Lady Catherine's reticule, and she had paid off the post-chaise; but she had engaged herself in a good many expenses. She had no idea of how people arranged to pay for things, when they were from home. Her mother, or her mother's man of business, had always attended to such matters. Things were ordered, and bills paid; Anne had never had more than a few shillings in her own purse. Then, too, they would be expected at Pemberley—but no! her mother had not specified any particular date, no one would be anxious. But she was alone! she, who had never in her life been alone. What was she to do? How was she to go on? All her life, somebody had told her what to do; and now, she must think, she must act for herself.
She thought of writing to Mr Colby, her mother's agent, at Rosings, but the letter must go down into Kent, and then it would certainly take him several days to arrive. The best thing she thought she could do, was to write to Mr and Mrs Darcy, and send the letter by the post; if she had understood her friend of the carriage—Mrs… Mrs Endicott—aright, Pemberley was but fifteen miles distant. Her cousin might be haughty and disdainful, but if she wrote to him, he would certainly assist her. If he did not come himself, he would send someone; maybe his man of business, or the lady who was Georgiana's companion, for Anne did not rate her claims to attention very high. Letters, she had heard, usually arrived on the following day after they were sent. Someone would come, as early as tomorrow—or the next day. Meanwhile, the hotel people, and the doctor, surely would not ask her for any money for a few days—no! of course they would not.
She sat down at the desk, and after a struggle with the bad pen, and the black mud that the hotel called ink, she found the actual composition of the letter very easy; she had something to tell, she had something to ask. She folded the letter and directed it, then looked into her mother's room. No attendant had yet arrived, and Mullins was fully occupied; her mother could not be left alone. The chambermaid had disappeared, and there seemed to be nobody about the hotel who was not frantically busy. In the end, she timidly asked directions of a hurried waiter, and set out, a little nervously, to find the post office.
Chapter 4
The post office was located not far away, outside the fashionable quarter, but only a couple of streets distant, beside the church, in the old part of the town. It was toward the end of a warm afternoon, the promenade was not busy, and the few strollers took no notice of Anne.
She had never in her life gone beyond the palings of Rosings Park on foot. She had never gone anywhere unaccompanied. She had always been told that her health did not permit her to learn to ride. Her exercise was always limited to a walk in the formal garden, or the grounds, and if she left them, it was for a carriage drive. Usually she drove with her mother, sometimes alone; but “alone,” of course, always meant in the company of Mrs Jenkinson. It was quite easy to find her way, but even so, she found the walk to the post office very tiring and trying; she felt that everyone must be staring at her; she wondered what she would do if she were to get lost; and the heat, radiating back from the fronts of the houses, distressed her greatly. The walk, of less than half a mile, seemed dreadfully long. However, she arrived at last; the place was not busy; in fact there were no customers; the civil postmistress took her letter; the letter was sent! it must arrive tomorrow, and her cousins would come and rescue her, or send someone, or write, at least.
The walk back was successfully navigated; but by the time she arrived at the hotel, heat, nervousness, and exhaustion had brought on a bilious head-ache. Her legs were shaking so much that she could scarcely walk up the stairs. She opened the door of her sitting room, to find Dr Lawson seated at the table, writing.
“Ah, my dear young lady,” he said. “They told me you were gone out, and I was leaving a note for you. Your mother is no worse, and we certainly need not fear for her life. Her arm has been strapped up, and Mrs Williams is there and knows just what to do for her. But let me look at you! What have you been doing? You are quite white; you are perspiring. The post office? You are knocked up after a walk to the post office? Dear me. Have I one patient, or two? You feel queasy? Yes, I thought so.” He strode to the door, and she heard him shouting at the head of the stairs, to someone, to bring a pot of mint tea—'Hot, mind!'—right away. Anne leaned back in a chair, and closed her eyes.
The mint tea made her feel much more comfortable; and she was very soon able to accede to Dr Lawson's request to see any medications that she was in the habit of taking. When he saw the half-dozen bottles, his face changed; he looked very grave, and took them up, one by one, muttering “Yes, very well; but this—no! together with this, my G—, what are they trying to do to the girl? And this—absolutely noxious—absolute poison!” He asked if she had any list of the ingredients used to make them up. “Yes, sir, for the doctor thought, if we were away for a considerable time, I would need more. I think I can find it… yes, here it is.”
He looked at it, and said “Miss de Bourgh, may I ask you to do something for me? Will you refrain from taking these medications, for a few days? I think you will find that you do better without them, especially if you will try to spend some time every day in the fresh air. I promise you, that if you feel at all unwell, I will make up something to make you feel better.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Do you have difficulty eating? Yes, I thought so. It would be surprising if you did not. I will send you some raspberry tea, which I think you will find helpful. It is very simple, very natural, you need fear nothing. We must get you eating a little more, we do not like our young ladies to be quite so thin; we like young ladies a little fatter than this, in Derbyshire. I will tell good Mrs Brown to send you up a very plain supper; you cannot take rich foods, and do not be concerned if you do not feel like eating much, tonight, after the day you have had. But try to drink as much as you can; you may drink water, or lemonade, or tea, but not wine.”
“Oh no, sir, I never touch it.”
“Now, Miss de Bourgh, I must leave you. You will have but a dull day tomorrow, I am afraid, but you have had a great shock, and would do well to take things easy. You may look in upon your mother, but I have given her something to make her sleep; she will not need any attention from you. Mrs Williams knows just what to do. You can walk round the town as much as you like, the old town or the new, we are very law-abiding people here, no bad characters. Go and drink some of our good spring water, it is very useful, though not such a miracle-worker as some people like to think. And of course you will like to go to church; we are proud of our church, a beautiful old building.” And with a courteous farewell he was gone.
Go to church! Good heavens, today was Saturday! Tomorrow was Sunday! She had never given it a thought. Her letter certainly would not be delivered, probably had not yet left the post office. Her cousins would know nothing of her plight until Monday, or more probably Tuesday; and she almost burst into tears, at the thought of her useless, exhausting walk. Well! There was nothing to be done. She must wait. Help would some time come. She lay back and closed her eyes.
The promised supper arrived: some soup, a little roast chicken, and a very good jelly, along with the raspberry tea. Anne found, to her surprise, that she was hungry. The food was simple and good, the portions were small, and best of all, there was no one there to be concerned about what she ate, or how much.
After eating, she wondered whether it really was a good idea to take no medicine at all, whether she should not at least take her opiate; but found that every single bottle was gone. She remembered Dr Lawson working on the catch of his bag, while he was talking; he must have absentmindedly put them in. Never mind! He would certainly bring them back.
She looked in to enquire after her mother. Lady Catherine was asleep, and looked so exhausted, she hardly recognized her. The kind-faced woman who was the sickroom assistant told her not to worry. “I've seen people much worse than her, miss; she will do very well. She will be well enough to be cross tomorrow, you'll see.” Anne found herself so tired, nothing really seemed to matter, and although the sun had barely set, she thought she must go to bed. It was refreshing to think that there was nobody who would object, or even care.
But sleep did not come. She had been in the habit of taking laudanum for too long. Anne tossed and turned for some while; then another circumstance arose, to prevent her from sleeping. Her room overlooked the promenade, the hotel was directly opposite the entrance to the Rooms, and it was an assembly night. She heard the horses' hooves, the murmur of people arriving, she heard laughter; in the end she arose, and watched the carriages arrive, the pretty girls and the lively young men. It was a hot night, few wraps were worn; she could see the shimmer of jewels and the glint of embroidery. The music started. Over the laughter and chatter, she could hear it faintly. Soon the street was almost empty, only a few coachmen lingering, a few horses stamping as they
