etc, and get used to the handling of money.”
“Two hundred and fifty pounds!”
“Wait, there is more. In the normal way, that would have been the case; as it was, your mother decided to continue living at Rosings, you were never presented at Court, or brought out into society, and you never had the use of the money. With the interest never being spent, but always added back into the capital, the original amount—how long ago was it, when your father died?”
“Ten years ago. I was fifteen years old, and am now five-and-twenty.”
“Yes, we thought so. In that time, you see, the capital has increased to well over seven thousand pounds, and the income to almost four hundred: three hundred and eighty-seven, to be exact. Of course, you understand that, once you begin spending the interest, the capital will not increase.”
Anne was not sure that she understood anything! The situation, her cousin reflected, was an excellent lesson in the power of compound interest, but was completely outside the range of Anne's knowledge and experience. The cottager's child who takes a shilling to the baker's, and brings home the change in pennies, he thought, probably knows more about money than she does.
However, Anne surprised him.
“Cousin, I must learn to keep track of my money. How can I do so? I might write a sort of list of the things I would like to buy, and how much they might cost. Do you think that would help me? If I do that, will you look it over for me?”
“Certainly. In fact, I have a better idea, which is that you should consult with Elizabeth. From being brought up in a family that is not rich, she has a far better idea of the planning and spending of income than either Georgiana or I—she knows, for example, how much clothes ought to cost—and I know she will be happy to assist you. And if you wish, I will be your banker until an account is arranged for you. Would you like to have something now, to be going on with?” he asked. “Would twenty pounds suffice?”
Twenty pounds! It was more money than she had ever seen!
“And when you have your bank account, you can write me your first draft, to repay me. One other matter: Edmund Caldwell must go home tomorrow, his business does not allow him to be longer away. I have arranged for Fitzwilliam to ride with him, and go into Burley to visit your mother. It is time one of us went and enquired after her health. While he is there, he will talk to her about this business. Trust me, he will get her approval. She likes Fitzwilliam, and he can usually get her to see things from his point of view. But for now, this must wait. I see a carriage coming up the drive.”
Chapter 13
Lady Louisa was a kind and sensible woman. She had been a close friend of lady Anne Darcy, and for her sake, held her son and daughter in affection. She had never been as fond of Lady Catherine, though she corresponded with her regularly, and Anne she hardly remembered. She had come to Pemberley out of concern for Georgiana. Mr Darcy, in his letter of invitation, had hinted that it was time Georgiana was thinking of a husband, and that there seemed to be few suitable young men available. Lady Louisa, from a wealth of experience, wondered if an unsuitable one were in the picture.
Now, she realized, the picture was complex. It did not take her five minutes to recognize Georgiana's admiration for Colonel Fitzwilliam, and to discount it; the Colonel, at his age, was not likely to fall in love with a young girl. Nor, if he did so, would he think it right to persuade his wealthy cousin to marry him. Georgiana was young enough, she would get over it; but another admirer or two would certainly help. And, if she were in the habit of falling in love (there had been rumours), it would be as well to get her suitably married as soon as might be.
Anne was another matter; her mother had described her as sickly and frail, but she was nothing of the kind. However, she was five-and-twenty if she was a day. Catherine was a great fool, Lady Louisa thought, to let her hang around all those years after Darcy, who anybody could see would only marry a woman of the greatest charm and beauty, a woman to sweep him off his feet. This was not such a girl, though she would not make a bad wife, either. Edmund Caldwell obviously thought so, but that was no use—he could not aspire to the heiress of Rosings and thirty thousand pounds. Lady Louisa began making a list of the men she knew—not too young— deserving of Anne and thirty thousand pounds. It was a quite encouraging list, and she decided to give a ball within the next few weeks.
The evening was warm and sultry. Dinner was late, and afterwards, everyone was too hot for dancing. The doors of the drawing-room opened on the terrace, and at first everybody strolled about, feeling listless; presently they were all assembled inside. “Would Miss Georgiana play for them?”
Georgiana played two or three pieces, but seemed disinclined for more. Then Mr Bennet quietly said, “If the company would like it, I will read to you.” Everyone expressed an inclination—to be read to was the very thing, for all they need do was sit, and listen.
Mr Bennet began, reading from some papers in his lap. It was an historic tale—a prose story, written in such a vein as to be almost poetry; a tale of a castle by moonlight, and a young girl waiting, sadly, for someone who did not return. The water fell plashing into the fountain, the white roses bloomed, the young girl wept. When Mr Bennet stopped, Georgiana drew a deep breath, and Mrs Caldwell wiped away a tear.
“Who wrote it?” was the question on everybody's lips, and “Was there more?”
“Papa,” said Elizabeth, “you do not usually read romantic tales— where had you such a story?”
“Why, my dear,” said Mr Bennet, “did you not write it? I found it on my table in the library, and thought that you had put it there for me to see.”
“No indeed,” said Elizabeth, “I never wrote anything in my life, longer than a letter; and surely the handwriting is not mine.”
“All women,” said her father, “write the same vile hand.”
“The story is mine,” Anne said shyly. “I left the sheets on a table in the library; I did not know, sir, that the table was yours.”
There was immediate clamour. They had an authoress in their midst—how long had she been writing? Why had she said nothing? How did the story continue? And how did it end?
“I have written for years,” said Anne. “I had a governess who recommended to me the copying of extracts, to improve my handwriting. I found it very dull copying other people's writings, and began to invent my own: little stories, poems, essays. Then I read a couple of novels and thought them rather silly. I thought I could do as well, and just to amuse myself, I began that story.”
“And how does it go on?”
“Oh, she runs away to the Crusades, and has all kind of adventures. It is all nonsense.”
“But, we must hear it!”
“One moment,” said Mr Bennet. “Miss de Bourgh has been imposed on; I would not have read these pages, if I had known whose work they were. Only she can decide whether to allow us to hear more.”
What authoress is really reluctant to have her story read to an admiring, encouraging crowd? Anne took the manuscript, and began to read. It was a strange feeling to be reading what she had written. All eyes were upon her; but her confidence increased as she read. After three or four chapters, her voice grew thick. “Come,” Said Mrs Darcy, “the rest must be for other evenings, it is too late now. The Lambton assembly is tomorrow,” and the party broke up. Anne was thanked and praised; everyone wanted to hear more. Only Edmund Caldwell was silent.
But it was hard for Anne to sleep. Mr Caldwell and the Colonel were to leave the house as soon as they had breakfasted the next morning. She felt an urgent need to thank Mr Caldwell for his kindness to her the previous day; she could not let him go without thanking him. And yet she dared not ask him for an interview—it would look so particular! As far as she knew, her cousin had told nobody the story—except the Colonel, who, after all, was also a cousin—and somehow she knew that Edmund had not mentioned it to anybody. Suppose she were to sleep late, and he were to leave before she could speak to him? The maid who waited on her had been told to call her, but maids were often unreliable… Anne tossed and turned until it seemed to her that dawn was breaking, and then suddenly there was a voice calling her, and the maid had remembered after all.
