Lady Catherine had, for some twenty years, kept lodgings in Bath's Royal Crescent, though they were rarely used, and the fine furnishings had collected an unsurprising amount of dust in the time they had laid empty. Servants had been sent ahead of Lady Catherine's carriages to clean all corners of the apartments; yet her Ladyship still made it her first object, upon arriving in Bath, to order every thing cleaned again, before she would allow any of the household to make themselves comfortable.

Meanwhile, Miss Anne—whose mother would not allow her inside until all traces of dust had been eradicated—might have been seated comfortably in her barouche, gazing up at Bath in wonder. Indeed, she had been to the city only once, as a small child, while her father was still alive; for he had enjoyed both Bath and London, and all the varied entertainments offered by those towns. Lady Catherine, by contrast, held that her unwillingness to travel stemmed from concern for Anne and her indifferent health—of course, it was widely understood that the great lady's disinclination to leave her seat of honor at Rosings Park was the true cause of the family's isolation. Anne, therefore, might have been struck dumb by the beauty of Somerset's finest city; she might have pressed her face to the carriage window in childish amazement, or, once arriving in the Royal Crescent, might have emerged from her carriage to stand on the steps of the house, breathing in this alternate world that she had not seen in so long that she had mostly forgotten it.

However, Miss de Bourgh had caught a slight cold on the journey, and was so occupied by her watering eyes and sore throat that she could not have cared less for the scenery surrounding her. For all that she tired of being considered an invalid when she did not believe herself to be one, Miss de Bourgh was completely self-indulgent when troubled by any true illness, and always felt, when afflicted with even the slightest of ailments, that no-body had ever suffered so much as she.

It happened, therefore, that Miss Anne de Bourgh entered Bath without any interest at all in her new surroundings, what the future might hold, or even her mother's designs in bringing her there. She had no premonitions of glory or romance, or even any expectations at all, save a fine bed to rest on and a houseful of servants to serve her tea, tend her fire and bring her blankets when she requested them. She retired to her rooms as soon as her mother declared the house fit to be lived in, and took a long, peaceful nap, worriedly watched over by the attentive Mrs. Jenkinson.


Miss de Bourgh felt no better when she woke, nor the following day, and at the next morning's breakfast her ill health was subject to her Ladyship's disapproval: "I declare, Anne, you really are looking dreadful. I expect you have lain awake half the night?" (Anne, who had slept rather well, did not disagree.) "This is most displeasing; I had hoped to have your cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam to dine to-day, you know. He is presently staying in Church Street."

"Indeed, mother?"

"And we have been in Bath a full day, and not seen him or anyone. I suppose the Season has not truly started just yet, and those who are here are in the shops and the public rooms. We will spend only the briefest amounts of time in the public rooms, Anne. Aside from your indifferent state of health, it is unfitting for ladies of our rank to be seen too much about. It is far more proper that those who wish to pay their respects shall visit us at our convenience, rather than approaching us at some vile dance or other."

"Yes, mother."

"And yet you have distracted me from my original point; your illness is most troublesome, and I will not allow it to continue."

"I had thought, mother," Anne said hesitantly, "that my health was the entire reason for our stay here in Bath; did we not come so I may take in the waters?"

Lady Catherine waved a bejeweled hand impatiently. "That is beside the point, Anne. You are entirely too ill to be of any use to me at this present time, and I may add that your current pallor and red nose are doing your looks no favors at all." She eyed her daughter critically. "There is a physician here, a very well-respected man by the name of Hart, who was recommended to me by Lady Dalrymple; you will see him today, and have him prescribe you a tonic or some such thing for that cold. I wish to have my nephew to dine by the week's end, without you sneezing into your soup. I am sure he is anxious to see us, as well; Colonel Fitzwilliam, as you know, is so fond of me."

It was settled, then, that Miss de Bourgh, attended by Mrs. Jenkinson and her lady's-maid, should take one of the small carriages to Dr. Hart's residence sometime after luncheon. The circumstances were highly unusual, and Lady Catherine was quite put out that her daughter should be forced to make the journey, rather than Dr. Hart, but a polite note sent round from the Hart household informed her that the good doctor was entirely too busy to make a house-call that afternoon, and would only be able to see Miss de Bourgh if she would be so good as to pay him the visit. Lady Catherine was forced to concede, considering that Dr. Hart was the only physician of any note in Bath, and her daughter was not really at Death's door, and would certainly be able to survive a carriage ride. (Of course, her Ladyship was without any intention of stirring herself from the Royal Crescent where, she informed her daughter, she would spend most of the afternoon receiving visitors.)

Miss de Bourgh could not shake a distinct annoyance as she was handed into the barouche that afternoon. She had been brought up to feel all the honor of her rank, and though she scarcely ever listened anymore to Mr. Collins' simpering descriptions of her family's eminence, she had never stopped believing that everything he said was the truth. It was difficult to imagine being forced to drive to her physician in Kent; Dr. Reed was constantly at her mother's beck and call, and she doubted he would ever dream of so inconveniencing her, especially whilst she suffered such a truly horrid cold.

Yet Anne's irritation was not so strong as to keep her from noticing the view on this second drive through Bath. She had now the benefit of a good night's rest behind her, rather than the ache and exhaustion of a long drive from Rosings Park, and was shortly able to look out the window with something approaching enthusiasm.

"It truly is a fine city," she said to Mrs. Jenkinson.

"It is indeed, Miss de Bourgh. You are entirely correct: it is the finest city that ever was seen. Are you quite warm enough? Perhaps you ought to sit away from the window; it might be better for your head-ache that way."

Anne ignored her and continued to admire. She could not remember the last time she had seen so many people in one place, her mother not deigning to frequent the public balls given occasionally in the parish, and the sight of ladies and gentlemen, children and nursemaids, servants and shopkeepers streaming from place to place about their daily business was almost overwhelming. There was a gaiety in the air that she was not sure her mother would approve of, and she felt a guilty thrill of pleasure as she watched the city hurry by.


Dr. Hart and his family lived in a house far more modest than the de Bourgh apartments, located in Widcombe. This doctor was, as Lady Catherine had mentioned, a highly respected man, who was known to have tended to several cousins of the royal family (and it was rumored that he had even once tended to the Prince himself, though of course he was discreet). He had spent most of his life in London, though he and his wife were fond of travelling, and had taken their family abroad on several occasions. After Mrs. Hart's death, Dr. Hart and his children had settled permanently in Bath, where he had the resource of a distinguished clientele, many of whom came to the city expressly to be healed and, if the Baths disappointed them, could easily afford his fees.

The five Hart children ranged in ages from twenty-six to thirteen. The eldest daughter had caused a slight scandal some years before by eloping with a Frenchman, and was now living what she described, in her letters to her family, as a "wildly charming" life in her husband's beloved Paris. Her siblings—the eldest son, a pair of eighteen-year-old twins, and the youngest daughter—were considered well mannered, good humored creatures of pleasant looks and (unlike their sister) sensible minds. The young ladies of the house were said to be as accomplished as one could expect for the daughters of a doctor (who are not, of course, held to the same standards of accomplishment as young ladies of the higher classes), and their brothers to be generally well read and of good conversation.

The Hart home was not large, but felt spacious; it was not decorated in the current style, or indeed any thing resembling it, but was pleasant in a comfortably domestic way, far removed from the lofty luxury to which Miss Anne was accustomed. The maid ushered her inside with several curtsies; she had greeted her master's wealthy and socially prominent patients before and, though she was hardly in awe of them, had always found that an excess of curtsying was looked upon more kindly than a deficiency of it. "Dr. Hart hopes it would not be too inconvenient for you to wait in his study; he is currently tending to another patient, but will be available very shortly. May I fetch you some tea, while you are waiting?"

Miss de Bourgh stared at her. The idea of waiting for the physician was entirely foreign to her, even more foreign than the idea of being forced to call on him, and she was summoning up a decent outrage when Mrs. Jenkinson stepped forward:

"Does Dr. Hart understand who this lady is?" she demanded of the maid, with all the fury her own slightly superior social position allowed. "Miss de Bourgh is the daughter of Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings Park, and therefore the descendant of a long and eminent line. She is not accustomed to waiting—"

"I do apologize, ma'am," the maid returned coolly, addressing herself to Miss Anne. "The doctor realizes the circumstances are unorthodox. However, he is prodigious busy today, as the Season is beginning and several of his regular patients are returning to Bath. He hopes that you will make yourself comfortable in the meantime, and he will join you in his study as soon as possible," she repeated, and added another curtsy for good measure.

Mrs. Jenkinson opened her mouth again, but Anne, sensing that, somehow, neither she nor her companion were entirely in control of the situation, silenced her with a glance. "I will wait," she stated as calmly as possible, though her mind was reeling in confusion. Had she truly lost an argument to a mere maid, without even opening her mouth? It was, as her mother would say, almost too much to be borne.

The mere maid curtsied again and led them to the doctor's study, a room dominated by several full bookshelves and a large oak desk. Like the rest of the home, the room was far from fashionable but quite comfortable all the same. Miss Anne settled herself on one of the chairs facing the desk; her loyal attendants remained standing at her shoulders.

"How distressing it must be, Miss de Bourgh, for a lady of your rank," Mrs. Jenkinson said in a low voice, "to see a tradesman so completely disregarding the basic courtesies that are due members of the titled class. I am quite sure Lady Catherine will not like to hear of this."

"Indeed, I am sure she won't," Anne agreed, Mrs. Jenkinson's ire serving to re-kindle her own. "She will consider this man impertinent, as do I; I am quite prepared to take my leave." She sneezed angrily into her handkerchief. There was no need for her to follow this statement with any other action; both she and Mrs. Jenkinson knew that they would not be taking any leave until Dr. Hart had seen Miss de Bourgh, as Lady Catherine had ordered.

It was fortunate, therefore, that Dr. Hart entered at that moment. He was a fine-looking man of perhaps fifty, with graying hair and a cheerful look about him. He greeted them immediately with a low bow that was quite proper and in keeping with what was due; Anne felt her indignation begin to ebb.

"My sincerest apologies, Miss de Bourgh," he began. "I had no desire to keep you waiting, but one of my regular patients has kept me longer than I expected; a touch of the gout, I'm afraid, though of course he is one of those who for-ever thinks there is something terrible wrong with him." He smiled. Anne, who was not unacquainted with this form of hypochondria, did not return the smile. "I must thank you, also, for paying me the compliment of your visit; how distressed I was to think that you should be so inconvenienced, but of course I am so dreadfully busy these days that I would be quite unable to pay you a house-call for nearly a week. How do you find the Royal Crescent, by the way?"

"It is very pleasant," Anne said stiffly.

"And Bath? Have you been out much in the city at all?"

"I have not. We arrived only the day before yesterday."

"Miss de Bourgh has been rather too ill for sight-seeing, sir," Mrs. Jenkinson broke in reproachfully.

"Of course, of course. And I assume you are her nurse?"

Introductions were made between the two and, with no further delay, the doctor began his examination. Anne, who was quite accustomed to these proceedings, paid rather little attention; she had had her temperature checked, her eyes and ears and throat examined, her pulse measured, her symptoms described (by either her mother or Mrs. Jenkinson) too many times to count.

She looked about her in boredom. The bookshelves were filled with medical books with obscure-sounding titles, some of which were in different languages—nothing she had any interest in. There were a few watercolors on the wall, rather pretty ones, which she supposed must have been done by one of Dr. Hart's daughters, but they could hardly compare to the fine portraits and landscapes that adorned the halls of Rosings Park. A Japanese screen stood near the fireplace, but Anne had very little appreciation for ethnic art, so she paid it little mind. The windows offered a pleasant view of the street below, and it was there that she directed her attention while Mrs. Jenkinson described Miss de Bourgh's headaches, throat pains, watering eyes and dripping nose in exaggerated and pitiful-sounding detail.

Anne was startled, therefore, when the door to the study was flung open suddenly with a loud bang, and a young woman rushed in, waving a piece of paper excitedly.

"Father," she exclaimed, "A letter from Helena, and you'll never—oh, I do apologize!" She stopped quickly and colored. "I didn't—Sarah didn't say—Forgive me!" She curtsied hurriedly and was gone as suddenly as she had come. Anne glanced at Mrs. Jenkinson, whose face could scarce have expressed more disapproval.

"Miss Rosamond, my daughter," the doctor explained, sounding amused. "You must excuse her; she has been most impatient for a letter from her sister. Miss de Bourgh," he went on, "you are very fortunate in that there is nothing wrong with you other than a mild cold, mostly likely due to your recent journey. I can prescribe you a tonic that may offer you some relief, but indeed I believe you would be best served with rest and quiet, and perhaps a visit to the Baths. Tea with honey will certainly ease your throat pains, and I will be very surprised if your other symptoms have not disappeared, or at least lessened considerably, within a few days' time."

It was difficult to gauge the effect these tidings had on Miss de Bourgh. Her face betrayed very little emotion indeed; she merely gave the doctor one stiff nod and rose to leave. Inwardly, however, she was experiencing the most extraordinary feeling of relief that she could possibly have imagined; it was as though a death sentence had been lifted from her shoulders.

How liberating, for a young woman of four-and-twenty, who has felt perfectly healthy for much of her life but been made to understand, by her physician, her family, and even her servants, that she is a weak, fragile, invalid creature—how liberating for this young woman to hear at last that there is nothing wrong with her that cannot be resolved with rest and quiet, and perhaps a visit to the Baths. It was the first time any body worth listening to had voiced Anne's own opinions about her health, and she was not entirely certain whether she ought to believe him—perhaps there was some symptom he had missed that would point him to the same conclusions her mother had been drawing about her for so long. Yet he did look very sure of himself, and, Anne reminded herself, he was no mere country doctor like her physician in Kent; he had tended people even wealthier and better connected than she, and did that not lend Dr. Hart a certain credibility? Though of course she did disagree with his estimation of her cold as a mild one, for indeed it was most unpleasant and she did not think anyone could ever have had a cold worse than hers. Yet the rest of it… Miss Anne was not one of those expressive young ladies who shows the world more than she feels, whether in joy or sadness; yet she felt she could have thrown her arms about Dr. Hart with very little further provocation.

Mrs. Jenkinson, by contrast, was not so thankful to the good doctor for his diagnosis. Seeing that her lady was not planning on defending herself, the good woman took matters into her own extremely loyal hands.

"Dr. Hart," she said in a low voice, "you must not be so cruel, nor so misleading, as to allow Miss de Bourgh to think that there is nothing wrong with her. Why, Miss de Bourgh has suffered from chronic illness since childhood, which has robbed her of many enjoyments and, as her mother says, of many years of her life; and though she is the most obliging young lady, and never complains, it is plain to see that she is not entirely well, as you seem to suggest. Look only at her pale cheeks, her red-rimmed eyes—her symptoms point unmistakably to the contrary."

"Indeed, Mrs. Jenkinson," Dr. Hart replied gravely, "I do not suggest that Miss de Bourgh is entirely well. As I say, she is presently suffering from a slight cold, which is no doubt extremely trying, and certainly explains the symptoms you have described." He chose not to address Mrs. Jenkinson's charge of chronic illness, but Anne thought she saw his eyebrows rise a fraction of an inch. Her heart swelled again; he did, indeed, seem very certain that it was a cold and nothing more.

Mrs. Jenkinson was clearly unsatisfied with this response, but could think of no way to counter it, and turned instead to Miss de Bourgh, her face a mask of pity and displeasure. The young lady simply requested the tonic Dr. Hart had referred to, which would surely satisfy her mother's demand for a cure.

It was a subdued party, therefore, that Dr. Hart escorted into the vestibule: Mrs. Jenkinson, silently furious at the man's clear incompetence; Miss de Bourgh, silently rejoicing at his unprecedented diagnosis; and the lady's-maid, entirely silent, as a lady's-maid ought to be. The late afternoon sun was filtering through the large windows into the home, and somewhere in the house someone was playing the pianoforte. Anne felt she had never been in so pleasant a place, though she could not tell why the Hart house struck her so, as they had sun and windows and pianofortes a-plenty at Rosings Park. She bid the doctor good-bye with a slight curtsy, he responded with a much deeper bow, and Miss Anne was turning to leave when a young man hurriedly entered the house through the same door, stumbling almost directly into her.

"I say!" he exclaimed loudly, stepping back. "I do apologize, madam—my own fault, of course." He bowed low.

"As he has very nearly caused you physical harm, Miss de Bourgh," Dr. Hart said, "you must be allowed to know that this clumsy gentleman is Theodore Hart, my eldest son. I am sure," he added, smiling, "that you will not be hard-pressed to find some family resemblance between his inelegant manners and those of his sister, whom you met earlier." (Mrs. Jenkinson let out a sniff, perhaps insinuating that she found Dr. Hart's words more accurate than amusing.)

Miss Anne curtsied; Mr. Hart bowed again. Fair-haired with broad features, he was not quite handsome; yet there was something pleasing in his looks, and he possessed the same air of cheerfulness as Dr. Hart. Anne estimated him to be perhaps a year or two her senior—around Mr. Darcy's age, she thought, though there was little else about him that could be compared to Mr. Darcy.

"I apologize again, Miss de Bourgh," Mr. Hart said. "And though I am not sure how my sister has impressed her poor breeding upon you, I do hope that the two of us have not contrived to frighten you away from Hart House for-ever."

Anne had never been gifted at conversation, and was even less talented at repartee, never having had the opportunity for much practice in either; therefore, she could think of no response to Mr. Hart's words but to smile very slightly and take her leave, attendants in tow.


Mrs. Jenkinson would have been quite content to spend the entire drive to the Royal Crescent abusing the Hart family. She considered the doctor inept and impertinent, his children improper and graceless, the house cheaply furnished and completely without charm; she was certain Miss de Bourgh had felt most uncomfortable while there and had been ill treated by everyone she had come in contact with at Hart House; and, Mrs. Jenkinson's most damning critique of all, she was certain Lady Catherine would not like to hear any of what she had to say about their visit, nor would she allow her daughter to be treated by Dr. Hart again—"for there must be better physicians in Bath," she exclaimed, "if one may even take the liberty of calling Dr. Hart a physician; a common surgeon, I call him, without an ounce of true medical knowledge. I am sure Lady Catherine can find you a more suitable doctor, Miss de Bourgh," she added soothingly, "for she is so very resourceful, and knows every-body."

It was this last statement that drew Anne from her reflections, for till now she had been paying very little attention. She had her mother's skill for ignoring her inferiors when they were not saying what she cared to hear, and indeed Mrs. Jenkinson's condemnation was almost directly opposite to Anne's own feelings. She had almost enjoyed her time at Hart House, as much as she ever enjoyed any thing; she almost liked Dr. Hart, or at least preferred him to Dr. Reed in Kent, who had always tended to her with grave sighs and un-encouraging shakes of the head. It was for this reason that Miss Anne silenced her nurse and requested that she, rather than Mrs. Jenkinson, be allowed to make the report of Dr. Hart to her Ladyship.

"For it is my opinion that matters, as I am the one in need of a physician," she said firmly. Mrs. Jenkinson, who rather suspected that Miss de Bourgh was not quite as outraged by her treatment at Hart House as she ought to be, valiantly hid her reluctance as much as she was able and conceded to her mistress.

It does not signify, at any rate, she thought, for we all know that it is Lady Catherine's opinion that matters, and not any body else's.


Quick history lesson: Although Mrs. Jenkinson refers to Dr. Hart as a "tradesman", she is being more petty than accurate—Dr. Hart, as a doctor, is not a tradesman or commoner, but is not on the same social level as, say, the Darcys. Dr. Hart would be something like Mr. Collins or Elizabeth's lawyer uncles (one of whom, Caroline Bingley would like to remind us all, lives in Cheapside), in that he has a "real" job and actually goes to work every day. He is not "landed"—doesn't own land, other than his house—and does not make an income from tenants and business investments, as Mr. Darcy does. Dr. Hart is a gentleman, but not gentry, because he works for a living. He doesn't move in the same circles as Mr. Darcy, but probably knows a few of the same people as Mr. Bennet, because after all the Bennets aren't rich. And, of course, the Harts are most definitely socially inferior to the de Bourghs, who are titled nobility and, as we say in these parts, old money. (Even if Sir Lewis was only a baronet, I imagine Lady Catherine would maintain that it's better than no title at all!) Mrs. Jenkinson, as a lady's nurse/paid companion, is closer to the servant class than Dr. Hart (and would have been perfectly aware of this).

Mrs. Jenkinson also describes Dr. Hart as a "common surgeon"—an insult, since Dr. Hart's status as a physician means he has an actual medical education and training. The term "surgeon" typically referred, at this time, to "self-taught" (haha), inept, dime-a-dozen quacks who preyed on the gullible and superstitious, offered little in the way of real medicine, and mostly just liked cutting things off of people (for a fee, of course). However, there were some 18th century surgeons who deserved the title, such as John Hunter, who invented the tracheotomy.

For a better idea of the social strata, check out the chart here (remove the spaces): http :// janeaustensworld. wordpress. com/ 2008/01/ 20/ social-classes-in-england-1814/