I had never been uncomfortable at home. Pemberley was always a haven for us, papa and I. Mother loved it, but she did not need it as we did. I was safe and protected and loved, it was full of memories. Although the building only dated back to Queen Elizabeth's reign, my family had lived on this land for over seven hundred and fifty years. Sometimes I imagined that I could feel it, seven centuries' worth of Darcy births, weddings, and deaths, sinking into the land. Papa always said that he belonged more to Pemberley than it did to him, and he was right — he always seemed somehow displaced when he was not here.
But since my cousin, George Wickham, had come, everything was different. Even Pemberley was different. Somehow everywhere I turned, he was there. The worst was late one evening, when I could not sleep. I put on my dressing gown and went into the library to find something to read, and he was there. Of course he had every right to be there, but the way he looked at me — it was odd, because his colouring was fair, that he should seem so dark, intense and brooding, like the hero of a novel. For the first time in my entire life, I was at Pemberley, and I was afraid.
If felt like everywhere I went, he followed. And yet there was no reason to fear him. He was always gentlemanly and courteous — remarkably so, since we had loathed each other through childhood. We were no longer children, but we had not become different people. My mother told me, once, that after she married my father, she discovered that people altered but they did not change, they could not, they were always themselves. Logically, George must be George still, unless the George I had known in childhood was not the real one. I wish I could know what mother really thought, but he was her nephew; I could not ask her.
I was sorry for him, of course. To be the child of my aunt and uncle Wickham! I would not wish that fate on my worst enemy, let alone a fairly pleasant cousin. And he truly seemed to regret them, and the way he had been raised. I could not know for certain — my parents were always very strict about making judgments of people, mother especially. So I did not dare say anything.
Still, I tried to avoid him, as circumspectly as I could. He always found me. Places that had once been sacrosanct, the library where Edward and Alexander and I had played as children, the portrait hall where the Darcys from papa on back, through generations uncounted, stared down at us, even the bridge over the stream that led into the woods, where mother had once walked and desperately wondered what my father was thinking of her — always George was there, I could not escape him. I was afraid that someone would see; I had always been very good at hiding my feelings — too good, mother said — but they knew me, and always I had to pretend. I did not want them to see that I was afraid, I who had always been so fearless, and what was I afraid of? My gentlemanly, if low-born, cousin, who had never done or said anything remotely offensive, and was nothing more than properly attentive to me. No, they must not know.
The only time I was safe was at evening, in the library, with papa. Mother usually went to bed early, but he did not need so much sleep, and spent the time poring over estate matters or some new acquisition. Ever since I was very small, I would join him for as long as I could. There was no doubt that he loved all of us, but we all knew there was a special bond between my father and I. Mother used to say that she had done little more than give me birth, everything else was papa. When I was a very small girl, I would toddle over to his desk, and tug at his trousers, and he would swing me into his arms and set me on his lap while he did whatever he did. Then, when I was older, I would ask questions about this matter or that, and he always gave me some sort of explanation, which grew longer and more involved as I grew older. He loved books, my father, and ideas, what he could construct in his mind — my mother used to laugh at him and say, "Fitzwilliam, come back to us" when he had not so much as stirred from his chair — and I either learnt or inherited it from him.
Our evenings were inviolable, even George knew that much. Only once, as papa and I gazed at the intricate illustrations of a medieval book, did he intrude; he had passed, and looked in the door at us, and papa nodded briefly and curtly, clearly dismissing him. The door was shut and I went back to admiring the book in safety. Yet I felt my composure and manners growing more brittle by the day, as George paid me determined, relentless attention. Papa asked me, several times, if I minded, if it bothered me at all — he would put a stop to it if I still disliked him, but I assured him, I was quite content, George knew nothing could come of it, so there was no danger. He did not believe me, I think, although I had never in my life lied or indeed concealed anything from him. For the first time there was a distance between us, a distance created by George Wickham, and in that moment I hated him for it.
There was a clearing beyond the coppice-wood, well off the main path, which our family had discovered on a long-ago walk through the park. The boys were free to wander where they would and forgot it, but often my father or I would escape company for a few hours of blessed solitude. I had feared to come lately, for I did not wish this last sanctuary to be discovered, but George, whose attention was beginning to be more equitably distributed between the three ladies, was occupied with mother. I managed to slip away. Yet as I approached, desperate for some relief, I caught sight of a man's tall figure seated quite familiarly against the roots of one of the trees. Somehow it was the last straw, that he should have found me even here, and I gave a small cry, feeling tears roll unheeded down my cheeks —
"Anne? My dearest Anne, what is wrong? Are you unwell?" The voice was lighter and deeper, the figure leaner and taller, and as he approached I clearly made out the familiar features. Quite beyond endurance, I ran into the clearing and flung myself, sobbing, into my father's arms.
A/N: Well, here's the lady herself. I thought she deserved a turn, and she turned out to be quite overwrought, the poor thing — if such an expression can be used of someone like her. As you can see, she is very proud, in this case much to her personal detriment, but a 'nice wholesome girl' despite her looks.