Pride & Prejudice Villains Revisited – Redeemed – Reimagined: A Collection of Six Pride and Prejudice Variation Short Stories

by Renata McMann

  “I don’t know,” was her infuriating reply.

  “Would you like to go to London?”

  “We go twice a year.” That was a true statement, but it expressed no preference.

  “Would you like to visit any of your cousins?”

  “We see all of them every year.”

  “We won’t be seeing Darcy this spring,” I said bitterly.

  “Won’t he visit as usual?” Anne asked.

  “Of course not!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he married That Woman,” I replied angrily.

  “She visited here before. She seemed to like it well enough. Won’t she return?”

  Could Anne be so stupid? Didn’t she understand the enormity of what Elizabeth Darcy had done to her? “She’ll never return here!”

  “Why wouldn’t she?”

  For once I was at a loss for words. Anne just sat there, her back as straight as a poker and her face expressionless. Didn’t Anne understand the situation? Darcy had slighted her for That Woman. In no way should she be recognized. She certainly shouldn’t be honored by an invitation to Rosings.

  One thing I’d long since learned was that I could not outwait my daughter in silence. Anne would sit for hours without saying anything. I could change the subject or leave. For once Anne’s silence flummoxed me. Without realizing what I was saying, I gave her the truth. “Because I wrote Darcy an angry letter when he became engaged. They will never come here.”

  “We could go there. I would like to see Pemberley again.”

  “You can’t want to watch That Woman preside over the home that should have been yours.”

  “I enjoyed watching Miss Bennet when she was here,” Anne said placidly. “I would like to see how she does as Mrs. Darcy. She has written you. I saw you tear up her letter. Besides, I like Darcy and I haven’t seen Pemberley since old Mr. Darcy died.”

  “But we would have to accept the marriage. I’ve always intended to cut her if I ever saw her.”

  Anne gave a little sigh. “Whatever you wish, Mama,” she said. She reached for one of her ever-present books and flipped it open.

  If Anne had argued, I might not have given in, but days went by and she never revisited the subject. Anne never asked for anything. By the end of the week, I realized I was going to have to eat my pride and write to Mrs. Darcy. Anne wanted it.

  ***

  After two weeks at Pemberley, I was well and thoroughly put out. As we left for London, it was all I could do to contain my disgust until Anne and I were alone in our carriage. To myself, I could admit I was disappointed that the things I’d found to criticize about That Woman’s management of Pemberley were only minor, but to the world at large I would proclaim them great.

  As we rolled down the drive, I allowed myself to give vent to my feelings. “Anne, did you see how That Woman treated Darcy’s housekeeper?” I shook my head, dismayed. “She was much too friendly with Mrs. Reynolds and showed too much respect for her. Of course, That Woman’s inclination to ingratiate herself is understandable. We all know it’s Mrs. Reynolds who is responsible for Pemberley being well run, but servants should be kept in their place. Acting as if they are equal to her is reprehensible, even in one who comes from such low beginnings as Mrs. Darcy.”

  Anne looked out the window.

  “Not to mention the ruin That Woman is making of sweet little Georgiana,” I continued. “Why, when I criticized Mrs. Darcy for changing a custom that Lady Anne had instituted, That Woman didn’t defend herself but Georgiana did, who’s never before uttered an impertinent syllable in her life. My own niece stood before me and proclaimed that the custom had been changed two years before Darcy was married. It’s likely a lie, too. All of my hopes for seeing Georgiana well married in spite of Darcy’s disastrous choice are turning to ash.”

  I scowled across the carriage, but Anne remained silent. Hoping to get a response, I moved to a slightly more delicate subject. “It was also indecent how much time That Woman and Darcy spent together. They should entertain their guests separately. Surely you observed how, after dinner each evening, Darcy would go and sit next to her rather than, more appropriately, with us? And what a poor table she sets! There were not enough elaborate dishes at each meal. True, when I commented on it, Mrs. Darcy asked what I would like and at the very next meal there was a ragout, but I shouldn’t have had to ask. That Woman is ruining Pemberley.”

  Anne didn’t so much as nod.

  Finally, frustrated at the lack of response, I asked, “What did you think of Mrs. Darcy?”

  “She was nice to me,” Anne replied, finally looking at me.

  “She should be. She was your hostess.” When Anne turned back to the window, I asked, “How was she nice to you?”

  “She had a phaeton and ponies for me.”

  “They weren’t for you. They got them for her aunt, the one in trade.”

  “She let me drive. She came with me several times.”

  “She was your hostess,” I repeated. “It was her duty.” Really, Anne should not be praising Mrs. Darcy for something so ordinary. “Did she do anything out of the ordinary for you? I think not. Your praise isn’t warranted.”

  “She listened to me. No one else does,” Anne said in almost a whisper.

  “What! I listen to you. I hired Mrs. Jenkinson to listen to you. How can you praise her for that? It is completely unreasonable for you to praise her for such a common trait. Why, everyone listens to you, always. You’re an heiress. They have to listen. If you want them to show it more, you must learn to speak up, Anne. Honestly, there are times I don’t know what to do with you.”

  Anne hardly said anything for the rest of the trip to London. I was furious that Mrs. Darcy had somehow turned Anne into a near mute. After complaining to Anne about it for some time, I finally got tired of talking to someone who wouldn’t talk back, except an occasional, “Yes, Mama.” I sat in the carriage, fuming about it for several hours. I brought it up repeatedly, but Anne did not give me the satisfaction of answering my complaints. In spite of all of my efforts to make her see the truth, Anne never quite agreed that there was anything wrong with Mrs. Darcy’s behavior.

  Chapter Two

  We arrived at my house in London with an appropriate amount of pomp. The footmen who came out to help us correctly ignored the second carriage that contained Anne’s companion, Mrs. Jenkinson and Anne’s and our maids, as well as most of the baggage. It wasn’t Rosings, but I knew I would be comfortable there.

  We were in London partly to replenish both of our wardrobes. It was absurd to think a country seamstress could rival a London modiste and I wanted the best for us. We spent the first day picking fabrics at the best warehouse and the next day going to the best modiste. That evening we went to the theater. The play was mildly entertaining, but I was annoyed that I saw no one I was on more than nodding terms with. I realized I would have to spend more time in London if I wanted to know people.

  The next day I took Anne to call on my brother and his wife. We were shown in immediately to see my brother, as was only correct. I was pleased to find his servants properly deferential. It somewhat made up for his wife’s dismal taste in decorating.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to content yourself with me,” my brother said as he received us. “Hello Anne.”

  “Hello Uncle,” Anne said. She dipped a curtsy and slipped into a chair set off to the side of the desk, where her gaze focused immediately on the wall across from her.

  I sat in the seat positioned directly across from my brother. I wasn’t unhappy that the countess wasn’t home. My brother’s wife was polite to me, but we were never close. “You’ll do nicely. I hope the countess isn’t indisposed?”

  “Indisposed? No, she’s escorting two of our granddaughters to some event or another. They’re cousins, you know, and we all agreed they should come out together. That way, my wife and their mothers can take turns chaperoning them. Young ladies must attend a ridiculous number of even
ts.”

  “Will the girls do well?”

  “Belinda Moore is a taking thing and will probably do very well in spite of her small dowry,” the earl informed me. “The other shall have to exist on hope.”

  “The Moore’s never had all that much money, but they were good neighbors,” I replied.

  “They still are,” my brother said. “I was sorry when Mrs. Moore died. Our families have remained close.”

  “That’s good to know,” I said. There was no point in bringing up the obvious. My brother’s oldest daughter was married to Mr. Moore’s older son. That made the Moore’s a connection of mine at least and family at best. It had been many years since I’d seen Mr. Moore. In spite of the passing of time, I could never think of him with complete indifference. We’d been close as children, as my father’s lands neighbored the Moore’s.

  Anne leaned forward in her chair. I’d all but forgotten she was there until she moved.

  “What is this?” she asked. She was holding a piece of paper.

  My brother was faster than I and took the paper from Anne. He glanced at it, his expression clouding. I reached for it, but he held it away from me. He moved toward the fire.

  “I’ve already read it.” Anne’s quiet voice halted him.

  “I demand to see that paper,” I said, standing. A look of resignation on his face, my brother handed it to me.

  Anne de Bourgh’s choices

  John Thorpe—Take him off the list. His only virtue is he is a young, unmarried male

  James Moreland—Recently had a broken engagement

  Captain Tilney—Heir to Northanger Abbey but a shocking flirt

  Thomas Bertram—Heir to Mansfield Park, but has been ill recently

  Colonel Fitzwilliam—Nice enough, but her cousin

  William Elliot—A widower who is presumed heir of a barony, but of questionable morals

  Older widowers

  General Tilney—Wealthy, but unkind to people who aren’t useful to him

  Mr. Woodhouse—Wealthy, but a hypochondriac

  Walter Elliot—A baron and good looking but that is all he cares about

  Mr. Churchill—His wife died too recently and he is involved with his son’s upcoming marriage

  Mr. Moore—Almost a relative

  “What is the meaning of this?” I demanded, waving the paper at him. “How dare you!”

  “I have no idea where that came from, Catherine,” the earl said, his tone even.

  “It’s fine, Mama,” Anne said quietly.

  I shoved the paper toward the earl, still incensed. A glance at Anne told me she wasn’t perturbed, which made me feel somewhat better.

  “I’ll get to the bottom of it,” my brother said, taking the page back.

  He turned the conversation to other things and I allowed him to do so. The more I took in Anne’s lack of concern, the more I realized it didn’t matter who’d written it. By the time we departed, I’d all but forgotten about the silly list.

  Yet, late that night, several thoughts crossed my mind. The first was that, whatever the purpose of that paper, it was insulting to Anne, and thus to me. The second was about the last name on the list. Mr. Moore was on the list as an older widower. I knew he was a widower now, but I had not thought of him remarrying. He was the first man ever to propose to me.

  Instead of receiving a call from my brother the next morning, Mr. Moore called with his granddaughter, Belinda. I had them shown in. Belinda curtsied, much deeper than required by my status.

  “I am very sorry about you finding that paper,” she said, looking between Anne and me. “I saw you both at the play two nights ago and my friends and I were wondering about Miss de Bourgh now that Mr. Darcy is married. We were joking around about it. We thought each of us would name a man for Miss de Bourgh to marry, and explain why she shouldn’t marry him. We were just having fun. We didn’t intend to upset her. Miss Fitzwilliam took notes and must have left them there.”

  I was annoyed that Belinda had seen us at the play but hadn’t paid her respects. I frowned at her.

  “Belinda Augusta Moore,” Mr. Moore said in stern tones. “You have apologized for being caught while blaming someone else for it. You have not apologized for your actions.”

  “But it was innocent fun,” Belinda protested.

  “Obviously not,” Mr. Moore said. “You have insulted your cousin.”

  “I am not insulted,” Anne said.

  I glanced at her, surprised she spoke. “But Anne, they implied you couldn’t get a husband on your own,” I said. “Aren’t you stung by the injustice of it? You’ve had five proposals in the last month.”

  “They wanted Rosings, not me,” Anne said.

  “Of course they wanted you. You’re beautiful. Fit to be a duchess.”

  “Mama, I have a mirror.”

  But she was beautiful. I knew she was beautiful. I glanced at Belinda and Mr. Moore. Belinda smirked. Though Mr. Moore’s face was kind, I saw compassion there, not agreement. I looked at Anne again. She didn’t have the height of a beautiful woman, but that wasn’t important. She didn’t have the curves society demanded, but that also wasn’t important. I knew my daughter was beautiful.

  I saw an unusually stubborn look on Anne’s face. She didn’t believe she was beautiful. I tried to see Anne as others saw her and tried to look at her as if I’d just met her. It didn’t work. “You are beautiful,” I insisted.

  “Why doesn’t she join me for a ride in an open carriage in the park?” Belinda said. There was malice in her voice.

  “She will,” I said, raising my chin. Was that resignation in Anne’s expression? Well, I didn’t care. This would prove to Anne that she was beautiful. We would show them. Anne would be in an open carriage and the men would flock to her.

  The ride was arranged for the next day. Belinda came with the carriage and I saw them off, expecting them to be gone an hour or maybe two, but four hours later Anne hadn’t returned. Worried, I sent a message to Mr. Moore. An hour after that he brought Anne home.

  “What happened?” I asked Anne.

  “After about ten minutes in the park, Miss Moore said she didn’t want me with her, because I was keeping men away. She asked me to get out and I did. I waited until Mr. Moore came.” Anne didn’t come into the parlor. She headed for the stairs.

  “Are you all right? Did you get too cold?”

  “I am fine. I dressed warmly.” She went upstairs.

  I stood there, open mouthed.

  Mr. Moore turned to me, clearly worried. “Catherine, what have you done to Anne?”

  I stared at him, shocked that he’d call me by my name without my title. Of course, he used to call me Catherine. When we were very young, he’d even called me Cat. A lifetime ago. Then I realized what he’d said. I was outraged. “What have I done to her? What has Belinda done to her! And what are you going to do to Belinda?”

  “Belinda will be sent to my sister’s house in the country for the rest of the season. That is my problem. Your problem is Anne. I can’t really blame her for getting out of the carriage, although she shouldn’t have. She should have insisted on being driven home. I blame her for just sitting there. She made no attempt to get home and it was less than a mile away.”

  “I doubt she knew the way.”

  “Possibly not. I asked her and she was carrying money. A cab would have taken her. She did nothing. She made no attempt to help herself. She can’t make any decisions.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I was too stunned by his directness and his claims. After a long searching look, he left.

  Regaining my senses, I sent a maid for Mrs. Jenkinson. When she came, I asked, “Does Anne make decisions?”

  “Decisions?”

  The woman looked confused. “What choices does Anne make?” I clarified.

  “None.”

  “Surely, she decides what to wear,” I protested.

  “Either I or her maid decide that.”

  “What to eat?” I sugges
ted.

  “She makes a few choices, but doesn’t appear to have any preferences. You often recommend something to her. She will take some of that.” Her face creased with thought. “She decides when to stop eating,” she finally offered.

  Anne was too thin. I always tried to make her eat more. “We bought clothes only days ago. She decided on hers,” I said, glad that I could come up with something.

  “No. She waited until you or I told her what to buy.”

  I thought it over. It was difficult to fathom, but Mrs. Jenkinson was right. “She decides when to take out her phaeton.” I had to come up with some decisions Anne made.

  Mrs. Jenkinson shook her head. “The stableman will send her a message when the weather is nice and her horses need exercise. If nothing else is planned, she will go.”

  “She guides the horses.”

  “The horses know the routes she takes. There are four of them. She does them in order.”

  “Is there anything she decides?”

  “She decides when she is sick. She then stays in her room, in bed. I don’t think she sleeps. Sometimes she is sick, but sometimes I think she just doesn’t want to get up.”

  Horrified at what I was hearing, I sent for Anne’s maid, but she only confirmed everything. Was Mr. Moore correct? Had I done something to Anne? That was impossible. I loved her.

  I sent the maid and Mrs. Jenkinson away and went to my office. Above the mantle, there was a painting of Sir Lewis and me. Anne was in the painting as a child of ten. I looked to the painting, wishing my deceased husband could give me some advice. I dropped my eyes back to Anne. I knew she was a pretty child. Beautiful even.

  I conjured up an image of Anne as I’d last seen her, her shoulders hunched as she hurried up the stairs. I imagined her as she’d been at dinner the night before.