Author's note: Again, sincerest apologies for the wait! It's been crazy: first, I had two huge papers to write. Then, literally the day after I turned them in, I discovered that somebody somehow had gotten ahold of my debit card information and spent about $2000 out of my checking account. Fortunately, I contacted my bank the second I noticed, and the problem has been more or less taken care of at this point—but that's a nightmare week that I'll never get back and I am still so angry. Now I have exams to study for, another paper to write, and also I woke up this morning with a sore throat, sore head, sore eyes, and generally sore most-of-me. Geez oh Pete! At this point, writing Miss de Bourgh has taken on the form of therapy. Hope the rest of you had a better month than I did!
The days passed swiftly for Anne; yet she could not find in them the same easy pleasure that had filled her first weeks in Bath. Her heart was no longer so light, her days no longer so carefree; since Colonel Fitzwilliam's engagement, every thing seemed somehow more complicated.
This, it must be supposed, was largely due to Lady Catherine's renewed interest in Anne's social life. Her Ladyship had resigned Colonel Fitzwilliam completely, not only as a son-in-law but as a social connexion; she had not yet retracted her household ban against that gentleman, and indeed had (rather unwisely, Anne thought) made no secret of her disapproval of the match. That Lady Catherine de Bourgh was very seriously displeased with Colonel Fitzwilliam, was soon well-known throughout the town. Anne considered herself quite fortunate that every body supposed Lady Catherine to be primarily unhappy with Miss Finch's lack of fortune and status, though she thought she had heard a few whispers regarding herself, and Lady Catherine's hopes for her own daughter's marriage having been disappointed—yet these whispers were confined to a very few drawing-rooms, and Anne resolved to care as little as she could for them.
Colonel Fitzwilliam himself gave every appearance of unconcern for his aunt's irritation, and indeed appeared more completely happy than Anne had ever seen him. They met frequently in public, having more than a few acquaintances in common, and Anne, despite her duty to her mother, could not bring herself to avoid her cousin's company. She spent several very pleasant afternoons with him, discussing the upcoming wedding and, when called upon by him to do so (and she frequently was), agreeing with every adoring word he spoke in praise of his bride-to-be.
Yet Lady Catherine, having given up Fitzwilliam, had renewed her search for a suitable son-in-law—with more keenness than before, for it had not escaped her attention that Anne was to be twenty-five within a very short time, and that the threat of old maidenhood was drawing ever nearer.
Her Ladyship was not so crass about the matter as most shrewd mammas tended to be; she seldom took the approach of pointing out Anne's loveliness to every gentleman who passed, or extolling her daughter's accomplishments in sewing, singing, dancing or playing. Indeed, this approach was not to be taken, for Anne possessed neither loveliness nor accomplishment. Instead, Lady Catherine took to making sly mentions of the advantages of Rosings Park: the superb country and fine society in which it was placed, and the generous fortune which accompanied it; and she would generally finish by hinting at Anne's being her only child, and therefore her only heir.
"I am happy to have my daughter so well provided for," she would declare, "for I have always found women in possession of such an excellent fortune, or even of a lesser one than Anne's, quite equipped to face the world." Of course, it was implied, a husband would be master of a great deal.
It was not a subtle tactic; in many respects it was quite mercenary; yet there was nothing to be done; Lady Catherine would have her son-in-law, and her grandchildren, and her heirs. Anne took to pretending as though she could not hear, and avoiding the appraising glance, which would usually follow, from whatever gentleman Lady Catherine happened to be addressing.
Company with her mother, then, was to be dreaded; and Anne found herself soon unable to speak to any gentleman, without Lady Catherine's questioning her directly after.
Some weeks ago, she would have taken refuge in her conversations with Theodore Hart, whom Lady Catherine would never deign to discuss as one of her daughter's prospects, even if her Ladyship had ever been more than peripherally aware of the gentleman's existence. Yet now that pleasure was—not denied Anne, for she still saw Mr. Hart quite frequently—yet not the same. Her feelings for him had struck her into discomfiture, and she could not be affable, or easy, when she was with him, and could not bear to be left alone with him, for fear she should say something utterly foolish; and she was certain that her confusion was all too obvious to him, for Theodore's eyes, when they met hers, seemed somehow regretful, and he was no longer so amiable with her as he had been. He gave her strange looks sometimes; he often looked quite hurt, almost sorrowful. The Theodore Hart who had teased her so freely, seemed to have vanished; he had been replaced by the peculiarly shy Theodore Hart, who had pressed her hand in the walking-park—yet now there was no such sign of fondness forthcoming, only a strange, sad coolness between them.
Anne could not love him any less for this, for the qualities in him which she most admired—his affection for his family, his good humor, his regard for his friends and his clever wit—yet remained. She missed him when he left the room, she wished he had sat by her when he sat by some body else, she at once craved and dreaded feeling his gaze upon her, but she could not speak to him without blushing, or casting her eyes to the ground. It was only in his behavior to her, that he was altered, and this cast her into greater confusion, and greater distress, for she wondered what she could have done to hurt him.
She thought, more than once, to broach the subject with his sister. But she could not find the courage, for she was certain that should she dare to mention herself and Theodore in the same sentence, Rosamond would immediately know the truth of her feelings, and her hard-won secrecy should be all undone.
Yet Anne could not help speaking of Theodore, when he was not by, as one can never help mentioning one's beloved in any conversation, however casually it may be done. She asked Rose where he was, how his studying progressed, whether he should attend such-and-such a ball, or such-and-such a concert. She couched her questions, as much as she could, in the veil of general interest—asking Rosamond whether all the family should attend the Assembly Rooms that evening, or whether both her brothers had gone out of the house. Rosamond answered Anne's inquiries with characteristic placidity, and gave no hint of any suspicions she may have had— but Anne feared that her blush, and her smile, would reveal to her friend that her thoughts were only ever upon Theodore.
There was another reason that Anne found Theodore's company such a trial. Though Rosamond seemed unaware of Anne's awkwardness with her brother, Miss Cates had certainly noticed; and Anne found that young lady now, more than ever, to be for-ever drinking tea at Hart House, sitting at Theodore's side in the Pump-room, or walking with him in the park. She was even more distraught to find that Theodore seemed, if not pleased, at least not displeased with Miss Cates' increasingly constant presence; and she concluded, miserably, that he might very easily fall in love with her.
It was not an unreasonable suspicion. Miss Cates had the virtues of being not only exceedingly handsome, but also Rosamond's particular friend (a phrase which Miss Cates herself frequently employed, when Anne was present). She was also, as she often mentioned, quite skilled on the pianoforte, and a remarkably graceful dancer. She could embroider beautifully, and though she did not read novels, she was quite adept at giving her opinion, even when it was not asked for, and suffered no shortage of self-confidence. What the state of her fortune was, Anne did not know, but she suspected that the Cateses should be very pleased for their daughter to make such a match. Rosamond, she imagined, could only be overjoyed at the prospect of one day embracing her dear friend as a sister, and the rest of the Harts should surely share in her delight. Furthermore, Miss Cates was of Theodore's own class, knew many of his friends, and seemed universally well-liked by the families of lawyers, doctors, and clergymen who formed their shared acquaintance. Indeed, Anne reflected glumly, Adele Cates should make an ideal bride for Theodore; the only question now, was when he himself would realize it.
This, then, was the state of Anne's affairs some three weeks after Colonel Fitzwilliam's engagement; every circumstance accounted for, happily or otherwise. As to how Anne had really passed her days—she had passed them in the Pump-room, in the walking-parks, at balls and assemblies, in drawing-rooms and tea-rooms and shops. Anne's time in Bath had been filled up with a great deal of walking, and talking, and seeing, and sitting, as is every body's time in Bath, but not much else; and she began, for the first time, to feel the stirrings of real discontent. When one's mind is uneasy, it is difficult to find the same pleasure in the merry day-to-day, as one has found in happier times. The same activities begin to take on an air of tedium, of pointlessness, and Anne found herself, having passed three full months in Bath, beginning to be rather sick of it.
She mentioned her restlessness to Rosamond one morning, when the two of them were walking in Alexandra Park; the words escaped her quite without her realizing how they must have sounded to her friend. "I am growing tired of Bath," she declared.
To Rosamond's credit, she did not seem at all offended; she merely replied, lightly, "Every body grows tired of Bath sooner or later. You have lasted longer than most."
"Excuse me," Anne said, blushing. "That was quite ill-mannered of me, for Bath is your home."
"Which gives me more right to tire of it than you have," Rosamond answered, smiling. "After all, you have always the option of leaving."
"I have not," said Anne drily, "that is my mother's decision."
"Of course. Has she given any indication of being ready to leave?"
"She has not; she still has some hope of my finding a husband.
"And you have not?"
"Not now," Anne said softly, and then regretted it.
Her friend studied her for a moment. "Had you any such hopes?"
"When I was younger," Anne replied, after a long pause. "I had even chosen my husband—or, rather, my mother had chosen, and I always expected to marry him. But of course such things never end the way one expects."
"I am sorry," Rosamond said gently, laying a hand on Anne's arm.
"I am not." Anne gave her friend a small smile. "It would not have been a good match." They were silent for a moment; yet it was becoming increasingly rare for Anne to find herself alone with Rosamond, and in her relief at their current privacy, she continued. "I am only disappointed, for I had always expected to marry."
"You may yet."
"I doubt it."
"You must have some faith," Rosamond said, giving a little laugh.
"Faith would not do much for my case, I am afraid," Anne answered wryly. "I am not like you, Rose—I am not beautiful, or amiable, or accomplished, or even young. I am twenty-four years old, and all I have to offer is my fortune."
"I should hate to disagree with you, dear Anne, particularly when it involves my sounding very cynical indeed; but money may go a very long way towards finding a husband, if that is all you are worried about. Look only at Miss Cates—she is more beautiful than I, and more accomplished, and more amiable, but she has no fortune, and she is nearly your age. She is quite anxious to find a husband. Your fortune, at least, will never fade."
Anne (who privately disagreed very much with Rosamond's estimation of Miss Cates) was quite taken aback by this little speech. Rosamond, too, seemed surprised at her own words, and turned immediately to Anne. "That was quite unforgivable of me," she exclaimed, her eyes very wide. "I do apologize; you must forget I ever said such a thing. Adele is my friend, and it was terribly wrong of me to abuse her confidence, and yours, so callously."
She seemed quite distressed, and Anne hastened to reassure her; yet the mention of Miss Cates brought her mind to the subject of Theodore, and she could not help remarking, rather bitterly, that she did not think Miss Cates should remain single for much longer.
"I do not believe I take your meaning," Rosamond said, woodenly, casting her gaze on the path ahead of them.
Anne could not bring herself to make the hint any clearer. "I mean only that she seems to have a great many prospects," she said weakly.
They fell silent for a moment, before Rosamond gave another little laugh. "I can see why you tire of Bath," she declared, "for we only ever talk of marriages here. Tell me instead about Rosings Park, and what you do when you are there. Are there many families in the neighborhood?—Do you have dances?"
Anne was relieved for the change in subject, for not only did it move their conversation away from matters that were becoming ever more sensitive to her, but it seemed to restore Rosamond to her customary good cheer. She spoke of Rosings Park for several minutes, and of the surrounding country, with her friend's large eyes fixed on her in rapt attention.
Two more weeks passed, and Anne grew increasingly restless. It seemed to her as though she existed in a constant state of suspension, as though waiting for some thing about to happen, but she could not think what that might be. Every body else appeared somehow agitated. The Season was ending; several families had already taken their leave, while others were making their preparations. Bath seemed in a quiet uproar. Had she not been laid so low by the several facets of the Theodore Problem (as she had taken to describing the unsatisfactory matters of Mr. Hart, of Mr. Hart and Miss Cates, and of Mr. Hart and Miss de Bourgh, in her own head), Anne would likely not have noticed—for of course the friends amongst whom she spent the most time were not going anywhere. As it was, however, the city gave the impression of a crowded hall growing emptier and emptier, and those who were left seemed anxious to be other places.
Even the Darcys were leaving, much to every body's surprise, for they had been in Bath for less than two full months; yet when the news of Mrs. Darcy's coming confinement was made public, that family was wished much joy from nearly every quarter, with the exception of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who dignified the announcement only with a sniff.
Anne was prevailed on, by Colonel Fitzwilliam, to pay the Darcy ladies a call before they took their leave; for he insisted that it was their duty as cousins. This argument may not have been so effective if Anne, whose feelings towards Lady Catherine had not entirely recovered since their argument over Colonel Fitzwilliam (indeed, they had perhaps grown worse, with her Ladyship's continued interference in Anne's social life), did not take a certain guilty pleasure in flouting her mother's moratorium against the Darcy family.
And so a pleasant Wednesday morning saw her, at Colonel Fitzwilliam's side, being shown into Mrs. Darcy's drawing-room.
The Darcys' lodgings were located near Sydney Park, and furnished fashionably, with attention paid to all the modern conveniences; yet they lacked the ostentatious adornment that characterized many of the wealthier drawing-rooms in which Anne had drunk tea over the past months. A fine pianoforte stood in one corner (a much finer instrument, Anne noted, than the one on which Rosamond played at Hart House; yet not so fine as the one on which no body played at the Royal Crescent), a few sheets of music still scattered about the top. Mrs. Darcy welcomed Anne agreeably, if not particularly affectionately; Miss Darcy, to Anne's satisfaction, managed a rather less timid greeting than Anne had been accustomed to from her young cousin.
"We will be sorry to leave Bath," Mrs. Darcy remarked, gazing fondly about the drawing-room. "Though of course I imagine it is a good thing we are leaving now; we have not had time to grow sick of the place, and may yet reflect on our time here with happiness, and look forward to coming again."
"It is always better to leave when things are good, then to wait for them to sour," Colonel Fitzwilliam agreed, smiling. "And, of course, your departure has a favorable cause; you are not leaving in disgust or disgrace."
Mrs. Darcy laughed. "It is quite an accomplishment."
"I imagine you will be delighted to see Pemberley again," Anne said to Georgiana.
"Very much so," her cousin replied, meeting Anne's eyes, though not without shyness. "I have enjoyed being in Bath, but one always looks forward to going home."
"And you, Colonel? How long do you stay?" Mrs. Darcy asked.
"Miss Finch and I will be married from her uncle's house, but then we will be obliged to remove to the countryside, with my regiment. Indeed, there is some talk of our settling in Derbyshire; perhaps you will see us at Pemberley before Michaelmas."
"What a full house we should have then!" Mrs. Darcy exclaimed. "I am sure Fitzwilliam shall welcome you with open arms, for I have a suspicion that our child is to be a daughter; and if I should prove to be right, he shall be even further outnumbered than before.—Indeed, he will be greatly at a disadvantage, should my mother make good her threat of coming to Pemberley to tend me, with my younger sisters in tow."
"Poor Darcy!"
"And you must make up one of the number, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Darcy added, turning to Anne, "so that our victory shall be complete."
Anne was surprised, but rather pleased, to find herself thus addressed, and promised that she should visit Derbyshire before the year was complete. She was not certain how feasible such a visit would be for her, but Mrs. Darcy's smile convinced her that the invitation was genuine, and she wondered if she might not somehow persuade Lady Catherine to send her to Pemberley. It might be amusing, she thought, to meet Mrs. Darcy's famous mother, if nothing else.
"It is strange to think," Georgiana began suddenly, though she abruptly faltered at seeing all faces turned towards her, and began again, quietly. "It is strange to think, how different we all shall be, when we see each other again. Elizabeth shall be a mother, and Colonel Fitzwilliam a husband, and Cousin Anne—" She paused.
"I shall still only be Cousin Anne," Anne finished after a moment, attempting to sound cheerful, though Georgiana's pause had caused her heart to sink unpleasantly.
"That is not for certain, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Darcy asserted. "One can never tell what will happen; often the strangest and most wonderful things are those that take one completely by surprise."
She sounded very much like Rosamond at that moment, and Anne peered curiously at her; but Mrs. Darcy only smiled, and met her gaze, and at length Anne was obliged to look away.
"At any rate, Georgiana makes a very astute observation," Colonel Fitzwilliam declared. "It is always so peculiar, is it not, how one can experience such long periods of idleness, and then a great many things seem to happen all at once."
"I have often heard complaints that novels, which present their narratives in such a way, are not at all accurate; but, indeed, one may argue that true life often resembles a narrative," agreed Anne, relieved at their return to more neutral ground.
"Yet let us hope that we may live our lives with more of the comedy, and less of the tragedy, than is usually present in such novels," Mrs. Darcy said playfully.
"A wise wish indeed," Colonel Fitzwilliam said gravely, raising his tea-mug as though in a toast.
The remainder of the visit passed agreeably, and Anne was happy, upon her taking her leave, to find herself wished a very kind farewell by Mrs. Darcy, and to be pressed, by Miss Darcy, into a further assurance that she should try and visit Pemberley in the fall, if it were convenient for her.
"For I cannot remember the last time you came to visit us in Derbyshire," Georgiana said shyly, "and the grounds are very beautiful in the autumn, with all of the leaves changing colors."
Anne promised her cousin that she should make every effort, and left the Darcys' lodgings feeling rather more content than she had in days.
The feeling did not last. Lady Catherine was in a foul temper when Anne arrived home, though this fact was kept from her, by virtue of Anne's remaining in her room, until dinner-time.
She took her seat at the table, however, with telling irritation, settling into her chair with a distinct exclamation of aggravation and a sharp, cold glare in Anne's direction.
"I am most severely put out, Anne," were her first words, as soon as the soup was served. "We have been in Bath for nearly four months now—four months! And you are no closer to being a bride than you were when we arrived."
This fact had, as the reader has seen, been emphasized to Anne a great deal in recent times, and she gave her mother no reply. Her Ladyship, of course, did not require one.
"The hope of securing you a husband was our sole reason for coming to Bath. I am glad, of course, that you have made worthy friends; I believe that your acquaintance with Miss Hammond, Miss Hargreve, the Miss Wentworths and several others may one day prove very useful to you, though I wish that you had become rather more intimate with those young ladies, rather than wasting your time with the likes of Constance Finch. Yet we have not achieved our primary goal, and I am exceedingly vexed by your failure to do so."
"I am sorry to have disappointed you, your Ladyship," Anne said in a low voice. Three months ago, such a speech may have wounded her deeply, or even induced her to tears (if she happened to be feeling particularly sensitive); this evening, however, her mother's words only made her angry.
"I cannot understand how you have not, by this time, come any closer to making a match. I am sure that Elizabeth Bennet was not nearly so slow to ensnare my nephew; nor did Constance Finch show any hesitation in doing the same to Fitzwilliam. Your incompetence is quite incomprehensible to me. I have introduced you to several eligible gentlemen; I have even disposed them in your favor—"
"You have disposed them in the favor of my fortune," Anne interrupted, looking up.
Lady Catherine was taken aback. "I have used whatever tools were at my disposal, Anne. Do you think any gentleman would be attracted to an ill-favored invalid without a hint of accomplishment, if she were not rich?"
"No gentleman is attracted to me," Anne said wearily. "And I am glad of it.—You must forgive me, your Ladyship, but I have no desire to marry any of the gentlemen which you have presented to me, and I should hate to break any hearts with my own reluctance."
"Your desire is not the question, Anne, and your reluctance is not important," Lady Catherine said sharply. "We are speaking of security."
"I am secure," Anne insisted. "I have more money than I could ever need; if you were to die tomorrow, mother, I should be well provided for."
"You are insolent!" Lady Catherine spat. "I have no intention of dying, and more is at stake than money. Your duty, as the daughter of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, is to secure his line and his house, and see that the property which you are to inherit do not fall into the hands of strangers upon your death! Have I not made this clear to you, Anne? You are to marry and to provide me with grandchildren, and then you are to see that they marry and do the same."
"If grandchildren are all you require, then any husband should suffice!"
"Have you a gentleman in mind, then, Anne?" Lady Catherine demanded, glaring. "Do not tell me you have fallen in love; I should be ashamed of you if you have."
Anne could not answer, and pushed her plate away.
"He is very unsuitable indeed, if I must judge by your silence," her Ladyship continued. "You will put him out of your mind directly; I order you to do so."
She took a few more bites in silence, apparently satisfied. "I wonder," she said at length, her composure mostly restored, "if we should not leave Bath, and make our way to Town for the next Season. It is very likely that we fare more favorably there; besides which, your impertinence has become quite disturbing to me, and I imagine you are under some unfortunate influence here that has drawn out this wilfulness. I believe Bath has quite exceeded its usefulness to us."
"Good," Anne said quietly, standing, "for I am grown very sick of it indeed."
She left the table and retired immediately to bed.
Matters came to head upon the following morning.
It was Thursday, and Anne made her way, as usual, to Hart House, where she was greeted and examined by Dr. Hart. He declared her quite well, as usual, but noted that she seemed rather tired—a diagnosis which Anne, who had lain awake and uneasy for much of the previous night, could not argue with.
Her examination concluded, Anne was shown into the sitting-room, where she joined both of the Hart twins, Theodore, and Miss Cates, currently in the midst of a debate over whether portraits or landscapes were to be preferred, or perhaps it was over the appeal of classical versus religious subjects in artworks; Anne, having entered at an inconvenient moment, could not catch the substance of the conversation. She was greeted, however, very cheerfully by both Robert and Rosamond, rather reservedly by Theodore, and scarcely at all by Miss Cates, and cajoled into taking her customary cup of tea.
They sat together for some time, speaking of nothing in particular. Miss Cates, though she directed her conversation primarily at Theodore, frequently called upon Rosamond for her opinion or for support; Anne, who was not in the most forgiving of spirits, was rather disgruntled at having her friend's attention thus claimed. Yet she was grateful to have Robert present, for Miss Cates ignored him nearly as much as she ignored Anne herself, and he was able to make Anne laugh, in spite of herself, by rolling his eyes, at very opportune moments in Miss Cates' conversation.
Anne's habitual half-hour had passed, and she was preparing to take her leave, when Miss Cates, coyly glancing at Theodore's pocket-watch, suddenly exclaimed that she was abominably late, and must fly to Pulteney Road with all haste.
"I am engaged to meet Miss Burke," she declared, laughing, as she pulled on her bonnet and spencer, "and I am sure she will never forgive me if I oblige her to wait; tiresome girl! Forgive me, Rose," (she embraced her friend, affording Anne a smug glance in the process), "and do give my regards to little Julie, and your dear father!"
And with that, she was gone.
Anne was so pleased to find herself suddenly free from the presence of Adele Cates that she settled back into her chair and accepted a second cup of tea.
The room was quieter for Miss Cates' absence. "I wonder that she was able to tear herself away," Robert remarked after a moment, rather sardonically.
Rosamond glanced at him warningly. "I do wish you would not talk such nonsense, Robert."
"I only mean that Miss Cates seems to spend every moment here; I had quite forgotten that she had other friends and acquaintances."
"Do hold your tongue," Rosamond said.
"I must say, I am rather offended that she has deserted us in this fashion. Miss Burke, indeed!"
"It is rather ill-bred of you, Robert, to ridicule Miss Cates for being engaged," Theodore said sharply.
The younger brother appeared to find this quite amusing indeed. Anne, who thought she could guess what Robert was hinting at, and more specifically which of his brother's words had induced his laughter, felt herself blush, and gazed down at her lap. She did not see the piercing glance which Rosamond gave her at that moment, nor the look of determination which suddenly crossed her fair features.
"Robert," she said, standing, "I have just remembered that there is a book which I had hoped to show Miss de Bourgh, but I cannot recall where I left it; do you know?"
"We own a great many books, Rosamond, and you cannot expect me to keep track of one, especially when you offer me no particulars."
"I believe it was either in the play-room or in Juliet's room," Rosamond replied resolutely. "Do come and help me look for it."
Robert looked for a moment as though he wanted to argue, and Anne, realizing suddenly what was about to happen, wished very much that he would; she gave him the most pleading look that she could manage; but it was to no avail, for he stood, and, giving Anne a cheerful smile, followed his sister out of the room. Anne, watching them go, could not help recalling what Theodore had told her once, in jest: that the Hart twins only ever agreed with each other when it was for some nefarious purpose.
Thus, she found herself quite alone with Mr. Hart.
They sat in silence for quite some time; Anne almost began to hope that the twins would return again without their having spoken a word. She could not bear to meet Mr. Hart's eyes for fear he should see every thing in hers.
Fortunately, Theodore took it upon himself to break the silence; but all he said was "Miss Anne—" before he paused again.
"Mr. Hart," Anne replied, quietly.
"Miss Anne," Theodore began again. "I am not certain—I do not know—if I have somehow upset you. I hope this is not the case; it was never my intention to do so. But then again," he muttered, perhaps to himself, "I can be rather clumsy."
"You have not upset me in any way," Anne assured him, meeting his gaze for a moment before looking down again at her lap.
There was another long pause.
"It is only," Theodore said, almost gently, "that you seem—unhappy, somehow. With me."
Anne did not reply. She could think of nothing to say that would not hurt him, or betray her.
"I see you with Rosamond," Theodore went on, "and you smile, and speak quite readily; when you were sitting with Robert, I saw you laughing. It is only when I speak to you that you grow quiet, and look away."
Anne was silent.
"Miss de Bourgh—Anne—" He paused again. "Please say something."
Anne could not think of any thing to say. "I am sorry," she said at last, "that I have given you this impression. You have done nothing wrong, I promise you, only—" Only being far too perfect. Only being entirely beyond my reach. Only being the last man on earth my mother would have me acquainted with, to say nothing of marriage. She bit her lip.
Theodore rose from the long couch where he had been seated and came to sit in the chair beside her own, facing her and, to her dismay, leaning towards her. "Only what?" he asked earnestly.
Anne did not know how to end the sentence; yet she was saved from having to do so, by the door opening suddenly, and Dr. Hart stepping into the room.
"I beg your pardon," he said, coming to a swift halt and surveying the scene before him. "I was looking for Rosamond."
"She has gone upstairs," Theodore told him, rather hoarsely, leaning back in his chair.
"Ah. Yes. Of course." Dr. Hart gave a hopeless glance at the door behind him, then at Anne and Theodore. "Do excuse me. A letter has come. From Helena, I believe. For Rose."
"She will be glad to hear it." Theodore passed his hand swiftly over his eyes.
"I—I am afraid," Anne said, very quietly, "that I must take my leave."
"Miss de Bourgh—"
"I am afraid," Anne repeated, ignoring Theodore's entreaty, "that I have stayed far too long; Mrs. Jenkinson will be wondering where I am."
"You must stay a moment longer, and say good-bye to Rose; she will be most put out if you do not."
"Miss Hart has a very forgiving nature," Anne said firmly, rising. "I believe she will understand."
"I am sure she will not," Theodore replied heatedly, also rising; yet Anne had already donned her spencer and bonnet. She afforded him a very swift curtsy, her eyes on the floor before her, and made her escape from the sitting-room.
"Miss de Bourgh!"
Already in the vestibule, Anne turned. She could not help herself. It was not Theodore who had called to her, as she half-hoped, half-feared, but Dr. Hart, who hurried down the hall towards her.
"Are you quite all right?" the physician asked kindly. "You are exceedingly pale."
"I am perfectly well, thank you." Anne curtsied again, and attempted to turn, but Dr. Hart caught her arm gently in his hand.
"Miss de Bourgh," he said, smiling at her, "I hope that, whatever he has done, my son has not offended you so thoroughly that we will not have the pleasure of seeing you again."
"You will certainly see me again," Anne told him. "I shall return on Thursday next." And suddenly, for no reason that she could name, she found herself very tearful.
"You are not well, Miss de Bourgh," Dr. Hart insisted. "If you will sit down for a moment—"
"I must go."
"I cannot speak for Theodore's actions, but I am sure he never intended to hurt you, in any way."
"It isn't Theodore," Anne sobbed, suddenly, quite unable to help herself. "Or, it is Theodore, but—he has done nothing wrong. It is only that I am terribly foolish, and he is—" She could not finish the sentence, and only wept, bringing her hands to her face in abject mortification.
She heard Dr. Hart say her name again, and then, to her shock, she felt him wrap his arms about her and gently draw her close. Ordinarily, Anne would have been quite perplexed at this action; but at that moment, it felt only natural to wrap her own thin arms about his solid middle, and bury her face in his waistcoat. This, she supposed, must be what a fatherly embrace felt like. It was quite separate from any experience she had ever had (that she could remember, at any rate) but, nonetheless, quite comforting. She took a single deep breath.
At that moment, the door opened.
"This, then," Mrs. Jenkinson spat, as she marched Anne out to the waiting carriage, "is why you have so carefully disposed of me every Thursday; not out of concern for my own comfort, but to enable your absurd and sordid liason with that tradesman!"
"It was very rude of you," Anne said, rather dazedly, "to open the door and walk in, as though it is your own home; a civilized person generally knocks."
"I did knock," Mrs. Jenkinson snapped. "Several times, and I could hear your voice behind the door—I entered the house in your best interests, out of concern for your virtue and safety. I did not realize I was too late!"
Anne sank into the carriage seat.
"How many weeks have we been visiting this ghastly place? And how many weeks have you been sending me to coffee-shops while you carry on with your lover? Lady Catherine will hear about this, Miss Anne de Bourgh, make no mistake!"
"I am sure she will," Anne murmured, wiping the remaining tears from her lashes and closing her eyes.
"I had never expected it of you, madam; I have always held you in only the greatest respect; I have always believed you to understand what was expected of a young lady, especially one of your rank. Have you learned nothing from her Ladyship?"
"I am in love with him," Anne said quietly.
"In love! I should never have believed you capable of falling in love—not with such a scoundrel—why, you must realize your fortune is all he cares for! Men of that class, Miss de Bourgh (I cannot bring myself to call them gentlemen) are only ever out for what they can steal; and you believe yourself in love with him!"
When Anne did not answer, she continued.
"What a disgusting spectacle! You do realize, miss, that he is twice your age? That he has children older than you are? He must be fifty at least! How you could ever imagine—"
"He has no children," Anne interrupted, confused. She opened her eyes.
"I beg your pardon, madam," Mrs. Jenkinson said icily, "but he has five."
"Are you speaking of Dr. Hart?"
Mrs. Jenkinson stared at her. "Are you not?"
Anne felt a sudden hysterical urge to laugh. "You believe me in love with Dr. Hart?" she demanded, unable to keep a mad grin from her face. "My God, how ridiculous! He is—he is Rose's father—" She stopped, took a gasping breath, and made a second attempt. "I am not in love with Dr. Hart," she said, as evenly as she could. "I am in love with his son Theodore."
There was silence in the carriage for only a moment, before Mrs. Jenkinson began again, her tones increasingly piercing.
"Theodore! A fine name for a worthless young man! I should have preferred Dr. Hart, madam, for he at least has a trade; he is settled; he could marry you, if the matter became so desperate; but his son is only a student, with no income or property of his own—he can do nothing for you!"
Anne, exhausted, fell back against the seat of the carriage and allowed Mrs. Jenkinson's words to wash over her unchecked. She knew now, without wishing to, what it was she had unconsciously been waiting for, so apprehensively. Every good thing must end, she thought wretchedly; she supposed she ought to have seen it coming.
