The reader must naturally have deduced that Lady Catherine could not be pleased with the report of Anne's actions, which Mrs. Jenkinson helpfully provided her almost immediately upon their arrival at the Royal Crescent. She was, indeed, undeniably outraged, and, finding herself rather incapable of addressing her daughter at the present time, ordered Anne to remain in her room until supper, when, Lady Catherine promised, she would take every pain to make her feelings on the matter as clear as she possibly could.

Anne, still rather overcome, was glad to escape to the solitude of her bedroom, at least for the afternoon; yet, once she had shut the door behind her and sunk against it, she found herself restless again.

She had come too close! She shut her eyes tightly, as though to guard against the mental images that assailed her. The memory of Theodore's expression—so beseeching, so vulnerable—tormented her. How distressed he had looked; how discouraged when she rose to leave! It was fortunate for her that Dr. Hart had come in when he had, or she had no doubt that her resolve would have broken, and she would have confessed every thing. And then—Theodore would be so mortified (she shut her eyes again); she could imagine his leaning away from her, perhaps even rising to cross the room, and lean against the mantle-piece on the far wall; she could imagine his stiff, awkward response. "I am very sorry, Miss de Bourgh, to have affected you in this way; it was never my intention; of course, you must understand that I have the strongest feelings of friendship for you; but as to love—" Oh, God, such humiliation! She should never again be able to meet his eyes! Though it was only the Theodore in her head who was speaking, Anne felt herself blush very hotly, and, with a groan of frustration, flung herself onto her bed.

She lay there for some time, thoughts whirling disconnectedly through her mind. She realized that she had never said good-bye to Rosamond or Robert, or even Dr. Hart, so swiftly had she been removed from Hart House. She wondered which was the book that Rosamond had wanted to show her (but then, thinking again on the matter, realized how very foolish she was being—of course there had been no book). She hoped, spitefully, that Miss Cates was not enjoying her afternoon with her friend, and wished the day was not so fine.

Anne had slept very ill the previous night, and recent events had left her quite fatigued. It is very likely that, at some point during these confused reflections, she fell into a troubled sleep, though she could not remember doing so; for she did not stir again until her maid came in to dress her for dinner.

"I am quite put out, Anne," were Lady Catherine's first words to her daughter, upon their sitting down to dine. Anne made no response; she was too tired, too overwhelmed, to think of any thing to say, in defense or in apology.

"Quite put out," her Ladyship continued, fixing Anne with a frosty glare, "and yet, I cannot entirely say that I am surprised. It has been evident from your insolent manner, your thoughtless disobedience, and your refusal to make yourself pleasing to the worthy ladies and gentlemen of our set, that you have been for some time influenced by parties whose manners and characters are less than equal to our own. I confess I may have been remiss, in allowing you so much freedom; yet I had always believed you to well understand the duties and demands of our rank, and the cautions we must take, to keep our reputations intact."

"I have done nothing indecent; my reputation shall surely survive," Anne said tiredly.

"Indecent? Mrs. Jenkinson tells me that you claim to have fallen in love with this gentleman, this—this Mr. Hart." Lady Catherine sneered. "To have allowed persons of such low rank, who can be of no use to you, to consider themselves your intimate friends, is one thing; but to have formed such an improper attachment! Is this, then, why you have so callously dismissed the more suitable gentlemen to whom I have introduced you?"

"It is," Anne confessed, too drained to deny any thing.

"And this is the man you think you will marry?" Lady Catherine scoffed. "You fancy yourself Mrs. Hart, the barrister's wife?"

"Only if he should ask me; and I think that possibility very remote indeed."

"A small mercy," her Ladyship snapped. "Well, you will not see them again; that much is certain. Henceforth, we shall have nothing to do with Dr. Hart or his wretched family.—This forlorn, pining manner does you very little credit, Anne; I have always thought it pathetic in other women, and it is doubly so in my own daughter."

"I apologize if I am offending you."

"There is but one solution, then; we shall remove from Bath immediately."

Anne had expected this. Indeed, she had been rather surprised when these words had not been the first from her mother's mouth. Yet to hear them was worse than she had anticipated, and she laid down her spoon for a moment, unable to take another bite.

"I shall begin preparations directly, and we shall be gone before another week is ended," Lady Catherine said decisively. "Eat your soup, Anne."

They ate in silence for a moment, before Lady Catherine spoke again.

"I believe," she said, rather more sedately, "that a summer at Rosings will cure you of this ridiculous amour, and that it will prepare you to take every advantage of a Season in town. I am confident that a separation from this Mr. Hart will help you to recognize how entirely unacceptable he is, and you will then be more able to form an attachment to the gentleman who will make you a proper husband."

Anne had very little hope of this, but said nothing, and continued to eat her soup.


True to her word, Lady Catherine gave orders for the packing to begin on the following morning. Their lodgings were cleaned, thoroughly, and some of the lesser rooms were closed as early as Saturday, which was two days after Anne's visit to the Royal Crescent. Furthermore, final payments and an official notice were sent to Dr. Hart, informing him that Miss de Bourgh was no longer to be considered among his regular patients.

Lady Catherine carefully monopolized Anne's time. Under the guise of bidding their final farewells to all their acquaintance, she conducted her from drawing room to drawing room, obliging her to sit and drink tea with all of the people whom Anne could happily have left without a backward glance, while keeping her from saying good-bye to those whose company she would truly miss. The Hargreves, the Wentworths, the Hammonds, the Godards, the Derrings; all of them expressed their deepest regrets at the de Bourghs' going so soon, before changing the subject to some undeniably more interesting item of gossip. Only the Dillingham twins seemed at all sincere in their farewell, despite Louisa Hammond's great show of distress at the departure of her "dearest Anne," who would no doubt be forgotten within a fortnight.

Her Ladyship's social schedule kept Anne occupied for much of the week. It was not until Wednesday, the day before their intended departure, that Lady Catherine was engaged in overseeing the packing of her gowns, and Anne was at last able to slip away from the Royal Crescent, alone.

Bath had never looked so beautiful to her as it did now through the windows of the carriage. Every body seemed handsomer and happier; every thing seemed more lively and cheerful. The day was fine and warm, with the scent of springtime in the air, and the overwhelming bliss of it all was such that Anne leaned her head against the carriage window and closed her eyes. With her removal from Bath looming on the morning's horizon, she was unable to be tired of it any longer, and wished desperately to stay in this moment, and never move to the next one; to gather all of Bath, all of its people and its sunshine and its flowers, into her arms, and carry them with her for-ever.

Anne alighted before the steps of Hart House, and took a single deep breath. She was uncertain of her reception, given the circumstances of her last departure; yet she knew she could never forgive herself, if she left Bath without saying good-bye. She took another breath, climbed the steps, and knocked on the door.

"Anne—dear Anne!" were Rosamond's first words, as Anne was shown into the front parlor. She rose from the settee and wound her arms about Anne's neck in a fierce embrace. Anne, surprised, returned the embrace after a momentary pause.

"Do let the poor thing breathe, Rose," Adele Cates drawled, and Rosamond, looking rather embarrassed, released her. Anne stepped back, taking in the scene. It was only the two young ladies present. She felt her heart sink. That Theodore was not there was one thing; but to have Miss Cates by, for her final visit with Rosamond, seemed rather cruel.

"I apologize—it is only—you left so hurriedly last time, and now I hear that you are going away from Bath," Rosamond said, worry in her eyes. "I had hoped that it was not true; but I see by your look that it is. Well!" She sank again onto the settee.

Anne took her accustomed seat and accepted the offered cup of tea. "I am very sorry I could not come sooner," she said quietly. "I have been kept busy all week, paying final calls among my acquaintance—"

Miss Cates snorted, and Rosamond, to Anne's surprise (and, it seemed, Adele's as well), gave her a very black look. "You need not make any excuses," she said, kindly, turning back to Anne. "I am glad that you have come at all; I could not bear your going away, if I was never able to say a proper good-bye."

Anne tried to think of something to say, for Rosamond's expression was so very sad, that she wished more than any thing to comfort her somehow. But nothing suggested itself, and to her horror she felt tears gathering behind her eyes.

"I don't want to go," she burst out, quite suddenly, quite wretchedly. Rosamond laid a hand on her harm.

"Surely you will come again—"

"That is not at all certain," Anne told her sorrowfully. "My mother has been disappointed in Bath; I doubt she will ever wish to return."

"Might you come without her?"

Anne laughed bitterly. "She would never allow such a thing. If I come without her, it is only because I am married to some horrid earl's son or baronet's nephew, and then I am sure I shall not see you. I am sure I shall never see you again." She felt the tears begin falling, and wiped at her eyes crossly.

"You cannot be sure," Rosamond said, pensively, after a long pause. "The world, you know, is very large, and we only live in one small part of it. Indeed, it is very small. Do you know that there are fields and forests in America bigger than all of England? In such a confined space, we must certainly meet again one day."

"Not for many years, perhaps."

"Perhaps not," Rosamond admitted. "But then, if so much time has passed, we shall have such stories to tell one another."

"I doubt it," Anne said miserably. "You may have stories to tell me, but my life has always been the same, and always will be. I shall be the same Anne in fifty years, as I am to-day."

"I am glad of it," Rosamond said, smiling, "for I love that Anne very much indeed, and shall be as delighted to see her again in fifty years, as I am to-day."

It was, as far as Anne could remember, the first time any body had said that they loved her, and she was for a moment so dumbfounded that she sat in silence, meeting Rosamond's serene gaze with a rather stupid stare of her own. Yet she could not allow such a remark to pass by undistinguished, and reached forward to clasp Rosamond's hand.

"I am very glad to have known you," she said, unable to say any thing more.

"I shall write to you," Rosamond promised, "and you must write to me; I will tell you what books I have read, and send you lines of Juliet's poetry, and describe all of the foolish things my brothers say and do each day, and it will be as if you never left."

"I would like that above all things," Anne replied quietly.

Rosamond smiled, and squeezed Anne's hand gently. "Wait here a moment," she ordered, "and I shall fetch the others, for you must say good-bye to them as well."

Anne nodded, though her heart clenched painfully at the thought of seeing Theodore again, especially under such circumstances; but she must, she told herself. For her own sake, she must see him one last time, and then never again. Rosamond squeezed her hand again, before hurrying from the room.

Miss Cates had been quite uncharacteristically silent throughout the exchange, and Anne looked at her, rather grateful. Yet the lady seemed to have no intention of remaining in Anne's goodwill, for she said now,

"I suppose I must congratulate you, Miss de Bourgh, for you have proved quite an admirable rival."

"I beg your pardon," Anne answered, puzzled.

"In the matter of Theodore, I mean," Miss Cates went on, smiling. "You must not be so coy; you have been as aware of our competition as I have."

"I do not understand," Anne said stiffly, though her heart was racing.

"I am sure that is not the case," Miss Cates said carelessly. "I am not too proud admit that I was concerned, for a time, particularly after the fancy-ball, where he danced with you twice.—I do not blame him for his attention to you; a handsome fortune quite often holds twice the attraction of a handsome figure."

"You are quite mistaken, Miss Cates; Mr. Hart has never cared for my fortune," Anne replied frostily.

"My dear Miss de Bourgh, that is all he has ever cared for," Miss Cates sneered. "Are you so naïve? Theodore has not the temperament for any of the professions; though he studies the law, he would rather marry a wealthy bride, and live as a gentleman, and he knows this. You must have noticed the alteration in his manner to you—think now. Did it not begin after your cousin became engaged to Constance Finch, and your mother made her disapproval of such marriages perfectly clear to every body in Bath?"

Anne bit her lip. She had thought that her manner to Theodore had changed first; but she could not now be certain, for Miss Cates seemed quite sure of herself. The announcement of Colonel Fitzwilliam's engagement, the revelation of her feelings for Theodore, the growing awkwardness between them—all had occurred more or less simultaneously. Was it not possible that he had been a little cooler to her, after her mother's dispute with Colonel Fitzwilliam became so public?

"I daresay he lost interest in you," Miss Cates was saying nonchalantly, "once he realized that your mother would never condone such a match, and therefore your fortune may as well be lost to him. I am glad Lady Catherine was so clear about her feelings on the matter, or he may have continued trying to win you for some time, before realizing it was fruitless."

"Miss Cates," Anne said angrily, confused, "I believe you forget your place."

"I know my place very well, Miss de Bourgh, and it is nothing like yours," Miss Cates spat, her languor vanishing. "I have no fortune; I have no rank. I have no brother to support me, nor inheritance to rely upon. My mother maintains my sisters and me on what our father left her, and what our kind uncles will give her, and we are only growing poorer. My place, Miss Anne de Bourgh of Rosings Park, is at the side of a good man with good prospects, who can give me a home of my own. Your place is at the side of some horrid earl's son or baronet's nephew, as you said yourself. You have enjoyed your flirtation, and you can go home now."

Anne stared at her. It was a side of Miss Cates that she had never seen—desperate, bitter, and honest. "I am in love with him," she said dumbly, unable to stop the words from escaping.

"He does not love you," Miss Cates replied, her eyes narrowed. "I imagine he liked you, at some point; he certainly liked the idea of your fortune; but that is over now. I daresay he and I shall be engaged within a fortnight."

This last was no more than what Anne herself had conjectured, as she observed the relationship between Mr. Hart and Miss Cates; but it hurt so to hear it spoken aloud, that she felt as if the breath was drawn from her. She had known that Theodore did not love her; she had never expected him to, she had only ever hoped; but the idea of his wooing her for her fortune—of her having been duped, and passed over when his plans did not come to fruition—she was confused, mortified, furious, and suddenly every part of her body seemed to ache, and her head was swimming. She wished that Rosamond would come back, that Miss Cates would leave, that every thing would go back to the way it was before—before what? She did not know, but she was certain every thing had been better then.

Yet there was no more time for thinking, for Rosamond did come in just then, with her brothers and sister and father at her back. And then it was all a blur: a clasped hand and a heartfelt farewell from Robert, a curtsy and a dimpled smile from Juliet, a bow and a kind word from Dr. Hart, two more embraces from Rosamond, and from Theodore—

Anne met Theodore's gaze coldly, her humiliation burning within her. She did not dare credit Miss Cates' account of his actions (his expression, only days before, when they were alone in the drawing-room, had been so pleading), but she could not help the livid doubts that plagued her. His smile, she felt, was arrogant; his bow mocking; his words insincere. The memory of her near-confession to him (Oh, God) made her flush all over with shame. What a fool she should have been! Not only a fool, but a joke, a silly child with a head full of novels. She gave him only a nod and a half-smile, and as he reached for her hand, as Robert had done only moments before, she could not help but flinch it away and, in an attempt to cover the action, turn to Rosamond again.

"I shall miss you more than any body else in Bath," Anne whispered, pulling her friend close for a final time.

"I will write to you," Rosamond promised, and as they separated Anne was shocked to find her friend's wide gray eyes swimming with tears. Rosamond similarly seemed surprised, and brushed at her eyes impatiently. "I am being a fool, now," she laughed. "I shall write to you every day, and you must answer."

"I will," Anne assured her, blinking her own tears away. "Good-bye—good-bye—"

They followed her into the vestibule, pressing their farewells upon her, and even onto the front-stairs, as she climbed into her carriage and gave the order. She turned, looking out of the window. The last sight that caught her eyes was of Theodore, tall and almost handsome, standing a little apart from his family and staring after her carriage, looking—of all things—troubled, as though he'd lost something.


Anne returned to the Royal Crescent to find Lady Catherine still occupied with supervising the servants; indeed, her Ladyship appeared not to have noticed that Anne had even gone. Taking advantage of her mother's distraction, Anne escaped to the walking-park across the road, and stood for some time on the top of the hill, looking down.

She could see much of the city from there, and beyond it the hills and valleys that rose about the River Avon. The wind was light, the afternoon sunshine being slowly covered by darkening clouds. She wondered if it would rain; it would do the flowers good. The day was still warm, and she unwound her shawl from about her shoulders, holding it instead in her hands. This was a moment, she thought very distinctly, that would never come again.

"Miss Anne!"

She turned. Walking along the path towards her was Colonel Fitzwilliam, his hand raised in greeting. She smiled at him, rather absently, and stood still, allowing him to reach her.

"I have called at the Royal Crescent twice this week," the Colonel told her, coming to stand at her side. "But it seems you have not much been at home.—I was sorry to hear of your coming departure for Rosings."

"But not surprised, I imagine," Anne said, looking out over the valley.

"No, indeed," the Colonel agreed.

They stood in companionable silence for a few minutes, admiring the view. At length, Anne turned again to her cousin.

"I wish I could have been here for your wedding," she said quietly. "I should have liked to see it."

"I should have liked you to see it; but you are not missing very much. It shall be a small affair, simple, without much show or ceremony. I daresay Lady Catherine would think it a very poor event indeed. And you have already promised to be Aunt Anne for-evermore to all of our children, so you will not be entirely excluded."

Anne smiled. "It is a promise I shall be happy to keep."

There was a pause. "I do not think," Colonel Fitzwilliam said at last, "that Lady Catherine will be happy to see me at Rosings in the fall, as is our custom."

"No," Anne agreed, "I do not think she will, especially if you bring your wife."

Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded.

"But," Anne said, looking up at him, "I will be happy to see both of you. Her Ladyship, you know, is not the only one who may have guests at Rosings Park."

Her cousin laughed. "I shall see you in the fall, then, cousin Anne; and then again, I hope, at Pemberley; for you cannot refuse Georgiana's invitation."

"I shall do my best not to disappoint," Anne said, giving him a smile. He leaned down and folded his arms about her, pressing his lips gently to her forehead for the briefest of instants.

"I shall miss you very much, dear cousin," he said softly.

"Until the fall," she reminded him.

"Until the fall," he agreed, laughing again. Anne curtsied, and requested that he give her kind wishes to Miss Finch; he offered a bow, and assured her that he would do so; and they parted.


The morning found the furnishings covered, the floors cleaned, the clothing and books packed away in trunks and stowed securely. The de Bourghs' lodgings at the Royal Crescent were empty, and very, very still. Anne walked through one last time, running her fingers over the cloth that covered the tables and watching the play of her shadow on the gleaming sunlit floors. She felt—vacant, somehow, as though every thing she had seen and heard and felt over the past weeks had disappeared, leaving only a shell behind. She remembered things (balls, parties, cups of tea), but they seemed a lifetime ago. Here she had sat with Dr. Hart as he invited her to Hart House; here she had flung her embroidery aside in aggravation; here had stood Elizabeth Darcy, defiant and poised; here Colonel Fitzwilliam had embraced her and called her "dear cousin." So many moments belonging to a house where she had stayed for only three months! Anne turned in a slow circle, surveying the bare drawing room. How strange it felt, to be going. It was as though she had lived all her life in Bath.

"Anne!" Lady Catherine called sharply, from where she was being handed into the carriage. "We are leaving now; come and take your place."

Anne gave the house a final glance, before she hurried out and into the waiting carriage.

They drove swiftly through the streets of the city. Anne caught glimpses of ladies and gentlemen, children and nursemaids, servants and shopkeepers, hurrying to and fro across the streets and between the shops. They rushed past the Assembly-Rooms, past Queen Square, along Chapel Row and James Street, past the Abbey and the Pump-Room—then they were over the river and cantering past houses and parks, and then before Anne knew it the houses were growing further and farther between, and they were out of the city, and rushing east through the countryside, towards Kent and Rosings Park, and home.


Author's Note: Sorry it got sad. But you knew it had to happen.