Chapter One
To my dearest sister Elizabeth,
How are you? It has been a long time since I writ you, I know, for which I am sorry, and all that. I think you must be very happy at Pemberley this season, as I hear the weather is peculiarly fine in Derbyshire this winter, and that Mr Darcy's business has gone well. We are still all in Bristol, and feeling the ill effects of it. My cough has grown worse since I last wrote and I am very much afraid that my back is growing worse, without the benefit of a good physician, which we cannot afford. The children are all at home excepting George and Hugh. You will have heard, of course, that George has joined the Regulars; Hugh would like to study law, but he is at present too busy with his friends in Newcastle. Having seven children at home without much hired help is not an easy task, and I feel my nerves worsening every day. My dear husband is much occupied with business and we cannot afford to give the children much chance of making their way in the world. Catherine, at least, has caught the eye of an elderly widower called Reeves, although for a time she was being unaccountably silly about marrying him, until we told her exactly how much he is worth. She is a very pretty girl, and the old man is sure to die soon, so I am convinced she has made the right decision. The happy event will take place in three weeks. I am so happy to be having a daughter married well. Anna, however, is a great worry to me. She is becoming too much a bluestocking, although not as bad as our poor Mary was, and I am sorry to say she is encouraged in this by her brother Oliver, who will insist on being ridiculously scholarly. She is also extremely fussy in her choice of men. She is aged eighteen and has already received two eligible offers, but she refused them, merely defending herself by saying she did not like them well enough to marry them. I am worried about her, sister; I do not scruple to say it.
"Mama!" came a scream from downstairs. "Charles has taken my blue ribbons and he won't give them back!"
Lydia Wickham put her pen down. "Oh, stop complaining, Esther!" she shrieked, as another girl walked into the room. "Charles, give your sister her ribbons! Catherine, where is Anna?"
"I don't know!" said Catherine. "She waltzes round in her own world and doesn't pay the least attention to anyone! I am sick of her!"
Her mother sighed. "The silly girl will not listen to good advice. She has been cutting Mr Oates, who has been paying her the most flattering attentions."
Catherine sighed. "Well, when I am married, you must send her to me in London. I will find her a husband, never fear."
"Mama, where is my atlas?" asked Oliver, rifling through a pile of his books.
"Lord, how should I know?" his mother replied in disbelief.
Oliver raised a pair of clear blue eyes to hers. "Well, you may have seen it somewhere," he said calmly.
"I never see books," said his mother firmly, and gave a little shriek. "Mark! Imogen! What do you think you're doing?!"
The twins looked up innocently from where they sat quietly in a corner with a big pair of scissors. "I am cutting Imogen's hair, Mama," explained Mark.
Lydia Wickham stamped her foot. "Oh, you'll be the death of me, you two!" She sank into a chair. "You naughty, naughty children! Can't you just behave?"
"Well, Mama, you said I needed a haircut," Imogen replied solemnly. "We thought we would be helping you."
"Oh, run away this instant!" cried Lydia, mopping her brow. "When will my husband be home? Where is Anna?"
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At that very moment, the two missing members of the Wickham family were engaged rather differently. George Wickham senior, patriarch of the Wickham family, was entertaining a young aspiring opera dancer called Sarah Jones who went by the stage name of Posy Wilde. But we do not need to elaborate on the details of that meeting. Anna Wickham was also engaging in an affair that she did not propose to inform her mother of, but of a rather more innocent tenor than her father's. Anna had climbed up into the attic with a mug of coffee and was sitting in the old armchair by the only little window in the room, writing in a large book she called Myrtle—her diary.
Dear Myrtle, April 5
Catherine has agreed to marry Mr R. since I last wrote. I own I am surprised at her. Catherine has always been driven by money but from the start she had conceived such a dislike of Mr R. that I am astonished she changed her mind. I do not wish to judge her for I am aware as anyone of what need the family stands in, and she is not a girl who is created to bear poverty well. But I think that is the kindest thing I can say. Catherine's whole justification for her marriage is that he is rich and will die soon, but can she feel satisfied with such a marriage? I am sure she cannot. I feel terrible saying such things of my own poor sister. I am glad, though, that I have a friend to whom I can write of anything I like—dear Myrtle! I can only add, I suppose, that this unfortunate affair has only had the effect of steeling my resolve never to marry for comfort alone.
Mr O. has been trying to make up to me again. I have to exercise the greatest care whenever I leave the house in case he is lurking about outside, or in the park. Do not judge me for despising his attentions, dear Myrtle; he is old enough to be my father and his wife has been dead hardly a month. I think ill enough of his character even to be unsure whether his intentions are honourable or no. If I misjudge him, then I am sorry. But I am even more sorry that I have been 'blessed' with a nice enough figure and fetching enough features that horrid old men think I will be honoured by their attentions. If only Papa would… well, I will not talk of Papa.
Mama is, of course, delighted at the prospect of a daughter married, and, not least, a daughter married 'successfully'—at least, that is how she terms it. I must sympathise, in all fairness; it is not easy being burdened with four daughters and five sons. Mama is very nervy still, however. I am afraid the younger ones grate on her somewhat; they are all very boisterous, except Oliver, of course. Charles is constantly causing havoc on purpose (it is time her grew up; he is already aged fourteen), and Mark and Imogen solemnly cause havoc because they think they are being helpful. Esther turned fifteen last week (I gave her some embroidered handkerchiefs. I am afraid she did not like them very much but it was all I could manage). She thinks she is now an adult, and she flirts audaciously with George's officer friends whenever he brings them home with him. George is a dear but I wish he would be a little more careful where his sisters are concerned. I am terribly worried about Esther.
Of course, I am even more worried about Oliver. I have known for some time that Oliver must have a proper education. He is only twelve and he has only studied with Mr Marsh, the churchwarden, but he shows a marked propensity for almost every type of study, and I wish, oh I wish, Mama would take him seriously. Papa, of course, is hardly at home, or if he is, he gives Mark and Imogen a horse-back ride or two, and then ignores the rest of us, especially Oliver, whose brightness scares him, I think. I have been thinking and thinking but I cannot see a way for Oliver's education to be contrived. He was given the few books he has by kind Mr Marsh, but beyond that he has no means whatever. I shall have to think some more.
What we need is a Benefactor. A Fairy Godmother. Something of that kind. I shall have to see if they are available these days.
I had better run away before Mama notices I am gone for too long. Dear Myrtle, how you help me!
Anna Wickham
Anna climbed down from the attic surreptitiously, checking no one was around to discover her favourite writing-place. She met Mark and Imogen on the stairs, looking glum. "Oh, Imogen, what have you been doing?" sighed Anna, threading her hands through her youngest sister's thick blonde hair, now looking sadly ragged.
"I cut it!" said Mark eagerly. "But Mama didn't like it."
"I shouldn't wonder," said Anna, giving him a reluctant smile. "Come with me, Imogen. I will cut it for you properly."
Imogen eyed her worriedly. "Are you sure? Don't let Mark help."
Anna laughed now. "You have my word. Come on."
Downstairs, as Esther and Catherine fought over the basket of ribbons and Charles taunted them from the sidelines, Lydia Wickham finished her letter to her sister in a hurry, and sent it off to be posted. One could never neglect one's rich relatives, even on the most fragile of hopes.
