Author's note: this is the revised version of my original fic, which I now plan to continue. Happy reading!
p.s.- the chapter title comes from John Clare's poem 'First Love'.
In vain did Anne run her hands over her lank, mousy hair, for the same wispy piece sprang up each time her hand lifted. With each successive pass, she became more aware of the angry pricking flowing up into the tips of her fingers. 'No.' She threw her arms down and broke into an anxious pace about the room, feeling more trapped with every step. The room was suddenly hot, but her head felt hotter, pounding. Her vision filled with sparks, the colours dimming. 'No', she thought, leaning against her bed-post as she willed away the darkness.
She hadn't tried such a thing in years, and so ignored the concerned looks on the servants' faces as she ran out sans shawl, sans bonnet and sans Mrs Jenkinson. It was a blatant act of defiance, one Anne was slowly beginning to relish, not in the least because it was a cold, misty October day, the air of which, according to her mother, 'hung thick with disease'. The sun had disappeared as well by now, leaving a trail of fast-fading colour to stain the sky. Had such colour ever stained her cheeks?
She remembered well the complexion of the erstwhile Miss Bennet, glowing with health and wit and passion. To now be cousin of such a worthy woman! To have always been the cousin of such a worthy man as Fitzwilliam! Her mother's face now darkened at the mere mention of their names, but Anne could truthfully say she wished them well. Yet to deny she had dreamed of her eventual marriage, had thought of her engagement as something immutable, had been even the least bit disappointed in finding she and her only conceivable future had been cast aside, would be folly.
There was no chance of her marrying now. There would be no companions except ones paid by her mother, or who, like Mrs Collins, were as trapped as she was. Oh, how she longed for the freedom Fitzwilliam had! How she thirsted for one measly drop of it! She was certain it would bring her happiness, if not a cure. Indeed, what she wanted was happiness, if only briefly before returning to her gilded cell and playing the the reformed prisoner.
It was thinking this that the housekeeper found Miss de Bourgh. "Are you quite well, Miss?" she asked, approaching her as one would a nervous animal.
"Oh, I am." The girl replied pleasantly, a great deal more pleasantly than she had ever done before.
'She must be feverish,' the housekeeper decided, going off to tell the cook this.
But, as soon as she was back in her room, Anne's fit of joy was succeeded by one of tears. Who was she to go and hunt for happiness? 'It is far better,' she mused, 'to never hope at all, than to wish and wish for something that never comes to pass.'
'But it would be better yet' said another, stronger voice 'not to know what you can never have, than to see it daily and mourn your lack of it.' Yes, this voice was reasonable. 'And it is better still,' the voice continued, 'not to mourn what you lack, but to actively seek it.'
While thinking these last thoughts, Anne, curled up on her bed, face still wet, fell asleep. It was in this very position that she was found, after not having come down for dinner, the lack of which she felt the next morning. Yet this very lack whet her appetite and brought a peculiar joy and sense of urgency to her meal, one which her mother noticed and criticised her for. But when Lady Catherine looked up at her daughter, expecting to see her embarrassed and nodding slightly in agreement, all she found instead was a smile.
I'd really appreciate any feedback on this story, especially the kind, constructive sort. Thanks in advance!