Author's Note: I have been to Bath again! My parents have been visiting me here in London for the past week or so, and we took a lovely day trip out there. Mostly I just wanted another Sally Lunn bun (delicious!), but I also got to do a few of the things I missed on my first visit: the Jane Austen Centre, the Fashion Museum at the Assembly Rooms, the Royal Crescent. We also had much nicer weather—it was freezing cold and rainy last time I went—so we walked through Royal Victoria Park in the sunshine. It was truly wonderful! The parents leave tomorrow, but my dearest friend in the world has arrived to fill the void. And then I go home to Brew City USA in two weeks. Summer is on its way! And we're getting near the end of this story (maybe two chapters left after this one?). What am I going to do when it's over?
Their arrival at Rosings Park was a quiet one, Lady Catherine having been tired by the long journey from Somersetshire and not allowing much fanfare on their return. Though she did not deign to appear hurried or eager, her Ladyship had given the impression that she quite desired to be at home, and the coachman had urged the horses on accordingly, resting only when necessary. The ladies arrived late in the evening of the second day, having stopped overnight at an inn near Guildford, and took only a light supper before retiring.
Anne had been in something of a stupor throughout the journey. She did not allow herself to think overmuch, preferring instead to focus all her attention on a determined admiration of the passing countryside, but she could not stop her mind wandering sometimes to random and scattered images. The front-hall at Hart House; the interior of the Assembly Rooms; the view from her window at the Royal Crescent; the exact gray-blue of Theodore's eyes—it was here that she stopped herself firmly, and compelled herself to notice how charming were the rolling green hills around them, and what pretty wildflowers were growing along the sides of the road.
Her patience for delightful vistas, however, was gone before long, and she took to reading. Yet this, combined with the jolting motion of the carriage, made her head swim somewhat, and she was soon obliged to put her book away. There was no conversation to be had. Mrs. Jenkinson had scarcely dared to speak to her since her "rescue" from Hart House, whether out of disapproval for Anne's actions or shame for her own, Anne could not be sure; and Lady Catherine had fallen asleep quite soon after their departure from Bath, and would not take kindly to being awakened. Thus, Anne's eyes drifted again to the window, and the charming hills, and the pretty wildflowers, and before she was quite aware of it, she had dropped into a light but soothing doze.
She awoke when they paused to water the horses, and took a few turns about the inn-yard to stretch her legs, before she was again bundled into the carriage and again watched England pass her by. This pattern repeated itself over the course of that day, and the day following, before at last the country grew familiar, and she began to recognize the houses and lanes of Hunsford Village. They passed by the church, and the cozy parsonage, with its lights all aglow, and several miles of the de Bourghs' own parklands, until, the carriage slowing, they turned up the wide, well-known drive and made their way through the carefully kept lawns and gardens, drawing to a halt at last before the imposing façade of Rosings Park.
It was a fine prospect—the sun was setting behind the house, the sky darkening above it, and a few stars just emerging to the east. The trees and flowers surrounding the drive were blooming marvelously (Anne, whose nose and throat were occasionally sensitive to the various dusts of springtime, sneezed delicately into her handkerchief as she alighted). The lights of the entrance hall blazed a warm welcome, and the windows gleamed in the dusky half-light. Yet, like her first arrival in Bath, the beauty of the scene was quite lost on Anne, who was tired and sore, and wished nothing more than to be in bed. She nodded to the row of bowing footmen who awaited the ladies on the stairs, before brushing past them and into the house.
Supper was a simple, silent affair, Lady Catherine not being disposed to talk and Anne having nothing to say at any rate. She had forgotten how quiet Rosings Park could be when Lady Catherine was not having her say. She had grown accustomed to the distant hum of city life: the rattle of coach-wheels and voices in the street, the quiet footsteps and chatter of servants whose quarters, in the rather more limited space of their Bath lodgings, were not nearly as far from above-stairs. Here, there was only the clink of cutlery on dishes, the whispery crackle of the fire, and the soft tick-tock of the grand clock in the entrance hall. Anne could not help feeling that none of it was quite entirely real. The familiar paintings and statues and furnishings surrounding her seemed rather half-remembered, as though she had dreamt them, and she felt almost as if she should wake again at any moment to find herself again in the Royal Crescent, with the sun shining on the creamy Bath-stone buildings beyond.
This, of course, was not the case, and from supper Anne drifted upstairs to her own room. Her own room! How odd it seemed to her now; how large, how still, and yet how familiar. These were her things all about her: her bed, her writing-desk, her wardrobe, her dressing-table. The paintings on the wall were the same she had seen every day of her life. But it did not seem real to her, and she thought how odd it was that she had not missed any thing in this room while she had been away, for, after all, these were her things.
"Is it not very strange, Sarah, to be back again at Rosings Park?" she said, distractedly, to her maid, who had come in to undress her.
"Strange, miss?" her maid replied indifferently. "I suppose it is, after such a long absence. But it is good to come home."
"I feel as though I ought—to be someplace else," Anne went on, rather dreamily.
"Indeed, Miss de Bourgh?" Sarah peered at her, looking vaguely concerned. "I hope you're not feeling feverish, miss?"
"No, no," Anne waved her concern away. "Quite well, only very tired."
"Of course, miss. I'll be hurrying, then." The maid briskly helped Anne out of her petticoat and stays. Anne donned her nightdress; the maid turned down the bed; the window was opened an inch or two (against the orders of Lady Catherine, who had always been anxious about the effect a night draft may have on her delicate child). The bed was as warm and soft as Anne remembered it, and she sank gratefully onto her pillows, the strain in her back and neck easing as she stretched. Though she had spent a good deal of the carriage ride half-asleep, Anne found that she was very tired indeed, and she fell asleep almost immediately.
What, exactly, did she ever do at Rosings Park? This was the question which troubled Anne upon her waking in the morning. She breakfasted with Lady Catherine, then returned to her room to dress; but what was she dressing for? There were no calls to pay, no Pump-room or tea-shops to visit, no acquaintance to be met with. She examined her image in the looking-glass rather unhappily. The peaceful night's rest had done her good; she was looking quite well to-day, perhaps even slightly pretty, but there was no body to see her. How provoking!
Anne slipped out into the gardens as soon as she had finished dressing, taking only a light shawl with her. This, at least—walking—remained the same in both Bath and Kent. She was pleased to find the gardens in almost full flower, only a few coy buds not deigning to bloom as yet. The entire air was scented, and the bushes hummed with the sound of busy honeybees. One or two gardeners were going about their work in the morning sunshine; they bowed to her, murmuring their greetings, as she passed. It was an almost entirely agreeable experience, but she could not help missing the anticipation of possibly meeting some friend or other, which had often characterized her walks in the public parks of Bath. Here, she was very much alone; she had left even Mrs. Jenkinson behind.
She should have been a very poor friend, and an even worse scorned lover, if her solitude did not instinctively turn Anne's mind to the people she had left. She relived, with mingled pain and happiness, the moment when Rosamond had stood to embrace her, had called her "Anne—dear Anne!" as she entered the parlor. She had been fortunate, she reflected, to make the acquaintance of the Harts, or she should have been obliged to suffer the constant company of Louisa Hammond and her friends; and who knew, then, how Anne's time in Bath might have ended? Perhaps she would have married—perhaps Mr. Hargreve or Lord Adlam would have suited her after all, if she had never met a gentleman she truly admired. Yet she could not see herself being happy with any body, except—
Anne had left the orderly stone paths of the gardens, and strayed into the park beyond. She rarely came this far from the house; before going to Bath, her walks had been restricted to a few turns amidst the rosebushes for a half hour or so, before she was hurried again into the house and obliged to sit for a time in the parlor with the curtains drawn, to lessen whatever poisonous effects the sun may have had on her. Now, left to her own independence, she wandered into a pleasantly shady grove of trees, with a wide grassy avenue leading towards the village. She vaguely remembered, as a very small girl, traipsing over the woods and hills of Rosings Park with Sir Lewis, but for the past several years she had only ever seen these places from the windows of the manor. She was struck suddenly by the extreme absurdity of owning lands which one had never walked on, or even seen, for the sole purpose of owning them—not to farm, or to rent. The rich, she thought with a sigh, could be very stupid indeed.
The novelty of her surroundings was not enough to distract Anne's mind completely from her contemplation of people, and of course the name Theodore was now foremost, for it could not be avoided. She regretted, rather bitterly, having left him with no more kindness than a half-smile and a faint "Farewell," for surely Miss Cates could not have been speaking the truth about him. All circumstances were against it: the fact of his being sweet Rose's brother, and good Dr. Hart's son; having been raised in a family which, as he himself had avowed, prized frankness and honesty above every thing; a man so auspiciously situated could never be a fortune-hunter. It was quite impossible; Miss Cates had spoken in anger, and was possessive of her suitor to the point of abusing him to other women.
Yet Anne's own peculiar vanity, which had been rather abused by her realization that her love was unrequited, interjected insidiously: But it could be true. Why else would he appear to favor her, and then shift his attentions so rapidly? After all, Theodore's conduct towards her had cooled considerably only after Lady Catherine had publicly disapproved of Colonel Fitzwilliam's marriage to Miss Finch, and that lady had certainly made no secret of the reason for her displeasure. Before that, he had seemed to like her very well; he had even, she remembered, questioned her several times as to her marital status—joked with her about her mother's hope for a son-in-law. Could this not be considered a flirtation? And why should he have stopped, if not because he thought his suit was hopeless—and why should he think so, unless Lady Catherine's condemnation of the inequality between Miss Finch's fortune and Colonel Fitzwilliam's had influenced him? And why should he care about such a condemnation, unless his attraction to Anne had been based on her fortune—for surely she had done nothing to anger him, and they were both of age to marry without her mother's consent, though doing so would likely cause Lady Catherine to disinherit her daughter.
Indeed (here Anne's heart began racing), were all of the Harts so kind and gentle as they appeared? Had not Dr. Hart invited Anne to visit his children weekly, under the guise of treatment, although such an arrangement was clearly quite irregular? Certainly he would not have encouraged such an acquaintance, unless he had deeper reasons for doing so. And had not Rosamond herself, on multiple occasions but most notably on their first meeting, pressed Anne for details about the beauty and splendor of Rosings Park? She had been so captivated, so enchanted, by Anne's descriptions of the gardens and the rooms, and she had confessed, after the Dalyrmples' ball, how much she had wished to belong there—
Yet Anne's heart would not stand for this abuse of her beloved friend, and she recalled herself sternly to what she knew to be true. Rosamond certainly had no interest in Anne's fortune, and her father had encouraged their friendship because he thought it a benefit to both of them. In that quarter, at least, there had been no deception. But the matter of Theodore still troubled her; was it possible for a much-loved brother to differ so greatly in character from his fond sister? She could not think it; she wished Miss Cates had never spoken, for then she should never have had any doubt. Theodore, she thought firmly, simply did not love her, and there was no sinister reasoning behind it.
This was not a satisfactory conclusion, and this turn in her thoughts cast her so very low that she was glad to raise her head, blinking in the sunshine as though she had emerged from a dark room, and find herself standing on a winding path that led directly to the garden-gate of Hunsford Parsonage. Anne was so anxious to escape from her dissatisfying reflections, and so missing the companionship which her mornings in Bath's walking-parks had often afforded her, that before she quite knew what she was doing, she had advanced through Mr. Collins' garden and knocked on the garden-door.
The maid's face, when the door was opened, betrayed no little surprise, and Anne momentarily felt quite foolish. At least, she thought, she ought to have gone around to the front, rather than calling at the back-door like some expected neighbor. But then, a neighbor was precisely what she was, and, smiling cheerfully, she asked the girl whether Mrs. Collins was at home.
Mrs. Collins was, and after only a moment Anne was shown into the sunny back parlor (one of the few rooms in the house which Lady Catherine had not improved on Mr. Collins' arrival to Hunsford). The parson's wife sat knitting serenely in an armchair. At Anne's arrival, she rose and curtsied, her smile welcoming if rather puzzled. The two women sat down together, and Mrs. Collins rang for tea.
She had never been a particularly fine-looking woman; Anne had, on their first meeting, dismissed her as entirely plain, even plainer than Anne herself. Indeed, her features were quite insignificant when compared to Rosamond Hart's fair-haired, graceful, almost elfin beauty, or Elizabeth Darcy's poised, fine-eyed, clever handsomeness. Yet Anne found Mrs. Collins now looking very well indeed. Her condition not being advanced more than three or four months, the lady was not yet "showing," but her face and figure had acquired a certain fullness, and she moved with a capable elegance. She looked, above all, very much at peace, and quietly happy; already, Anne thought, very much like a mother.
"I am honored by your visit, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Collins said, pouring the tea. "When did you and Lady Catherine returned from Bath?"
"Only last night," Anne replied, taking her teacup gratefully.
"And did you have a pleasant journey?"
"Very pleasant; I believe I merely daydreamed for much of it," Anne admitted with a smile.
"One encounters such pleasing countryside in this part of England," Mrs. Collins remarked. "I have never been as far as Somerset, but my father has family in Hampshire, and as a girl I always enjoyed travelling to visit them."
"The weather in Bath has been very agreeable," Anne said after a moment. "And it seems you have been enjoying a fine spring here, for the parsonage garden is looking lovely."
"You are very kind, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Collins answered. "Mr. Collins spends a great deal of time in the garden; he finds the fresh air most wholesome. And I myself have been taking daily walks, for my mother has informed me that such exercise is quite beneficial to one in my condition."
"My mother and I were delighted when Mr. Collins wrote to us with the news. It shall be such a joy, to have children at Hunsford. There have not been any children in the neighborhood since I myself was a girl."
"I imagine our peace shall be greatly disturbed," Mrs. Collins smiled. "But it shall be a happy disturbance.—Lady Catherine was good enough to write us a list of recommended modifications to the cottage, for which you must thank her on my behalf. Mr. Collins has already begun arranging the nursery."
Their conversation continued in this manner for a pleasing half-hour or so, before at last Anne rose to take her leave. "I am glad you came to visit, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Collins told her, as she walked with her to the door. "You are welcome at the parsonage any time. Do give my regards to Lady Catherine."
Anne promised to do so, and, with a curtsy, stepped again into the sunshine, having truly enjoyed her afternoon.
She went for a second walk on the following day, but did not go to Hunsford Parsonage, afraid that two visits in a row might make her seem rather desperate for company. Instead, she turned her steps in the opposite direction, and spent a satisfying afternoon roaming the hills beyond the grove. If only there had been a driving rain, and a wild wind to whip the long locks of her hair, she would have looked quite the Romantic heroine; but the day was fair, and disturbed only by a gentle breeze. Anne did not mind. At one point, certain of her solitude, she was bold enough to lie down on the soft grass and watch the clouds like a child—an act for which her mother or Mrs. Jenkinson would surely have rebuked her. (She rose again before very long, feeling rather foolish, but somehow exhilarated.)
On the third evening, the Collinses were invited to spend the evening at Rosings Park for supper and cards. They were ushered into the drawing room as usual, Mr. Collins taking his customary place at Lady Catherine's side, and Mrs. Collins on the settee next to Anne. Lady Catherine dominated the conversation, as was her wont: she told the Collinses whom she had seen in Bath, how many parties and assemblies and concerts and balls they had attended, which shops were the best and, to Anne's mortification, which gentlemen had been excessively charmed by Miss de Bourgh (some of the names she mentioned were names Anne had never heard, but she supposed allowances must be made for her mother's disappointments in that quarter, for which she was likely compensating). Her account of their months in Bath being more or less completed, Lady Catherine went on to question Mr. Collins on the small news items which he had mentioned to her in his letters. The gentleman was only too glad to provide her with further details whenever he could, and to accept the advice which she gave him so readily.
It was while Lady Catherine and her faithful beneficiary were so engaged that Mrs. Collins, leaning ever so slightly towards Anne, said softly, "I must thank you again, Miss de Bourgh, for the pleasure of your visit on Saturday."
"I must thank you, for being so welcoming," Anne replied carefully, rather surprised. Mrs. Collins smiled.
"I have had few visitors since my arrival at Hunsford. I correspond with friends and family, of course, and occasionally I am honored with a guest; but I had forgotten, living so far from the neighborhood in which I was raised, what a joy it is to simply take tea with one's neighbors."
Anne turned, and met the lady's eyes, and in that moment, behind the motherly grace and simple tranquility, she saw quite plainly that Mrs. Collins was lonely. The realization caught her by surprise, for, after all, Mrs. Collins was a married woman, expecting a child; but she was struck, quite suddenly, by the thought that Mr. Collins was likely too concerned with his parsonage and with his patroness to act as a true companion for his wife.
"I should very much like to take tea with you again, Mrs. Collins," she said honestly.
"I am glad to hear it," Mrs. Collins replied. "And, Miss de Bourgh—" She hesitated. "Perhaps I should tell you that Mr. Collins is unaware of your visit, and shall remain so, unless you wish it otherwise. He would be very flattered, of course; but, as you may have noticed, he has something of a tendency to—dramatize. I would not wish to make you uncomfortable."
"You are very thoughtful," Anne said, smiling.
"What are you and Mrs. Collins talking of, Anne?" Lady Catherine demanded at that moment. "I detest being left out of a conversation."
"I was telling Mrs. Collins about the Dalyrmples' ball," Anne answered glibly, after a brief panicked moment.
"Ah! Yes, what an agreeable evening," Lady Catherine exclaimed, turning to Mrs. Collins. "I have very little patience for balls, you know, Mrs. Collins, for I find the heat and the crowds most oppressive; but Lady Dalyrmple, who is such a very particular friend of mine, had spared no expense on the decorations—their lodgings, of course, are in Sydney Place, and very fashionable—and the evening was really very pleasant after all, in spite of the great crowds. Anne danced twice with Colonel Fitzwilliam." She looked, for a moment, as though she were about to make some hint at this juncture; but then she apparently recalled Colonel Fitzwilliam's engagement, which was not to Anne de Bourgh, and broke off abruptly. "At any rate, Lady Dalyrmple was glad to have me there, for she knows how I loathe a ball."
Mrs. Collins made some polite remark, but was immediately drowned out by her husband, who exclaimed over the loyalty, the friendship, and the condescension shown by Lady Catherine, in attending a ball when she did not want to. Anne met Mrs. Collins' eyes once, and they both hid their smiles in their fans.
Life at Rosings, then, began once again to take on a familiar shape. Anne filled the fair days with walks, and the wet ones with books; she soon began sending away to London book-shops, in order to supplement the personal library she had begun in Bath. She called on Mrs. Collins quite regularly, most often when Mr. Collins was away visiting his parishioners, for the great honor and terror of Miss de Bourgh's company in his own home would likely have sent him into some form of shock. When she had grown tired of Rosings and its environs, Anne drove her phaeton into the village, and spent her afternoon perusing the shops. The Hunsford high-street was hardly Milsom Street or Union Street, but she was able to amuse herself tolerably well, examining the ribbon and cloth and bonnets on display; every so often, she would purchase some little trinket for the parsonage nursery, for which Mrs. Collins was always exceedingly grateful. It was a peaceful existence, far less diverse and demanding than life in Bath had been. There were no assemblies, no balls, only quiet evening card-parties with the Collinses, and every so often a performance upon the pianforte by Mrs. Collins or Mrs. Jenkinson.
Removed from the liveliness of town, Anne felt her longing for Bath begin to dissipate somewhat, and felt increasingly at home in Rosings Park. She began to think that she could live quite agreeably in Kent, even as an old maid (let Lady Catherine say what she would about the London season, Anne had no intention of marrying any gentleman she did not love, no matter how handsome his face or his fortune). Indeed, it began to seem as though her life in Bath had been the dream, rather than her life at Rosings; she could not imagine how she had danced until one or even two in the morning, or how she had dined with six different families over the course of a single week. Bath was far away from her now, and her attachment to it lessened each day. Rosings Park was hardly engaging, and she could not say that she was truly happy here, but it was comfortable, and she did not mind the boredom.
This, then, was her frame of mind when she awoke one morning, which seemed no different to any other mornings; the sky was blue, though hazy, and the air was warm. Anne rose, dressed, breakfasted, and went out into the garden. She was taking the same path she had made on the morning of Mr. Darcy's wedding, four months ago, when she suddenly realized that it had been exactly a fortnight since she last stood in the sitting-room at Hart House; exactly a fortnight, to be more precise, since Miss Cates had estimated her engagement to Mr. Hart to be only a fortnight away.
Anne felt as though she had been struck; her stomach seemed to drop to her feet, and she sat down heavily on the bench nearby. She attempted to console herself: Miss Cates was boasting, not making a scientific calculation. Even if she is correct—even if he is at this moment proposing to her—it is hardly a surprise, for you knew he would marry her anyway. They are meant for one another; they are a fine match. Rose loves Adele Cates, and will be glad to call her sister. But she could not stop the tears from escaping, though she pressed her hands over her eyes, and she hurried back into the house, so as not to cause suspicion among the gardeners.
A morning spent weeping in her bedroom proved to be all Anne could muster.
She did rouse herself in the afternoon, and took the path to Hunsford Parsonage, hoping that a change of scenery, and some company, would lift her spirits. Yet she was disappointed, for Mrs. Collins, upon perceiving her, exclaimed, "Why, Miss de Bourgh, whatever is the matter?"
Anne caught sight of herself in the looking glass. Her eyes were red, though she had splashed water on her face, and her complexion was very pale. She looked, she thought, like her old self: frail, anxious, and infirm. The thought was quite infuriating to her, and she brushed at her eyes impatiently.
"It is nothing," she told Mrs. Collins, "only I remembered something I had forgot. I am quite well."
"You look quite upset. Do sit down, Miss de Bourgh."
Anne did so, though, "I really am perfectly well," she insisted.
Mrs. Collins poured her a cup of tea, and she took it gratefully. They sat in silence for a moment, Anne taking one or two deep breaths.
"Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Collins began at length, sipping her own tea, "I understand if you should not wish to confide in me; I do not expect to be taken into your deepest confidence. Yet I should hate to think of you suffering, if there were some way in which I could help."
Anne stared at her. "You cannot help," she said finally, and then, in a rush, the entire account of Mr. Hart, of Miss Cates, of Rosamond, of dear Hart House, began pouring out of her. She felt quite powerless to stop herself; she could only speak, watching Mrs. Collins' kind, calm face, which remained more or less unchanged throughout her story.
"I did not really expect to marry him," she finished at last. "I believe I have read too many novels, in which the heroine forever marries her hero, despite the odds of their meeting again; but of course it was unrealistic to expect him to—to chase me to Kent, or perhaps to wait for me to return one day, or to seek me out in London during the Season, or some such silly thing."
"It was, indeed, rather unrealistic," Mrs. Collins answered placidly. Anne, who had not expected this response, met her eyes with a start.
"I should not advise you to pine for your hero, Miss de Bourgh," the lady went on, gently. "Heroes are rare in this world; one meets only with gentlemen who deserve the word, and gentlemen who do not. I am not one of those women who believes in true love, or destiny, or even fate. They are lofty concepts, better left to novels and poetry than to the tangible, breathing world. I did not marry Mr. Collins because he rescued me from a dragon, or pursued me across an ocean; I married him because he is a good man, with steady prospects, who cares for me and treats me well. In return, I can give him a cheerful home, a healthy family, and, when he desires it, someone to listen to him." She smiled.
Anne sat back in her chair, rather disappointed with Mrs. Collins' practical view of the world.
"One cannot live, Miss de Bourgh, upon what ought to happen; there is only what does happen. Sometimes, one does marry the person one's heart prefers; other times, one does marry the person who makes one comfortable."
"I do not wish to be comfortable," Anne complained. "I am comfortable here at Rosings; I wish to be happy."
"Then be happy," Mrs. Collins said simply. "Do not think of what you are missing, but take pleasure in what you have. You have the friendship of Miss Hart, and of your cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam, which seem very precious to you. You have fond memories of balls, and dances, and dinner-parties. You have books to read, and gardens to walk in. You may not have Mr. Hart for a husband, but that is only one thing you are lacking, compared to a great many things you have."
Her advice reminded Anne very much of some advice which Dr. Hart had given her, shortly after Colonel Fitzwilliam's engagement to Miss Finch, and she took another sip of her tea, considering. Her nerves had calmed somewhat by this time, and she was able to give Mrs. Collins a nod, and a smile, and turn the subject onto other, more innocuous matters.
Another week passed, and Anne, though still unable to think of Theodore without pain (she was certain he must be engaged by now, if not married already), had done her best to follow Mrs. Collins' advice. She read, she walked, she visited the parsonage and the village, she wrote letters to Georgiana Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam; she even took up her embroidery again, and though she had never learned to draw, she began making rough little sketches of the woods and fields she walked over, for they were hastening ever on towards summer, and it seemed quite a shame not to preserve the beauty of the season.
The passage of time, growing more and more apparent as the flowers bloomed larger and the days grew warmer, reminded Anne that she still had had no letter from Rosamond Hart. She had only half-expected to receive one during the first week of her return to Rosings; she had been waiting patiently all throughout the second; but by the third, she was grown quite eager for news from her friend. How long did the post take from Bath? She accounted for poor weather, for bad roads, for misdirection.
As her fourth week at Rosings began, Anne grew rather irritated with her friend—for she had promised so faithfully that she would write, and Anne had seen personally the amount of letters that passed between Rosamond and her sister on the Continent. If Rosamond could write a letter to Helena every week or so, she thought crossly, then surely a month was ample time for her to compose some small note for Anne. Perhaps Rosamond was unwell, or called away from home somewhere; but in that case, certainly Robert or Juliet would have written in her stead, informing Anne of the circumstances. She wondered if she ought not write first; but Anne's pride, though thankfully less haughty than it had once been, would not allow her to do so, when Rosamond had assured her (three times she had said it) that she would write.
(Had Miss Cates—perhaps Mrs. Hart, by this time—said some thing to Rosamond, to prejudice her against Anne? Had Theodore? Had Rosamond's tears, her embraces, been a pretense? Was she angry with Anne, for some unknown insult? Was she ill—were they all ill? Had some body died?)
Aside from her frustration, however, Anne passed her days pleasantly enough. She had received a letter from Colonel Fitzwilliam, which included a description of his wedding to Miss Finch—regrettably short, without many details; but then, Anne thought, laughing, such was typical of a military man—and informed her that he and Mrs. Fitzwilliam (Anne could imagine very well the smile that had graced his features, upon writing those words) would be staying near Pemberley in the autumn, if Anne still hoped to visit there at Michaelmas.
Georgiana had also written, reiterating the same invitation, and adding that Mrs. Darcy's mother and two younger sisters were to visit at the same time. Anne was pleased to find that Georgiana was not so timid in her letters as she was in her speech; or perhaps she had grown less shy altogether, since being in Bath. "Elizabeth asks me to beg you very earnestly to make one of the party," young Miss Darcy wrote, "so that she and I shall not be the only ladies of good sense at Pemberley for the entire season. (I am quite certain that she means this as a joke, cousin, so you must not be offended on behalf of the Bennets. Mr. Bingley assures me that they are all very agreeable girls, though my brother will not say much on the matter.)"
Anne had not yet attempted the subject with her mother; yet she was reasonably certain of a favorable conclusion, if only because she was determined to make the journey whether or not she had Lady Catherine's permission. Indeed, though her Ladyship continued to exert absolute control over their evening visits from the Collinses, she had not given Anne any orders or instructions in some time. As far as she was concerned, she had only to ensure that Anne went to London in the winter, and married some suitable gentleman; until then, her daughter was quite free. At Rosings Park, Miss de Bourgh had no need of her mother's careful direction or guidance—for who was watching? Even Anne's frequent visits to the parsonage had gone largely unremarked upon; for Lady Catherine, beginning a conversation on the matter one morning, had been halted by Anne's insistence that visits between the manor and the parsonage could only be seen as further evidence of Lady Catherine's great condescension.
"And anyway, mother," Anne had continued, to Lady Catherine's surprise, "Mrs. Collins is no physician's daughter; her father is a knight, and is well-known at St. James's Court."
Lady Catherine could offer no real argument to this, and allowed the subject to drop.
And so spring lengthened into summer, and Anne lived on. She could not yet say that she was happy; but that happiness seemed more attainable to her, was certainly true. She missed Rosamond, sometimes quite bitterly; she was now and then overwhelmed by the great quiet around her; and on very dark nights, when she could not sleep, she was occasionally plunged into a deep despair at the thought that she should never see Theodore again—that the title of Mrs. Hart, the only one she should have cared for, was already lost to her. But she had books, she had gardens, she had tea and cakes, she had the parsonage and the village, she had autumn at Pemberley and winter in town. Regardless of what she could not have, Anne thought, she was really, overall, exceedingly fortunate.
