Colonel Fitzwilliam gave some thought to what he could do to help Anne. As he played billiards, away from the ladies, he turned various possibilities over in his mind. As he potted one ball after another he began to form a plan. He would occupy Lady Catherine for some time every day, so that Anne could have some moments of freedom, and when she was well enough he would take her out of doors.
The following day he put this plan into action. In the morning, he occupied Lady Catherine, so that Anne could read in peace. She was immersed in a Gothic novel and he could see that she was enjoying it. As he joined her just before lunch she thanked him for spending time with her mother.
‘Mamma means well,’ she said. ‘But sometimes I find her company very tiring. If only she would read, or sew, or do something. But she does not know how to occupy herself and so she fusses over me instead.’
‘Perhaps I can spare you her company this afternoon as well,’ he said. ‘Will you join me in the phaeton? The weather is warm for the time of year and in the sun it is very pleasant.’
Her face lightened.
‘Oh, yes, I would like it of all things,’ she said.
They both of them endured luncheon with Lady Catherine. She gave them her decided views on the war, the price of corn and the Prince Regent. Nothing was too large or small for her notice. Having dispensed with matters of national importance, she complained about the butcher’s wife and the baker’s dog. She gave it as her opinion that Mr Collins would have recovered from his indisposition much more quickly if he had taken her advice on the best medicine, and said that Mrs Jenkinson should wear a grey shawl instead of a brown one.
At last luncheon was over. Colonel Fitzwilliam said that he would drive Anne around the park. Lady Catherine was about to protest and so he added that it would be good for Anne’s health. Lady Catherine nodded graciously and gave her approval.
Half an hour later, they set out. Anne was well wrapped up in a pelisse and cloak. Mrs Jenkinson, Anne’s companion, accompanied them, and Colonel Fitzwilliam learned something else: that Mrs Jenkinson meant well, but she fussed over Anne constantly, asking if Anne was warm enough, or comfortable enough, or feeling the breeze, or suffering from the sun.
Once back at Rosings, he sent Mrs Jenkinson on an errand and expressed his sympathy to Anne.
She looked at him with relief in her eyes.
‘Oh, you understand!’ she said. ‘Everyone else thinks how lucky I am to be surrounded by people who care about me, but sometimes I wish they would leave me alone. There are times when I think I could scream with all the fussing, but of course I am not allowed to scream, and so I become cross instead.’
‘Then next time we will go without your companion. You must bring your maid instead. We will ride round the park in the phaeton —’
‘That hateful phaeton,’ said Anne. ‘I would much rather ride round the park on horseback instead.’
Colonel Fitzwilliam was surprised. He had never thought of Anne on horseback.
‘Can you ride?’ he asked.
‘Of course I can! Do you not remember that we used to ride together when we were children?’ she asked.
He thought back to their childhood, when they had often played together.
‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Now that you have reminded me, I do.’
‘I used to love it, but Mama told me it was not ladylike and once I came out she forbid me to mount a horse. She said I must use the phaeton instead.’
‘We will ride, then, and we will not tell Lady Catherine. We will take a groom with us, to protect your reputation, and we will ride down to the river. Should you like that?’
‘Above all things,’ said Anne.
‘Is there anything suitable for you to ride in the Rosings stables?’ asked Colonel Fitzwilliam.
‘Yes, there is the prettiest little mare. Mama keeps her for Georgiana, so that Georgiana has something to ride when she visits.’
‘Lady Catherine does not object to Miss Darcy riding then?’ asked Colonel Fitzwilliam.
‘No. Georgiana is not out yet, and so Mama thinks it is suitable for her to ride.’
They made their arrangements and then returned to the house. Colonel Fitzwilliam could not help noticing how much better Anne looked. She had some colour in her cheeks and there was a lightness in her step as she went inside.
Colonel Fitzwilliam distracted Lady Catherine again after dinner, and he included Mrs Jenkinson in his conversation so that Anne was free to read her book in peace.
At the end of the evening, Anne gave him a grateful look as she retired to bed.
The following morning they went riding together. Anne was dressed in an old habit that she had had since she was seventeen. She had grown very little in the meantime and the habit still fit her, although it was not in the latest style.
It took her some time to accustom herself to riding again. She was not used to the saddle after so many years, but the mare was a patient animal and gradually Anne recovered her confidence.
Colonel Fitzwilliam found that he was enjoying himself. Anne’s spirits were much brighter away from her mother and her companion, and they revisited their childhood haunts. This brought back memories of happy days and then they occupied themselves by catching up on everything that had happened to them since. They had known the bare outlines of events, but now they spoke of hopes and feelings as well as simple facts.
The outing was such a success that they repeated it again the next day, and the next.
On the third morning, Anne said, ‘Mr Darcy is in love with Miss Bennet, is he not?’
Colonel Fitzwilliam was startled, but Anne said, ‘I have eyes. I saw the way he looked at her when she visited Rosings. He ought to marry her and not me.’
Colonel Fitzwilliam reined in his horse. They were in a pleasant clearing in the small copse that lay just beyond the river. The trees above them were just starting to put out leaves and there was a softness to the air that spoke of spring.
‘There is something I should tell you,’ said Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Anne reined in her horse and sat quietly beside him as he explained that Mr Darcy had married Elizabeth by mistake.
‘You do not think he will annul the marriage,’ said Anne.
‘No. I do not think he will. I am sorry.’
‘I am not,’ said Anne. ‘I am relieved. Mr Darcy would make me a very bad husband and I would make him a very bad wife. We are never easy together. Not like this. We could not ride along and talk to each other. We would both of us feel uncomfortable and long to be back indoors, where we could go into separate rooms and take up separate occupations.’
Colonel Fitzwilliam was silent for some minutes, thinking.
Anne did not hurry him.
‘You know I have always liked you,’ he said to Anne at last.
‘And I you,’ she replied.
‘Do you look for love in marriage?’ he asked, turning to look at her.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Then I will not upset you by asking you to marry me,’ he said.
‘Perhaps it would not upset me,’ she said.
He tried to catch her eye but she busied herself with her pretty mare, patting the animal’s neck and talking to her in a soft voice.
‘Do you mean . . . ?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. Still she did not look at him. ‘I am in love with you.’
His eyebrows raised in surprise.
‘I did not know,’ he said.
‘Why should you? Ladies are taught to hide their feelings, not to display them.’
‘I feel I should ask you to marry me,’ he said, ‘but I cannot take advantage of you, or your feelings, for I do not love you and I will not insult you by pretending I do.’
Now she turned to look at him.
‘Do you love anyone else?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Do you think it impossible you will ever love me?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘It is
possible love might come after marriage for me but I cannot guarantee it.’
‘I do not look for a guarantee,’ she said. ‘You have been honest with me and I thank you for it. I know that some people would not want to marry unless they were loved. But I have been so watched over and so smothered that I think I would rather like a husband who was not too devoted. If love comes, I would welcome it from you. But if not, I believe I could be happy with you anyway, for I am in love with you. I could not have said any of this to anyone else. But you are different. With you I feel I can speak my mind.’
‘Yes, you can, always,’ he said.
He slid from his horse and lifted her down from her mare. Then he sank to one knee in front of her.
‘Miss Anne de Bourgh, will you marry me?’ he said.
‘Yes, my dear, I will,’ she replied, touching his cheek with her hand.
He offered her his arm and they walked along together, leading their horses through the bright spring morning. They talked of the things they would do when they were married and they both felt a sense of companionship which would stand them in good stead when they married.
At last it was time for them to return to Rosings.
‘How will we tell Mama?’ asked Anne. ‘She still expects me to marry Mr Darcy. In fact, now that I am well and Mr Collins has also recovered, she thinks the wedding should take place next week.’
‘You may leave that to me,’ said Colonel Fitzwilliam. ‘I will write to my cousin today and tell him what has happened between us, then I will suggest a plan of action to him. If he is agreeable, I will speak to Lady Catherine as soon as I have his reply.’
Chapter Fourteen
Mr Darcy was seated at the breakfast table when the footman brought the mail to him on a silver salver. He took the letters and looked at each one briefly. Most were letters of business but one was from Colonel Fitzwilliam. He set it down beside his plate and finished his breakfast of steak and eggs, then he rose from the table, threw down his napkin and went into the library where he opened the Colonel’s letter.
His eyebrows rose as he read it, then he folded it and put it aside with a feeling of satisfaction. Colonel Fitzwilliam and Anne! Who would have thought it? But it was a happy solution to one of the problems facing him. Anne was an innocent in the misunderstanding and he was glad she was not going to be hurt by it. She would have a husband, and a far better husband than he could ever have made her, for he was in love with Elizabeth. Yes, he was in love with her. His initial attraction to her, brought about during his stay at Netherfield the previous year, had deepened into more mature feelings as he had come to know her through a variety of situations, good and bad. Her determined nature, her strength and courage all attracted him, as did her softer features: her warmth and kindness to others, displayed in her behaviour towards his sister, and towards her own sister; her fairness and generosity in forgiving him the terrible things he had said to her; her intelligence and lively wit, which aroused his admiration; her graceful beauty, which enchanted him and her fine eyes, which bewitched him, body and soul.
He had not seen his lawyers about an annulment, and with every passing day he had become more sure that Elizabeth did not want him to. She had not pressed him and he had waited patiently, coming to know her better, allowing her to know him, before asking the question that was now bursting on his lips, ready to be spoken at their next meeting: Elizabeth, will you marry me? Will you make our union real? Will you give yourself to me willingly and make our marriage lasting? Will you allow me to love you and honour you for the rest of your life?
He glanced at the long case clock in the corner. In half an hour he could set out for Gracechurch Street. He set himself to dealing with his letters of business, to pass the time, when suddenly there came a loud rapping at the front door. He sat back in surprise. Who could be making such a commotion?
He heard the door open, and then his aunt’s imperious voice demanded to see him at once.
He heard the sound of her footsteps crossing the hall and the drawing-room opening, then one of the servants knocked deferentially at the library door and informed him that Lady Catherine de Bourgh had arrived.
Setting down his quill, he thanked the servant then went into the drawing-room, where his aunt was standing in front of the fireplace with a face like thunder.
‘Fitzwilliam,’ she said. ‘You can be at no loss to understand the reason of my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I come.’
‘Good morning, Aunt,’ he said, making her a bow.
She did not return his greeting.
‘Well?’ she demanded.
He wondered if she had heard of his marriage to Elizabeth, but since he did not know for sure, he was not about to allude to it. Lady Catherine might have come to complain about something else entirely.
‘I am at a loss, Aunt,’ he said.
‘Come, nephew, you ought to know that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere you choose to be, you shall not find me so. My character has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most alarming nature reached me yesterday. I was told that you, a man who is engaged to my own daughter, had married Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Though I know it must be a scandalous falsehood; though I would not injure you so much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to you.’
‘If you believed it impossible to be true, I wonder you took the trouble of coming so far,’ said Mr Darcy, who was annoyed with his aunt’s interference in his affairs. ‘What could your ladyship propose by it?’
‘At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted.’
Mr Darcy wanted nothing better than to contradict it. But, until he had spoken to Elizabeth and made sure that she was happy to let the marriage stand, he could not do so. Elizabeth must not be harmed and so he must not admit to the marriage. No breath of scandal must attach to her name, if there was anything he could do to avoid it.
‘Your coming here will be rather a confirmation of it; if, indeed, such a report is in existence,’ he replied.
As he spoke, he wondered who could have told his aunt. Had she heard it from someone who knew, such as the Rev Mr Pike? Had Miss Lucas, or Sir William Lucas, let it slip at dinner one night? Or had she just heard a whisper, which had originated with one of the villagers, or perhaps one of the servants? Until he knew more, he must be cautious, for Elizabeth’s sake.
‘If! So you are ignorant of it,’ she said. ‘No doubt it has been industriously circulated by Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s friends, and you yourself do not know that such a report is spread abroad.’
‘I doubt very much that Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s friends would do anything of the kind, and I certainly do not know that such a report is spread abroad. I never heard anything of it.’
This was true, for he had not heard any rumours about it.
‘And can you likewise declare that there is no foundation for it?’ demanded Lady Catherine.
‘I refuse to be questioned in this manner,’ he said.
Lady Catherine looked furious.
‘This is not to be borne, Darcy. I insist on being satisfied. It ought to be impossible for you to marry Miss Bennet, but her arts and allurements might, in a moment of infatuation, have made you forget what you owe to yourself and to all your family. She may have drawn you in. And so I ask you, Have you made Miss Elizabeth Bennet an offer of marriage?’
‘I have not,’ he replied with truth, for he had never proposed.
‘I did not believe it. I knew the report must be false,’ said Lady Catherine. ‘Miss Elizabeth Bennet is a woman of inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to your family. Honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest would forbid it. Miss Bennet would never be noticed by your family or friends. She would be censured, slighted and despised by every
one connected with you. Your alliance would be a disgrace. Her name would never even be mentioned by any of us. Whereas you and Anne are formed for each other. You are descended, on the maternal line, through ancient, though untitled, families. The fortune on both sides is splendid. You are destined for each other by the voice of every member of your respective houses; and what is to divide you? The upstart pretensions of a young woman without family, connections or fortune. It must not be. Indeed, the lady herself would not wish to quit the sphere in which she had been brought up. ’
Mr Darcy grew increasingly angry throughout his aunt’s speech. He was not a boy, to be lectured in this fashion. Who was she to tell him who he could and could not marry? He was the head of his household and he would do as he pleased. And what he pleased was to spend the rest of his life with Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
It filled him with chagrin to remember that he had once thought as his aunt thought; that for months he had fought his feelings for Elizabeth because she did not come from an old and noble line, and because she did not possess a fortune. But what did those things matter beside all the wealth of joy Elizabeth brought him? Her smile was her fortune; her fine eyes were her noble birth. Yet his aunt set her at nothing.
He made his reply with the kind of icy hauteur that he did so well.
‘Miss Elizabeth Bennet would not be quitting her sphere in marrying me. I am a gentleman; she is a gentleman’s daughter.’
‘True, she is a gentleman’s daughter. But who was her mother? Who were her aunts and uncles? Do not imagine me ignorant of their condition.’
‘Whatever her connections may be, if I do not object to them, they can be nothing to you,’ he replied, more icily than ever.
Darcy and Elizabeth What If? Collection 4 Page 9