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Authors: Rebecca Ann Collins

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    Lady Catherine de Bourgh had been directly instrumental in this; her patronage had provided the scope for Catherine to discover and pursue her interests and, being a resourceful and intelligent young person, she had set out to make the best of every opportunity that Rosings and its social circle afforded her.
    Keen to improve her mind, as much as to entertain herself, Catherine had been attracted to the library at Rosings. She had written enthusiastically of its collection in the Summer of 1833.
There is such a treasure store of wonderful books and things here, such as I
never believed existed in England, much less in this very house.
Mr Burnett has recently found me a copy of the poems of John Keats, the
fine young poet who died of a dreadful disease when only twenty-six years of
age—a terrible, tragic loss for England, surely.
I had read some of the poetry of Wordsworth and thought it very pretty,
but Mr Burnett says Keats far surpasses him in intensity and having read his
lovely Odes, "To Autumn" and "To a Nightingale," I must agree. I could
not have imagined such beauty; the words seem to flow with such felicity and
grace. It is perfection itself.
Later, Mr Burnett asked if I had enjoyed them. I had to confess that I had,
to such an extent that I had copied them out into my notebook, so I could enjoy
them again and again. He laughed and said, "I thought you would."
    And in her room that night, standing by her open window, Catherine read them again and the mellifluous Odes of Keats still evoked a response in her, no less intense than they had done those many years ago.
    Some of the entries were speculative…
I wonder how old Mr Burnett is. He cannot be much older than Jonathan
Bingley, perhaps three or four years older at the very most… yet he seems
a good deal more knowledgeable than Jonathan on several subjects but most
of all about books and learning. To hear him talk with Lady Catherine's
visitors, you would have to be forgiven for thinking he was a professor or
something…
Later that Summer, there was much excitement.

Mr and Mrs Darcy are visiting this week and what a surprise—they have
brought Mama with them. Amelia-Jane and Becky are spending the Summer
at Ashford Park with the Bingleys, and Mrs Darcy thought Mama would
enjoy the change.

It seems Mr Darcy arranged it all with his aunt Lady C but they kept it
a secret—so as to surprise me! Which was kind indeed!
Dear Lizzie and Mr Darcy seem very happy, and their two children
Cassandra and William are great favourites of Lady Catherine, especially
William, who she says reminds her of her sister, Lady Anne Darcy, Mr
Darcy's mother. He is a beautiful child—fair and gentle and already quite
remarkably proficient at playing the pianoforte, which greatly impresses Lady
C, of course.
I said I thought he will go very far if he chooses to be a musician, but Mama
says it is unlikely, for William will need to prepare himself to be the Master of
Pemberley one day. Cassy Darcy is very beautiful. Next year, when she is seven
teen, there will be a great ball at Pemberley and Cassy will be engaged, Mama
says, although she will not say to whom. I wonder who it is?

Then, in the Autumn of 1834, Catherine had recorded a terrible event.

I can hardly write… It has been such a dreadful day.
News came this morning by express from Pemberley of the death of
William Darcy and his young cousin Edward Fitzwilliam in a horrific riding
accident on the very day that Cassy Darcy and Richard Gardiner announced
their engagement! What can be more heart-breaking?
Lady Catherine is desolated—she has not eaten all day and keeps to her
room. Her maid says she will take only tea. No one knows what to do.
The funerals are to be next week—I wonder, will Her Ladyship attend?
And on the morrow:

Worse news for me today! Miss Anne de Bourgh is ill and Lady C says I
am to go to Pemberley and represent her at the two funerals. Oh dear God!
how shall I bear it? Am I to travel alone? How shall I know where to stay?
This evening Lady C said I should be ready to leave tomorrow. I will be
accompanied by her personal maid Sarah, and Mr Burnett will travel with
us to ensure that we get there and back in safety. We are to have the big
carriage, the one with the de Bourgh crest, and we are to stay at Pemberley.
I shall need mourning clothes. The gowns I had made when Papa died are
all too short for me now. Besides, Lady C will insist that I wear something fine
in silk, no doubt. The dressmaker has been sent for—she will have to hurry…!

On returning from Derbyshire, her words had seemed to rush out on to the page, as though eager to escape from the pain she was feeling.

It was dreadful being at Pemberley… all that beauty and so much sorrow…
I do not know how I coped with the funeral; I did stay calm, but I wept
all through the journey home. Each time I remembered William and Edward,
I could not erase the memory of the agony on the faces of everyone around
me—Lizzie and Mr Darcy most of all, but also poor dear Caroline, who
could hardly support herself for weeping, and Colonel Fitzwilliam of course,
very brave, holding her throughout as she sobbed. Their Edward was only
twelve years old!
Sarah was very helpful and Mr Burnett was kind and patient. On the
journey home, he talked to me about the deaths of Keats and Shelley, both
young—not as young as William and Edward, but gone before they could
fulfil the promise of their youth, he said. Of course, he did not know either
William or Edward at all, but he seemed to understand the sorrow of their
families. I do believe Mr Burnett is a very kind man.
Back at Rosings, some days later, she had written:
Mr Burnett has found me a copy of "Adonais," the poem Shelley wrote for
Keats. It was very kind of Mr Burnett and it is indeed a most moving piece.

Catherine paused, trying to remember, after all those years, how she had felt about the two boys and found herself remembering also her changing impressions of Frank Burnett. As the memories returned, she recalled how it had been….he had always been kind and gentlemanly towards her, friendly and concerned, but never presuming upon the acquaintance. There had been, however, at some point in their friendship, a subtle change in her own feelings about him. She tried to recall when she had started to regard him as more than the friend and mentor he had been over many years. Catherine's diaries did record some alterations in her attitude to him, even as she documented his changing role in Lady Catherine's household.

    From being the librarian, who confined himself and his activities to the East Wing of the house, he had gradually become increasingly involved in advising Lady Catherine on other matters: where certain artworks should be hung to be shown to best advantage, how best to have a picture framed or a valuable object mounted for display… Her Ladyship clearly valued his advice on all of these questions. She regarded Mr Burnett as an expert for whose services she was paying and whose advice she was entitled to use.
    To Catherine, however, it appeared that there was rather more involved—she thought she detected some respect in Lady Catherine's attitude to Mr Burnett for his knowledge and skill and she'd had no difficulty following Her Ladyship's lead.
He comes more often to dinner now and not only when he is invited to help
with entertaining a distinguished guest. In truth, it seems he always dines with
us on Sundays. Lady C likes to have company on Sunday evening, and Mr
Burnett obliges her, I think.
Sometimes, he will call with a couple of books, which he believes I might
enjoy, and then he stays to tea. If Her Ladyship is feeling tired and has not
come downstairs, we take tea in the small sitting room overlooking the park
and read from the books he has brought. Yesterday, we read from my favourite,
Keats's "Endymion." Such beauty and such sadness.
    As well as his generosity and kindness, Catherine had obviously appreciated also Mr Burnett's well-informed and discerning mind.
I must confess I owe a great deal of my enjoyment and knowledge of literature
to Mr B. because without his excellent judgment and discriminating taste, I
should be floundering in a sea of words, unable to tell greatness from medioc
rity, not knowing which composition was best.
He is so well read and has such a good understanding of all matters
pertaining to books and writing it is quite amazing—but then I suppose it is
only to be expected—he is after all a librarian, whose livelihood is made from
his knowledge of books and their writers. So, in truth, I ought not be surprised.
Yet I am, having met not one other person with such clear comprehension
and passionate appreciation of so many wonderful books in my small circle
of acquaintances. He is so knowledgeable—talking to him about a book or a
poem is like entering a closed, darkened room and throwing open the shutters
to let the light into every nook and corner of it and seeing it all illuminated.
    So absorbed was she in reliving her impressions and remembering the days that had been, that sleep eluded her completely and she read on until the small hours of the morning and then fell into a deep sleep, from which she was awakened only when her maid came in with her tea and drew back the curtains to reveal the day.
***
A few days later, Mr Burnett called at the Dower House.
    He had returned from town and brought with him the framed sketches, he said. Catherine was delighted. She invited him to stay to tea and they spent some time looking at and admiring the work of the craftsman as well as the sketches, which, now being mounted and framed, showed to best advantage.
    Then he had to leave but promised to return with a workman from Rosings who would hang the framed pictures for her in the places she had chosen.
    Before leaving, he asked if she was missing Lilian.
    "I am indeed," she replied and told him of the disconcerting silence in the house and how she had been driven to read half the night in order to fall asleep.
    "I fear I shall soon run right out of books and then I shall not sleep at all," she said with a light laugh. She did not mention the notebooks and their contents at all.
    On the morrow, he arrived with a workman and an armful of books, which he thought she would enjoy.
    "I cannot promise you that they will cure insomnia, but I am quite sure they will occupy your mind until you are ready to sleep. Two of them are by a young woman—Charlotte Brontë—who would have been about your age, had she lived. Sadly, she, like her two sisters, died too early."
    "Like Keats and Shelley?" she asked on an impulse.
    "Indeed, exactly like the poets, but sadly with less recognition of their talent," he replied and she wondered if he had remembered their earlier discussions of the two poets, but he said nothing more.
    Catherine could not wait to look at the books he had brought. They included Miss Brontë's first novel,
The Professor
, and her most famous,
Jane Eyre.
    That evening, she dined early and went upstairs determined to read them; they should have held her interest, yet they did not engross her as had the diaries, which night after night had taken her on a long journey into her past, into the days when she had been as carefree as it was possible for a young woman in her early twenties to be—before her life became serious again.
    She had recorded, too, many of the important occasions in the life of her extended family. Early in 1835, she had written:
Two big surprises, one sad: Emily Gardiner's husband, Paul Antoine, who
was afflicted with tuberculosis, has died in Italy, just like the poet Keats.
The other—well, it must be happy, because our Amelia-Jane is to marry
Jonathan Bingley! She is only sixteen but he must love her very much and I
hope they will be very happy. Jonathan is such a fine gentleman and soon to
be a member of Parliament, too!
Becky is also toying with the idea of becoming engaged—she writes that the
publisher of the Matlock Review, Mr Anthony Tate, has made her an offer,
but she has not made up her mind whether to accept him. Is that not just like
Becky? But then, I do not know Mr Tate at all. I confess I had thought that
Becky liked Jonathan very much, but I was probably mistaken. If she weds
Mr Tate, that leaves just me.
    In the course of that same year, Catherine's feelings towards Mr Burnett had changed imperceptibly, in subtle ways even she had not recognised.
    It had begun with their journey to Derbyshire for the funerals of Edward Fitzwilliam and William Darcy. His sincere desire to comfort and console her, without in any way taking advantage of her vulnerability, had created between them a bond of trust and confidence, which had greatly increased her feelings of esteem for him.

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