Disclaimer: P&P is all Jane's, I'm just the younger sister ;) So yeah if you recognise anything it's probably hers.

It is a truth universally proclaimed by one William Collins that the wealthy, in particular those like the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, are full of affability and condescension; indeed, they are not at all in any way wanting…

The younger of two children, a girl of about five, Catherine had always been overlooked in favour of the heir apparent. She was nobody's intimate friend, and now lingered forlorn in the shadows, having been pushed to the fringes of the room with the entrance of her father and brother.

"She is to be named Anne," came the whisper, laden with exhaustion; and yet her mother's face was suffused with some profound and indescribable emotion.

Catherine gazed on, a queer feeling swelling in her young breast, and was most surprised by the sudden surge of longing–a desire to be acknowledged, to be included and most of all loved. She repressed the anxiety welling within her; surely her worries were for naught, surely she ought to be happy, for had she not long entertained hopes of a playmate, someone to look up to her and adore her the way her parents adored her brother?

At ten, with strongly-marked features and a handsome complexion, Catherine strove to the utmost in singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, desirous of gaining the universal approval that seemed far oftener and more liberally conferred upon her unthankful, capricious sister. The need to be the absolute best, to become an asset to society, saw her reflect with satisfaction on her perfect etiquette and comportment–she sniffed irritably at the recollection of Anne's decidedly uncouth behaviour–how utterly unladylike! Certainly nobody would ever catch Catherine acting like that, and yet–how strange, that her impetuous younger sister possessed the ability to win over all and sundry in spite of her wild ways. It grated incessantly. Later, Catherine decided, reasoning that concessions must be made for the follies of youth; later, she would surely be called upon to impart her knowledge of the appropriate deportment–for certainly she herself, quick study though she was, had once needed to be taught the proper air and manner of walking, the tone of voice, address and expressions. At some future point, she solemnly avowed, she would sit Anne down and impress upon her the importance of maintaining the proper mannerisms becoming of young ladies of distinguished birth.

Five years hence saw her coming out, a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen; she envisioned herself bedecked with jewels, finally the centre of attention so long coveted. Soon she would surely make the acquaintance of a fine gentleman and, through the power of her own elevated prospects, be able to graciously assist her impertinent sister with the much-needed introductions.

Everything changed by the age of twenty. Catherine, still unspoken for in any way, was cast aside with nary a glance as gentlemen flocked to Anne Fitzwilliam, clamouring for her hand; it wasn't fair; Catherine was older (albeit less beautiful and more sharp-tongued, a traitorous niggling voice reminded her; why should anyone choose her?) In her parents' eyes, when they did bother to take notice of their plain middle child, she sometimes discerned a faint disgusted pity–God! how she hated to be pitied!–intermingled with pride at their youngest's brilliance, for Anne indeed shone bright, overshadowing all else in attendance. Now the spirited younger sister was out, the dull elder could be no comparison. Anne, not Catherine, was the true ornament to society.

At five-and-twenty, upon marrying Sir Lewis de Bourgh of Rosings Park, she thought she'd finally won; Anne had begged her to reconsider, but Catherine knew better, for happiness in marriage was entirely a matter of chance and love but a dream for the foolish. Their parents had been so disappointed by Anne's choice the year prior–to be sure, George Darcy was rich, but he was no member of the peerage. Anne had married beneath her–now was Catherine's chance to recompense for the mistake, right the wrong. This was Catherine's chance to finally gain her parents' notice; surely the stateliness of money and rank was important to them. Perhaps they would finally notice her, just her, for once.

At thirty, she realised she was wrong; she had done her best, but Anne had a healthy heir, Fitzwilliam, while Catherine had after two miscarriages borne a frail daughter, with no chance of another child. Though there was no entail, Lewis had been furious, and her fingers brushed over her cheek, even now tingling with memory. Catherine decided to name her daughter Anne –perhaps she too would grow up loved by all, like her namesake.

Lewis died when she was five-and-thirty.

Then her sister, at forty. She left behind a second child to complete their family–a perfect little girl, Georgiana.

When she was forty-five, Catherine wondered why she was so alone; Anne was sickly, Fitzwilliam and Georgiana unresponsive, George Darcy dead. The days melded as she alternated between empty one-sided conversations with Mrs Jenkins and silence.

At fifty, she met her destined parson in life. The lonely and neglected child within her, long starved of attention, had always yearned to assert its own place; and when it reached out its arms, crying for comfort, it found solace with William Collins–the one person who made her feel more than just small and lost and unwanted, whose clinging veneration was a balm for all wounds, filling the once-empty void. For the first time, she felt needed, as though she were indispensable: finally, she was appreciated by someone.

It was a feeling she had craved desperately all her life–and, of course, she was always charitable to those less fortunate–so she let him stay.

A/N: As long-requested, this is for you Sarah - happy (late) birthday!