Fitzwilliam, will you come with me?”
“Of course,” said his cousin. Servants were called, grooms were sent for, all was hurry, bustle, and purpose.
“Stay a moment,” Mrs Annesley said. “Hard riding uphill will tire your horses. I will tell the grooms to bring extra horses up, slowly, behind you, and they can meet you as you return. That way you will get back sooner.”
“Mrs Annesley, you should be a campaigner,” Fitzwilliam exclaimed. “Well thought of, indeed!”
“My husband was a military man,” Mrs Annesley said, smiling. “Do you go on your way; I will see to it.”
After that, things happened as they will, when gentlemen have made up their minds, and wish to be gone; and within a very short time they were on their way.
“Now,” said Mrs Annesley firmly. “I think we should all three sit down, and eat this quite dreadful breakfast. Come, my dears, you must eat something, it will not help Mrs Darcy to have you starve yourselves.”
They both tried, but made a poor showing. As they were still at the table, the sound of a horse approaching was heard. Instructions had been given that visitors were to be denied, but the butler entered, and asked if someone would speak briefly with Mr Rackham, who had brought a letter from his mother, which, he said, wanted an answer.
The letter was simple and very kind. Mrs Rackham had heard already, in the mysterious way that everything is known in the country, of Mrs Darcy's situation, and wrote to suggest that Miss Darcy, and if she wished, Miss de Bourgh as well, might like to spend the day with Mary. They would do everything in their power to alleviate the distress of a day as anxious as this one must be, and would send regularly, to ask for any news.
“Oh no!” said Georgiana, faintly. “I cannot leave.” But Mrs Annesley thought otherwise. “I shall be very much occupied, my dear Miss Darcy,” she said. “The very best thing you can do would be to go. Then I shall have the comfort of knowing that you are in good hands. I assure you, it would help me very much.”
Anne was amused to see with what tact Mrs Annesley dealt with Georgiana. As she had already observed, Georgiana was high-strung, and she could see that the prospect of calming her nervous fears, with no idea how long matters might go on, was not an agreeable one. Eventually, Georgiana agreed to go; she would ride in the pony carriage, with Mr Rackham escorting her. “Miss Rackham is one of those people who naturally protect and cherish others,” Mrs Annesley observed. “She will look after her friend very well. Now, Miss de Bourgh, I must go and speak to Mrs Reynolds. The household has rapidly fallen into the sort of disorder that all households do, when unexpected things happen. I think you refused to go to the Rackhams' because you have a purpose; am I right?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Anne. “I am going to the library. We have forgotten Mr Bennet. I think I should go to him.”
Sure enough, there, in his usual chair, sat Elizabeth's father. He was neither reading, nor writing, and seemed hunched over, as if he had somehow shrunk. Anne had the idea that, if nothing were done, he would sit there all day. Suddenly she wished very much that her mother were there. Lady Catherine would perhaps not understand his misery, or have any sympathy for it, but she would know what to do. She would scold, Anne thought. I cannot. But he is suffering dreadfully; I must do something.
“Mr Bennet!” she said, as firmly and loudly as she could. He looked up, startled.
“Come, sir,” she said. “Minette needs her walk, and we need you to come with us. You must, indeed you must,” and putting her hand on his arm, she tried to make him get up. The only thing that will get him up, she thought, is if someone needs him. “I cannot go without you, sir. I am alone, and I need you. I am frightened, too.”
Whether he were too startled, or too apathetic to resist, she did not know, but he got up; he went with her to the door; the footman was there, with Minette. “Thank you, Thomas,” said Anne. She took the dog's leash, guided them both outside, and they went along the terrace, past the formal gardens, until they reached the woodland path that followed the stream.
Chapter 19
They 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.”
