Author's Note: I went to Bath today! And I am in love with it. It was so unbelievably cool to actually see all of the places I've been writing about since September, and not just via Google Earth! I was rather pleased with myself when I found that there is, in fact, a large walking-park directly across from the Royal Crescent; I thought I made it up. And I saw a house that fit exactly into my idea of Hart House, which gave me the judders (in a nice way). I hadn't realized how wonderfully picturesque the whole city is; the top of every hill offers a gorgeous view of the surrounding valley. I also hadn't realized how many hills there were—I imagine my poor Anne must be quite tired, with all the walks I send her on! I could wax on and on, but of course that's not why you're here. Enjoy, and thank you so much for all the fantastic reviews. I couldn't ask for better readers! (Can you tell I'm still in raptures?)


Anne was tempted to claim indisposition, and refuse to descend for dinner; indeed, she was not at all hungry, and had no desire for any conversation. Yet the idea of hiding from her mother was startlingly repellent to her, for she could not bear the idea of Lady Catherine thinking her so feeble as to be undone by the afternoon's events. That her Ladyship indeed held a very low opinion of her daughter had become quite evident to Anne, and she was rather furious at the thought of appearing at all self-pitying or weak-willed.

Thus she rose from her bed, and dressed as swiftly as possible, giving little care or attention to the task. Had she been a true heroine, she might have been planning a cutting speech to deliver over the dinner table, or estimating the best way in which to make Lady Catherine thoroughly regret her actions and her words, and reform entirely; yet Anne was not a true heroine, and her mind was muddled. One moment, her thoughts were with Mr. Hart; the next, they were with Colonel Fitzwilliam and Miss Finch. She wished alternately to be at Hart House, to be at Rosings, and to be safe in her own bed. She thought wistfully of a happy, if unlikely, future, and then of a happy, if monotonous, past. If only none of this had ever happened—if only it could all end the way she wished.

Lady Catherine had recovered her composure to an admirable degree, and sat regally at the head of the dining table. She said nothing as Anne entered the room and took her own seat; neither did she speak for several minutes, as the first course was served. The air of the room was oppressive; even the servants seemed tense, as they moved noiselessly to and from the table.

The de Bourghs ate their soup in silence. Anne kept her eyes on her plate, radiating with anger, and hurt, and sorrow. It was not until after the soup had been removed and replaced by the following course, that she at last raised her gaze to her mother's, and dared to speak.

"Are we to leave Bath, then?" she asked dully.

Lady Catherine started somewhat. "Leave Bath?" she demanded. "Why, in heaven's name, should we leave Bath?"

"If your main object in bringing me here was to secure Colonel Fitzwilliam, and he is now lost to me, I had thought we might return to Kent."

"Certainly not," Lady Catherine replied impatiently. "Really, Anne, what ever are you thinking of? What is there in Kent? Who will marry you there? No," she said resolutely, "we shall remain here in Bath, for to leave in the wake of Fitzwilliam's absurd engagement would be very much akin to admitting defeat, and it would undoubtedly cause comment. I am not the sort of person who is apt to turn tail and run, when faced with disaster."

"I see," Anne said quietly, pushing her plate away.

"Besides," Lady Catherine continued, with a rather patronizing smile, "all hope is not lost, Anne. There are several gentlemen here who might do very well for you, though I should have preferred for you to marry within our own line, so that Rosings Park might not fall into the hands of strangers. But we are nonetheless acquainted with numerous bachelors of excellent fortunes and family. The eldest Mr. Dillingham, for example, is a fine choice, though of course he has younger sisters to provide for. Mr. Hargreve is only a second son, but then so is Fitzwilliam, and his income is quite sound, at ten thousand a year.—Yet the gentleman I should most like to see marry you, Anne, is Lord Adlam; for in addition to enviable connexions, and a superior fortune, he has a title. I should dearly love to see you gain a title, above all things. Yes," she finished, rather thoughtfully, "let us make Lord Adlam your man."

"I thought you wished me to be friends with Louisa Hammond, Lady Catherine," Anne responded, taken aback. "Lord Adlam is her beau, as she has told every body."

"He is no such thing," Lady Catherine scoffed. "She thinks him her beau, the silly girl, but they are hardly engaged, nor does any such event appear to be forthcoming; indeed, he scarcely pays her any attention at all, for all her prattling on about him. Did you not see, at the Dalyrmples' ball, how easily he was distracted by Dr. Hart's daughter? You remember her, Anne," she added, at Anne's wide-eyed glance, which she took for incomprehension, "the pretty little blonde.—You should recognize her, I imagine, if you were to see her again."

The reference to Rosamond fell rather too close to home for Anne, who felt her pulse quicken nervously, though nothing in Lady Catherine's air suggested any suspicion on her part; indeed, she seemed wholly ignorant of even the faintest acquaintance between Anne and any of Dr. Hart's family, besides the doctor himself. Yet Anne was obliged to take a single deep breath, before attempting to reply. "I think Louisa is really very fond of his Lordship, and I do not think it would be in the true spirit of friendship, if I were attempt to supplant her."

"Nonsense, Anne." Lady Catherine waved a bejeweled hand impatiently. "We are not talking of friendship; we are talking of marriage. No understanding exists between Miss Hammond and Lord Adlam, and you are perfectly within your rights to secure him, where she has failed.

"This, I fear, is precisely your greatest fault: you are too apt to allow others their will in such matters, and your lack of determination worries me. Did Elizabeth Bennet hesitate to steal Darcy away from you, in the face of your impotence where he was concerned? Did Constance Finch defer to your greater claim upon Fitzwilliam? Both of those girls have found themselves husbands high above their stations, where you have not, and in your case it is beginning to look increasingly unlikely. Let us talk of something else, now," she continued firmly. "You are very quarrelsome to-night, Anne, owing, I imagine, to the upsetting news of your cousin's engagement; yet I will tolerate it no longer. You will speak to me dutifully, and respectfully, or you will not eat at this table."

This speech had had a startling effect on her daughter, for though Anne was not the sort of young lady who is greatly given to tears, her Ladyship's words had left her with the overpowering and irrational urge to weep profusely, and the simultaneous desire to strike some thing with all the ferocity she could muster. Her earlier reflections upon the matter of Mr. Hart had impressed her own helplessness upon her, and to have such distressing realizations compounded by her own mother only a few hours later proved too much for Anne's present state of mind.

Wiping her eyes furiously, she managed to bite out, "It is no matter, for I have no appetite for food or criticisms to-night," before pushing her chair back and storming from the table with all of the dignity her streaming eyes and red cheeks could afford her. Ignoring her mother's shocked exclamation of "Anne!", she again mounted the grand stairs and shut herself in her own room.

Anne had thought, rather wildly, that her Ladyship may follow her, and force her to return to the dining-room; for indeed she had behaved far more insolently than she had ever before dared. Or perhaps Mrs. Jenkinson would be sent to reason with her, if Lady Catherine decided that Anne was to be treated as a fragile invalid this night, rather than merely an impudent daughter. She listened, for a time, but there was no sound of any footfalls upon the stairs, and eventually Anne concluded that Lady Catherine would likely ignore her for the remainder of the evening. That her behavior was a surprise to her mother, Anne was certain; that she would be treated to an acerbic lecture over the breakfast-table, she was similarly certain.

The trouble, of course, with storming from the dining-room, was that it left Anne with no place to go. She could not stomach the thought of descending to the drawing-room, or even walking in the halls, and meeting her Ladyship or Mrs. Jenkinson. It was far too late to call on any body, or to go walking in the public parks or gardens. A decent lady, whatever her situation in life, could hardly be seen out of doors alone at dinner-time, no matter how innocent her reasons, or how disruptive a day she had passed. Anne was confined to her room, then; for what purpose? She kept no diary, nor had she any letters to write. It was too early to dress for bed, and besides, she was not at all tired.

To her novels, then, Anne repaired, hopeful not merely of occupying herself but of utterly distracting herself. She opened The Forbidden Room, which she had begun some days ago but in which she had not much progressed. Had it only been a day since she had sat in the front parlor of Hart House with pleasant Rosamond, talking so eagerly, so thoughtlessly, over books? It seemed an age ago. And then it had only been this morning that she had walked among the flowers with Mr. Hart, and he had told her how very glad he was that she had come to Bath—the dear, kind man—if only—

Anne shook her head to rid herself of such fruitless thought, and turned her attention to the trials of the honorable Lady Anthea, and the mystery of the forbidden room.


She slept soundly, to her surprise, and awoke shortly before breakfast. Anne's appetite had returned, though she could not help dreading the meal, for the prolonged exposure it would bring to Lady Catherine.

Yet she was surprised, upon descending into the breakfast-room, to find that her Ladyship had ordered her breakfast to be sent to her own chamber. Such a strong, active woman as Lady Catherine was hardly given to such displays of indulgence, which she tended to classify as sloth; thus Anne, eating alone, was forced to conclude that her Ladyship had as little desire to see her, as she had to see her Ladyship. The thought was a rather unhappy one, for however cross Anne happened to be, she disliked the idea of having truly hurt her mother.

What to do with the rest of the day, then? Anne sat with Mrs. Jenkinson in the drawing-room for a short time after breakfast, embroidering listlessly, yet this occupation proved tedious. No callers were announced; Anne suspected that Lady Catherine had ordered every body to be turned away in her absence. She sent for The Forbidden Room, and attempted to read, but the distraction was hardly as successful as it had been last night, and she was at last forced to set the book aside, having read over the same page three times without retaining a word. She attempted to engage Mrs. Jenkinson in conversation, but the lady's responses remained placid, and simple, and wholly in agreement with whatever Miss de Bourgh happened to say, so that Anne felt very sorely the lack of a Miss Hart, or a Miss Finch, or a Miss Dillingham, or even a Mrs. Darcy. She took a few turns about the room, but was yet restless; she expanded her walk to include some other areas of the house, but of course there was nothing to see except fine furnishings and deferential servants.

Yet she had little heart for shopping, or walking, or visiting; the very idea of leaving the house seemed unbearably trying to her. To go out would involve dressing again in her walking-clothes, and summoning the carriage, and choosing some place to go, and then she would undoubtedly meet some body; and despite her frustration with Mrs. Jenkinson's lackluster conversation, she could not bear the idea of being forced to chat amiably about nothing at all. And the thought of all the noise and clamor of the city outside gave her a head-ache, and the thought of the spring wind made her quite cold. Anne sighed, and fell dejectedly into one of the chairs by the fireplace. There was nothing to do at home, but she had no desire to go out. If this was what it was like to be heart-broken, Anne thought glumly, she had hoped she should never be forced to repeat the experience, for it was truly excruciatingly dull.

It was not until the afternoon, when she had been staring gloomily out of the window for some time, that she heard a voice in the vestibule. Anne had no real wish to receive visitors, for fear she should not be capable of meeting them with due amiability; not to mention, that any of her mother's friends would surely be disappointed that only Miss de Bourgh, and not her more noteworthy mother, was at home. Yet the tedium of the day had grown quite oppressive, and she rose slowly, stretching, in order to wake her heavy limbs. She was standing before the hearth when the door opened and Colonel Fitzwilliam entered, looking dreadfully serious, more than she could ever remember seeing him.

Mrs. Jenkinson rose as well, setting aside her knitting, and curtsied very low. This seemed to remind Colonel Fitzwilliam of his own manners, for he had been staring at Anne in a rather queer way, and he offered the ladies a bow. Anne curtsied swiftly, her own heart pounding. Of course this was certain to be an awkward meeting, given Anne's recent revelations regarding her friendship with her cousin, and what had been expected of it—especially the concluding outcome of those expectations. She could not tell whether or not her cousin was angry with her; she thought, with a sudden horrid sinking in her stomach, of the bitter look on his face as he had left the Royal Crescent yesterday, and the terseness of his manner towards her. She knew not whether he had any cause—she knew not what Lady Catherine had said to him, that could have hurt him, or prejudiced him against her. She swallowed hard.

"Cousin Anne," the Colonel began, but stopped abruptly.

After a moment of tense silence, Anne turned to her nurse. "Mrs. Jenkinson," she said in a low voice, "I wonder if you would be so good as to take my book upstairs for me."

Mrs. Jenkinson clearly understood the hint, for the disappointment on her face was quite revealing. "Of course, ma'am," she sighed, taking the book from Anne's outstretched hand and curtsying again to Colonel Fitzwilliam. Thus, Anne and her cousin were left alone in self-conscious silence.

"Miss Anne," the Colonel tried again, after another moment. "Forgive me for coming in so impudently; they told me that your mother was not at home, but I had hopes of speaking to you. Without her," he added.

"I am glad you have come, sir," Anne responded, although she did not feel it. "And first," (she thought to make a pre-emptive strike, which would hopefully hint to the Colonel her good intentions), "you must allow me to congratulate you on the news of your engagement to Miss Finch.—She is a worthy young lady, and I think you two very well-suited indeed."

Colonel Fitzwilliam's face cleared somewhat. "Thank you," he said, looking rather taken aback. They fell again into silence, not looking at one another.

"I understand," Anne ventured at length, quite nervously, "that my mother was not so happy at the news; and I am very sorry for it, for this is indeed a joyous occasion."

"No, she was not," the Colonel agreed ruefully. "Indeed, I think it safe to say that Lady Catherine has several very serious objections to my choice of a bride."

"Serious in her eyes, perhaps," Anne answered, "but I hope not in yours."

"Not at all. I confess, I do not think there is a woman alive who could make me happier.—I apologize," he added hastily, at last meeting Anne's gaze.

"You mustn't," Anne said softly. "You mustn't apologize, Colonel Fitzwilliam, for having fallen in love."

"I only hope I have not hurt you, Anne," he said urgently. "I am very sorry if my intentions were mistaken; I assure you, it was not my aim. If I had ever thought that you felt—but perhaps I was blind. I am deeply sorry for having ever given you hope of that kind, or inspired such affection, when I meant nothing further, and felt only the purest friendship."

"But so did I!" Anne cried, unable to remain silent any longer. She blushed, when Colonel Fitzwilliam's eyes widened with surprise, and continued at a more well-bred volume. "Do I understand you, cousin? Did you—do you think that I am, or ever was, in love with you?"

"Are you not?" the Colonel replied, in some confusion.

"Certainly not," Anne rejoined, feeling quite suddenly a wild urge to laugh. Colonel Fitzwilliam looked rather indignant at her immediate reply, and she amended it. "Forgive me; that was impolite. But I am not in love with you, sir, and I never was.—I am sorry if I have given that impression; indeed, I am quite mortified if I have, for I should hate to have demonstrated emotions which were never mine. I respect you, Colonel, and have a great affection and admiration for you, but as a friend; you are more a brother to me, I think, than a husband." She stopped there, at the look of palpable relief which swept over the Colonel's face.

"I am very glad of it," he said, striding towards her. "I am very glad of it, cousin Anne, for I could never wish to cause you pain. Dear cousin!" He laughed, and unexpectedly embraced her, briefly, before letting go again. "The thought of hurting you, you must know, has concerned me a great deal more than her Ladyship's disapproval; I should have hated to lose such a valuable friendship over this."

Anne smiled, rather giddily. "I assure you my friendship will always be yours, if you will promise me the same; and if you say that I may come and visit you every-so-often, when you and Miss Finch are married."

"You will be welcome with us whenever you like," Colonel Fitzwilliam assured her. "Indeed, you must come and see us, for I have no sisters of my own, nor has dear Constance, and our children will need an aunt to spoil them."

"That will be my role, then," Anne decided, pleased at the return of her cousin's customary good humor. A companionable silence prevailed, before the Colonel spoke again:

"Lady Catherine had made it sound as though you would be quite heart-broken, at this news."

It would be untrue to say that Anne was surprised, for she was not; yet she found it difficult to answer for a moment. "I hope, then," she said, keeping her tone as measured as she could, "that that is the reason why you thought I was in love with you, and that it was not because of any accidental display on my part."

"I suppose I ought not to have listened to her," Colonel Fitzwilliam reflected. "Before she had mentioned it, Anne, I don't believe the thought had ever occurred to me; I thought you were fond of me, but as you have said, more like a brother than any thing else. Yet her Ladyship was quite convincing: drawing upon the improvement in your health, and your obvious happiness at being in Bath, which she assured me was all due to my company. It made sense," he added, rather sheepishly.

"Did her Ladyship tell you that I was every day expecting a proposal from you?"

"She was not so explicit. But I told you, of course, that she made several objections to my marrying Miss Finch: not the least of these was that Constance is not you. She told me that you had set all your hopes upon me, and were quite enamored of me; that you spoke of me ceaselessly when I was not by, that you attended balls and assemblies only in the hopes of seeing me, that you had been eager to come to Bath because you knew I was here, and so on. I confess I thought it odd, for I have never considered you to be so very romantic, or to be so set on any person, that you would behave so. You are a model of discretion, cousin Anne, and I have hardly known you to show your true feelings to any body. But every thing else Lady Catherine said, the circumstances which she offered as evidence, seemed rather more plausible."

"I am sorry for your trouble," Anne said quietly.

"Indeed," Colonel Fitzwilliam went on thoughtfully, "it was perhaps the most convincing argument which your mother could have made to me. She made several, you know: about my bride's lack of fortune or connexion, about her family, about my duties to my rank and my family—while my own mother," he snorted, "was perfectly pleased at the news, and is coming to Bath within a fortnight, to meet Miss Finch herself. I digress; her Ladyship's best argument, you will be pleased to hear, Anne," (he smiled) "was that you would be distraught, if the event were to occur. It was the only thing she said which gave me pause."

"Yet it did not cause you to reconsider," Anne responded, feeling rather mischievous.

"No, indeed," the Colonel said genially, "for I love Constance Finch to quite a foolish degree; and love, you know, is love."

He said it so thoughtlessly, so cheerfully, that Anne smiled; but she could not help wishing, rather sadly, that her own love could manage to be quite so simple as her cousin's.

Yet she was glad that every thing was so settled, and to such a degree that there could be no further misunderstanding between them. That she should have missed Colonel Fitzwilliam's easy company very much indeed, she was well aware; and she thanked him, for having the consideration and fortitude to converse with her upon the topic, rather than allowing their awkwardness to fester.

Anne wondered if she ought to invite Colonel Fitzwilliam to dine with them, though she was unwilling to place him in a room with her mother at the present time, for every body's sake. Yet she was saved the discomfort of the decision by his informing her that he was obliged to dine with the other officers that evening, and so must take his leave.

"But I do hope to see you again very soon, dear cousin," he assured her. "Will you walk out to-morrow, do you think? Perhaps we might meet in the Pump-room, for I have promised to escort Mrs. Darcy and Georgiana there in the afternoon."

Anne replied that she thought she might, and begged the gentleman to give her happiest congratulations to Miss Finch, when he saw her; he promised he would, and they parted from one another quite gladly, as friends.


Lady Catherine descended at dinner-time.

She did not speak to Anne as she entered the dining-room and took her seat at the table; she favored her only with a long stony gaze.

The ladies ate their soup silently, as they had the previous evening.

Anne, for her part, was in mixed spirits. Her reconciliation with Colonel Fitzwilliam had eased her mind greatly, as she could be certain that her friendship with that gentleman, and with Miss Finch, was not threatened by the present state of affairs. For this reason, she was rather more favorably disposed to her mother than she might have been otherwise; for the day had brightened considerably once she had assured herself of Colonel Fitzwilliam's regard for her. Yet the insight which her cousin had offered into her mother's movements understandably concerned her; for to have been the subject of a lie, told only to achieve her mother's selfish ends, which had furthermore been the cause of great concern to one of her dearest friends—this circumstance left her feeling quite cool towards Lady Catherine, whose silence she did not entirely regret.

Yet again, she was eager to make amends for her earlier behavior. Her Ladyship was already frustrated with the amount of independence which Anne had been claiming; to add impudence to the mix would only exacerbate the problem, and perhaps serve to change Lady Catherine's mind about leaving Bath. At Rosings, Anne thought ruefully, she had only ever been under her mother's thumb—and it was quite probable that Lady Catherine had every desire for matters to remain in that state. Thus, Anne resolved to apologize, if obliged, and to remain entirely compliant in any case. If she began "showing out," it was quite likely that Lady Catherine would remove them to Rosings without display, whether Anne had found herself a husband or no.

(She had found herself a husband, but of course he was beyond reach in so many ways—)

It was perhaps fortunate that Lady Catherine spoke then, and interrupted Anne's train of thought, which was becoming increasingly less productive.

"Well, Anne," she said, in a tone of pure ice, "I hope you are pleased with yourself."

"I am not, your Ladyship," Anne said lowly, casting her eyes towards her plate with all the compliance she could muster.

"I am glad to hear it. The way you spoke to me last night" (Lady Catherine's voice was gaining volume now) "was thoroughly insolent, and quite unforgivable. I am most seriously displeased, that my well brought-up daughter has become such a saucy creature. I do hope this is not a behavior you have learned from any low-born acquaintances."

At this, Anne's head jerked up very fast.

"However," Lady Catherine resumed, "I am prepared to forgive you, Anne" (she took on a placatory tone) "for I realize that you are quite troubled by the loss of Fitzwilliam, and I am sure the incident has caused your head-aches to return."

"It has, your Ladyship," Anne murmured, quite relieved that no specific low-born acquaintances had been mentioned.

"I thought that to be the case. For that reason, I insist that you will see Dr. Hart tomorrow, and then proceed to the Pump-room. We must hold our heads high, Anne, and proceed with our lives, though we are shortly to be connected to a second family of no renown, whose fortune and name are both inconsiderable."

"Of course, your Ladyship."

"I am quite pleased with this change in your attitude, Anne," Lady Catherine remarked, with something like a smile. "It strengthens my opinion, that your impertinence last evening was owing entirely to the distress of your circumstances. I am confident that a visit to Dr. Hart will restore you entirely."

Following this dialogue, Lady Catherine was able to continue her meal in tolerable comfort, and was even sanguine enough to hold forth upon a letter she had had from Mr. Collins, which had outlined, in painstaking detail, the current events of the parish. Her Ladyship condescended to approve of Mr. Collins' manner of expressing himself, and of the obsequious respects he sent to both of the de Bourgh ladies; and she was pleased to provide Anne with her own resolutions to one or two of the little local tribulations he had described (which solutions she would send in a letter to Hunsford Parsonage directly), and with her own opinion upon several of the news items which Mr. Collins had deemed noteworthy. She appeared not to notice that Anne scarcely spoke for the remainder of the meal, but of course this was a common enough occurrence in the household that Lady Catherine could not be expected to perceive it now.

Anne, of course, had been cast into anxiety by Lady Catherine's order that she visit Dr. Hart to-morrow; for though the visit was not one of their regular Thursday meetings, she had no doubt that she should meet Miss Rosamond and at least one of her brothers there. She was eager to see Rosamond again, for she was certain that a half-hour in the bright, tranquil drawing room at Hart House, an agreeable conversation, a glimpse of her friend's serene, lovely smile, and an excellent cup of tea, would prove exactly the restorative which Lady Catherine hoped for; yet she was uncertain how she could meet Theodore Hart now, with any degree of composure. She blushed again at the mere memory, a full day old, of his voice, his laugh, his bright cheerful eyes. How disastrous it would be, if he should suspect her feelings! It would embarrass him so, she thought sorrowfully: he would no longer tease her, no longer laugh with her, no longer offer his arm to her so gallantly.

She was miserable at the thought of being denied all these tangible signs of his fondness, however inconsequential they were; indeed, her misery quite surprised her, for Anne had not realized exactly how much she valued all of such little things. She was a fool in love, she thought drily, almost out of her own control; the only thing to do now, was to keep it all a secret.

Anne passed a restless night, filled with dreams both blissful and painful, though she could not remember any of them when she awoke.