Darcy and Anne (10 page)

T
HEY SEATED THEMSELVES ON A RUSTIC BENCH, WITH A VIEW OF the beautiful stream and the surrounding countryside. Now that he had a companion, Mr Bennet seemed more at ease, and only wanted to talk, and to talk of Elizabeth. He told Anne of her childhood, of her early promise and childish achievements in talking, in reading, in memory, and what a delightful companion she had proved for him, even as a small girl. Their mother, never averse to expenditure on finery, had thought it not worth the cost of sending them to school. “And indeed, my dear, I think schools for girls do little more than screw the girls out of health and into vanity.” He talked of his other daughters, and it was clear to Anne that none of them had the hold on his heart that this child had. It was evident that Jane's outstanding beauty, her mother's pride, seemed insipid to him beside Elizabeth's wit and cleverness; and though Mary shared some of his love of books, he had not thought it worthwhile to cultivate her mind, for she was serious and a little slow. I might get on well with Mary, Anne thought.

Then, to Anne's surprise, he spoke of “Miss lucas.” It was a few moments before Anne realised that he was speaking of Mrs Collins. “I do not know her well,” she said, timidly, for she had always avoided entering the Parsonage, whenever the carriage stopped there, disliking Mr Collins' servile and ingratiating ways.

“She is a very brave and sensible woman,” Mr Bennet said, abruptly. “Did you know that my Lizzie was supposed to marry that fool, Collins?” Anne did indeed know; she had heard her mother speak on the subject, many times, and ask, why had not the presumptuous Miss Bennet become the parson's wife, and stayed within her station in life, where she belonged?

“But she turned him down, thank God,” said her father, “and then poor Miss Lucas turned round, in the twinkling of an eye, and snapped him up. She had not a hope of marriage, but was all set to die an old maid; she may be said to have got him, as they vulgarly say, on the rebound, but she got him. And she has made something of it, that is the remarkable thing. My daughter tells me that she writes with pleasure and enthusiasm of her home, her garden, her occupations, and now her child; and then, too, she has made Collins a happy man, or as happy as such a stupid fellow can be. That, Miss de Bourgh, is what I call courage. We most of us have to make some sort of adjustment to our lot in life; we mostly have to cut our coat to suit the cloth. But for my Lizzie it has not been so; they have found each other, and it is truly a marriage of like minds. He understands her worth. But oh, can you not see, what a ruin, what a desolation it would be, if Elizabeth were lost to us?”

Anne was horrified. She took a deep breath: “Come, sir, there is no need at all to be thinking of such a contingency. Your daughter is a strong, healthy, young woman, this is her first child, and she is receiving the best attention that it is possible to have. Daughters often resemble their mothers in these matters. You have just told me that her mother had five children, and, if I understand you aright, is still in very good health. There is no reason at all for imagining such a thing. There may be some anxiety about the child, but many eight-month, and even seven-month babies live, and do well. Truly, my dear Mr Bennet, I cannot allow you to think of such a thing. Your concern is due to your affection for her, and does you credit, but forgive me, are you not allowing your imagination to run away with you?”

“Well, you may be right. I hope you are right.”

“Of course I am right! Come, Minette is trying to chase the squirrels again; come and watch her, foolish little thing.”

Back at the house, Mrs Annesley had gone to see Mrs Reynolds, who had somehow convinced herself that both mother and child would die, and was sitting weeping in her room. Mrs Annesley told her firmly to stop crying, for she was needed, and asked her whether anybody had considered that a wet nurse might be wanted.

“Oh no, madam, Mrs Darcy would not think of such a thing, she said she wanted to nurse the child herself—they do nowadays. Lady Anne Darcy always had one, and Lady Catherine too; but times have changed, madam, have they not?”

“Yes, indeed, but I think that it should be thought of, for Mrs Darcy may not be well, things are not just as they ought to be; she may be very exhausted after the child's birth. Tell me, Mrs Reynolds, you know most of the people in Lambton, do you not?”

“Oh, yes, madam, I have lived here all my life.”

“Well, I want you to consider, and to ask the other servants as well, whether there is any young woman who could come, for I think someone may be needed.”

Mrs Annesley's conviction that mother and child were expected to live, and the thought that she herself was wanted and could be useful, worked powerfully on Mrs Reynolds. She dried her eyes, and set to thinking: She knew of the very person! A young woman living only three miles away, very clean, healthy, “…and she is a Methody, all the family are, and go to the chapel, which I cannot like, but it is all for the best, for they never touch liquor, or even beer.” She would at once send to Torgates Farm, and set about making the necessary arrangements; oh yes! the young woman would come if she were needed, anybody would come, to help Pemberley.

Mrs Reynolds' restoration to her usual self quickly restored the spirits of the other servants. “Servants always go to pieces,” Mrs Annesley said, “if the person in command is suddenly removed. I told them that Mrs Darcy, when she is up and about again— when, not if—will expect to find that everybody has done their duty, just as if she were there. They are all very fond of her, which helps, and everything was right, once the cook knew what was wanted for dinner, which he could perfectly well have thought of for himself.”

Shortly before midday, the gentlemen returned with Dr Lawson. Darcy looked better for his ride, and everyone felt convinced that now things would soon be right. But there was no news, and the afternoon seemed very long. The Rector of the parish came to visit, and was admitted. He was an intelligent, gentlemanly, serious-minded man, to whom Darcy had recently presented the living, saying that he did not want a man who would flatter and obey him, but one who would take care of the people. He sat with them quietly for some time, and then left. Anne did not think that his presence had helped anyone very much, for he was not a man of optimistic mind, and could not hide the fact that he did not know if he would next be called upon to baptize, or to bury.

A little later, Anne proposed that they might attend the evening service, at the church. Mrs Annesley said she would go; Colonel Fitzwilliam wanted to go with them, but did not know whether he should leave Darcy; however, Mr Bennet quietly offered to take Darcy on at a game of chess, or walk with him, whichever he might prefer.

When they got to the church, it was surprisingly full. It seemed that many of the people of Lambton had had the same thought, and as they entered, there was a murmur of quiet sympathy. As they made their way forward to the Darcy pew, Anne saw Georgiana, and with her, Mr Rackham, his mother, and Mary.

The ancient words of the Prayer Book were comforting. Anne felt sorry that it was not the day or time for the Litany, for
one
phrase was certainly in everyone's mind: the words “for all women labouring of child.” As they left, people crowded round in silence; some pressed Mrs Annesley's hand. Anne felt glad of their kindness, but understood why Darcy had not wanted to come.

Georgiana returned with them. Dinner was a miserable affair; the cook might as well not have troubled himself, for very little was eaten. When it ended, the gentlemen did not stay behind, but went straight to the drawing room with the ladies. Darcy made for an armchair and sat, his head in his hands.

“I will ring for tea,” Mrs Annesley said. “It will do us good. Oh, Forrest, there you are, I was just going to ring…”

But it was not the butler. Dr Lawson stood in the doorway.

“Mr Darcy,” he said. Darcy looked up at him. Anne thought,
This is how my cousin will look, when he is old. “
Mr Darcy, sir, you have a son.”

H
E IS A FINE YOUNG FELLOW,” DR LAWSON SAID. “A LITTLE small, but that was only to be expected; however, there is nothing to worry about, he has every intention of living, and so has his mother. She is sleeping; you may go to her, sir, but you must not speak to her, do not be trying to wake her up. You will have all the time in the world to talk to her, later.”

Elizabeth was safe, and she had a son! Anne thought that she had never before experienced such felicity. She and Georgiana threw their arms around each other. She saw tears running down Mr Bennet's face; she thought she saw Colonel Fitzwilliam kiss Mrs Annesley; then she burst into tears herself. Darcy disappeared upstairs. They had recovered their composure somewhat by the time he came down, accompanied by the nurse. She was carrying a swaddled bundle, which contained lewis Bennet Fitzwilliam Darcy. Her father's name! they had given him her father's name!

Mr Bennet, now quite himself again, looked cautiously at the infant, and observed that he looked very small for such a colossal collection of names. Then Georgiana said, “Oh, my goodness, I am an aunt!” With the child's birth, she had become that happiest and most useful of human beings, an aunt! After the Tears, there was laughter; the butler brought wine, and the cook sent up sandwiches and soup, for everybody was suddenly very hungry. Then someone—she thought it was Mrs Annesley— said “Oh, listen!” They all went to the French windows of the drawing room, which were open, for it was a fine, warm night. The church bells were ringing.

The next few days passed in a happy blur of visitors, letters, messages and congratulations. However, they also brought two things to Anne herself that were very welcome. First of all, three new dresses were delivered—three dresses that she had decided on, and ordered, and paid for herself. Hardly had she recovered from the pleasure of trying them on, and finding that she looked delightfully in them, than her cousin came to find her; there was a letter for her.

“It must be from my mother,” she thought. But it was not; it was from Mrs Endicott. Mrs Caldwell, it appeared, had read Anne's manuscript to her and her husband, and they were much impressed with it. They both believed that the story, entertaining and lively, would appeal strongly to the public. They hoped very much that Anne would finish the story, and if she were to think of publication, would she do them the favour of discussing the matter with them, before approaching anyone else?

Here was material for delighted reflection! No one else was interested; everyone was busy, everyone was happy; but Anne carried the letter around with her all day, took it out from time to time, and read it again. No letter from a lover is ever more welcome, brings more joy, than a publisher's expression of interest does to a new author! In the midst of her satisfaction, however, Anne had time to wonder: did Edmund know about it? Had he been there, when the story was being read? Had he been the one to read it? Had he thought of her? Was he still at home? The date Mr Caldwell had mentioned was still ahead, but anything could have happened to hasten his journey.

This led to other thoughts: she began reflecting on what Mr Bennet had said to her, while they sat by the stream; that most people have to cut their coat according to their cloth; and that people like Mrs Collins could still have a happy life, or at least, a life of small, quiet satisfactions. He had not said a word about himself, but she suspected, more from what had not been said, that this might be his own situation; and that this was why Elizabeth's marriage was such an especial source of joy to him. Elizabeth, she thought, had taken a great risk in refusing Mr Collins. Her family was not rich, and she might never have got another offer of marriage. As it turned out, she had been right; but what a risk she had taken!

But what did all this mean for her? What bearing did it have on her own situation? Ought she, like Mrs Collins, to find a suitable, good-natured husband, and make what she could of a less rapturous, but possibly quite happy marriage? Ought she to forget her love? Forget Edmund? Never! She could think of no one among her circle of acquaintances who might replace Edmund in her heart. No! she could not do it; like Elizabeth, she could not make do with someone else. There was to be no second-best for her.

But since he could not marry her? Well, possibly friendship could take the place of love. When he came back, or if he came back, he would have forgotten her, and would marry someone else (if he did not bring back the Creole beauty); and sitting alone, thinking along these melancholy lines, she had been present at his wedding, stood godmother to several of his children, and would shortly have attended his funeral, had not Georgiana come to the library to call her to go riding.

Pretty soon, however, all these reflections were thrust into the background, for Lady Catherine came to Pemberley.

She was just as cheerful as she had been at Burley: just as smiling, just as fashionably clad. Anne had never seen her so much the great lady; her very hat gave out intimations of splendour. She patted Georgiana's cheek, and remarked that she had been much admired at the ball; she was civil to Mr Bennet, and even Mrs Annesley got two fingers, and a gracious nod. Although visitors were not yet allowed into Elizabeth's bedroom, she must of course be admitted; and the experience was very satisfactory, for she observed at once that young Lewis Bennet Fitzwilliam was occupying the magnificent cradle that had been a gift to Lady Anne Darcy from her father, Lord Waterson. To Elizabeth, she was extremely gracious; there was little to say once the infant had been admired, and his astonishing resemblance to her late father remarked upon (which resemblance might be said to consist in the fact that each had a nose, and two eyes), and she had the good sense, which more affectionate visitors often lack, to bring her visit to a rapid conclusion. She emerged from the visit smiling cheerfully.

The reason was soon to become apparent; she had lost nothing; she was no longer interested in the reversion of Pemberley. As soon as she had left Elizabeth's bedchamber, she requested a private interview with her daughter. Anne took her to a small salon, seldom used.

“My dear Anne, I am very happy to see you still looking so remarkably well,” her mother said. “The Duchess complimented me on your looks only yesterday. I would never have thought that your health could have improved so much. The air of Pemberley agrees with you, it seems.”

“It does, indeed, madam.”

“Well, it could not have happened at a better time, for now I have something to tell you that will do you more good still. I am happy to felicitate you on your approaching marriage. Lord Francis Meaburn has requested my permission to pay his addresses to you. I need hardly tell you with what happiness I have given my consent.”

“Lord Francis?” said Anne, stupidly. “But he… but I…”

“What?”

“I… I had no idea that he… it cannot be. I have had only the briefest of conversations with him. There must be some mistake.”

“On the contrary, there is no mistake. The Duchess tells me that he is very much taken with you.”

“And what did he say?”

“He? Nothing. His sister has arranged it all, with his agreement, and I may say, you are in high luck to meet with the approval of such a family. Their rank is lofty, and their connections—”

“One moment, madam, I pray you,” said Anne. “The matter is not so simple. If rank were all that were needed in a husband, I might have no objection. His father is a Duke, and his brother is a Duke, and they are all Dukes together. But I do not want a Duke. I want a husband, and I would like one who began by doing his proposing for himself, and who would propose to me, not to my mother.”

“Really, Anne! There is no occasion to speak in such a disrespectful manner! Lord Francis has behaved very correctly.”

“Then I will refuse him with equal correctness. I have walked with him once and danced with him twice. I did not like him, and I am not minded to marry him.”

“I agree, it is a little sudden. Had things been otherwise, I would not have acceded to this proposal at this time. I was waiting to be sure that a more splendid position was not open to you; in other words, had matters here turned out as they might well have done, I would have been the first to urge you to stay here, and wait for a few months, to see how matters turned out then.”

“I do not understand.”

“As it happens, things have gone well, your cousin has an heir, and his wife is safe. While not
wishing
for a different outcome, it was only prudent to be prepared for it; a man of his standing, should he lose his wife, must marry again, and soon: he has his inheritance to think of, and he is not getting any younger. Had things transpired that way, I think there is little doubt that you would have been the next mistress of Pemberley; for he would not be likely to look further for a second wife, than a cousin, living already in the house, known and liked by him. But all that is at an end, not to be thought of.”

Anne could hardly believe her ears. Her mother had actually been—no, not scheming, not even wishing for—but certainly, as in the vulgar phrase, hedging her bets, on the terrible possibility of Elizabeth's death! That anyone should think of such a melancholy and shocking extremity as something to be anticipated, seemed to her so horrifying that she could hardly believe that she was hearing it. But it was so; her mother had said it.

“I cannot believe, madam, for one moment, that you were hoping for such a terrible eventuality.”

“Of course not, that would be very wrong; but why else should we set forth for Pemberley, at the time we did? Come, Anne, do not be so nice, is not the position of mistress of Pemberley one that is worth struggling, conspiring, even fighting for? Would it not have been worth it, had you been here at the right time?”

“No! No! I cannot even think of such a terrible possibility. As for Lord Francis, ma'am, if he will come here, I will consider him, I will listen to what he has to say, but I must warn you… I am sure he is very good-natured, but it needs more than that to make a marriage. There… there must be, if not love, at least affection and respect, and I think there should be some community of interest. He is a man of fashion; my interests are centered in a quiet life in the country. I am not beautiful, I am not lively, I should be very unhappy in a fashionable drawing room. I love to write; do you think Lord Francis wants a wife who is writing a book?”

“Writing a book? Why, what nonsense is this? Do you mean—a novel? Do you intend to publish such a thing? to put our family name on the cover of a vulgar work of fiction, like some parson's daughter who is glad to make twenty pounds, or thirty, out of publishing her work?”

Anne's heart was hammering against her ribs, but she must not give up; she must not give in to her mother.

“Setting that aside for the moment, I am not a parson's daughter, I am your daughter, madam. Would you allow others to tell you to marry a man whom you did not want to marry?”

Lady Catherine was not a loving mother, but she was not an unnatural one, either. She genuinely believed that, by encouraging Anne to this marriage, she was promoting Anne's best interests and doing what would make her happy; most people think that what is good for them must be right for others, and at Anne's age, such a marriage would have made
Lady Catherine
very happy. With her improved health had come an improvement in temper, and she had no intention of alarming or distressing her daughter. But she could not understand. “Why? What is this? How comes this about? You have barely met him, and yet you are sure that you do not want to marry him? How is this possible?”

“It is very simple, madam; I believe his only reason in wanting to marry me is his lack of money. I have money, but he has nothing to offer
me
except his rank. You are interested in rank; I am not.”

Lady Catherine had every wish to be affectionate, to be conciliating; but this was too much for her. “So! Are you one of these people who wish to overturn the way our world is run? Do you wish to do away with all the distinctions of rank, and have every plough man the equal of a lord? Unhappy girl! You are being offered a position that anyone in the kingdom might envy. We have never been ennobled; the Stilbury connection would put all of us at the centre of influence and power. Do you realize what it might mean for your family? for Darcy's boy? for any children you might have? And you turn this down, on a whim? Is this some theory that your stonemason has taught you? Do you still cherish the desire to lower yourself by associating with such people?”

As she spoke, Lady Catherine rose from her seat, and stood over Anne. Anne tried to rise, but as she did so, Minette, sensing Anne's distress, began barking and growling, clearly terrified, backing and showing her teeth. Anne stood up, turned away, caught her skirts in the little dog's leash, tried to right herself, fell, and knew no more.