Darcy and Anne

Mr Darcy quickly ascertained the situation, as far as Mr Colby understood it. Sir Lewis de Bourgh had, it appeared, in a codicil to his will, left money in trust to provide a personal income for his beloved Daughter, for her use until such time as she should marry, when a proper provision was to be made. The income, it seemed, was to have been handed over to Anne at each anniversary. Instead, Lady Catherine had always insisted—from no better motive, it seemed, than that love of controlling and dictating that ruled her life—on its being paid over to her, to be used on Anne's behalf. Anne, understanding little of what was happening, since nobody explained it to her, had always signed it away. There was nothing improper about this arrangement, since Anne had always agreed to it; but if she did not like it, she was at liberty, said Mr Darcy, to change it, and have the use of her own money: “For it is her money, is it not, Mr Colby?”

“Yes indeed, sir,” said the agent, “But Lady Catherine wanted…”

“It is a case,” said Mr Darcy, “of what my cousin wants. What do you want, Anne?”

Anne took a deep breath. “I want to have the money, sir.”

Mr Colby said, “But where do you want it assigned, miss? Are you asking to have the capital, which is in trust, or the interest? Do you have a banking account?”

“No, but…”

“Do not be afraid, cousin,” said Mr Darcy. “Mr Colby, my cousin is five-and-twenty years old, she is not a child. Why do we not take this matter elsewhere, and see to it together that the money is put into an account at a bank, in her name, and I will myself instruct her in the use of it. Cousin Anne, will you allow me to act for you in this matter?”

“Oh, yes, cousin, if you please.”

“Very good, it shall be done. Come, Mr Colby.” And he led the agent from the room.

Chapter 12

As soon as she was alone, Anne went to a secluded corner, where there stood a writing table, with a comfortable chair placed beside it. Set beside a window, it commanded a fine view over the park and stream, and in the past couple of weeks she had taken to using it every day. Whatever books she was reading, the writing upon which she was engaged, always lay there undisturbed, and she had come almost to regard it as her own. Here she sat, waiting for her cousin to return, and trying to understand what had happened. Her mind was in turmoil.

She had defied her mother; she had disregarded her expressed wishes!

She hoped her cousin would return soon; she needed to talk to him—or, rather, she needed him to talk to her, to explain, to tell her that she had not done something wicked. How strange that she, who had feared and disliked her cousin, should now be regarding him as a protector! he had changed so much, since his marriage; a happy husband, and soon to be a father. But he could not protect her from her mother's anger. She had accepted her cousin as her authority, rather than her mother—and Lady Catherine was already angry with Darcy, so angry that, as Anne knew, she had not wanted to come to Pemberley at all, and only desperation had driven her to it. Yes, thought Anne, desperation to get me married—not to someone who would love me and cherish me, but to someone who would be useful to her! But one could not hate a parent—one could not disobey. Affection, obedience were owed to a parent. Even, wondered Anne, if that parent had no knowledge, no understanding of one's needs?

But before Darcy came, Edmund Caldwell had helped her. She could not have stood up to Mr Colby, she would simply have done as she was bid, if he had not been there. How kind he had been, how steady! Edmund was no hero: stocky, by no means handsome, never well dressed, he cut no figure beside the elegant Darcy, or the soldierly Colonel Fitzwilliam. Yet when he had entered the room, she had immediately had the sense, in the middle of her confusion, that here was someone with whom she was safe. And she had been; she must thank him. But he could not keep her mother away from her. She remembered with a shudder her mother's rage when she had discovered that Cousin Darcy was indeed going to marry Elizabeth; her furious ill-temper with her household; how she had railed at Mr and Mrs Collins; and then had learned, to her fury, that Mr Collins could not be put out of his living.

Then she thought, But then I was ill. Then I had no money. And Mr Collins could not be put out. It had all died down, and between the lady of the manor and the parish priest an uneasy peace had descended. Civility, if not friendship, had been restored. When people must live together, Anne thought, they do.

Now she was well. Now, suddenly, she had money. How miserable could her mother make her, when she could still learn to play the piano, for now she could pay for a master? When she could hire a maid for herself? I will buy myself some new dresses, of my own choosing, she thought. I will buy myself a horse, and ride it!

But I do not want to go back to Rosings. Oh, why does my cousin not come?

In the end, it was Georgiana who came to find her. The walking party had returned, she said, “And there is a cold collation in the dining room, and there is a visitor as well, whom I think you will like.”

“Is it Lady Louisa Benton?” Anne asked, for she knew her mother's friend was expected that day.

“No, she is not here yet, but it is Elizabeth's papa, Mr Bennet. I do not like her mama so very much, but he is the greatest dear, so droll. He always turns up when we do not expect him. And Anne, he has come from Longbourn, to give us the news that Elizabeth's sister, Mrs Bingley, has been brought to bed, and she has a little girl. Come, you must come!”

They found the party in the dining room gathered round the table, and with them a small, elderly, bright- eyed gentleman in a long, grey travelling coat. Elizabeth was happily perusing a letter, apparently from her mother: “Jane is well, very well, and the baby is to be called Elizabeth Caroline. Caroline Bingley and I are asked to stand godmothers, and the godfather will be a Mr Robinson, a school friend of dear Bingley.”

“Oh, why not my brother?” cried Georgiana.

“They are saving him for a boy,” said Mr Bennet.

“But tell us more, papa! What does it look like? Whom does it resemble? Mama says it looks like dear Bingley, but do you think so?”

“Oh, I do not know. It is either a boy, or a girl, and it looks like a baby; that is, there are a great many long clothes, and nothing much else. Bingley allowed the lease to expire, you know, on Netherfield, for he thought they would be in this part of the world, in their new home, long before the child was born. He would—he always expects that things will be for the best. But it was not so, and the new people wanted to get in, so he and Jane came to stay with us. I do not know when we will get them out. I came away because the women were making such a cackle, you could get no sense from any of them.”

“You mean, you could get no attention, sir,” said his son-in-law, laughing. “But things will be no better here, you know, within a few weeks.”

“Well, well, I think, my dear sir, that you will retain a few shreds of good sense; and my daughter Elizabeth has more of quickness about her than my other girls. Whatever happens, your library is bigger than mine; I shall be able to retire into my own small corner, and get away from the noise.”

“Come to us, sir,” said Mr Caldwell. “We will take you walking in the hills, and tell you all about our fossils, and our remarkable curiosities.”

“But it will be such a happy event!” said Mrs Caldwell, not quite understanding.

They were all talking; they were all laughing. She could not get to her cousin; she could not get to Edmund. Anne's head ached, she could eat nothing; she could feel sickness coming on. Suddenly she heard kind Mrs Annesley's quiet voice: “Miss de Bourgh, I think you are not quite well. Come, let me take you upstairs, you should lie down on your bed.” Georgiana jumped up immediately, and insisted on taking her to her room, and got her maid. The housekeeper herself brought her up some lime leaf tea. She lay down; she slept.

Later that afternoon, she woke. She felt quite well, and when she came downstairs, Mr Darcy took her on one side. “As far as Mr Colby and I can ascertain,” he said, “the original sum provided by your father must have been five thousand pounds. In the usual way, that would have given you an income of two hundred and fifty pounds—a very proper provision for a young woman of your rank, coming out into the world, to buy her clothes,