrying a man whom I do not love, and who does not love me.

  You wish me to reside with you at Rosings: you have yourself acknowledged that my improvement in health dates from my leaving Rosings. The location does not agree with me, I have never been well there, and I do not wish to return to a state of sickness. If, in deference to your wishes, I must reside there, I will not have Dr Fillgrave as my medical advisor. I will choose my own doctor, and pay him myself. I must have a horse to ride. I must have a personal maid-companion of my own; I will not be attended by Mullins. Above all, I will not be carried here and there to seek a husband; I shall spend my time in the library, writing. I intend to publish my writing; however, in deference to your views, I will publish under a pseudonym.

  I think we are both agreed that it is high time for me to find an establishment in life, but are disagreed on what that establishment should be. I am of full age and know what I want. I require a similarity of interests; I require a situation of mutual respect and affection; and if such a situation is not available, I am resigned to spending the rest of my life as an unmarried woman. We left Rosings because there were no prospects of marriage for me in such a restricted society. I believe my chances of finding the establishment I need are far better here than at Rosings, and this is where I wish to remain. I beg you, madam, to return to Rosings and leave me here.

  As for the dog, she is not dangerous, and I will not allow her to be destroyed. She has never bitten or snapped, and did not do so yesterday; raised voices frighten her and she growled and barked, that is all. I will not come to Rosings, or go anywhere else, without her, and she will never leave my side. If you refuse to allow her to enter your drawing-room, I will not enter it, either.

  Believe me, madam,

  Yours very sincerely,

  Anne de Bourgh

  As soon as the letter was written, Anne had breakfast brought to her. Then she decided to try to get dressed. She found to her surprise that she had much more strength than she had expected. To all enquiries, she caused the reply to be given that “she was better, and would be downstairs shortly.”

  About mid-morning she went downstairs, saw to the letter's being dispatched, and herself walked Minette. Then she went to the drawing room. There was a visitor there, Lady Louisa. And more than that: her cousin Elizabeth was there, as well. She had made a rapid recovery, due, Dr Lawson said, to her youth, a good constitution, and happiness. Mrs Grainger's predictions had not been realized, the obliging young woman from Torgates had not been needed, and a very few days after her child's birth, Mrs Darcy had announced that she was tired to death with her bedchamber, and did not wish to stay there. Sitting on the sofa, with her baby in her arms, she looked more lovely than Anne had ever seen her.

  A conference had been going on, and she was its subject. The unknown, disregarded cousin had become a loved and valued citizen of Pemberley; she who had been thought of as a burden was now an asset; and everyone was there, including Mr Bennet, to discuss her situation, and what they might do to help her. Lady Louisa had arrived with a scheme of her own, but heard it all out in her usual alert, kindly manner, saying nothing until everyone had spoken, and she had the full history of Lady Catherine's
visit.

  Mr Darcy had alluded—as he thought, very delicately—to the subject of Lady Catherine's disagreement with Anne, but Lady Louisa had no time for delicacy.

  “In love with somebody else, is she?” she said. “Well, I am not surprised, it always happens so with your lonely, cloistered girls, who cannot tell anybody about their feelings, and keep things to themselves. Give me a girl who cries, and writes love-letters, and keeps her sisters awake at night; she will grow out of it. Miss de Bourgh has been kept too close, had nobody to confide in; girls like her always fall in love with the first man who is kind to them, and never get over it. And her family can think themselves lucky if it's not a dancing-master, or a groom of the chambers, or some such thing.”

  There was a kind of sudden stillness in the room, and Lady Louisa saw that Georgiana's face was scarlet. So… there was something! she thought. I'll wager fifty sovereigns, it was that handsome scamp, what was his name, Wigby or Wilson—the steward's son. It seems to run in the family.

  “Now, what is to be done?”

  It was at this point, fortunately, that Anne entered the room. There was a general expression of delight on seeing her, and in the middle of the exclamations, and enquiries as to her health, and finding her a comfortable chair, and Anne being allowed to take little Lewis in her arms and admire him, Georgiana's complexion had a chance to recover.

  However, at this point, there was another interruption. Mr Lewis Bennet Fitzwilliam Darcy, having been disturbed, and picked up, and kissed, chose this moment to demand attentions from his mother that only she could provide; and Elizabeth was obliged to leave them. “But,” she said, “you have matters well in hand, and you have my full approbation for whatever you may decide, and any assistance that Lewis and I can give.”