Judith Brocklehurst - Darcy and Anne

Anne had hoped that, if Mrs Jenkinson left, her mother would engage somebody who might take her a little further in piano and in French, and help her to read the more advanced authors, the geography and natural sciences that she loved. She did not think of asking to ride, to dance, or to sing, for she had always been told that her health did not permit these activities.

However, her mother had decided not to engage another companion for her, or even a maid: “Mullins will look after you. She has very little to do.” Mullins had not been pleased. Almost all that Anne had heard from her, since Mrs Jenkinson left, was “I take my orders from Lady Catherine, miss,” and “My lady has given no orders for that, miss.” It was all Anne could do to get her clothes taken care of and her dress unlaced at the inns where they had stayed along the road.

Anne was constantly ill, and the medication provided by her mother's doctor did little to relieve, and nothing to cure her. It might have been assumed that her health would be found too poor for her to think of marriage, with its attendant dangers. But she was always told that her health was no cause for concern, she would soon be better, and then she was to marry her cousin Darcy. She was never asked whether she wanted to marry him, and her mother would have been astonished to know that, had she been asked, the answer would have been a frightened, but definite, “No.”

Anne was afraid of him: his cold manner, his heavy silences, his sardonic looks, his dismissive remarks, above all the occasional witticisms, subtle and derogatory, that hurt her, but that her mother did not understand, or seem to notice.

He had been a splendid young man when she was scarcely more than a child; her mother's assertion that they had been in the cradle together was a myth of her mother's creating; he was the older by five years. He was handsome, he was rich, he was clever; but he had never paid any attention to her, and she knew that he did not want to marry her.

What a relief, when she heard he was to marry Miss Bennet! And what a surprise: for she was neither rich nor well connected. However, on thinking it over, Anne remembered not only how pretty Miss Bennet was, but how lively, how confident, and altogether charming!

When cousin Darcy was there, she had watched the two of them talk together—the enjoyment that had flashed like lightning between them. No stale, awkward nothings for them, no heavy silences! They had seemed almost to fence, like two swordsmen, but yet it was play. The bright-eyed young woman seemed never to be afraid, always on the verge of laughter.

Then there had been a strange evening, when the Collinses had come to drink tea, but Miss Bennet had not come with them, because, they said, she had the headache; Mrs Collins said she was very bad. “It must be bad indeed,” Mr Collins had said, “to compel her to forgo the pleasure of drinking tea with the ladies of Rosings,” as he bowed to Anne, in his usual ingratiating way.

Cousin Darcy had seemed unable to give his attention to anything. He was not speaking, walking up and down, in a restless, uncomfortable way that was not at all like him. Her mother, as usual, had noticed nothing; but then he had suddenly excused himself, and left the room, saying he must have some fresh air. “You have been out in the air all day, Darcy,” her mother had called—but he was gone.

He had come back, an hour or so later, looking like thunder; no, worse than that—as if he had been hit over the head. He had taken no part in any conversation, seemed not to know that they were there, even, and left them very early, saying he must go to bed.

Early the next day, “Your cousin has gone,” her mother had said. “I really began to think he could not bear to leave, he put it off so often. I am sure he will want to be a great deal at Rosings, when you are married.” She had given no thought to his exit the previous evening, and had certainly not connected it to his sudden departure. But Mrs Collins's maid was the niece of Lady Catherine's cook at Rosings; indeed, the great lady herself had commanded Mrs Collins to employ her; and did she not think that tidings from the one household must perforce arrive at the other? Indeed, did she not know it? Had she herself not made use of the fact, many times, to keep the Parsonage under her all-seeing eye? By noon of that day, everyone in Hunsford knew that Mr Darcy, when he had left his aunt's house the evening before, had gone to the Parsonage. The sole exception was Lady Catherine, for nobody had dared to tell her.

They had not seen Cousin Darcy again. Then they heard that Miss Bennet was to marry him! Lady Catherine called her a vulgar, lowborn, hurly-burly village girl, who had schemed to entrap a wealthy man into marriage, and who had refused, even when Lady Catherine herself had reasoned with her, to give him up! Anne could only feel gratitude, and admiration for Miss Bennet, who had not only accepted her terrifying cousin but had actually resisted Lady Catherine's bullying. Her mother's temper was frightening for several weeks, and Anne was on the receiving end of a good many unpleasant tirades. But most of her mother's anger was directed at the Collinses, and anything was better than the prospect of marrying Cousin Darcy.

Then Mrs Jenkinson had left, and Lady Catherine had discovered that it was not easy to hire a new companion. She needed somebody not too young—but not too old. It must be somebody presentable enough to dine with them, when there was no other company, or when a woman was needed to balance the table, but not a female relation, who would object to being banished to the schoolroom when she was not wanted, as if she were a servant. An extra woman, on the days when they dined alone, was no asset at all!

In short, what Lady Catherine needed was not a gentlewoman, but a gentleman. Anne must marry. Since Cousin Darcy was unavailable, she must marry somebody else.

So had begun a new and humiliating period, as Anne was dragged to balls and assemblies in outmoded dresses with large thick skirts, for Lady Catherine called the new high-waisted styles immodest: the Queen, she pointed out, did not allow the Royal Princesses to wear them. Anne longed to mention that of the six Princesses, not one was married, or even engaged to be married. But argument with Lady Catherine on any point was futile.

She could not dance, and knew none of the unmarried men, most of whom were much younger than she, for she was five-and-twenty. There were no offers of marriage. They had waited too long for Mr Darcy.

Then followed a series of unprofitable visits to every country house within reach of a carriage drive. She still remembered with pain the last visit they had made. It had been a long drive, and she had arrived feeling unwell, as she often did, from the motion of the carriage. Her kind hostess had directed the housekeeper to take her upstairs, so that she might lie down. As they were going up the stairs, she heard a flurry of footsteps, a suppressed laugh, and the words, in a girl's voice “Oh dear! Robert, Peter, be quick!” She caught a glimpse of a masculine coattail, just disappearing at the far end of the landing. The young sons and daughter of the house had fled, on hearing the noise of their arrival, and were making their escape down another set of stairs.

A few days later, her mother had announced that they were going to Pemberley, where the new Mrs Darcy was to find a husband for her! Mr and Mrs Darcy, Lady Catherine had explained, owed it to them, after the disgraceful way Anne had been treated, to find her a husband.

“Whom will they find?” she asked. “Who will want to marry me?” she did not like to say “as plain and stupid as I am.” Her mother had replied, “Really, Anne, I wish you will not talk such nonsense. Of course you will get a husband. You will have thirty thousand pounds.”

So thirty thousand pounds was to be spent. The money would be paid over, and she would never see it. I wish, she thought desperately, they would just give me the money and let me live alone. But of course, the money was not only buying her a husband, it was going to provide a companion for her mother.

Conversation with Lady Catherine was at all times a matter of listening rather than speaking, and the expressions most commonly in use were “Yes, ma'am,” and, occasionally, “No, ma'am.” Anne was quite used to following her own train of thought in silence. Now she realized that her mother had some time ago ceased speaking. Looking up, she saw that Lady Catherine's face had lost its usual ruddy hue, and was very white. Suddenly Lady Catherine fell forward. Mullins gave a startled exclamation, then, seeing her mistress gasping for breath, screamed. Lady Catherine was in the throes of a sudden, extremely painful sickness. Anne tried to hold her, she twisted and writhed; Anne called to her; she could not reply.

The postilion had felt the movement, even before he heard the noise; he pulled up the horses; the carriage stopped. But even as it did so, Lady Catherine wrenched at the door handle, thrust herself out, and set foot on the step. The carriage jerked to a halt; she slipped; she fell. The ditch at this point was steep and stony; she fell into it, onto the stones.

Mullins cried, “My lady! My lady!” Anne thought she screamed, too; then they were all standing in the road. When Anne, trying to help her mother to stand up, took her arm, Lady Catherine gave a cry of pain, and collapsed back onto the ground. Mullins gasped, “Oh, she is dead!” and went into hysterics. All was fright, distress, and confusion.

Vehicles were passing on the road, but the bulk of the chaise, and the depth of the ditch, mostly shielded them from view. However, a carriage—a gentleman's carriage by the look of it—did stop, and a sensible-looking woman over the middle age got out, spoke to the coachman, and came toward them. “You are in a sad case,” she said. “Can I or my carriage be of use to you?” Anne, frightened, and ashamed of the figure her mother must make, could hardly speak, but managed to stammer out her thanks—“She did not wish to be troublesome, and the carriage had sustained no harm, but they were indeed in difficulty"—and an account of their circumstances.