Darcy and Anne

by Judith Brocklehurst

  Her cousin had made it clear that, for his part, he considered Anne released from every obligation to a parent who had rejected, abandoned, and insulted her. For him, the offer of the Reverend Mr Whiley was the final straw, an insult to a woman of Anne's rank, abilities, and talents. He knew that his friend was a far better match for her. He felt that there was now no bar to their marriage, if Edmund still wished it. He was to feel under no obligation, however; Anne would always have a home at Pemberley; he and his wife regarded her as a beloved sister. Hearing that his departure was not imminent, he had urged him to take the rest of the day, and consider.

  “Then he left. I had hardly taken it in, except that they had offered you some ancient clergyman to marry, and you were to copy out his manuscripts, and that you had said no. I should think so indeed! But as soon as he had gone, I found that I did not need a day to think it over, or even an hour. You were no longer the wealthy heiress of Rosings; you were the woman I love, you had been hurt, you were in trouble. There was nothing to think about.” (At this point the relation of the story was somewhat interrupted, as Anne responded to this wonderful declaration.) He resumed: He had called for his horse, and arrived barely half an hour behind Darcy. “Then,” he said, “when I arrived at the house, I found your cousin and Mrs Darcy in a terrible state, for, they told me, Anne would talk of nothing but living on her own in a cottage, and writing books. And I told them that that was nonsense, for you are going to live with me, and write books.”

  Oh! thought Anne, I must rescue my package, from Forrest, and she wondered whether she could tell him of her desperate, foolish stratagem, but just at that moment Edmund began saying such very affectionate things to her that she could not do anything, except smile up at him, with tears in her eyes, and assure him that she felt just the same!

  Some people might have been surprised at the length of time it took for the two of them to return from what had been, really, quite a short walk; but Elizabeth and Darcy were not of their number. They had too recently been in a similar situation themselves. “You are going to be as happy as we are,” Elizabeth said. “I did not think it possible, but I believe you will manage it.”

  But, as she later told her husband, even she had not such reasons for delight as Anne had, in the contrast between her earlier life, and the life that lay ahead of her. “If my mother was sometimes peevish, and my father occasionally morose, I had all the cheerful society of my sisters, especially dear Jane,” she said.

  “And the reassurance of your mirror, to tell you how beautiful you were,” said her husband, fondly. “Poor Anne spent so many years as a sickly, plain, lonely girl, that she deserves every day, every hour of the happiness that will be hers.”

  “And how good it is to think,” Elizabeth said, “that we shall not lose her, for she will be only five miles away.”

  The rest of the day was not enough for the expression of everybody's satisfaction, and happy as Anne was in the delight of her relatives, it required several walks in the gardens, alone with Edmund, to establish her composure of mind, and assure her that she really was, not only going to be married to the man she loved, but totally and completely loved by him.

  “And are you really happy that I should write, and write novels?” Anne asked.

  “Yes, indeed,” he said, firmly. “to my mind, it is a wicked thing for any person who has talent or ability not to be allowed to develop it. I shall insist on your continuing, I shall read all your drafts, and I shall insist that household cares never prevent you from having all the time you need.”

  That evening, she thought, was the happiest of her life, and she would always remember it. In retrospect she could not, in fact, remember anything very clearly. Seated beside Edmund, Minette by her side, surrounded as she was by the dear cousins who rejoiced with her, it seemed to pass in a daze, a glow of joy. The only dissatisfaction Anne felt, as she went to dress for dinner, was that she had really spent so very little time alone with Edmund!

  The next day brought another source of pleasure, in the arrival of the Caldwells, who were invited to spend several days with them, and whose joy could barely be expressed. Mrs Caldwell, in the course of a long conversation with Anne, admitted that she had known about the matter for some time. Her son had not intended to burden either of his parents with the knowledge of his situation, but knowing him as she did, it was impossible for her not to be aware of his unhappiness, and to guess at its cause, and on her applying to him to tell her the truth, he had done so. She had mourned, thinking there was nothing to be done. “And now, my dear, I could not be happier, and neither could my husband, for you are exactly the daughter we would have wished for.” Her only cause for concern was that, as she said, they must wait a few months to be married. “For, dearest Anne, you cannot imagine what kind of a state the house is in, for gentlemen, as I am sure you know, have no idea when anything is dirty, or shabby. But we will see all put to rights.”

  “And I think,” said Elizabeth, privately, to her husband, “that very few young women have gained a husband, by losing a fortune, but that is exactly what Anne has done. Who ever heard of such a thing?”

  “You are right,” her husband said. “But I only fear that she may have done it very thoroughly.”

  “Why, what do you mean?”

  “I scarcely know; but I am not certain how secure her inheritance is.”

  Chapter 27

  The well-informed reader, aware that “The course of true love never did run smooth,” will not be surprised to perceive, from the thickness of the pages remaining, that Anne and Edmund did experience some further difficulties.

  However, the initial few days of their engagement gave no hint of troubles to come. Then, one morning, several carriages drew up to the front of Pemberley.

  “Oh,” cried Anne. “It is my dear Mr Bennet!”

  Indeed it was, and with him, a handsome, rather over-dressed lady, with a slightly peevish expression, whom he introduced as his wife. Two young women, one pretty, one quiet and rather plain, were: “My daughters, Mary and Kitty.” From the second chaise there emerged a very sweet-faced young woman, bearing a strong resemblance to Elizabeth, and a good-looking young man, whom Darcy shook enthusiastically by the hand: “My friend Bingley.” But there was another lady, and Anne thought that Mrs Darcy's face fell slightly when she saw her, for this lady, though younger by far than Mrs Bennet, appeared equally peevish, if not more so. Could this be another sister? the extraneous vehicles contained such a supply of nursemaids, valises, and trunks, as may well be imagined, and Mrs Bingley, hastening urgently to one of them, demanded and received a small baby into her arms. It transpired that the unknown lady was not Mrs Darcy's, but Mr Bingley's sister, who had been quite unable to travel in the same carriage as the infant, owing to her extreme dislike of hearing a child crying.

  The new house was ready, Mr Bingley explained, and they were on their way to it. “But you must have received my letter? I wrote to you, I did indeed, a week ago, that we had heard from the builders—the roof and chimneys are repaired, the house is habitable, and as for the new greenhouse, and the pinery, all that, you know, can be seen to far better when we are in residence. I wrote to you, at least a week ago,” but no letter had been received at Pemberley.

  Not knowing that her family were coming, Mrs Darcy had invited the Rackhams, mother and children, and Sir Matthew and his mother to dinner. “And to keep the numbers even,” she said, “I asked Mr Kirkman, too, for now that I am not matchmaking any more, I find that I quite like him.”

  “Well,” said her husband, “maybe we can find a use for him, for we must persuade someone to like Miss Bingley. He is a little older than she, but they might deal very well together.”

  “How comes it,” Elizabeth asked, “that she is here? For I know she does not like me, and I am sure she has not forgiven you, for having the bad taste to marry me.”

  “It seems that Mr Hurst has a sister who must be invited, with her husband, once in a while, and th
ey asked poor Miss Bingley to vacate the spare bedroom for a few weeks, so the Bingleys had to bring her; and unless we can persuade Mr Kirkman to take a fancy to her, I do not know what we shall do. But you need not be concerned, my dear, for I am quite certain that Mrs Reynolds already knows how many people are arrived, and is making arrangements accordingly, and Forrest, too.”

  “I am quite sure that they have, but I must go, all the same, and assure them both that I am perfectly astonished with all that they have done, and do not know what we should have done without them,” and Elizabeth, excusing herself to her guests, hastened away.

  By dinner time, a mystery had been unraveled. Mr Bingley, on examining his travelling-desk, had found the letter, addressed and folded, that should have been sent to announce their incipient departure from Longbourn, and the probable day of their arrival at Pemberley. He recalled having no sealing-wax, and laying it aside until he should ask his wife for some. “And then, oh yes, Bailey came about the horses, and I went out to the stable yard with him, and I must have forgot.” By this time, however, rooms had been found and prepared for everyone, and in spite of, or perhaps because of, Mrs Reynolds's perturbation, the dinner was all that a Pemberley dinner ought to be.

  Afterward they danced. Owing to the shortage of gentlemen, each of the ladies was sometimes obliged to sit down, and after an energetic country dance, Anne was glad to do so. She overheard Mrs Bennet ask Mrs Darcy, “But why is Miss de Bourgh to marry that very odd man? He is not rich, he is not handsome, and you tell me she could have married a Lord.”

  “Hush, madam, pray hush, she will hear you.”

  “Oh! nonsense, no one can hear in such a crowd. Well, if such a man as that is to marry into your family, and to be invited here, I do not see why you, and your husband, had to be so very nice about inviting poor Lydia. After all, she is one of us; she is your sister still, and he is your brother, and his brother, too.”

  “But, the circumstances…”

  “Oh, pooh; nobody cares about that; dear Wickham should not have run off with her, but much may be excused to a man in love, and they are safe married now. Lydia is in poor health, for she is expecting an interesting event, as I told you, and their lodging is not commodious or comfortable. I do think it is hard that she is not to come, for a spell at Pemberley, with her sisters, would have raised her spirits, and improved her health. And dear Wickham talks a great deal about his childhood home, and I am sure he misses it very much. Why should you not all be reconciled, pray? If you and Mr Darcy are ashamed of her, you must be ashamed of us, too.”

  This was perhaps the first time that Mrs Bennet and her daughter had had a serious conversation since Elizabeth's marriage. But Mrs Darcy was no longer the unmarried and not-much-loved daughter, who must treat a parent with respect and deference. She answered with the authority of a married woman, with a home, husband, and child of her own. “I am sorry, madam; but I cannot invite her. For one thing, I do not think she would do well at Pemberley, for you know how noisy and indiscreet she is. But even if I did wish to invite her, it cannot be. I could not ask her without asking her husband, and Mr Darcy will not permit it; he will not receive him.”

  They moved away, leaving Anne puzzled and surprised. To refuse to invite a sister, who was not at all wealthy, and not well! It seemed so unlike the new, kind cousin whom she had begun to know! She turned and found Georgiana standing beside her. Mrs Bennet, who might, Anne thought, be becoming slightly deaf, had spoken pretty loudly, and she could see clearly, from Georgiana's expression, that she had heard, too.

  “You think my brother unkind,” Georgiana said.

  “I do not understand,” Anne said. “It is not like him, or Elizabeth. They are so generous, they have been so welcoming to me, though I am but a cousin and might be thought to have far less claim on their hospitality. It disturbs me that these people seem unwelcome here, because they are poor and of lower rank than I.”

  Georgiana drew a deep breath. “I can explain,” she said, “and I will. I cannot bear it, that you should think my brother ungenerous. But I cannot tell you now. Come for a walk with me, come tomorrow morning; the men will all be out shooting—yes, Edmund too, for I heard him tell my brother that he should go—and we can be private.”

  Chapter 28

  THE NEXT MORNING, THEY WALKED OUT TOGETHER, AND WENT up the stream, whose deep, secluded valley was the chosen spot for every quiet conversation, every confidence. As soon as they were out of sight of the house, Georgiana began: “What I am going to tell you now, Anne, I have never spoken of to a soul,” she said. “My brother knows of it, and Elizabeth knows some of it, but no one else. I know I can rely on you to mention it to no one.”

  “Of course,” Anne said. If secrecy meant so much to Georgiana, then clearly even Edmund could not be told.

  “This happened a few years ago,” Georgiana began, “before my brother was married. Both my parents had been dead for some years, and I was at a school in London. My brother sometimes came to see me, but a young man has not often very much time for visiting a younger sister; and I missed my dear mother so very much.”

  “My father and I were very close,” Anne said. “I know what it is, to mourn a beloved parent.”

  “When I was fifteen,” Georgiana continued, “I was judged old enough, or accomplished enough, anyway. I was thought ready for life, for I could play the piano very well, and the harp a little, and paint, and could speak French and read Italian. No one gave any thought to the fact that I knew nothing of my own feelings, or of my own nature. Since my brother was not married, an establishment was set up for me, and a lady was hired to take care of me: that is, to see to it that I was fashionably dressed, and to take me into company. She was lively and gay, and if some of the sentiments she occasionally expressed seemed not very proper, she was amusing, and I thought it a part of fashionable life. She would tell small lies, and laugh, and recount improper stories—but again, very amusingly, so that the impropriety seemed not harmful, and it would seem prudish to object. Her taste in clothes was excellent; I liked her, though I did not love her; we saw something of my brother from time to time, and I did not think myself unhappy.

  “London is not a good place to stay in for long. I began to cough, and the doctor said it was from the bad air, and that I should go for a while to a seaside place. So Mrs Younge recommended Ramsgate; she had friends there, she said, and the place was delightful. She found us some pleasant lodgings, and we began our stay. I had not been there three days, when on coming back from a walk, I was told, 'Somebody to see you, miss,' and there, in our sitting room, was… Mr Wickham.”

  “You mean… the husband of Mrs Darcy's sister?” said Anne. “Oh, but of course, I had forgot, you knew him well; he was born here, was he not?”

  “Yes, during my earliest years he was almost like a brother to me, and I knew him at once, though I had not seen him since he had gone to Cambridge. He came to me and gave me the affectionate greeting of a brother. Anne, I fell in love with him at that moment. He was with us every day; Mrs Younge encouraged his visits. She was forever telling me how much in love with me he was; she had seen it at the first moment; she had never seen a man so much in love; what a pity that my brother, so cruel, harsh, and proud, would never countenance his suit! She advised me on no account to speak of my feelings to my brother, for he would certainly be very angry.

  “I thought that it must be true, for Wickham had told me, very sadly, that my brother's former friendship to him was at an end; he did not know why; but he had been promised a living near Pemberley, and when the incumbent died, it had been given to another man. I learned later that his way of life was so dissipated that he was highly unsuited to be a clergyman. But of course I saw nothing of this; his manners to me were unvaryingly gentle, affectionate, and refined; and I believed Mrs Younge's assertion that my brother had changed, and become proud and selfish.

  “Anne, I was but fifteen, and had never received such attentions from any man before. All this,
and two or three novels from the lending library, were enough to make me see myself as a star-crossed heroine. I was convinced that my life would be blighted forever, unless we were married. Both Wickham and Mrs Younge assured me that there was but one thing to do: to elope. But, she said, she would assist me, she would make every arrangement; and I assumed her to mean that she would go with us, to make everything proper, until the knot should be tied.

  “I consented.” She paused, and then continued.

  “It was a Saturday, and since I did not like the idea of Sunday travel, we were to depart on the Monday. What a scruple to advance, against such impropriety, such rashness, such deceit! But it saved me. The chaise was ordered for Monday. Then I learned, walking into the drawing room and accidentally overhearing their conversation, that she was not to accompany us; I was to go alone, with Wickham. She could not endure it, she said; I thought then that she only meant that she could not bear the fatigue of such a long journey. I was shocked; they saw my face; they rushed to reassure me: Did I not trust, Wickham asked, the man I loved? I had given my word; I did love him; but I was frightened, I was doubtful. I could only tell myself that he did love me, and that once the border was crossed, we would straightway be married.

  “That same evening, my brother arrived, and cutting short Mrs Younge's gushing flow of greetings and enquiries, requested a private interview with me. In the most affectionate terms, he enquired after my health and state of mind; he told me that he regretted having stayed so long away, and having seen so little of me in London. He asked me how I liked Ramsgate—was I truly happy? If not, a pleasanter place could be found; and did I truly find Mrs Younge a suitable companion? He seemed so different from the ogre who had been depicted to me by Mrs Younge—she must have been mistaken—surely, so kind a brother would not refuse me the marriage I so deeply desired! I began to recall other things—small things, that suggested that she was not always truthful or honest; and I admitted that, in many ways, I did not trust her.