Darcy and Anne (2 page)

Conversation with Lady Catherine was at all times a matter of listening rather than speaking, and the expressions most commonly in use were “Yes, ma'am,” and, occasionally, “No, ma'am.” Anne was quite used to following her own train of thought in silence. Now she realized that her mother had some time ago ceased speaking. Looking up, she saw that Lady Catherine's face had lost its usual ruddy hue, and was very white. Suddenly Lady Catherine fell forward. Mullins gave a startled exclamation, then, seeing her mistress gasping for breath, screamed. Lady Catherine was in the throes of a sudden, extremely painful sickness. Anne tried to hold her, she twisted and writhed; Anne called to her; she could not reply.

The postilion had felt the movement, even before he heard the noise; he pulled up the horses; the carriage stopped. But even as it did so, Lady Catherine wrenched at the door handle, thrust herself out, and set foot on the step. The carriage jerked to a halt; she slipped; she fell. The ditch at this point was steep and stony; she fell into it, onto the stones.

Mullins cried, “My lady! My lady!” Anne thought she screamed, too; then they were all standing in the road. When Anne, trying to help her mother to stand up, took her arm, Lady Catherine gave a cry of pain, and collapsed back onto the ground. Mullins gasped, “Oh, she is dead!” and went into hysterics. All was fright, distress, and confusion.

V
EHICLES WERE PASSING ON THE ROAD, BUT THE BULK OF THE chaise, and the depth of the ditch, mostly shielded them from view. However, a carriage—a gentleman's carriage by the look of it—did stop, and a sensible-looking woman over the middle age got out, spoke to the coachman, and came toward them. “You are in a sad case,” she said. “Can I or my carriage be of use to you?” Anne, frightened, and ashamed of the figure her mother must make, could hardly speak, but managed to stammer out her thanks—“She did not wish to be troublesome, and the carriage had sustained no harm, but they were indeed in difficulty"—and an account of their circumstances.

At this point, Lady Catherine opened her eyes. “Where are we?” she said. “Anne, what are you doing? What is happening? Who is that person? I am very ill,” and she lost consciousness again. Mullins screamed “Oh, she is alive!” and stood wringing her hands. Anne and the lady scrambled down into the ditch, and tried to support Lady Catherine, while the coachman and footman maintained that air of lofty indifference which seems to be the attitude of all hired drivers, even though their passengers might happen to be dying.

“Your mother is indeed alive,” the lady said, “but we cannot know what ails her. What do you want to do? Would you rather take her to some place where she can get help, though it might hurt her to be moved, or wait here with her and I will see if a doctor can be sent out to you? By the way, my name is Endicott, and I live in Hoddersley.”

Anne had never in her life made a decision on behalf of herself, let alone her mother. But there could be but one answer to that. Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Anne knew, would endure any discomfort, any pain, sooner than stay there, sick and distressed, her hair disordered and her clothing soiled, in view of passersby.

“We were on our way to Pemberley,” she ventured.

“Pemberley! that is at least fifteen miles from here. I think she is too ill to travel so far.”

“Can you tell me, ma'am, where we are?” Anne asked. “Are we close to any town or village?”

“We are within a mile or so of Burley, ahead of us, and four miles the other way from Hoddersley,” Mrs Endicott said. “Hoddersley is a big town. You would certainly find everything there that you require.”

“We passed through it,” Anne said, remembering the noisy town, full of manufactories, with its dirty air and bad smells. “Is Burley the town with the famous medicinal well?”

“Yes,” Mrs Endicott said. “Do you know it?”

“I have read about it,” Anne said. “Is it not a resort for invalids? Surely, there would be a doctor there? I think perhaps we should go there. Only a mile, and it would be better for my mother. Is that what I should do, ma'am?”

“I cannot make the choice for you or her, my dear; only you can do that,” Mrs Endicott said.

Anne took a deep breath. “Then we will go to Burley.”

“I think that is the right thing to do. You can be on your way as soon as that silly maid helps your mother into the carriage. The Royal George is the best inn. I will drive there with you, and speak to them. Come, woman! help your mistress. Put your arm round her; that is right. Now, if I lift her on the other side…”

It was done, more quickly than she could have thought possible. Lady Catherine, inert, took up a good deal of space, and Mrs Endicott offered to take Anne in her carriage, but Anne thought she ought to stay with her mother. Mrs Endicott took Mullins up instead, gave directions to the coachman, and bade her a kindly farewell. The door closed, the coachman whipped up his horses, and they were on their way. Anne sat forward awkwardly on the front seat, holding her mother's hand, and trying to tell her calmly that they would soon be there; soon the doctor would make her feel better. Her own mind was in disorder, as she repeated the words, and all she could recall was that the lady had called Mullins—the formidable Mullins—silly.

Twenty years ago, the famous Burley spring was a damp depression in a meadow, where women brought their washing, and the sick sometimes their aching bones. Then progress—or rather the desire for money—arrived. The hot spring, imprisoned in a fine stone casing, was surrounded with a Pump Room, bathhouse, and promenade, and renamed the “Burley Chalybeate.” Assembly Rooms, shops, and several hostelries and elegant lodgings sprang up around it. But numerous other springs had been so apotheosed, and many resort towns had hopefully sprung up. The number of visitors to the remote Derbyshire dale was not so great as could be wished. Although the summer was becoming very hot, the hotels were still not full, and the Duchess of Stilbury, whose visit was the most anticipated event of the season, had chosen to hire furnished lodgings rather than stay at the Royal George.

Had it been otherwise, even Mrs Endicott might have had trouble getting any attention for the timid young lady in the close bonnet and old-fashioned dress. As it was, the name of “Lady Catherine de Bourgh” was all that was needed. The proprietor, the proprietor's wife, the waiters, the chambermaids, the ostlers, the very potboys, all smartened up and bustled themselves about at the prospect of a Lady Catherine; and almost before she knew it, Anne was in possession of a very decent bedchamber, a private sitting room, and the services of a chambermaid, while in a rather larger bedroom, a capable-looking doctor, hastily summoned, was attending to her mother, with Mullins obeying his every command.

Dr Lawson soon joined her, and told her that Lady Catherine had broken her arm. But her principal problem was a very bad case of poisoning. She had obviously eaten some noxious food, probably some meat that had gone bad in the warm weather. He did not think that her case was desperate, but it was serious; a few hours would show how bad it was. In any case, she must not expect her mother to be well again in a few days, or even weeks. Lady Catherine would require attention by day and night, to a far greater extent than her maid could provide; he would like to send in a sickroom assistant, an excellent woman whom he had employed in several cases; would Miss de Bourgh agree to the expenditure? Anne assented.

“Now, I must leave you,” he said. “I have several other cases to see to; but I will return, and Mrs Williams will probably arrive before I do; I will tell them downstairs to send for her as soon as may be, for I think your maid is a little bewildered,” and he left.

Anne felt that she, too, was bewildered. But she must rouse herself, she must think. There was money in Lady Catherine's reticule, and she had paid off the post-chaise; but she had engaged herself in a good many expenses. She had no idea of how people arranged to pay for things, when they were from home. Her mother, or her mother's man of business, had always attended to such matters. Things were ordered, and bills paid; Anne had never had more than a few shillings in her own purse. Then, too, they would be expected at Pemberley—but no! her mother had not specified any particular date, no one would be anxious. But she was alone! she, who had never in her life been alone. What was she to do? How was she to go on? All her life, somebody had told her what to do; and now, she must think, she must act for herself.

She thought of writing to Mr Colby, her mother's agent, at Rosings, but the letter must go down into Kent, and then it would certainly take him several days to arrive. The best thing she thought she could do, was to write to Mr and Mrs Darcy, and send the letter by the post; if she had understood her friend of the carriage—Mrs… Mrs Endicott—aright, Pemberley was but fifteen miles distant. Her cousin might be haughty and disdainful, but if she wrote to him, he would certainly assist her. If he did not come himself, he would send someone; maybe his man of business, or the lady who was Georgiana's companion, for Anne did not rate her claims to attention very high. Letters, she had heard, usually arrived on the following day after they were sent. Someone would come, as early as tomorrow—or the next day. Meanwhile, the hotel people, and the doctor, surely would not ask her for any money for a few days—no! of course they would not.

She sat down at the desk, and after a struggle with the bad pen, and the black mud that the hotel called ink, she found the actual composition of the letter very easy; she had something to tell, she had something to ask. She folded the letter and directed it, then looked into her mother's room. No attendant had yet arrived, and Mullins was fully occupied; her mother could not be left alone. The chambermaid had disappeared, and there seemed to be nobody about the hotel who was not frantically busy. In the end, she timidly asked directions of a hurried waiter, and set out, a little nervously, to find the post office.

T
HE POST OFFICE WAS LOCATED NOT FAR AWAY, OUTSIDE THE fashionable quarter, but only a couple of streets distant, beside the church, in the old part of the town. It was toward the end of a warm afternoon, the promenade was not busy, and the few strollers took no notice of Anne.

She had never in her life gone beyond the palings of Rosings Park on foot. She had never gone anywhere unaccompanied. She had always been told that her health did not permit her to learn to ride. Her exercise was always limited to a walk in the formal garden, or the grounds, and if she left them, it was for a carriage drive. Usually she drove with her mother, sometimes alone; but “alone,” of course, always meant in the company of Mrs Jenkinson. It was quite easy to find her way, but even so, she found the walk to the post office very tiring and trying; she felt that everyone must be staring at her; she wondered what she would do if she were to get lost; and the heat, radiating back from the fronts of the houses, distressed her greatly. The walk, of less than half a mile, seemed dreadfully long. However, she arrived at last; the place was not busy; in fact there were no customers; the civil postmistress took her letter; the letter was sent! it must arrive tomorrow, and her cousins would come and rescue her, or send someone, or write, at least.

The walk back was successfully navigated; but by the time she arrived at the hotel, heat, nervousness, and exhaustion had brought on a bilious head-ache. Her legs were shaking so much that she could scarcely walk up the stairs. She opened the door of her sitting room, to find Dr Lawson seated at the table, writing.

“Ah, my dear young lady,” he said. “They told me you were gone out, and I was leaving a note for you. Your mother is no worse, and we certainly need not fear for her life. Her arm has been strapped up, and Mrs Williams is there and knows just what to do for her. But let me look at you! What have you been doing? You are quite white; you are perspiring. The post office? You are knocked up after a walk to the post office? Dear me. Have I one patient, or two? You feel queasy? Yes, I thought so.” He strode to the door, and she heard him shouting at the head of the stairs, to someone, to bring a pot of mint tea—"Hot, mind!"—right away. Anne leaned back in a chair, and closed her eyes.

The mint tea made her feel much more comfortable; and she was very soon able to accede to Dr Lawson's request to see any medications that she was in the habit of taking. When he saw the half-dozen bottles, his face changed; he looked very grave, and took them up, one by one, muttering “Yes, very well; but this—no! together with this, my G—, what are they trying to do to the girl? And this—absolutely noxious—absolute poison!” He asked if she had any list of the ingredients used to make them up. “Yes, sir, for the doctor thought, if we were away for a considerable time, I would need more. I think I can find it… yes, here it is.”

He looked at it, and said “Miss de Bourgh, may I ask you to do something for me? Will you refrain from taking these medications, for a few days? I think you will find that you do better without them, especially if you will try to spend some time every day in the fresh air. I promise you, that if you feel at all unwell, I will make up something to make you feel better.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Do you have difficulty eating? Yes, I thought so. It would be surprising if you did not. I will send you some raspberry tea, which I think you will find helpful. It is very simple, very natural, you need fear nothing. We must get you eating a little more, we do not like our young ladies to be quite so thin; we like young ladies a little fatter than this, in Derbyshire. I will tell good Mrs Brown to send you up a very plain supper; you cannot take rich foods, and do not be concerned if you do not feel like eating much, tonight, after the day you have had. But try to drink as much as you can; you may drink water, or lemonade, or tea, but not wine.”

“Oh no, sir, I never touch it.”

“Now, Miss de Bourgh, I must leave you. You will have but a dull day tomorrow, I am afraid, but you have had a great shock, and would do well to take things easy. You may look in upon your mother, but I have given her something to make her sleep; she will not need any attention from you. Mrs Williams knows just what to do. You can walk round the town as much as you like, the old town or the new, we are very law-abiding people here, no bad characters. Go and drink some of our good spring water, it is very useful, though not such a miracle-worker as some people like to think. And of course you will like to go to church; we are proud of our church, a beautiful old building.” And with a courteous farewell he was gone.

Go to church! Good heavens, today was Saturday! Tomorrow was Sunday! She had never given it a thought. Her letter certainly would not be delivered, probably had not yet left the post office. Her cousins would know nothing of her plight until Monday, or more probably Tuesday; and she almost burst into tears, at the thought of her useless, exhausting walk. Well! There was nothing to be done. She must wait. Help would some time come. She lay back and closed her eyes.

The promised supper arrived: some soup, a little roast chicken, and a very good jelly, along with the raspberry tea. Anne found, to her surprise, that she was hungry. The food was simple and good, the portions were small, and best of all, there was no one there to be concerned about what she ate, or how much.

After eating, she wondered whether it really was a good idea to take no medicine at all, whether she should not at least take her opiate; but found that every single bottle was gone. She remembered Dr Lawson working on the catch of his bag, while he was talking; he must have absentmindedly put them in. Never mind! He would certainly bring them back.

She looked in to enquire after her mother. Lady Catherine was asleep, and looked so exhausted, she hardly recognized her. The kind-faced woman who was the sickroom assistant told her not to worry. “I've seen people much worse than her, miss; she will do very well. She will be well enough to be cross tomorrow, you'll see.” Anne found herself so tired, nothing really seemed to matter, and although the sun had barely set, she thought she must go to bed. It was refreshing to think that there was nobody who would object, or even care.

But sleep did not come. She had been in the habit of taking laudanum for too long. Anne tossed and turned for some while; then another circumstance arose, to prevent her from sleeping. Her room overlooked the promenade, the hotel was directly opposite the entrance to the Rooms, and it was an assembly night. She heard the horses' hooves, the murmur of people arriving, she heard laughter; in the end she arose, and watched the carriages arrive, the pretty girls and the lively young men. It was a hot night, few wraps were worn; she could see the shimmer of jewels and the glint of embroidery. The music started. Over the laughter and chatter, she could hear it faintly. Soon the street was almost empty, only a few coachmen lingering, a few horses stamping as they stood. She could hear the music clearly now. Anne was still awake when the music stopped and the sound of laughter, the sound of horses' hooves, told her that the dance was over, and the people were going home.