Darcy and Anne (12 page)

A
NNE ENJOYED DANCING NOW, SO MUCH THAT SHE WAS VERY sorry not to go to Lady Louisa's ball; but it could not be. Her head was still tender, and the very thought of an evening of noise, activity, and music made her feel ill. In any case, her mother was hardly likely to believe her still unwell, if she were there. She saw the others on their way, and spent a quiet afternoon and evening with Elizabeth and her father. The dancing party would not return until the next day.

She awaited their return with some confidence. Given their activities and her own letter, she thought her mother might be quite happy to renounce her company at Rosings, and see what London could do for her. What it could do, she was not quite certain; but at least, it would offer her more choices, more possibilities, than life at Rosings. In London, Lady Louisa said, there were groups of people who loved the world of letters; perhaps, among them, she would find a congenial marriage. At the very least, Lord Francis might very likely marry somebody else by the time the season was over.

But all these conjectures were wasted. When they returned the next day, Georgiana almost tumbled out of the carriage, in her haste to tell the news: “Lady Catherine was not at the ball! Neither was the Duchess, nor Lord Francis. No one can imagine what has happened. For the whole of the early part of the evening, they were expected, and with every carriage that was heard to draw up, the news flew round the room, and everyone said 'They have arrived!' But it was not so; they never came.”

What had happened? Had some sickness laid them all low? Speculation had run high amongst those attending, Georgiana said, but nobody knew anything, and at last everyone forgot about them, and fell to enjoying themselves. “My brother and the Colonel have ridden into Burley to make enquiries; so we shall soon know more.” But Darcy and the Colonel returned, and all that they had discovered was that all three had gone; they had left Burley the previous day. No messages had been left; no letter was received at Pemberley; they seemed to have vanished into thin air.

Well! at least, her mother was not about to descend, as Anne had occasionally feared, and require her to jump into the carriage, and be carried away to Rosings. Presumably her mother had gone back thither. “Surely she has!” said Elizabeth, “for there certainly must be matters to attend to, farms to visit, tenants to be scolded, after an interval of so many weeks. Think of the number of people who need new shelves in their closets!”

Undoubtedly they would hear from her in due course, but for now the whole matter was forgotten, as the time rapidly approached for the marriage of Mrs Annesley and Colonel Fitzwilliam. There was no making of bride-clothes, there were no lace veils or bevy of bridesmaids, no display of costly gifts. A special licence having, by Darcy's activity, been obtained, they all went down to the church in the early morning, and the marriage took place at the conclusion of the morning service. How quiet the ceremony was! And how significant! For the first time, Anne observed the fact that, in this most important of ceremonies, only Christian names are used; it matters not whether the groom be an Earl, or the bride, a princess: John marries Mary. Reflecting on it, she found herself thinking—she must think—
why could I not marry him; what does rank matter?
But in the everyday business of life, she knew, it did.

Mr Bennet left with the married couple, to share the first part of their journey, until their ways should divide.

Their society was now much restricted, and life at Pemberley became very quiet, but it was a busy, happy quiet. A new master was found, to give Anne her piano lessons; and her riding had improved so much that Georgiana, and the groom, were the only companions she needed. The English summer followed its usual pattern, and a spell of bad weather set in, with rain and cold. It sent Anne to the library, to work steadily on her book. She read it aloud, every evening, and it was almost concluded. None of the Darcys saw any reason why she should not publish it, and various absurd pseudonyms were, at one time or another, suggested.

Then there was an assembly at Lambton, at which Anne, wearing the bronze-green silk, danced almost every dance. Sir Matthew danced with her twice.

A few days later, his mother, together with her younger daughter, Miss Zara Brocklebank, visited Pemberley and, while the girls were strolling about the gardens, had a quiet discussion with Mr Darcy as to Anne's exact prospects. “She did it very well, and one cannot blame them,” Darcy said. “The family has no money, and he must marry well as to fortune. He is a pleasant fellow, and if you liked him, cousin, you could do much worse. Truly, we will not urge you. But I thought it right to drop you a hint, so that you may think it over, and know your own mind.”

Anne thought about it. The date set for the departure of Edmund must have passed; although she had heard nothing, she must assume that he was gone. Even as a beloved guest at Pemberley, she was heartily tired of her single state, which reduced her to the status of a girl, though she was a woman grown. Marriage with Sir Matthew would in many ways be entirely suitable. He was very good-natured; he would be a good steward of Rosings, making few demands for money, as long as he had his horses and his hunting, which the estate could well provide. His rank, his good looks, and his youth would make him acceptable to her mother; and he would not antagonize Lady Catherine with his opinions, for he had none. Alas, Anne could only recall the wedding service she had so recently attended, and “the mutual society, help, and comfort the one should have of the other” would not go out of her mind. It would be a marriage with a man with whom she hardly shared a thought; she could not contemplate it.

Little Lewis continued to thrive, and it was now almost certain that the entire Bennet family, as well as the Bingleys, would come north for the child's christening, in a few weeks, as soon as Mrs Bingley was considered well enough to travel. The question being urgently canvassed by the family was, what should be done about the Bennet sister known as “Lydia.” Should she be invited? Would it be possible to invite her, and not include her husband? Anne felt she would quite like to meet the obviously fascinating Mr Wickham. Surely his eloping with Lydia should be overlooked? They were, after all, married now. But there was something unsaid, some other reason why he was not an acceptable visitor at Pemberley, and it was clear in any case that Lydia herself was not much liked. Elizabeth described her as noisy, silly, and indiscreet, and said that Darcy disliked her almost as much as her husband.

One morning, while they were all having breakfast, Darcy was reading the newspaper. Suddenly he exclaimed “Good G——!” and carelessly setting down his cup, spilt coffee all over the table.

“Whatever is it, my love?” his wife asked.

“When gentlemen are reading the newspaper,” she said to Anne, “expletives are to be expected, but usually it is only some promotion at the Admiralty or some squabble at a Ministry, or some such thing. When it comes to spilling coffee, it is rather more serious. What is it, my love?” but Darcy seemed almost unable to speak.

“She has married him! She has married him!” was all that he could say; and crushing the paper together, he said to his wife, “It concerns Anne; I do not know how to tell her; we should speak together alone.”

“Come, my dear,” Elizabeth said. “Anne is not a child; she can hear it, whatever it is.”

“Indeed I can,” Anne said. “come, cousin, who has married whom? I hope,” she added, laughing, “that it is Lord Francis, then I should be rid of him.”

“It is indeed Lord Francis,” Darcy said, “but he has married…”

“Well?”

“He has married your mother.”

There it was, in all the awful certainty of print, and all the clarity of black and white:
On the —th, at Stilbury Castle, in a private ceremony, the Lady Catherine, relict of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, to Lord Francis Meaburn, second son of the Duke of H——.

Lady Catherine had married Lord Francis Meaburn.

T
HE NEWS STRUCK THEM SPEECHLESS. THE AWESOME LADY Catherine was a widow no more! come to that, she was “Lady Catherine” no more; and indeed, for the first few startled moments, Anne wondered if she were still her mother.

This was the reason for her disappearance! this the reason for her silence! once they could speak, everyone had a question, everyone had a conjecture. Elizabeth wondered whose idea the match had been; it must, she thought, be the Duchess who had thought of it. Darcy wanted to know what kind of bargain Lord Francis had driven: “My aunt talked of money being tied up,” he said, “but it is not so easy to tie up the income of a married woman, who is unlikely to have any children.” Georgiana wondered how two such old people could get married.

“How old are they?” Elizabeth asked.

“I do not think that there is so great a disparity,” Darcy said. “I found out the other day, when we thought he might marry Anne—I looked him up in the Peerage—that Lord Francis is three-and-forty, and I believe my aunt is not yet fifty.”

“She is eight-and-forty,” Anne said. “She is closer in age to him than I am, though of course she is older, not younger.”

What could have driven them to such a match? “I think the reason is obvious,” Darcy said. “On his side, money; he needs money very badly. On her side, rank; she has become the sister of a Duchess and, since Meaburn's father is still alive, the daughter of a Duke. She will stay at stilbury—indeed, clearly, she is already there. She will visit at Deepcombe, the Meaburn estate.”

“But how will she like it, associating with such great people?” Elizabeth asked. “She will not be able to scold and manage them, as she does her tenants at Rosings.”

“Could she get a post at the court?” Georgiana asked.

“I imagine so,” said her brother, “if she wished it, and would be happy to stand, wearing all her diamonds, in silence, for three hours together.”

“Might she be a Duchess, one day?”

“No,” said Darcy. “There are two older brothers, each with several children. A half-dozen people would have to die before she became a Duchess.”

Elizabeth caught her breath on the observation that things often turned out the way Lady Catherine wanted them to, and only thought to herself that she would not wager a great deal of money on the lives of the little Meaburns.

At that moment, the butler entered. “Excuse me, madam, sir, the post has arrived, and there is a packet of letters for Mr Darcy, which must be paid for, and will be quite costly, but I do not know the sender. Should it be returned, or do you know a person named Lady Francis Meaburn?”

“No, I do not…” Darcy began. “Yes, of course I do. Yes, Forrest, yes! Pay; and bring it here as fast as you can. It is my aunt! That is her married name!”

The packet was brought, and was almost torn open in the hurry of everyone to satisfy their curiosity. Clearly, it should have been delivered earlier, but the newspaper had arrived first. It might be some vagary of the post office. “But I wonder if they waited, in the hope of getting a frank,” Darcy said. “I think that the Duke of Stilbury is seldom at home. They may have waited a day or so, and then sent it.”

There were two letters, one for Darcy, and one for Anne, and two legal-looking documents, which turned out to be a copy of Lady Catherine's marriage lines, and a copy of Sir Lewis de Bourgh's Will. “
That
was what they were waiting for,” said Darcy. “Colby must have had to hurry from Rosings to Stilbury with it.”

The sum of the letters was that, “according to established usage,” Lady Catherine's entire assets had been made over to her new husband, as it would all be needed to keep the newly married couple in their station in life. This meant that no provision would in future be made for Anne, “in view of her recalcitrance in the matter of a suitable marriage,” beyond the income she was already receiving from the estate of Sir Lewis de Bourgh. Further, she should not expect the property known as Rosings Park, in Kent, to be bequeathed to her, for, as the Will clearly showed, it was the unentailed property of her mother.

“Established usage, indeed?” said Darcy, “to deprive a daughter of her entire dowry? Lord Francis has driven a hard bargain.”

“More probably his sister,” Elizabeth said.

“
However,”
her mother's letter informed Anne:

“Oh, he sounds dreadful!” Georgiana cried. “Anne, you must not marry him! Brother, tell her she must not!”

But Darcy appeared to be in a brown study. “What?” he said, after a moment. “No, of course she must not, that is, no, nothing must be done.”

“I will not!” Anne exclaimed. “No one shall tell me whom to marry, ever again. I shall live by myself, and write books. Cousin, will you rent the little White Cottage to me, and let me live there?”

“Certainly not,” said her cousin. “My dear"—turning to his wife—"I must go out. I forgot, I have not put on riding clothes; I must change, for I have business.”

“But it rains.”

“Only a little, and it will clear up.”

“Will you not go in the carriage?”

“No, it would not do. I must speak to you before I leave, come with me but one moment,” and grasping his wife's hand, he almost dragged her out of the room.

Anne and Georgiana were left to look at one another in stupefaction. “But, Anne,” Georgiana almost whispered, “she is your mother.” This was the thought that had been in Anne's mind since she had heard the news, this was the realization that gave her pain: that a mother should forget, should ignore her feelings for a daughter so far as to marry, to take on new responsibilities, new duties, and even to have the name of de Bourgh subsumed into a new one, without any discussion, any warning, even!

But as she thought of it, it seemed very much in her mother's character: that decided, impulsive nature; that high opinion of her prestige and powers that believed she could not be wrong; that indisposition, ever to consult, or to ask for advice; that love—to put it vulgarly—of having her own way. Anne could well believe that, once the idea was suggested to her, and she had seen its advantages to herself, nothing would prevent her, nothing would stand in her way; and she would be convinced that her daughter, and her family, would view the matter exactly as she did. Anne had had her chance; she had refused it. No consideration of such a thing as waiting for a handsome wedding, or fear of what others would think, would come between her and her ambition. Indeed, she would probably feel that “if it were done, it were well done quickly,” for clearly she could place no reliance on Lord Francis's affection, should someone else come along, with a better house, and a few more thousand pounds.

Elizabeth came back into the room, looking flustered. “We are to look after you,” she said. “Georgiana and I are to keep you from feeling sad. Come, let us remove to my own room, so that Forrest can clear the breakfast things away, and we can take another look at these papers; perhaps there is some way that you can go to law, and get your fortune back. We will go out as soon as the rain stops; I feel I need a walk, to clear my head. Come, my dear, be assured we will always look after you; whatever happens, Pemberley will be your home.”

“I must go out,” Anne said. “Forgive me, I must walk now, I must think, I will walk Minette.”

“But your piano lesson,” Georgiana said. “Mr Lempriere will be here in half an hour, we cannot put the poor man off.”

“I will come back; no, do not put him off, but I need this half hour. I pray you, forgive me… no, do not come with me, you are very good, but I must go alone,” and waiting only for a warm pelisse, for the weather was chilly, Anne hastened from the house, and made, as always when her mind needed repose, for the stream.

She went there in sorrow, in distress. Yet as Anne reflected, walking there, following the sweet curves of the landscape, something like a curtain seemed to fall away, and she saw a new prospect. She was free! She was rich no longer; Rosings was not to be hers. Walls and pediments fell away, expensive chimneypieces crashed in ruin, formal gardens dissolved, as though she saw them collapsing before her eyes. As for rank, what was it? Rank was nothing without money!
I will not do for poor Sir Matthew, now,
she thought. She had disinherited herself; for she could not for a moment doubt that her letter had helped to influence her mother to such an unexpected decision. She had set herself free!

Running back into the house, she saw Elizabeth. “I will not need Pemberley as a home. I am so happy! Oh, Elizabeth! Do you but persuade my cousin to rent me the little White Cottage, and I will live there and write books!” and she ran off, laughing, to meet her teacher.