Darcy and Anne

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.

Chapter 21

Lady Catherine felt no inclination to blame herself on seeing her daughter unconscious on the floor; after all, the accident was caused by that ridiculous little dog: it was not her fault. She did as much as she felt any mother ought to do by ringing the bell, and sending the butler for help; and she would undoubtedly have dashed a glass of water onto Anne's face, if such a thing had been available. In spite of these attentions, it was known to every servant in Pemberley—house, gardens, and stables—in the space of a quarter of