Darcy and Anne (7 page)

L
ADY LOUISA WAS A KIND AND SENSIBLE WOMAN. SHE HAD BEEN a close friend of lady Anne Darcy, and for her sake, held her son and daughter in affection. She had never been as fond of Lady Catherine, though she corresponded with her regularly, and Anne she hardly remembered. She had come to Pemberley out of concern for Georgiana. Mr Darcy, in his letter of invitation, had hinted that it was time Georgiana was thinking of a husband, and that there seemed to be few suitable young men available. Lady Louisa, from a wealth of experience, wondered if an unsuitable one were in the picture.

Now, she realized, the picture was complex. It did not take her five minutes to recognize Georgiana's admiration for Colonel Fitzwilliam, and to discount it; the Colonel, at his age, was not likely to fall in love with a young girl. Nor, if he did so, would he think it right to persuade his wealthy cousin to marry him. Georgiana was young enough, she would get over it; but another admirer or two would certainly help. And, if she were in the habit of falling in love (there had been rumours), it would be as well to get her suitably married as soon as might be.

Anne was another matter; her mother had described her as sickly and frail, but she was nothing of the kind. However, she was five-and-twenty if she was a day. Catherine was a great fool, Lady Louisa thought, to let her hang around all those years after Darcy, who anybody could see would only marry a woman of the greatest charm and beauty, a woman to sweep him off his feet. This was not such a girl, though she would not make a bad wife, either. Edmund Caldwell obviously thought so, but that was no use—he could not aspire to the heiress of Rosings and thirty thousand pounds. Lady Louisa began making a list of the men she knew—not too young— deserving of Anne and thirty thousand pounds. It was a quite encouraging list, and she decided to give a ball within the next few weeks.

The evening was warm and sultry. Dinner was late, and afterwards, everyone was too hot for dancing. The doors of the drawing-room opened on the terrace, and at first everybody strolled about, feeling listless; presently they were all assembled inside. “Would Miss Georgiana play for them?”

Georgiana played two or three pieces, but seemed disinclined for more. Then Mr Bennet quietly said, “If the company would like it, I will read to you.” Everyone expressed an inclination—to be read to was the very thing, for all they need do was sit, and listen.

Mr Bennet began, reading from some papers in his lap. It was an historic tale—a prose story, written in such a vein as to be almost poetry; a tale of a castle by moonlight, and a young girl waiting, sadly, for someone who did not return. The water fell plashing into the fountain, the white roses bloomed, the young girl wept. When Mr Bennet stopped, Georgiana drew a deep breath, and Mrs Caldwell wiped away a tear.

“Who wrote it?” was the question on everybody's lips, and “Was there more?”

“Papa,” said Elizabeth, “you do not usually read romantic tales— where had you such a story?”

“Why, my dear,” said Mr Bennet, “did you not write it? I found it on my table in the library, and thought that you had put it there for me to see.”

“No indeed,” said Elizabeth, “I never wrote anything in my life, longer than a letter; and surely the handwriting is not mine.”

“All women,” said her father, “write the same vile hand.”

“The story is mine,” Anne said shyly. “I left the sheets on a table in the library; I did not know, sir, that the table was yours.”

There was immediate clamour. They had an authoress in their midst—how long had she been writing? Why had she said nothing? How did the story continue? And how did it end?

“I have written for years,” said Anne. “I had a governess who recommended to me the copying of extracts, to improve my handwriting. I found it very dull copying other people's writings, and began to invent my own: little stories, poems, essays. Then I read a couple of novels and thought them rather silly. I thought I could do as well, and just to amuse myself, I began that story.”

“And how does it go on?”

“Oh, she runs away to the Crusades, and has all kind of adventures. It is all nonsense.”

“But, we must hear it!”

“One moment,” said Mr Bennet. “Miss de Bourgh has been imposed on; I would not have read these pages, if I had known whose work they were. Only she can decide whether to allow us to hear more.”

What authoress is really reluctant to have her story read to an admiring, encouraging crowd? Anne took the manuscript, and began to read. It was a strange feeling to be reading what she had written. All eyes were upon her; but her confidence increased as she read. After three or four chapters, her voice grew thick. “Come,” Said Mrs Darcy, “the rest must be for other evenings, it is too late now. The Lambton assembly is tomorrow,” and the party broke up. Anne was thanked and praised; everyone wanted to hear more. Only Edmund Caldwell was silent.

But it was hard for Anne to sleep. Mr Caldwell and the Colonel were to leave the house as soon as they had breakfasted the next morning. She felt an urgent need to thank Mr Caldwell for his kindness to her the previous day; she could not let him go without thanking him. And yet she dared not ask him for an interview—it would look so particular! As far as she knew, her cousin had told nobody the story—except the Colonel, who, after all, was also a cousin—and somehow she knew that Edmund had not mentioned it to anybody. Suppose she were to sleep late, and he were to leave before she could speak to him? The maid who waited on her had been told to call her, but maids were often unreliable… Anne tossed and turned until it seemed to her that dawn was breaking, and then suddenly there was a voice calling her, and the maid had remembered after all.

There was, in fact, no difficulty; he was standing on the terrace, looking at the view. She tried to put her thanks into words; he cut her short.

“What I did was nothing, and I have no right to assist you; I wish I had. But there is something I wish to say to you,” he said. “Your cousin will have told you this already, but I will repeat it. I read that document; you have every right to your own money, and your mother, however good her intentions, was wrong to withhold it. The matter would be different, of course, if your mother were in any danger of financial hardship; but that is certainly not the case. And even then, she should not have withheld, without asking, money which belongs to you. We all have obligations to a parent, but as we grow into adulthood, our responsibilities change; we owe respect, affection, but not blind, unthinking obedience. We have duties, which a parent cannot forbid us to perform. You are responsible for your money, and it is your task to decide how it should be used. Do not ever allow anyone to tell you, as that man did, that 'young ladies' have no need to think, or no right to learn. Never allow anyone to do your thinking for you.”

“No… no… I will remember. But…”

“But?”

“I do not know… Will you be at the assembly tonight?”

“No. I cannot.”

“And you do not much care to dance, do you?”

“Not much. I can understand why people like to dance, but I am clumsy; the music does not speak to me as it does to some. I am not made for mirth. But you love to dance, do you not?”

“Not as much as Georgiana; I like it, but I am soon tired.”

“You must exercise more, then you will not get tired.”

“But I am learning to ride.”

“That is very good,” said he, smiling, “but you must walk a little, too, every day.”

“Very well, I will try.”

“Now I must be on my way. I must be about my business. I know, why cannot I stay—you must think me a money-grubbing fellow, and that is what I am.

“You see, Miss de Bourgh, there is something I must tell you. My parents had a good fortune, but some years ago, I persuaded them to enter into a doubtful speculation. I was young, I was foolish, I was misled by dishonest people, and they lost a great deal of money. It was my fault, and I must ensure that their fortune is restored. They are all goodness, they have never asked for anything or spoken a word of blame, but that is my responsibility. Our land is not profitable for farming, but the quarry has opened up a very good way of making money, and it gives employment to people, who would not otherwise have work. I chose to employ local men, rather than bring in outsiders, but they are not used to the work, and they require constant attention and supervision. This is why I must go, when I would much rather stay. It may be many years before I have the money to be leisured.”

“I see.”

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, sir… Mr Caldwell!”

“Yes, ma'am?”

“Thank you for telling me about… about… I understand your situation, and I honour you for it.”

He turned to go; turning back, he raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it. Then he was gone.

M
RS DARCY, USED TO LIVING AMONG A LARGE NUMBER OF sisters, was really rejoiced to have Anne staying with her, and equally glad to have Lady Louisa and the Caldwells in her home for the night of the Lambton assembly. She enjoyed the happy bustle of the day before a ball.

“The Assembly rooms are almost outside our gates,” she told her husband. “You can have no fears for me. I shall not dance, but I do wish to go.”

“I only wondered,” he said, “If you and Mrs Annesley would like to stay behind. I will tell you what I do fear, and that is, bringing six women to an assembly, and only one man. I have only Caldwell. Fitzwilliam and Edmund Caldwell have left us, and your father refuses to go.”

“I know; he never would go to the dances at Meryton. But my mother brought all five of us, and there was always a shortage of gentlemen as a result. Do you remember the evening that we met? I could not get a partner, and was sitting down. That is why I overheard you, when you were so ungallant as to refuse to dance with me. I know now, of course, the reason for your bad temper: you were just come from dealing with the abominable Wickham,” she said.

“If you remind me of
that,
I can refuse you nothing. In any case, poor Mrs Annesley should not be required to forgo an evening's enjoyment, merely to suit my requirements.”

“She is an excellent person, is she not? I thought that we would not need her, but she is so good-tempered, so useful. Georgiana still needs a music instructress, and Anne is enjoying her lessons, too.”

“Yes, indeed. In any case, I do not like to dismiss a person who has given us such good service, for who knows whether she would get another post? And besides, my love, in a very few years' time, we will need a governess, will we not?”

In view of her husband's anxiety, however, Mrs Darcy agreed to stay quietly at home for the morning, and allow Mrs Annesley and Georgiana to take Anne into Lambton, to buy a new pair of dancing sandals, and a few other necessities for the evening.

This was enough to spread the news around the town that a large party from Pemberley would be at the assembly. Some said Mr and Mrs Darcy would bring ten women, and eight men, others said there would be six women and five men, but it was generally known that an heiress would be among the party, and someone pointed out that it was twice as good as the first report, for, if one counted Miss Georgiana Darcy, that made two.

Lambton had some excellent shops, and what with the buying of new gloves, and inspecting Georgiana's purchases, and approving of them, the morning flew away. It was just as well, thought Anne, for she had not time to think, and she was not sure that she wanted it.

But a mind like hers, used to solitude, must and will find it. In the course of the afternoon, she found herself at the table in the corner of the library that she had come to regard as hers. Mr Bennet had categorically refused to take it, saying that authors were privileged people, and that all the reward he claimed was the pleasure of hearing more of her story: “The place is enormous, and there are at least half a dozen very comfortable armchairs, where I can sleep in peace,” he told her; and he told his daughter, “I would even let Miss de Bourgh into my own library at home, for I will guarantee that she does not chatter, or disturb one by wanting a pen mended, or an argument settled. She is a very uncommon young woman.”

“There is more to her than any of us thought,” Elizabeth replied. “Who would have thought that she had such an imagination? Such a power of telling a story?”

But this afternoon, Anne's mind seemed empty. She could not write a line; she could not review what she had written previously; she could not even read. All she could think of were Edmund's words, Edmund's look, Edmund's gesture.

He had kissed her hand. Men did not commonly kiss a woman's hand; she had never known such a thing. Taken in conjunction with what he had told her, it was as if he were saying goodbye. A farewell. She knew it, and she knew why:
he loves me, and I love him.

It would never do. She knew it; and she understood it was his way of telling her that he knew it, too. His lack of rank, his restricted means, his occupation, not to mention his egalitarian ideas, all would make him unacceptable to her mother. Lady Catherine would refuse even to be introduced to him. Darcy too, she thought: even though he had married a penniless woman, of lower rank than his own, and liked Edmund as a friend, he would not welcome him as a cousin. It was very well for a woman to marry above her station, but for a man to seek to wed a woman of higher rank, and great wealth, with nothing to offer in return, would be regarded as fortune-hunting of the meanest description. Edmund would never do it. Rosings was hung around her neck, a burden she could never escape. Her wealth, instead of giving her freedom, would forever imprison her.

Musings like this kept her miserably occupied until Mrs Annesley came to find her. “My dear Miss de Bourgh,” she cried. “What is the matter? You are quite pale. And the assembly tonight! You have the head-ache; you have been reading, you have been writing too long!” Anne had no wish to explain the real reason for her wan looks, and allowed Mrs Annesley to persuade her to take a gentle turn around the grounds, and even to walk as far as the stream, which made her feel much better.

The evening was fine, and the drive pleasant. As they went down the hill through the little town, Mrs Darcy exclaimed, “Oh, my dear, we forgot to find a tenant for the White Cottage.”

“I did not forget,” Darcy said, “but I like to rent it to someone connected with the family, and there is no one, at the moment, answering that description. I want a good tenant, for it is a pretty place.” The carriage was stopped so that they could see it. It was, indeed, pretty. It stood a little back from the street, separated from it by a small garden, with a good-looking orchard behind.

“Rent it to me,” Anne suddenly said. “It is just the sort of little place I should like. I will live there, cousin, and write books.” Everyone laughed.

By the time they got there, the rooms were beginning to fill. It was pleasant to see the kind of stir, the whispering, the smiles of gratification, as the word spread through the room that the party from Pemberley was come. Anne, who had been used to stiffness, embarrassment, and forced cordiality, suddenly realized that her dress was pretty, her jewels exquisite, and her hair very well dressed, and that these people were pleased to meet her. She was introduced here and there; she was asked to dance again and again; and greatest Of wonders, she had no difficulty in dancing, for her partners were so kind and forbearing! She hardly had time to think, and her spirits lifted, in spite of her distress. A ball was indeed delightful!

She soon noticed that Georgiana was not enjoying herself. At first, Anne thought she was missing Colonel Fitzwilliam, but she quickly realized that Georgiana was simply shy in a large company. She did not know how to reply to well-meant commonplaces, and was uncomfortable with those of lower rank. Her manner was stiff; she looked haughty, even plain. Anne remembered what it was like to be young, and trying to make a good appearance to strangers. There was something to be said, she thought, for being five-and-twenty years old.

After several dances, Anne found herself without a partner, and felt tired. Mrs Darcy was sitting at the side, talking comfortably to her neighbours. Seeing an empty chair beside her, Anne went to sit down. Elizabeth said, “We miss Colonel Fitzwilliam, do we not?”

“Indeed, cousin,” Anne said. She realized that she had not given him a thought; nor had she thought of his errand to her mother. The whole day, in every leisured moment, her thoughts had been with Edmund Caldwell:
He cannot marry—he meant to tell me that he cannot marry, not for many years; that he cannot marry me… I will live there, and write books…

“Anne, I have made three unexceptionable remarks, and you have not answered,” Mrs Darcy said. “I admit that they were all three very dull—but is something amiss?”

“Oh, no,” Anne said. “No, not at all… Oh, Elizabeth, who is that girl that Georgiana is talking to? Do but look at her!”

Both looked. Miss Darcy was standing talking to a pretty girl, and the change in her manner was remarkable. They were too far away to hear anything, but Georgiana was smiling, she was laughing, she was clasping the other girl by the hand, and the flush on her cheeks spoke of happiness.

Elizabeth turned to her neighbour. “Who is that, Mrs Hatherley, the young lady in the blue muslin?”

“It is Miss Rackham, ma'am; that is her brother, dancing with Mrs Shipton. His mama is sitting down, over there; she is a widow.”

“Of course, we were introduced just now,” said Mrs Darcy. “So those are her children.”

“They are but just come into the country. His uncle was old Sir William, a sad invalid, at Wharton Place, you know, ma'am. He died a few weeks ago, and this young man has inherited the title and the property, but they say it is in a terrible state, for the old gentleman did nothing to it. He is not at all handsome, but a very pleasant, well-spoken young man.”

But she had not time to say more, for Georgiana came over to them, bringing the pretty girl, and introduced her.

“She was at school with me,” she explained. “I was homesick, and Mary was so kind to me. It was the horridest place you can think of. I became sick, and then my dear brother came and took me away, but Mary was sick, too, at the same time, and I never got her direction—and here she is!”

Arrangements were rapidly made: they were to ride together, to draw together, and as soon as the weather should be wet, to play the pianoforte together. As they drove away, Georgiana seemed a different girl, and Lady Louisa made up her mind, when she gave her own ball, to include the young Rackhams in her invitations.