Judith Brocklehurst - Darcy and Anne

“London is not a good place to stay in for long. I began to cough, and the doctor said it was from the bad air, and that I should go for a while to a seaside place. So Mrs Younge recommended Ramsgate; she had friends there, she said, and the place was delightful. She found us some pleasant lodgings, and we began our stay. I had not been there three days, when on coming back from a walk, I was told, 'Somebody to see you, miss,' and there, in our sitting room, was… Mr Wickham.”

“You mean… the husband of Mrs Darcy's sister?” said Anne. “Oh, but of course, I had forgot, you knew him well; he was born here, was he not?”

“Yes, during my earliest years he was almost like a brother to me, and I knew him at once, though I had not seen him since he had gone to Cambridge. He came to me and gave me the affectionate greeting of a brother. Anne, I fell in love with him at that moment. He was with us every day; Mrs Younge encouraged his visits. She was forever telling me how much in love with me he was; she had seen it at the first moment; she had never seen a man so much in love; what a pity that my brother, so cruel, harsh, and proud, would never countenance his suit! She advised me on no account to speak of my feelings to my brother, for he would certainly be very angry.

“I thought that it must be true, for Wickham had told me, very sadly, that my brother's former friendship to him was at an end; he did not know why; but he had been promised a living near Pemberley, and when the incumbent died, it had been given to another man. I learned later that his way of life was so dissipated that he was highly unsuited to be a clergyman. But of course I saw nothing of this; his manners to me were unvaryingly gentle, affectionate, and refined; and I believed Mrs Younge's assertion that my brother had changed, and become proud and selfish.

“Anne, I was but fifteen, and had never received such attentions from any man before. All this, and two or three novels from the lending library, were enough to make me see myself as a star-crossed heroine. I was convinced that my life would be blighted forever, unless we were married. Both Wickham and Mrs Younge assured me that there was but one thing to do: to elope. But, she said, she would assist me, she would make every arrangement; and I assumed her to mean that she would go with us, to make everything proper, until the knot should be tied.

“I consented.” She paused, and then continued.

“It was a Saturday, and since I did not like the idea of Sunday travel, we were to depart on the Monday. What a scruple to advance, against such impropriety, such rashness, such deceit! But it saved me. The chaise was ordered for Monday. Then I learned, walking into the drawing room and accidentally overhearing their conversation, that she was not to accompany us; I was to go alone, with Wickham. She could not endure it, she said; I thought then that she only meant that she could not bear the fatigue of such a long journey. I was shocked; they saw my face; they rushed to reassure me: Did I not trust, Wickham asked, the man I loved? I had given my word; I did love him; but I was frightened, I was doubtful. I could only tell myself that he did love me, and that once the border was crossed, we would straightway be married.

“That same evening, my brother arrived, and cutting short Mrs Younge's gushing flow of greetings and enquiries, requested a private interview with me. In the most affectionate terms, he enquired after my health and state of mind; he told me that he regretted having stayed so long away, and having seen so little of me in London. He asked me how I liked Ramsgate—was I truly happy? If not, a pleasanter place could be found; and did I truly find Mrs Younge a suitable companion? He seemed so different from the ogre who had been depicted to me by Mrs Younge—she must have been mistaken—surely, so kind a brother would not refuse me the marriage I so deeply desired! I began to recall other things—small things, that suggested that she was not always truthful or honest; and I admitted that, in many ways, I did not trust her.

“He told me then that, before leaving town, he had made some enquiries that he should have made before he engaged Mrs Younge, and had learned that she had been for some time the partner, in an irregular connection, of Mr Wickham. There could be no doubt; he had spoken to some people, cousins of hers, from whom they had rented some expensive furnished lodgings, from which they had decamped without paying any rent.

“I recalled all manner of speaking looks, of gestures, of things said, that had obviously a meaning from which I was excluded. The scales fell from my eyes. I was the victim, the foolish victim of a vicious deception, intended to put them both in possession of my fortune, for only the want of money had caused them previously to part, and go their separate ways. If my kind brother had not come when he did… If I had eloped, if I had married him…”

Anne shuddered.

“So you see, Anne, that is why Mr Wickham cannot be invited here; and since he cannot be invited, neither can his wife. I have never set eyes on him since that day. I could not bear it, and neither could my brother.”

“But I am glad I have told you this, cousin. I have said nothing of it to anyone, not even to dear Elizabeth. She knows, of course, but we have never spoken of it; and I only mentioned it, because I could not let you think my brother unkind; but telling you has somehow made it more bearable; I do not know why.”

Anne said everything she could to reassure Georgiana and tell her how honoured she felt by her confidence. Poor girl! As they walked back to the house, Anne thought of Edmund's honesty, the delicacy and integrity of his behaviour, and of her own good fortune. She could only hope that her poor cousin's heart would soon receive its only proper cure, in the affections of such a man—but where was another to be found to compare with Edmund?

The gentlemen were to return by midday, and it had been agreed that they would all meet in the dining room. She could hear men's voices: yes, they were back. As she hurried to the library, to leave Minette in her accustomed basket, she wondered whether Edmund would guess where she was, and meet her there. As she crossed the hall, one of the younger Miss Bennets came hurrying out of the library, and she recognised the elder sister, the rather plain Miss Mary.

“Oh, Miss de Bourgh,” Miss Bennet cried. “I went to look for you, everyone is looking for you. You are to come at once, for they are all in an uproar. Mr Darcy has had a letter, and Lady Catherine has taken all your money away, and they say that you cannot be married.”

Mr Darcy's fears had proved well founded. A second lawyer's letter had arrived, to inform them that Sir Lewis de Bourgh had left the five thousand pounds, which his daughter was enjoying, in trust, only “until such time as she should marry,” at which time, of course, he had assumed that a proper provision would be made for her. It has been said that what always happens, after legal provisions have been made, is the unexpected; no one could have envisaged that Anne would marry without her mother's consent or approval. Such, however, was the case: her mother was very angry, and with the entire estate at her discretion, was not prepared to allow Anne anything at all.

Anne was a little surprised to find the entire Bennet family abuzz with the news; she liked them very well but knew them little; it might have been expected, she thought, that Mr Darcy would discuss the news with her and Edmund privately, at least at first; and as she hastened to his business room, she even thought, What could he mean by such horrible indelicacy?

“My dear Anne,” Elizabeth cried, “we are so sorry!” it transpired that Mr Darcy, appalled by the letter, had dashed into his wife's sitting-room, where she was occupied with her child, and informed her of the whole, giving full vent to his feelings, and unaware that Mrs Bennet was sitting with her daughter, screened from his view by the back of a large armchair. From such a woman, of course, there was no hope of discretion, and the news was all over the house in the course of half an hour.

Mr Darcy's lawyer was hastily summoned: suits and counter-suits were suggested, for clearly it had been Sir Lewis' intention that Anne should have, not less money, but more, on her marriage. “My dear sir, intentions do not matter,” said Mr Foreman. “Unless she is feeling charitable, and wants to provide a good living, for some years, for several lawyers and their wives and children, Miss de Bourgh should certainly not go to law, for nothing else would be gained by it.”

Everyone had a voice, everyone had an opinion. Mrs Bennet's, expressed only to her daughters, was that Anne was well served for not marrying the son of a Duke; Mr Bingley's was that it was the worst thing he had ever heard, which he repeated until even his wife grew tired of hearing it. Miss Mary Bennet had been reading in the library, and found an old book of household recipes; how it got there, no one could imagine, but it assured the reader that it was possible to live on sixpence a week. Anne felt that this, at least, was an attempt to be practical; and “Look, Edmund,” said she, “it says that a very good soup can be made from watercress, which grows in the streams, you may pick it for nothing; and they say that beer can be brewed from nettles.”

“I think that nettle beer might make you bilious,” said Mrs Darcy. “I think we should find some other solution.”

Edmund, taking Anne's hand, declared firmly that he would not hear of breaking the engagement, or even putting off the wedding: he was willing to risk everything, and marry, if Anne were willing; and if they could not live in England, they would go to Barbados. Anne, hand-fasted with her lover, begged Mr Darcy only to procure them a special license, and they would marry that very day!