Anne had always been beautiful and, at nineteen, was very much as she had always been. She had grown up, of course, but in manner and temper and character she had not changed at all. And I loved her as I always had. We had been friends as well as cousins, all our lives. I loved Pemberley, in a way that I could not love my own ancestral estate, for all its grandeur. Pemberley was not so splendid, not so grand; but there was a peculiar quality that I never found elsewhere, more than elegance, an almost otherworldliness. For me, it was like a slice of paradise. I could escape, for a fortnight or six weeks or three months, however long I needed; and it was as if time stopped. I could recover, I could gather my reserves, and then I could face the world again. And in a strange way, Anne and my uncle Darcy and Pemberley had all become intertwined in my mind, I could not think of them separately.
At first I assured myself that what I felt was proper fraternal pride and fondness. She was my mother's niece. She reminded me strongly of my sisters, particularly Georgiana. The jealousy I felt of the fops and dandies who courted her was the natural resentment of a neglected brother. She would dance the night away with them and then confide to me that she hated dancing and only wanted to go home and where was her father? It was only at the Cartwrights' ball that I suffered a revelation of sorts.
I was jealous of Charles Bingley. He was not even present, but she talked about him a great deal;—she was very fond of her obliging, indiscriminately friendly Bingley relations. Certainly they were a pleasant surprise considering their situation in life, but frankly I could only bear so much cloying sweetness before becoming decidedly ill-tempered. Nothing is so exhausting as an inexhaustible surfeit of good-will. Charles was handsome, he was agreeable, he understood — he did not expect scintillating conversation but simply kept other men from forcing her to dance when she did not wish to. In my considered opinion, Charles Bingley was a vapid, spineless bore. What right did he have to her good opinion? She was one of the most critical, perceptive people I had ever met and yet she could admire the likes of Charles Bingley. It boggled the mind.
The attachment between father and daughter was such that where one was found, the other was certain to be nearby. Sure enough, after Anne suffered herself to be led away by the Cartwright heir, my uncle seemed to materialise behind me, with some dry, clever remark and a decidedly forbidding expression. Then he, for no apparent reason, invited me to stay at Pemberley, an invitation I gladly accepted.
"I should warn you," he added casually, "Mrs Darcy's nephew is also paying a visit. You may remember him — George Wickham." Was it just my imagination, or was there something like distaste in his eyes as he spoke?
"I remember," I said tersely. "I understand he has made something of himself, to the astonishment of all."
"Yes," said Mr Darcy, austere and remote as ever. As my mother's son, however, I was more than accustomed to enigmatic reserve, and smiled faintly at him. "He seems to be quite taken with Anne."
I could feel blood pounding in my ears, and hardly recognised my own voice when I heard it. "I beg your pardon? I was not aware he was on speaking terms with Anne."
"He seems to have reconciled himself to her eccentricities. I have nothing to complain of in his conduct." My uncle looked into the ballroom, perfectly still and somehow apart, his blue eyes intent on the stately whirl of dancers. "He also seems to sincerely regret his parents' — deficiencies."
"Is he still terrified of you, sir?" I grinned up at my uncle.
"I rather think so." He seemed faintly pleased. I had never in my life had cause to fear him. "Anne is sensible, of course."
"Of course." Even if she is infatuated with Charles Bingley.
"I would also enjoy your company. I am starting to feel a sneaking sympathy for my late father-in-law."
"I understand, sir." A vivid mental picture flashed into my mind, of that man touching Anne, my beautiful, pristine cousin. I looked at Anne, at my uncle, thought of Pemberley, and once again failed to convince myself that they were not all part and parcel of the same thing. I thought of Eden and Eve spoilt by the serpent, of pride fallen — and somehow that seemed the worst of all. "I would be honoured to stay at Pemberley, sir, as long as you will have me."
"Thank you."