Darcy looked out of the carriage window as the sights of London faded. His face sombre, he watched as the elegant town houses and tree lined streets of Mayfair gave way to densely packed built areas with busy street vendors, before slowly opening up to unobstructed fields and dark green hedgerows. Although facing out the window, Darcy paid little attention to the changing scenery before him. With his forehead resting against the cool quarter light he simply stared blankly, deep in thought. If his carriage companion had not fallen asleep shortly after the carriage pulled away from his residence at Grosvenor Street, he may have noticed Darcy's troubled countenance. For once Darcy was glad his cousin had spent a late night at his club. His inactive companion gave Darcy ample time alone with his thoughts in preparation for what he assumed to be the most trying of visits. His head ached; he could not fathom why. Perhaps it had something to do with the sustained period of interrupted sleep he had been experiencing this last sennight, following the arrival of the letter. He closed his eyes momentarily to rub a gloved hand against his tightening temple. Where he should have briefly been soothed by the dark, Darcy's mind interrupted his attempt at composure by plaguing him with images of fine eyes in the face of a very pretty woman. An exceedingly diverting, intelligent, handsome woman. But it was those dark eyes... Enough, he thought, shaking his head slightly until the vision of Elizabeth Bennet blurred and he found himself opposite his inert cousin once more. In his overcoat pocket he fingered the offending letter absentmindedly as he considered what indeed he should do. Three years was a long time. He took the letter from his pocket and, glancing at the sleeping Richard, unfolded the correspondence. The letter consisted of a short note in his aunts impeccable handwriting expressing her most earnest anticipation of receiving her favourite nephew for his yearly visit during Easter. A visit, she hoped, that would bring much long-awaited joy to all parties. In an abrupt flourish all her own, his aunt closed the correspondence with one final remark; Anne has returned duty bound to Rosings Park.
When Darcy had last saw Anne she had been so frail. The sight had caused Darcy much discomfort for he was deeply fond of his young cousin. He thought of their last conversation, she had not been so frail of mind however; on the contrary she had been quite the opposite. At the time he had felt quite wounded, although she had simply voiced what he himself did not have the courage to say. Next he knew she had left Rosings for Scotland to visit with her aunt the Dowager Countess of Elgin. For Anne to leave Rosings, all on her own, was exceedingly out of character. That Anne should then stay away for so long, well Darcy had no idea what to conclude from that. In truth he had no idea what to think at present. He had always prided himself on his rational mind and steady character. How could such a short encounter with a creature of the opposite sex cause him such confusion. The introduction of Anne and his aunt's less than subtle reminder of family expectations, only added to his already perturbed mind; and it was not a welcome addition.
The Colonel continued to doze, his head nodding to the rhythm of the carriage, utterly oblivious to Darcy's inner torment. Darcy focused his attention on his cousin in an attempt to control his troubling train of thought. The last few years had truly taken its toll on his good-natured cousin. From the safety offered by his sleeping state Darcy studied his cousin's appearance. There was a deep crease to his forehead, which made him seem much older than his age of one and thirty. His frame, although stocky was still lean; his face, he did note, was thinner than before. Darcy was glad to be in Richards company again. The Colonel was on leave from his regiment and was likely to be so for the remainder of the season. He was glad to have Richard with him this Easter at Rosings, he hoped he would stay with him on their return to London. This thought alone pleased Darcy, he had missed the Colonel greatly. The short visits together these last 5 years had felt always like borrowed time, with Richard always heading off again overseas. Surely it was time he gave up the army and married. How much longer could Richard sustain such a lifestyle? He had proved himself worthy of his title and upheld the Fitzwilliam name with honour. Perhaps they both could marry?
He watched as his cousin suddenly scowled in sleep, his body tensing as his mouth twisted unpleasantly. The things you must have seen, Darcy thought as he instinctively reached out and placed a hand over Richards knee. He hoped the action would give Richard some sense of comfort. Instead the sudden contact made the Colonel snap abruptly awake his eyes wide and alert before realising his location and company.
"Darcy what on earth, has no one ever told you to leave sleeping men lie," Richard cried.
"My apologies old boy, but you seemed to be having an unpleasant dream," Darcy replied, "do you wish to share what burdens you?"
Richard looked at Darcy. How easy it would be to discuss what plagued him; however he simply could not. Darcy was more a brother to him than indeed his own brother was, yet this was one topic he did not wish to put forth.
"I assure you," Richard laughed rather gingerly, "that whatever you think ails me was long forgot the moment I was so rudely awoken."
"Ah, but burdens always become light once shared Richard," Darcy replied raising an eyebrow at his clearly flustered cousin. "It is not like you to seem so uneasy."
"Everyman has his own burdens," Richard replied sharply. Seeing the look on Darcy's face, Richard tried to smile. "What counts is how a gentleman carries the strain, for I am under the notion that a burden becomes light when it is cheerfully borne."
Darcy smiled at Richards turn of phrase, it was so like him to respond in such a manner, he never could stay serious in conversation for too long. Whatever ailed his cousin he was sure he would share when the moment was right.
"Darcy what is the time, how much longer before we reach the Inn? asked Richard, flexing his left leg. "I am afraid these tiresome legs of mine begin to stiffen when I find myself idle for too long."
"I was rather thinking we could continue on as it is only another 20 miles of good road. We could be at Rosings by late evening. The guest rooms there I dare say would be a great deal more opulent than the rooms found at the George Inn."
"Carry on! Whatever for man," cried Richard. "What on earth would make you consider such a notion. Why would you wish to continue into the night when we can simply stop, have a leisurely meal and enjoy an evening of wine and good company before settling the next fortnight in deepest, darkest Kent. We had much better stop the night, I simply refuse to continue."
"Richard, you act like a spoiled child," laughed Darcy at his cousin's unusual outburst. "Where is my happy cousin so easy and agreeable? Surely you do not mind pressing on, I guarantee the brandy will be just as superior as the lodgings," Darcy teased.
"Oh, alright fine, conceded Richard crossing his arms over his chest. "But do not expect me to sit up till the wee small hours with Lady Catherine, I need a good night's sleep and a full belly before I can stomach such a fate."
Anne sat with a copy of Fordyce's sermons heavy and thick across her lap. The volume had been sought out during the afternoons visit, with Mr Collins taking great pleasure in reciting several passages to his audience of 'such fine ladies'. It had been an afternoon of utter endurance. Anne would not have known how to cope if it had not been for her new acquaintance. Miss Elizabeth Bennet was a charming young woman. Anne liked her very much. She had pleasing sweet manners; but there was a forcefulness, no perhaps an assured sense of self-worth, which Anne could only but admire. She had watched with much enjoyment as the young woman conversed and joisted with her mother. Elizabeth had not been intimidated by her mother's often condescending remarks, or her casual, but indeed entirely calculated, observations on her situation in life. In fact, the young girl had rose to the challenge, deflecting and steering the conversation just as decidedly as her mother. Anne had watched the exchange with great interest, though this was a task made difficult by the constant attentions from the odious Mr Collins. She could not turn her head without the movement becoming a great topic of discussion; "Miss de Bourgh are you quite comfortable; Miss de Bourgh I fear you are plagued by a draught; Miss de Bourgh I fear for your health, pray you are much too close to the fire." It had taken all Anne's strength and self-control not to simply retire and find solace in the quite privacy of her room.
After dining with her mother and retiring to her preferred parlour for tea; her mother requested Anne read aloud to her. Her mother desired Anne to reread a particular passage read earlier by Mr Collins. Lady Catherine felt Mr Collins had expressed himself rather poorly and she insisted Anne repeat the passage in a loud and clear manner in order for her ascertain what best advice to give Mr Collins to improve his rather lacking address.
"Anne keep your chin high and shoulders back, scolded her mother. "Really Anne, ladies should never slouch, I have always prided myself on maintaining perfect posture and if only you would study my example, you yourself could master such an elegant attribute."
"Yes mother," Anne answered, rolling her shoulders back, while sitting as tall and straight as she was able. With her posture corrected, her mother gestured for her to continue with the reading. Her mother nodded in approval listening to the sermon as her eyes slowly began to close. Anne, intent on not losing her place, continued to keep her chin elevated while glancing downwards at the heavy volume across her lap. Several long minutes passed before Anne concluded the passage. Upon glancing towards her mother, Anne was surprised to find her asleep. Anne sat for a moment, unsure what to do with herself. She looked at her mother, safe in the knowledge that she could stare without reproach; her mothers breath's steady, her chest rising and falling slowly as she slept. Her mother had barely changed these last three years. Her hair had lost a little more of its golden hue, with the hair around her face and temples becoming increasingly streaked with white. Her mother had never been a young woman, well never to Anne's knowledge. From what little she knew of her parents' marriage, for it was a subject her mother refused to discuss, Anne had learnt that her birth had been long-awaited. Anne was not sure of the particulars, but her birth had brought Sir Lewis de Bourgh great joy. She knew this was true, for as a child he had expressed his delight to her most often. She found it difficult, recalling the few memories she could still recollect of her father. Her father had been such a contrast to her mother. As a child he had indulged her, it was through him she had developed her great love for riding in her pony and cart, well perhaps racing was the more appropriate term.
Her mother was still a striking looking woman, perhaps not a beauty in comparison to her younger sister Anne; but none the less her sharp set jaw, dark blonde hair and pale blue eyes, along with her height, cut an impressive figure. She recalled once during Michaelmas, while visiting at her uncle the Earl of Matlock, he had joked loudly while slapping Sir Lewis on the back that it had been love at first sight. Anne had no knowledge as to whether this was true or simply a passing remark fuelled by after dinner brandy. She could not recall either of her parents showing the other much affection. Losing her father at twelve meant Anne had never had the opportunity to ask the types of questions she would now wish to know the answers to as a young woman of twenty-five.
Her mother let out a small moan pulling Anne out of her reverie. She watched her mother sleep for a few more moments. Perhaps staying away for so long had been cruel on her part; leaving her mother to fester here in this huge house.
Anne turned her head and looked toward Hughes as he stood by the parlour door. Dear old Hughes, he had not changed these last ten years at least. The butler had been on the house staff of Rosings for as long as anyone could remember. He had been part of Sir Lewis de Bourgh's original household staff long before his bride joined him in his family home.
"Hughes," Anne called softly, "could you please have Hennie collect my small leather roll, she will know of what I speak."
"Of course Miss," nodded Hughes as he exited the room.
Anne as quietly as possible, in order to not rouse her mother, went to the writing desk. In silence she retrieved several sheets of her mother's monogrammed writing paper. Returning to the settee, Anne took up the heavy volume once again, sliding the sheets of paper between the pages out of sight. The door of the room opened and Hughes appeared with the small leather stationary roll.
"Thank you, Hughes," smiled Anne, "you do not need to wait in attendance this evening. I shall sit with mother, if we need anything further, I shall call."
"As you wish Miss de Bourgh," the old gentleman hesitated a moment before continuing, "may I say Miss, it is such a pleasure to have you back home again, you have been sorely missed." Hughes stood a moment looking at Anne. She gave him a reassuring smile. 'You have grown into quite the young lady, you have so much of your father's looks in you." With that the old butler turned and quietly left the room.
Did she look like her father? It was clear she had not inherited the Fitzwilliam golden hair and blue eyes. Nor had she taken after her mother in height. All Anne had to remind herself of her father was a small miniature which she kept in her treasure box. Her mother had the portraits of her father removed from around the house shortly after his death. Anne had never known why, as a child she had never dared to ask.
Anne opened the large book of sermons on her knee once more and slid her small travel stationary roll under the volume so it was hidden within her lap. She arranged the paper so it was hidden within the oversized book. She took a graphite pencil from her leather case and began to faintly mark the outline of her mother on the paper. She would never dream of taking the liberty of sketching her mother if she were awake. Her mother disapproved of sketching in general, she found it to be a tedious past time not worthy of her attention. As such she had never encouraged Anne to draw, although Lady Catherine agreed it to be a most advantageous skill when discussing other ladies. Anne had always enjoyed drawing. When she was small her father had encouraged her interest, gifting her charcoals, chalks and different weights of pressed papers.
The years following the loss of her father, Anne simply stopped sketching. Her mother would chastise Anne if she found her with her sketchbook on her person. Her mother would scold her for not employing her time in a more fruitful manner. Anne had so desperately wished to please her mother, that she simply stopped any activity her mother showed any notion of disapproval. As a result this left Anne with very little she was allowed to do, apart from keeping her mother company and doing exactly what was demanded of her. She would come to realise, especially during her absence from Rosings, how unjust and wrong this situation had been. Anne did not blame her mother, it was how she was. Anne now realised that it was in fact her mother who had no real talent for art or music and as such did little to encourage these talents in her daughter. Her mother would never allow Anne to excel in something that she herself was not superior. That was her mother's way, she needed to feel superior in all things.
While staying with her aunt Anne's lack of preferred pastimes was made painfully clear. When Winter arrived, the weather would not permit any outdoor activities, and the long hours of darkness meant many evenings were confined indoors by the warm glow of the fire. While her cousins drew, played music , or did needlework to pass the time; Anne had simply sat idle. When they suggested games, Anne always felt too embarrassed to participate for she did not know the rules. It had been at her aunt's gentle encouragement that Anne admitted that she used to enjoy sketching. The following evening, paper, charcoal and various grades of graphite were bestowed on Anne. Nervous at first, for she knew her skills to be greatly lacking, she started by drawing simple objects from around the parlour; a small end table, the flowers upon the mantle, her aunt's favourite Labrador as it sat by her aunt's feet. Over time Anne's skill had improved greatly and it wasn't long before she was sketching and painting small studies of her cousins and some close family friends.
So while Lady Catherine slept, Anne continued to quietly draw her mother. She was thus engaged when the door of the parlour opened and Hughes entered the room. Anne lifted her head to smile at the old butler only to meet the eyes of her cousin as he entered the room. Anne felt the blood rush to her face, the pounding within her chest; she was sure her heart would stop.