The Three Colonels

well, it does him no good, with him being so far away,” she had told Anne.

“Come in,” Anne called to the knock upon her door. Mrs. Parks entered with a grave expression on her face. “Good heavens, what is the matter?” Anne cried.

Mrs. Parks gave her young mistress a significant look. “It is Mrs. Jenkinson, miss.” She motioned towards the lady’s room with her head.

Anne thanked the housekeeper and walked quickly to her companion’s door. “Mrs. Jenkinson, it’s Anne,” she said as she knocked on the door.

“Come in, my dear,” answered a voice that unsuccessfully hid sobs.

Anne opened the door to behold her longtime companion sitting at her desk, holding a piece of paper in one hand and wiping tears from her face with the other. Anne rushed to her side. Taking the older woman’s hand in hers, she asked, “What pains you? Can I be of any service, any comfort?”

Mrs. Jenkinson only shook her head and handed the letter to her former charge. A glance was enough. It was a signed notice from her mother dismissing Mrs. Jenkinson from her employ at Rosings. Anne flushed with anger but not surprise; she had expected this move by Lady Catherine.

She took the older woman’s face in her hands and said, “I have told you before, Mrs. Jenkinson, you shall always have a home with me.”

“But not at Rosings—not now,” she said softly. “Where am I to go? I have no children, and my family is all gone.”

Anne’s face had gone stony. “Do not despair. Leave this to me.” She rose and turned towards the door.

Mrs. Jenkinson rose in alarm. “Oh, Anne, what are you going to do? Please, do nothing rash. I shall manage —”

Anne de Bourgh turned back to her former governess, fire in her eyes. “This has gone on for far too long. It ends today.” She then left the room.

Mrs. Jenkinson gasped, for her former charge sounded just like her mother.

Anne swept down the hallway towards the staircase. At the head of it, she intercepted Mrs. Parks.

“Where is Mother?” she barked.

“In the parlor, miss.”

Acknowledging the reply with the smallest of nods, Anne marched down the stairs and to the doors of the parlor. Without preamble, Anne opened the doors and moved resolutely towards Lady Catherine. Her mother was at her writing table, reviewing her correspondence.

“Mother,” Anne greeted Lady Catherine with an icy voice, “it has come to my attention that you have dismissed Mrs. Jenkinson. Is this indeed your intention?”

“Well, miss! You now presume to speak to me! I should thank you, I am sure. Yes, I have let your governess go. It was my impression you had no need of one,” Lady Catherine sneered. “Besides, we need to economize now that we should expect no rents this year.”

Anne ignored the jab. “Do not play games with me, Mother. You do nothing without cause. What do you want?”

“Watch your tone, miss.”

“What do you want?”

Lady Catherine glared at her. “Your obedience and your deference, Anne.”

“So—I am to go to Bath, is it?”

Anne saw her mother’s eyes gleam. “Yes, Bath. I know what is best for you. You must be with society worthy of you. It is all arranged. I have been in correspondence with a General Tilney…”

Anne watched her mother rant on in silence. Why was she doing this? What was the reason for her determination? She was almost desperate. Was it just her feelings of betrayal at the hands of her uncle?

“…and a house of your own, a great estate, that is what you are destined for, Anne! Just follow my lead —”

Anne interrupted. “Are you saying that if I do this—go with you to Bath—you will reinstate Mrs. Jenkinson?”

“Of course, my dear.”

Anne started to laugh.

“What do you find so amusing?” Lady Catherine asked in a dangerous voice.

“You, Mother! Do you believe this is the Dark Ages? You would blackmail me, your only daughter, into marriage to some rich, landed fool? You think the only price you will pay is the wages for my companion? How did you grow so corrupted?”

“How dare you—”

“Silence, Mother! Your schemes are not to be borne! Let us have a right understanding between us, madam. I will never go to Bath with you. The day Mrs. Jenkinson leaves this house is the day I do. You have a choice before you—suffer my companion or lose both of us.”

“Where would you go, child?” shouted Lady Catherine. “To the streets, I suppose?”

“No, to my uncle,” Anne said, as if explaining to a child.

The result was unexpected; Lady Catherine went pale. “N… no, that will not be necessary!” She halted and worked to get control of her emotions. “I had not realized how… how attached you have become to your companion. Far be it from me to cause you any pain. Please let Mrs. Jenkinson know that her services shall be welcomed here for as long as you wish.”

She paused and then, incredibly, began to beg. “Do not turn your back upon me, dear Anne. I could not bear it. I do know what is proper for you, but we shall not speak of it now. Let us consider each other’s view and talk again another day. Come, give your mother a kiss.”

Anne looked wide-eyed at her mother. As she bent to kiss Lady Catherine’s cheek, she could only wonder if her mother had finally gone mad.

“Thank you, my dear. Shall I see you for dinner, then?” Lady Catherine turned back to her letters.

Anne only wanted to leave the room at that instant to sort her own raging thoughts. “Yes, Mother—until then.” Anne left the room with as much composure as she could muster.

Within a few minutes, she was sitting in Mrs. Jenkinson’s room again. Her friend was overjoyed at news of her reprieve.

“Oh, thank you, my dear. That was such a brave thing for you to do. But I do not wish to be a source of disagreement between you and your mother,” the older lady said. “But it is so strange! That her ladyship would give in so quickly! I do not see the cause of it.”

“Neither do I, but I think I may know someone who does.”

*   *   *

London

Caroline was finishing her weekly letter to her husband. She wrote of family doings, news from society, and the latest events caused by her changing physique. Three months along now, her morning sickness had finally stopped—that was the good news. The strange cravings for odd foods puzzled Caroline intensely. She was assured by all her female relations that it was perfectly normal, but it still made no sense to her. She wrote of it anyway, thinking Sir John would find her predicament amusing.

Caroline had received no other letters from her husband after the one in late April. She told herself not to worry; he was undoubtedly busy with all the things that soldiers do—whatever that might be. He had warned her, after all. Besides, it was her duty to write—to brighten his day and lighten his cares. Caroline was surprised at the contentment she felt at giving rather than taking.

It had been decided that Caroline would remain in London for the duration of her confinement. She had no wish to go to a Welsh physician she did not know for this first child of hers. Also, London was closer to Belgium; surely her letters would get there faster.

Godspeed you to Antwerp, she thought as she kissed the letter.

*   *   *

Brussels

“Good ride, gentlemen!” cried Colonel Fitzwilliam to his regiment as he dismounted. “Enjoy your evening. We