A Private Performance

by Helen Halstead

  Should you write to your cousin Anne, you need not mention this letter. I see no need to antagonise my sister unduly.

  Yours etc.

  Maddersfield

  A few days later, this letter was followed by one from Darcy’s cousin.

  From Countess Reerdon to Mr. Darcy

  Rosings

  My dear Cousin,

  I thank you for your kind letter, but then you have always been a good and generous friend to me, who had no-one else so akin to a brother.

  (This gush of affection may have startled Darcy less had he seen that Lady Reerdon was perched upon his lordship’s pillow as she wrote.)

  Please convey my gratitude and compliments to your charming wife. My Lord Reerdon and I will be delighted to visit you at Pemberley. Of course, we will be more than happy to receive you any time you can come to Cumberwell or to either of our houses in Scotland and Surrey.

  You will be surprised to see our address is still at Rosings. We intend to winter in Surrey just so soon as his lordship is well enough to be moved. Lord Reerdon met with a carriage accident on the day of our marriage. Fortunately, the surgeon has not had to amputate the limb, and we expect him to be fully recovered in a few weeks, or months at most.

  If you wish to communicate with us, you might do so through Mr. Collins. We have found Mrs. Darcy’s cousin has been a most Christian and obliging spiritual shepherd during a somewhat difficult period.

  I remain,

  Your grateful and affectionate cousin,

  Anne, Countess of Reerdon-on-Adswater

  “I had no notion of what a sweet cousin you had been to Miss de Bourgh!” said Elizabeth.

  “I feel she is rendering history more interesting. As children we hated one another with utmost vehemence. Once my probable matrimonial fate dawned upon me, I subsided into doomed silence. It has been years since she said much more to me than ‘Good morning, Fitzwilliam’ or ‘Good night, Fitzwilliam’.”

  “Of course you endeavoured to draw her out.”

  He smiled. “Perhaps not. At all events, you are vindicated, my love. She has not only replied, but with an unexpected cordiality.”

  “You are more than a little curious?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “It is no business of mine what occurs in the privacy of another’s home.”

  “I am curious, although you are not. Your stance is highly moral, and I shall respect it by not breathing a word to you on this subject, should I find out more.”

  “It is a wife’s duty to confide in her husband.”

  “Wonderful news! Let us say, then, when we gossip, that I am being dutiful, and you are being … what?”

  He smiled.

  Events at Hunsford justified curiosity, and their effects were to be felt in the family.

  With Anne advantageously engaged, and the Collinses fully reinstated as pet sycophants, life at Rosings had continued with all the pleasantness that was customary there.

  As the time of Anne’s marriage approached, Lady Reerdon returned to stay again at Rosings, bringing her son that he might pass a period of courtship before the wedding.

  In no time at all, Lady Catherine began to feel a certain disquiet.

  Firstly, a disagreement sprang up about the young couple’s destination after the wedding. Lady Catherine had decided upon Bath. Lord Reerdon had the presumption to cry, “Not that dull place!”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord?” said Lady Catherine.

  “Ah,” he replied, and thought perhaps he’d let it go; but he felt he was getting off to a poor start.

  Lady Catherine also objected to the way Reerdon had taken to addressing his intended. One morning, when he came into breakfast, he chucked Anne under the chin and said: “Good morning, my little sparrow.”

  “Good morning, Frederick,” she simpered.

  “Humph!” said Lady Catherine.

  Lord Maddersfield gave one of his snorts, which he knew so irritated his sister.

  Lord Reerdon sat down and whispered to Anne: “When we are married, I shall dress you up in bright colours and make you my little parrot instead.”

  “What did you say, my lord? I will not permit conversations in which I have no part,” said Lady Catherine.

  “I said nothing worthy of repetition, ma’am, but I shall now say whatever you like.”

  “Ha! Very handsome offer,” called Maddersfield. “You cannot complain about that, Sister.”

  Anne smiled up at Frederick. How brave he was; and how exciting to think that her clothes would soon be chosen by someone with an eye to colour! Her mother had always chosen rather dull clothes for her.

  Further evidence of Anne’s erratic behaviour was seen one evening when Reerdon asked her to show him the whereabouts of the dictionary. This was obviously a pretext to get her out of the room. As they came back in, a little smirk on the face of each aroused her ladyship’s suspicions. Yet the way he tripped on the edge of the carpet, and all but sprawled on the floor, somehow put her mind at rest.

  (Anne was not exactly permitting liberties. He did kiss her, on her lips, but she told him he was naughty. He answered her with the intriguing smile of a man of the world. She felt breathless and fluttery, a little faint. She wanted, but she knew not what.)

  Her ladyship began to heartily look forward to getting the wedding out of the way.

  The many blessings of Lady Catherine’s patronage were never far from the mind of Mr. Collins. Few clergymen have the honour to officiate at such a ceremony as the marriage between Lord Reerdon and Miss Anne de Bourgh. After an excellent breakfast, all that was lacking was that the young people drive away. Anne was handed gallantly into the carriage by her husband. Through the window, she glanced once more at the austere face of her mother. Their eyes met and the bride felt a delicious sensation. Her new commander, Lord of the Ascendant, leapt for the carriage step. He missed it.

  Thus on his wedding day was Frederick Lester, ninth earl of Reerdon-on-Adswater, carried back into his mother-in-law’s house, whence he ought to have been carrying his prize away. He should have looked first. He had only himself to blame.

  He was placed in his room and the surgeon called. The wound was certainly untimely, but the fracture of a degree that should easily mend.

  “Anne,” said her mother, “you will return to your old room.”

  “I fear not, Mother,” said she. “Frederick has requested that I sleep in his room. Perhaps a small bed might be carried in for me.”

  “Preposterous!” cried Lady Catherine. “You shall sleep in your old room.”

  Anne’s mouth pursed up, and she tried to hold her mother’s stare. She looked down. Lady Catherine smiled.

  “You are yourself again, I see. I will disregard this outburst, Anne. You will go now and lie down for an hour.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  She crept up to her room and found it prepared for her. She lay down upon her bed, intending to think very hard, and promptly fell asleep. When she awoke, the hour had passed. She trotted along to Reerdon’s room.

  The very sight of her valiant lord lying back pale, his eyes dull with pain, filled her with remorse for her cowardice.

  “Oh, Frederick dear, Mama will not allow me to sleep in here, and I so want to be near you.”

  “Never mind, little sparrow. I would be no use to you, with my leg like this.”

  “Frederick, I thought I could be of use to you. I thought you wanted me here.”

  “So I do, but what’s to be done? I would soon straighten the matter out, if I were well.” The firmness of his tone sent a shiver through her.

  “Are you cold, poppet? Sit up next to me, then. Good gracious, you weigh no more than a will-o’-th’-wisp.” She felt the movement of his muscles through his nightshirt. He pulled her close. He kissed her, quite differently from that time before. She could feel his hand pressing against the spot under her arm where her heart beat, so fast. She knew not if she wished or feared that he might reach a little further. He groaned.r />
  “What did they give me, Anne?”

  “Laudanum.”

  Someone knocked sharply at the door and opened it so quickly that she had only time to sit up primly on the bed. Lady Catherine strode in, followed by Lady Reerdon. Anne slipped off the bed and faced them. Reerdon squinted, his vision out of focus, and he made out a fierce old lady glaring at his poppet.

  “Go to your room, Anne,” said her mother.

  Anne shook with a feeling of which she did not know the name. Breath came to her with such a struggle; she was suffocating. The words burst out:

  “I shall only leave if my husband bids me go.”

  It was long since her mother’s eyes had looked at her like this, with a chill that scorched her. Her blood was pounding in her ears; her stomach churned. One thing could save her. She must throw herself on her knees and beg her mother’s forgiveness, grovel, cry and clutch the hem of her gown.

  But … rising through the fear was something new.

  “My dear Anne—” began Lady Reerdon reasonably.

  “She stays,” slurred Reerdon. “You hear me.”

  Anne straightened. Her eyes twitched as she tried to hold her mother’s stare.

  Like icicles on a frosty night, the ever-dreaded words dropped from her ladyship’s lips: “Anne, I am most seriously displeased.”

  Anne’s lips trembled so that she knew her fear could be seen. She put her shaking hands behind her.

  Then twenty-three years of a feeling, so deeply buried she had scarcely known it was there, surged up hotly through her. It was rage. Fury beat in her ears and in her head.

  “I care not!”

  Her face a mask of hatred, Lady Catherine swept from the room.

  “You plucky little love,” mumbled Reerdon.

  “You pair of fools!” hissed his mother and hurried after her hostess.

  “Give me a kiss, Anne,” muttered the bridegroom, and he lost consciousness.

  Later, Reerdon’s valet ushered in the hired nurse. The patient was sunk in deep slumber and, her tear-stained face next to his on the pillow, lay Anne, fast asleep. As the nurse began to lift her in her meaty arms, the bride stirred, reached out and clasped a handful of Frederick’s nightshirt.

  “Best ring for her maid, Mr. Larton. Poor thing.”

  The two women changed Anne into her nightdress and tucked her in beside her husband.

  “I never before sat up with a married couple on their nuptial night!” chuckled the nurse. “If his lordship wakes and gets frisky, I’ll ’it him on the ’ead.”

  “I hardly think there will be call for that, Nurse.”

  The nurse snorted leeringly.

  “There’s not much for him to get a hold of, anyhow.”

  The maid frowned. “I shall sleep in here tonight, to be near should Miss de—the Countess need me,” said the maid haughtily. “I shall take the settee.”

  “Just as you like, dearie. I have no need of it, for I shall be on duty.”

  Anne and Frederick slept the night away in each others’ arms. With her fingers in her ears, the maid tossed on the hard settee, to the tuneful accompaniment of the snores of the nurse in her armchair.

  Day followed long day at Rosings, and neither party varied in determination. Never could the dowager Lady Reerdon have predicted such a pass.

  “My dear Frederick,” she pleaded, “I beg you to temper your conduct with a thought to Lady Catherine’s fortune.”

  “Mother, there are times in a man’s life when he must stand up for what is right, without fear or favour.”

  “I do not see you standing just now. Frederick, I fear you will regret this foolishness.”

  “It will do the old girl good, Mother, to see she cannot have her way in all things. No permanent damage will be done, you’ll see.”

  “What I do see is that it has taken but two days of married life for you to forget the purpose of your marriage.”

  “Well, I will not be ruled by Lady Catherine—and neither shall Anne.”

  Therein lay the crux of the difficulty. Never before had the dowager found her son unmanageable. Frederick’s delight in his wife beggared belief. After meeting Anne for the first time, he had groaned that a man couldn’t possibly be asked to marry such a creature, and was only brought to face the necessity by having the mortgage papers thrust under his nose. Now the girl led him around by the selfsame proboscis.

  Relations between the new countess and her mother were very strained. Anne trembled in anticipation of each meeting, but, with her husband’s encouragement, steeled herself to behave with cool respect.

  Lord Maddersfield agreed with Lady Catherine that Anne was behaving outrageously, and promised her to do the best he could for the family. He had a private audience with his niece, telling her he liked a lass with spirit and that he’d never liked her so well as now. If she buckled under, after throwing off the yoke, her mother would dominate both her and her husband forever.

  He returned to the drawing room and shrugged his shoulders.

  “I endeavoured to talk sense into her, Sister, but she thinks nothing of the wisdom of her elders nowadays, it seems.”

  Mr. Collins rushed to Rosings the morning after the wedding to inquire after the invalid. Lady Catherine was so steaming with rage that she was ready to talk about it, even to him.

  “Yes,” he said. “It seems rash of the earl to insist that his wife sleep there. She may have rolled on the injured limb in the night.”

  “What care I for his injured limb?” cried her ladyship. “I care nothing for it. My daughter and son-in-law have treated me with grave disrespect, and for that I care very much indeed.”

  “Perhaps there is an explanation for their neglect of their duty to your Ladyship, to whom they owe the utmost gratitude and deference,” said Collins.

  “You think there may be a rational explanation for their conduct, and they will be led to make suitable apology to me?”

  “When they realise they have fallen from your Ladyship’s good graces, and by their own fault, they will be overcome with remorse … desolation, may I say?”

  “You, Mr. Collins, are just the person to point out their fault to them.”

  “I, your Ladyship? I am most honoured by your trust in me but I cannot aspire to the belief that I might influence matters amongst those in a position so much more exalted than my own humble station.” He mopped his brow.

  “Your belief is immaterial, Mr. Collins. Ring the bell.”

  The countess submitted to a lecture on filial duty, then put some earnest questions about wifely duty, which rather distracted the parson from the correct line of his discourse. In fact, during the next few days, Mr. Collins performed so many volte-faces that he resembled a conversational spinning top.

  Colonel Fitzwilliam begged Anne to have a thought for her mother’s years and for their coming separation. What harm could it do to apologise, even if her mother were in the wrong? In truth, he felt compassion for his aunt, terrible old tyrant though she was. He sensed what no others seemed to see—the pain behind her rage; and he feared for the loneliness of her old age.

  “Dear Henry,” said Lady Catherine. “You are the only relation who has not betrayed me. Will you desert me, too?”

  “You know I will not, but, my dear Aunt, Anne has been a good and dutiful daughter to you all her life. I am convinced that she is longing for your forgiveness. One affectionate word and all will be as it was before.”

  “It will never be as it was before, but I am ready to forgive her when she acknowledges her fault. I have ever been renowned for Christian charity.”

  Lady Catherine did not get the opportunity to practise her Christian benevolence, for how can one forgive a wrong for which there has been no humble apology? Anne was brought to say she was sorry her mother felt pained, but she would not say she was sorry for the grievous crimes of sleeping in her husband’s bed on their wedding night and saying she did not care what her mother thought about it. She followed the Collins M
ethod, as she saw it; she was respectful towards her mother, but with a new under-layer of confidence. Lady Catherine saw her meekness for the performance that it now was.

  Two weeks after the wedding, Lady Catherine sent for her attorneys. On her death, her daughter, Anne, was to be left with investments and property amounting to less than a third of her mother’s total fortune. Future inheritance of Rosings and its estates, with all its rents from farms and cottages, was made over irrevocably to her ladyship’s beloved nephew, the Honourable Henry Fitzwilliam. Her attorneys’ urgent advice, that she not take so drastic and final a step, went unheard.

  The injured mother of the bridegroom swept into the invalid’s chamber, where her juniors looked at her in trepidation.

  “I warned you, Frederick, from the beginning. Why did you sign the marriage articles without ensuring Anne’s inheritance?”

  “I know not, Mother. She glared at me so.”

  “I begged you to temper your behaviour, although I never imagined a result as disastrous as this!”

  “A gentleman’s honour, Mother, is a … um, gentleman’s honour.”

  “Your honour was bought rather high. Pray do not look so frightened, Anne. We will simply make the best of the situation.”

  “You are very kind, Countess.”

  “Kind I always endeavour to be, but you are the countess now, my dear. I have sent for the physician to ascertain the earliest possible date for our departure.” She left the room.

  Silence deepened around the two. Reerdon was sunk in thought, and gave a sigh. Certainly, Anne’s dowry would release his houses in Surrey and London from mortgage. His income was free now for the overdue refurnishing of Cumberwell House. Yet the loss of Rosings was grievous. He sighed again. Anne’s eyes stung, and hot tears spilled over. A little sob escaped her.