The second week of Anne's stay in Bath seemed much pleasanter to her than the first. She was still obliged to spend most of her afternoons at home in the drawing room with Lady Catherine, and was still not at her ease when conversing with the ladies and occasional gentlemen who called on them; but now she had been to the Pump Room, and had slightly more to contribute when asked her opinion of Bath and its amusements. The Pump Room itself was honored by Miss de Bourgh's presence twice more, and she met Miss Hart there once, accompanied by Miss Finch and a Miss Cates. The dialogue was, on Anne's side, appropriately reserved, and Mrs. Jenkinson's silently stern presence at her back reminded Anne to take her leave of the young ladies very soon in order to greet the Miss Wentworths, who were much more prominent and therefore much more suitable for Miss Anne's circle of acquaintance. (That Miss Anne found them also much more difficult to talk to was understood to be only a consequence of their rank, for it is always easier for one to speak to her inferiors than to her equals.)

In addition to the Pump Room, Anne spent several mornings exploring the shops. Her mother and Mrs. Jenkinson were much concerned that Anne was over-exerting herself; yet this was one area in which even Lady Catherine could not hold dominion over her.

"The fresh air will do me good, ma'am," Anne insisted, when her Ladyship suggested that her daughter spend the morning at rest by the fire. "And I am only in the shops; it is not as though I am performing any strenuous exercise. If I grow very weary, I will of course return directly."

Lady Catherine was unaccustomed to this brand of defiance from her daughter, and was at first tempted to forbid her leaving the house merely on principle. Yet she had noticed that the air of Bath seemed to be doing Anne some good, as her color was slowly improving and she did not cough or sniffle as she used to—and at any rate, Dr. Hart, due for a second appointment on Thursday, would certainly inform her if Anne's exertions were doing her any harm; so her Ladyship's consent was very grudgingly given.

Anne had her own reason for her boldness. In Kent, it was a rare occasion for Miss de Bourgh to visit the village near Rosings Park; her health and rank did not permit it. Yet Anne did go, every so often, to look at the rows of bright ribbons hanging in the windows, to run her fingers over the fine silks in the dressmaker's shop, to admire the bonnets on display in the milliner's. The shops were one of the few real pleasures Anne had at her disposal. She never made a purchase; the actual shopping was the duty of a trusted maid with strict instructions from Lady Catherine. Her Ladyship had very specific ideas and opinions about her daughter's dress, and favored dark, heavy fabrics with excessive trimmings, which made Anne's wealth and importance very clear to any body who might see her. Anne herself was not overly fond of any of her clothes, but had never seen any cause to buy any thing she did like—for who was to see her, besides the Collinses and the farmers she drove past in her phaeton sometimes? There was no need to look fashionable in the country; the de Bourghs always preferred to look rich.

But Bath, Anne felt, was different. Here, there were thousands of people who might see her, and it would not do for Miss de Bourgh of Rosings Park to be seen in any thing other than the current style. And the shops! Anne had never seen so many ribbons, so many bonnets and head-dresses, so many feathers and fabrics. The sight of them made her head spin pleasantly; the little village shops, which she had so prized, seemed quite insignificant to her now. Despite all her family's eminence, Anne could not help feeling that every body who saw her must think her very provincial indeed, and she was rather thankful that they were only in Bath, and not in London.

In addition to clothes-shopping, Anne had found several very well-stocked book-shops, of which she made full use. The library at Rosings Park had not been added to since Sir Lewis' death, for Lady Catherine had no love of reading, and Anne had never dared order any thing for herself. But here, she found it only natural to carefully select a few novels, and one or two volumes of poetry, which she perused in the evenings before retiring—nothing shocking, of which her mother would disapprove, but certainly more engaging than the stale discourses that collected dust on the shelves of the Rosings library.

And so Anne passed her days enjoyably. It was a refreshing change, she reflected, to have places to go; at Rosings, she could only ever escape to walk in the gardens for a half-hour, or to take a short drive in her phaeton. Though Anne would never go so far as to say she dreaded her mother's company, she might be pressed to admit that she occasionally found Lady Catherine rather trying, and her newfound ability to spend mornings out of the house was certainly a welcome respite.

After nearly three weeks in Bath, Anne awoke very early one morning to find the weather so fine that even Lady Catherine should not have been able to deny its perfection: the sky an idyllic blue, the air crisp and clear, the sun casting a golden blush on every thing below. Anne's usual hour of rising—rather later than most young ladies, in deference to her health—was still some two hours off, and so she closed her eyes again and attempted to fall back asleep; yet the morning was far too lovely, and she at last threw her covers back, dressed as quickly and quietly as she could (unaccustomed as she was to dressing without assistance), and left the Royal Crescent for one of the walking-parks nearby.

The day was perfect. Anne had heard very much about the beautiful walks and parks in and around Bath, but this was the first opportunity she had taken to explore one of them, and (rather to her surprise) she was not disappointed. It was still too early for there to be many people about, and the quiet was so serene that Anne could almost imagine herself back in Kent. She had not realized how she missed walking in the gardens and groves at Rosings Park, but the morning air and sunlight invigorated her as nothing else had done since she arrived in Bath. There was no Mrs. Jenkinson fretting over the damp or the wind, no lady's-maid shielding her with a parasol; it was, Anne realized, the first time, in a very long time, that she was completely alone. She wondered momentarily if she ought to return to the house and summon one of the maids to accompany her, but she could not bring herself to turn around. Anne walked on, for once thinking nothing of her health or her consequence, and what considerations were due to either.

She had been walking for nearly a quarter of an hour when she distinguished the profile of a man walking towards her. Anne's solitude suddenly seemed more alarming than peaceful, and she stopped in her tracks: unwilling to turn around, but uncertain it was either safe or proper for her to be alone, in a quiet park, with a strange man. The man in question drew closer as she hesitated, and Anne saw, with some relief, that he was no stranger at all, but Mr. Theodore Hart. It was perhaps this relief that caused her to bid him good-morning, before she had time to recall the necessity of remaining distant in order to preserve the distinction of rank.

Mr. Hart looked surprised to see her, but met her with a warm and courteous greeting nonetheless. They stood in silence for a moment, before Mr. Hart said,

"You are walking very early this morning, Miss de Bourgh; I hope you are well?"

"Why should my walking early suggest I am unwell?" Anne asked, bemused.

"I suppose it might not; yet it has long been a habit of mine, when I am thinking over weighty and difficult manners, to wake early and take a long walk. I hope you do not find yourself in such a position."

"No," Anne replied, "indeed I was thinking of nothing at all." Then, fearing this response was perhaps rather too flighty, added "You are a long way from Widcombe."

"I am indeed, but this is one of my favorite parks. I find it especially beautiful in the mornings, before it becomes crowded."

"It is very peaceful," Anne agreed. Somehow, due perhaps to the early hour or the beauty of the morning, she found reserve rather more difficult to attain than she would otherwise; and when Mr. Hart offered his arm, she took it without thinking him insolent—indeed, she was almost grateful, for she was unused to such long walks and was beginning to tire. They walked a few steps before the silence was broken again.

"Since we are in Bath, and you are a visitor here, I cannot allow us to hold a conversation together without asking you the eternal question: Miss de Bourgh, how do you find Bath?" Mr. Hart's tone was light, and Anne, who had indeed been asked the question very many times over the past two weeks, could not help but smile.

"I must give you the answer every body gives, I suppose," she replied. "I find it very pleasant."

"You have been to the Pump Room, I know; what other venues have you explored?"

"Only a few of the shops. There is a bookseller here, called Mostyn's, which I confess I visit very often; other than that, I have hardly explored at all."

"Mostyn's is a favorite refuge of my sisters, who are all very good readers. Juliet in particular is dearly fond of poetry, and is forever replenishing our library."

"Have you a library?" Anne asked, surprised, for she had not thought the Harts' income sufficient to keep one. In a lesser lady, this question may have been called impertinent; but Mr. Hart appeared to take no offense.

"Indeed, and it is a strange one: my sisters' novels, a few of my own law books, one or two books of sermons, rather more books of poetry and a great many medical books belonging to my father. I suppose we can boast variety, if nothing else."

Anne thought privately that a varied library was certainly preferable to the Rosings library, but said nothing. It was left to Mr. Hart to break the silence again:

"I understand my father is to see you again on Thursday, Miss de Bourgh. I hope you have not been feeling ill."

"No," Anne said, and realized with some surprise that it was true. "It is only an examination, to make certain that I am quite healthy, for I was suffering a most terrible cold upon my arrival here. I have no specific complaints at all, but my mother worries for me."

"That is very kind of her," said Mr. Hart, amused, "and exactly what a good mother ought to do."

"It is very kind, but unnecessary. I am rarely truly ill, though when I am it is quite dreadful; but she forever thinks me suffering from some ailment. I have not been very ill since I was a child, but my mother can never be easy." The awareness that she was sharing far too much, all matters of class and title aside, reached Anne all at once, and she grasped hurriedly for a change of subject. "I hope your family are all well?"

"Very well, thank you."

"I saw Miss Hart in the Pump Room Tuesday last."

"Yes, she mentioned your meeting. She was disappointed that you were unable to speak for very long; it seems you met with other acquaintances." There was a strange hard tone to his voice. Anne had the peculiar feeling that she was being accused of something, and it irritated her.

"The Miss Wentworths," she said coolly, "are very dear friends of my family, and I was of course obliged to show them every courtesy."

"Of course," Mr. Hart replied, but said nothing else. They walked without speaking for some time, Miss de Bourgh's hand still on Mr. Hart's arm.

"I suppose we should turn around," Anne ventured quietly after several minutes. She did not particularly wish to do so; the morning was so fine, and the conversation was rather more engaging than any thing else she had heard for the past week—or had been, before Mr. Hart's sudden unfriendliness had taken hold. They began walking back the way they had come, and Anne, uncomfortable in the silence, said finally, "I understand you are acquainted with Colonel Fitzwilliam; he is my cousin, you know."

"I was not aware," Mr. Hart said shortly, but then he appeared to relent and added, "Colonel Fitzwilliam is a good man, and I am glad to call him my friend. Do you see him often?"

"He visits us at Rosings at least once or twice annually, and of course we have seen him several times since being in Bath. It is very pleasant to be able to see him so often."

"Indeed, I can think of few things I like better than having my family all round me."

"I wish I had brothers and sisters," Anne said, without thinking; then she realized how very silly and petulant the remark sounded, and blushed quite horribly. Mr. Hart was, again, very forgiving, and acted as though she had said something entirely clever and appropriate.

"I confess that, as a boy, I used to wish I was in your position, merely to have some quiet; you must understand that my family was always remarkably loud. But I cannot truly imagine giving up any of my sisters. Robert, perhaps…I am entirely in jest, Miss de Bourgh," he added hastily, at Anne's scandalized glance. "I really love my brother, I assure you."

Anne was both shocked and amused, but was saved the necessity of attempting a reply by their reaching the entrance of the park and facing each other to take their leave.

"A very fond farewell, Miss de Bourgh," Mr. Hart said jovially, his good spirits apparently returned, "and my best wishes for your health and your future enjoyment of Bath and all its offerings."

"Good-bye, Mr. Hart," Anne replied, smiling a bit despite herself at the words 'very fond' (no gentleman had ever said those words to her). Then, almost as if on impulse, she added "Do give my warmest regards to your brother and sisters."

"I shall indeed, and I may safely say that the sentiment will be returned."

"And—" Anne hesitated, Mrs. Jenkinson's reminders of rank and propriety echoing in her mind, but decided there could be no real harm. "I do hope to see you, and your brother, and Miss Hart, again."

"I am sure you shall, Miss de Bourgh," Mr. Hart said kindly. "Bath is not a very large place, after all; it is the sort of city where one always meets with one's acquaintance."

He bowed; Miss Anne curtsied; and they parted.


Anne found herself in very good humor for the remainder of the day. Her Ladyship, on the contrary, was most seriously displeased by her daughter's early outing, not out of concern for Anne's health but because she thought it highly improper for a lady of rank to appear in public without at least two attendant servants, lest people be unaware of her eminence. Lady Catherine furthermore forbade Anne from ever again leaving the house before ten o'clock, alone or otherwise. "It is highly damaging to your reputation," she ranted, "and I am quite outraged that you could be so thoughtless. And the state of your frock! Wet through the hem, from the dew, no doubt. Perhaps we ought to begin calling you Elizabeth Bennet!"

Yet Anne's fine spirits prevailed. For reasons unknown even to herself, Anne, when questioned on her whereabouts that morning, said only that she had risen early and gone for a short walk; all mention of Mr. Hart was omitted. She supposed she had behaved rather inappropriately by walking and talking so long with that gentleman, but there had been no one around to see, after all, and the relative ease she had gained in conversation with him aided in her confidence when conversing with other acquaintances. Mr. Hart, she decided, was very good practice: a gentleman, but not a member of Society, upon whom she could rehearse her social faculties. His commendation of Colonel Fitzwilliam was also agreeable to her, as it is always agreeable to hear somebody one likes well spoken of.

The fine weather auspiciously marked the beginning of the true Bath season, and the de Bourghs found themselves more in demand than ever before; though now, of course, they were also obliged to pay calls as well as receive them. (Lady Catherine did not object to her daughter's exerting herself when it was under her own orders, and for the good of her social standing.) The closest Anne had ever come to paying a true social visit was stopping her phaeton outside Hunsford Parsonage to speak to Mrs. Collins for a minute or two, and she found the practice of riding in the carriage, sending the footman up the stairs, and then proceeding inside herself to be considerably more wearing than sitting in her own drawing room for hours at a time. However, the change of scenery did offer some advantages: at least, when she was visiting some body else's house, Anne could remark upon the agreeableness of the room, when she had run out of conversation about the weather and what she had seen so far in Bath. This prolonged her conversations for up to half a minute.

Dr. Hart's visit on Thursday marked a welcome respite from Miss Anne's social schedule. The doctor arrived promptly when he was expected, thus earning the approval of Lady Catherine, who could not abide tardiness. He was also civil and deferential to her Ladyship, though he showed none of the obsequiousness and eagerness to please which she was accustomed to find in Mr. Collins; he greeted Miss Anne with no vulgar familiarity or over-friendliness, and in general proved himself to be professional and respectable in every way, though Mrs. Jenkinson, who sat in on the session, still could not approve of his methods.

"How have you been feeling, Miss de Bourgh?" was the doctor's first question, and Mrs. Jenkinson interjected before her mistress could reply:

"I have always understood, sir, that it is the physician's duty, not the patient's, to assess the patient's state of health."

"You are quite correct, Mrs. Jenkinson, in supposing that to be my objective," Dr. Hart replied, unruffled. "However, outward symptoms are generally rather limited in both availability and usefulness, and Miss de Bourgh must inform me of any head-aches, stomach-aches or other complaints she may suffer, which I could not discern by looking at her." He returned his attention to his patient, and Miss de Bourgh gave her nurse the most punishing look she could manage; however, she was to be outdone, for Lady Catherine was quite shocked at her employee's breach of etiquette and snapped "Do keep quiet, Mrs. Jenkinson." The lady in question sat back in her chair, chagrined.

The examination proceeded without further incident. Dr. Hart inspected Miss Anne's ears and throat, measured her pulse and her temperature, and asked her questions about her diet, her daily routine, and her sleeping habits, all the while making short notes on his little note-pad. Anne was quite surprised that her mother refrained from answering any of the doctor's questions, allowing Anne to speak for herself, though the peace was not to last:
"I am concerned, Dr. Hart," Lady Catherine began, as the doctor's visit drew to a close, "that Anne may be over-exerting herself. She is a delicate creature, you know, who has never been blessed with the robust health that I myself appreciate, and in Kent she is used to quiet days and evenings spent at home, with a short afternoon walk in the gardens. But here in Bath, we are very much in demand socially (as ladies of our rank often are) and besides, Anne has been running herself quite ragged—walking in the morning when the dew is still on the grass, spending two hours at a time out at the shops, and so on. She is unused to so much activity, and I am very much concerned that she is doing herself damage; for young ladies ought not to be very active, particularly when their health is so questionable."

Dr. Hart glanced at Anne, who was blushing terribly. She had of course expected her Ladyship to make this complaint, but now that it had come she found herself truly dreading Dr. Hart's inevitable agreement. He could easily proclaim her "entirely well" when the only obstacle to his doing so was Mrs. Jenkinson's disapproval, but no physician had ever argued with Lady Catherine de Bourgh on the matter of her daughter's health, and Anne could not expect Dr. Hart to do what countless other doctors throughout her life had failed in. Yet she could not bear the thought of hearing another recommendation for her to sit quietly indoors, avoid the sun, and wear her cashmere shawl at all times.

She was therefore taken aback when Dr. Hart said, very carefully, "Your concern is entirely justified, your Ladyship, given Miss de Bourgh's history; yet I can see no harm in Miss de Bourgh's taking such exercise. None of the activities you have described are particularly strenuous, and I believe they are only doing Miss de Bourgh good. I have known a great many young ladies who are very active indeed, and their constitutions fare all the better for it; indeed, my own daughters take regular long walks, and they could not be healthier. Of course, your Ladyship, you are quite right to be vigilant. Yet I consider Miss de Bourgh the best judge of her level of exercise, for only she can tell when she is feeling over-tired, and I trust her to be quite honest with your Ladyship and with herself, and admit when she needs to rest. A change of pace is quite often the best restorative, and I am sure you must admit, your Ladyship, that Miss de Bourgh's color and spirits seem very much improved since the first week of your arrival."

This long speech was greeted with a silence that was almost as long. Anne stared at the doctor, who looked thoroughly composed; he had removed his spectacles as he finished speaking, and was cleaning them with a small cloth he had drawn from his waist-pocket.

At length, Lady Catherine said "Her color, I can see, is indeed improved; her spirits I cannot vouch for." She sounded rather disgruntled, but was not regarding Dr. Hart in a way that signified he was to be thrown out of the Royal Crescent, and made no further response.

The visit concluded with civility on all sides, save that of Mrs. Jenkinson, who excused herself before the doctor took his leave. To Anne's surprise, Lady Catherine offered no condemnation of Dr. Hart save his "rather vaulted opinion of his own merits," which she supposed must come from being so in demand among the upper classes. "But I suppose he earns his praise," she added grudgingly. "And I was very pleased to see that he did not press for invitations, nor ask if he or his family might call on us socially; there is nothing more abominable than a working-man, however well thought of, who oversteps his bounds and attempts to be friends with his patrons."

Anne thought fleetingly of the relationship between Lady Catherine and Mr. Collins, her own beneficiary; but of course, she reasoned, her Ladyship had her own reasons for allowing a social acquaintance with Mr. Collins and his wife, and surely neither of those parties would ever be so bold as to say they were friends.


The next morning, Anne was pleasantly surprised to find her mother without comment when she made it known that she intended to visit the bookseller's that day. She had finished one of her previously purchased novels, and understood it to be the first in a published series, with the sequels already available. Lady Catherine offered no further criticism of her daughter's taking the exercise.

"But mind you dress warmly, for there is an unseasonable chill in the wind this morning," Lady Catherine added crossly. She eyed Anne's muslin frock—new—with some distaste. "Certainly you will need a spencer at least, and perhaps Mrs. Jenkinson ought to carry a spare shawl. One can never be too careful in these damp climates."

The wind was rather strong, but Anne could discern no chill in it, when she and Mrs. Jenkinson set out for Mostyn's later in the morning. The weather was fair, and Bath was bustling: ladies and gentleman strolled up and down the sidewalks on errands of their own, some in groups and some unaccompanied. Anne was in a fine humor, finding every face amiable and every scene charming, enjoying the mingled smells of bread baking and flowers for sale. Mrs. Jenkinson suggested that it might be most proper for them to hire a sedan-chair, since Anne had decided not to take one of the de Bourghs' own carriages; yet Anne could not abide the thought of shutting herself into the little box, and insisted that they walk.

They arrived at Mostyn's within a half-hour. It was located on a fashionable little street just off the main thoroughfare, surrounded on all sides by dress-shops and cafés. Anne caught Mrs. Jenkinson's rather longing glance as they passed one of these cafés, and, knowing her companion took no real pleasure in book-shops, felt a rare guilt for obliging the lady to spend her morning in such a fashion.

"Mrs. Jenkinson," she began, "would you not be much better pleased if you were to wait in the café while I went into Mostyn's?"

Mrs. Jenkinson protested, but could not hide her delight at the proposition. She had always been an avid admirer of fashionable society, and the de Bourgh household's current residence in Bath afforded her the prospect of admiring those ladies and gentlemen at much closer range than she had been able to in Kent; the large windows of the café in question could only aid in that purpose.

Yet, "It would not be at all proper, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Jenkinson maintained. "It is my duty to accompany you."

"I should be much easier if you would wait for me," Anne insisted. "Mostyn's is only a few doors down, and I would not have you standing by me so impatiently." She spoke frankly, the daughter of a great lady who had never seen the need to be particularly tactful towards one's employees.

Mrs. Jenkinson colored. She was obliged to confess that she was often rather impatient when shopping with her mistress (though she had always thought herself quite adept at hiding it) for she had been taught to shop with a purpose, and was unaccustomed to browsing and poking about, as Miss Anne was wont to do. After some debate, during which Anne threatened to turn her request into a direct order, the ladies agreed that Mrs. Jenkinson should take a few coins and order herself a cup of chocolate, and that Miss de Bourgh would come fetch her when she was ready to leave.

Watching her nurse enter the café, Anne felt the same sense of freedom that she had felt in the park some mornings ago. She was not used to being alone, and (despite her consequence, and her understanding of propriety) found it quite liberating, though she knew her mother would disapprove.

Mostyn's was large (by Bath's standards) and bright, with tall windows and taller shelves. Anne had, as she had told Mr. Hart, visited quite often; yet she had made only a few purchases, the practice of buying things still something of a novelty to her, and she had never stayed for very long, Mrs. Jenkinson's poorly-veiled eagerness to leave always casting something of a shadow over the experience. Now, however, she found herself at leisure to peruse as casually as she wished, and allowed herself the unprecedented luxury of simply wandering the aisles.

She had spent some minutes in the shop, making no progress towards her object, when Rosamond Hart entered with two other girls. Anne was somewhat hidden behind one of the shelves, and held her place for a moment, uncertain of the proper course of action. One of the young ladies was familiar to Miss Anne as the Miss Cates who had accompanied Miss Rosamond in the Pump-room on their last meeting; the other, some three or four years younger, could only be one of Miss Rosamond's sisters, for she shared the gold hair and pleasing smile that distinguished the other members of the family.

The three young ladies chatted amiably, exclaiming over some of the titles displayed, as they explored the shop. Anne, still unseen, considered her position. Naturally she must greet her acquaintances, as courtesy demanded—yet Mr. Hart had (perhaps unintentionally) alerted her to the idea that Miss Rosamond may be offended at the circumstances of their past meeting, when Anne had so hurriedly excused herself to make her presence known to the much more noteworthy Miss Wentworths. The question of Mr. Hart himself was also an awkward one; did Miss Rosamond know of her brother's meeting with Anne, and if so, did she therefore think herself permitted to claim a greater intimacy than was proper? And the final consideration was simply one of inequality: the two Hart sisters, understandably, called one another by their Christian names, yet Miss Cates was apparently included in this familiarity, for not half a minute before, Anne had heard Miss Rosamond address her as "dearest Adele." The idea of being the outsider was a familiar but disheartening one to Anne, who had never had a friend to call by her Christian name, and had never, to her memory, been called "dearest Anne" by anyone, even her mother.

These discouraging reflections were passing through Anne's mind within several very short moments, during which Miss Rosamond espied the title she was apparently searching for on the shelf behind which Anne was hiding. She reached out her hand for it at the same moment Miss Anne stepped from behind the shelf, and the sudden appearance of a body, so close, roused in Miss Rosamond some momentary alarm; she let out a half-shriek.

"Why, Miss de Bourgh!" she exclaimed, the fright passing. "You gave me a start—excuse me." She curtsied, a polite smile on her face.

"I am sorry," Miss Anne replied, blushing.

"Ta! It is no matter. How pleasant it is to meet you this way, Miss de Bourgh! My father said he visited you yesterday, and that you seemed very well, and I am glad to see it is true."

"Thank you," Miss Anne answered, her worries calmed by Miss Rosamond's ease of manner; the lady seemed neither unsociable, nor disposed to claim any great intimacy, and seemed quite unaware that Anne had ever met her brother in any park on any morning.

"I see you have discovered Mostyn's—it is a favorite shop of mine. I confess I am not very given to improving books; I much prefer novels." She drew the volume she had been reaching for from the shelf and held it out for Anne's inspection. "This is one I still have not read, though the entire series has been published for some time. I confess, Miss de Bourgh, I do not read nearly as often or as quickly as I should wish."

"That is the same book I have come for myself," Anne said, with some surprise. "I finished the first only last night."

"Did you! And what did you think of it?"

Miss Rosamond's expression was open and honestly curious, and Anne was reminded of their first official meeting in the Pump-room, when Miss Rosamond had asked her so earnestly about Kent and Rosings. Anne had the same sensation now, of being the most fascinating person Miss Rosamond had ever spoken to, and despite Mrs. Jenkinson's warnings about over-familiarity, shared her opinions on the novel at some length. Miss Rosamond responded in kind, and Anne was both surprised and pleased to find the young lady of a similar mind to her own, at least when it came to books, and found a greater enjoyment in the ensuing discussion than she had found in almost any conversation since her arrival in Bath.

Unfortunately, they were interrupted by Miss Cates. "Miss de Bourgh," she laughed, "you must not start these girls on the subject of books; I daresay I have never met such horrid bluestockings as the Hart sisters."

Miss Rosamond, laughing, seemed wholly unoffended, and as her sister approached, begged Miss de Bourgh's pardon for not having introduced her earlier. "My dear little Juliet," she declared, folding an arm about the younger girl's waist, "is going to be a famous poet one day."

Dear little Juliet awarded her sister with a brilliant smile. Anne could not help reflecting, somewhat sadly, that the two of them made a charming picture: two lovely fair-haired faces with a pleasing sisterly likeness. She remembered her words to Mr. Hart, the embarrassing confession of her own wish for brothers and sisters, and felt that the words had never been more true.

"She would do better to go into novels," Miss Cates advised, "for women can never write poetry."

"That is quite untrue," Miss Rosamond declared, looking very amused, "for Juliet has already written some, and it is better than—than Praxilla!"

"You must not give Miss de Bourgh such an idea," Miss Juliet cried, "for what will happen if she reads some, and finds it is not like Praxilla at all?"

"I have no great love for books," Miss Cates broke in. "I find reading a silly way to spend time, for there are always more important things to do."

"That depends entirely on what one considers important," Miss Rosamond replied. "To an artist, painting a picture is more important; to a musician, composing a symphony."

"To a young woman of good features and a cheerful temperament," Miss Cates finished, "dancing, and meeting with acquaintance, and marrying well. And don't argue with me any longer, Rosamond—I am not Robert, after all."

Miss Cates' casual use of young Mr. Hart's given name was quite shocking to Anne, but Miss Rosamond merely smiled, and obediently changed the subject. "Have you been enjoying the fine weather, Miss de Bourgh?"

"Very much," Anne answered, rather relieved to be included in the conversation again. "I went for a very pleasant walk earlier this week—" She bit her lip, remembering that that was the walk on which she had met Mr. Hart, but neither of that gentleman's sisters had any look of recognition in their eyes. "In the park, near my lodgings," she finished hurriedly. "I am quite used to walking in the gardens at Rosings, but I daresay the scenery here is almost comparable."

"Almost, of course, because the scenery anywhere else can never compare to the scenery at home," Miss Rosamond said cheerfully.

"But I do not find myself missing Rosings as much as I thought I should," Anne confessed. "There is more to do here—more to see. As the Season begins, more of our acquaintance are arriving, and there are so many people to meet with in all parts of the city."

"Bath is that sort of city, where one always finds one's friends in the most unexpected places," Miss Rosamond agreed. Her words so closely echoed Mr. Hart's that Anne looked very hard at the young lady for a moment, but Miss Rosamond's guileless expression did not change.

"Rosamond," Miss Cates said impatiently, "it is growing very near noon, and you promised your brother—"

"Of course." Miss Rosamond turned back to Anne. "I am exceedingly sorry, Miss de Bourgh, but I fear we must leave you; we have an engagement to keep with my brother Theodore." She curtsied very low, followed by her sister and Miss Cates, the latter of whom did not see fit to curtsy quite so low as her companions. "You must promise me to read very quickly, and I will promise the same, for I want to compare opinions when next we meet—as I have no doubt we will."

Miss Rosamond gave Anne one last smile and made her purchase from the book-seller, and the ladies parted with very little further ado. Anne, left alone in the shop, perused the titles for several more minutes before she remembered that Mrs. Jenkinson was waiting for her, and made her final selections.

Mrs. Jenkinson was greatly enjoying her cup of chocolate and her view of the passers-by, and was almost disappointed when Anne appeared at the door of the café; yet she dutifully rose, and collected Miss Anne's parcels from her (for Miss de Bourgh could not be expected to carry her own parcels), and the two of them made their way home at a very leisurely pace, still enjoying the sights and sounds of Bath's vibrant streets.

Anne said nothing about encountering Miss Rosamond in the book-shop; she knew that Mrs. Jenkinson would very whole-heartedly disapprove, not only of Anne's affording Miss Hart any notice at all but of Anne's engaging that young lady in conversation for several minutes. Yet Anne felt no remorse. Despite herself, she had enjoyed her meeting with Miss Rosamond; she could not help thinking of her as one of the most agreeable girls she had ever met, though of course she understood that, very often, those with ambitions higher than their stations are particularly charming to any body who can help them realize those ambitions. But neither Rosamond Hart, nor her brothers and sister, nor her father, seemed at all anxious to claim Anne as an intimate friend or advantageous connexion; they were, Anne decided, a very amiable family, in a simple sort of way. Of course they had not the elevated manners and sensibilities of the ladies and gentlemen of Anne's own rank—but they were cheerful, polite, and quite easy to talk to and, despite their lower status, they lacked the fawning manner that she found rather ridiculous in Mr. Collins (though she knew it to be merited by her family's prominence, and her mother's patronage of that gentleman).

It was with something of a start that Anne realized she liked Rosamond Hart. She did not think she had ever truly liked any body before. She was, of course, respectful of Lady Catherine, and she occasionally appreciated Mrs. Jenkinson's familiar presence, and she did not dislike Mrs. Collins or any of the other village ladies, but she never thought of them particularly warmly, if she thought of them at all. The concept of liking some body, for their own sake, was quite new to her—

But perhaps not so very new, Anne thought. After all, she quite liked Colonel Fitzwilliam, and thought of him with some fondness, especially recently. And she liked Mr. Hart; she thought him far more amusing than most other gentlemen of her acquaintance, though he was occasionally rather given to impertinence.

"Miss de Bourgh, are you quite well?" Mrs. Jenkinson demanded suddenly, interrupting Anne's thoughts. "You look flushed."

"Pray do not make yourself uneasy," Anne said impatiently. "It is merely the warmth of the day."

"Perhaps, madam, we ought to hire a sedan-chair."

"I very much enjoy walking," said Anne stoutly.

Well, she thought to herself, that made three people in the world whom she could definitively say she liked. That was a greater number than she was accustomed to, and she could not say she was displeased.


Anne returned home to find Colonel Fitzwilliam in the drawing-room with Lady Catherine. Her Ladyship seemed to be in the middle of what could only be called a tirade, and Anne fancied she saw a bit of relief in Colonel Fitzwilliam's gaze as she entered the room after having changed out of her walking-clothes.

"There you are, Anne," Lady Catherine said crossly, interrupting her own monologue. "I declare we had quite despaired of your ever coming home. I hope you have not been tiring yourself. Colonel Fitzwilliam has come," she continued loudly, drowning out her daughter's response, "with an invitation—to a ball."

Anne's stomach dropped. "You're giving a ball, sir?"

"I? No," the gentleman said, laughing, "but our friends the Dalyrmples are hosting one in a week's time."

"And I am quite put out that Lady Dalyrmple could not deliver the invitation herself, or send it with a footman, as is the usual way," Lady Catherine went on. "I think very ill of her for inconveniencing Colonel Fitzwilliam so, and treating him as though he is a servant, when he is my nephew and, no less, the son of an earl."

"Second son," Colonel Fitzwilliam replied cheerfully, "and I assure you, Lady Catherine, it was no inconvenience; I happened to be visiting the family this morning, and volunteered to bring the invitation myself."

Lady Catherine did not look appeased, but turned her attention on her daughter. "Well, Anne?" she said irritably. "I suppose you will not want to go, for you have no love of dancing, but we are quite obliged. One cannot be in Bath without showing one's face at these ridiculous functions. And, at any rate, I declare Lady Dalyrmple would be quite heartbroken if I refused her invitation, for we are such very good friends."

Anne swallowed hard.

Her mother supposed correctly; she did not want to go to the ball. Miss Cates may have insisted that a young lady considers dancing more important than any thing else, but Anne had never been good at dancing (not having had much opportunity to practice, given her health) and was even less fond of balls. She had only been to one or two in her life, and had found them to be highly uncomfortable events, full of people who laughed and chattered and gossiped amongst each other, yet made no attempt at conversation with her. She had been asked to dance only twice in her life, once by Mr. Darcy and once by Colonel Fitzwilliam, both at her mother's demand.

Yet: "I am to attend," Colonel Fitzwilliam was saying, "as well as the Glovers, the Hargreves, the Finches, and the Wentworths, and several other families of our common acquaintance."

"I hope it is a private ball," Lady Catherine sniffed. "Public balls are so thoroughly vulgar; we shall certainly not attend, if it is a public ball."

"I understand it is private, and should therefore be very pleasant; for there are few things more enjoyable than spending time with one's friends." Colonel Fitzwilliam smiled at Anne, who managed to smile back, despite her sudden anxiety.

"In that case, it should not be so very intolerable," Lady Catherine declared. "Pray inform Lady Dalyrmple that Miss Anne and I shall attend."

Colonel Fitzwilliam promised to do so, and the conversation passed on to other matters: news concerning mutual acquaintances, the fine weather, the beginning of the Season and the amusements that were expected from it. Anne understood, through this line of discussion, that this was to be the first of very many balls—for Bath, though it wasn't London, was a city much given to dancing. She was careful to hide her uneasiness at the proposal of more balls, parties, and assemblies, and was able to bid Colonel Fitzwilliam a very fond farewell without much tremor in her voice, when that gentleman eventually stood to leave.

"He ought to have secured your hand, Anne, for the first dance," Lady Catherine said crossly, after Colonel Fitzwilliam had left. "After all, you are his cousin, and it is only proper. Yet there is still time; I suppose we shall see him again before the ball."

Anne retired early that evening, maintaining that her morning walk to Mostyn's had rendered her quite fatigued (though she realized, too late, that this was a risky course of action and, if pursued too often, might encourage her mother to forbid her such activities). Yet the events of the day mingled in her mind: the pleasure of her meeting with Miss Hart contrasted with the apprehension brought on by the upcoming ball, and she thought over both of these things, as well as several smaller details that distracted her, though she could not say why (Miss Cates and her obvious intimacy with the Hart family, Colonel Fitzwilliam and the prospect of his asking her for the first dance), until she was quite confused and knew not what to think of anything anymore.

Life at Rosings, she reflected, as she finally fell asleep, had never been so complicated, nor so fraught with delights and disasters.