Author's Note: It's my last night in London! I have had a fantastic semester and am definitely going to miss it—the place and the people—but it will be lovely to be home. I'm nannying for my little nephew this summer, which will be a ton of fun, and I can't wait to see the ol' family. I hope all of you have thrilling, or at least moderately diverting, summer plans to look forward to! I believe this will be the penultimate chapter of this little story, unless something goes horribly wrong, so while this is not yet our swan song, I'd still like to thank everyone so much for reading, reviewing, and hopefully enjoying. Writing this story has been an absolute pleasure, and at times an incredibly effective stress-reliever/source of comfort. Miss de Bourgh in Bath began as an odd little idea in the back of my mind, which I carried around with me for several months before I ever wrote anything down, and I'm so glad that this odd little idea has managed to entertain at least a few people out in the wide world. Thank you again for all of your wonderful words of encouragement!


Summer in the "garden of England" was not to be missed for all the world, however delightful Bath had been in the spring. Flowers bloomed large and fragrant; the hills and trees rippled green in the warm wind; the sun lent every thing a butter-gold tint; the storms echoed satisfyingly with crashes of thunder and shimmers of lightning. It had always been Anne's favorite season, not least because it was the only season in which Lady Catherine could not insist that it was too cold, or too inclement, for her daughter to spend much time out of doors. In the past, Anne had limited her enjoyment to turns in the gardens, but now, unrestricted, she took long walks and long drives, calling at Hunsford Parsonage and wandering the village.

Anne was content. She could not yet think of Theodore without a sudden cold sinking of the heart, and so she did her best not to think of him at all; she occupied her time, and her mind, with other matters. An agreeable correspondence had emerged between herself and Georgiana Darcy, which she much enjoyed; similarly, the Fitzwilliams wrote to her not infrequently, providing her with bits of news from Bath. In return, she sent them little drawings (not masterfully done, to be sure, but pleasant enough) of Rosings in its finest season, along with greetings from Mrs. Collins and good-humored anecdotes of Mr. Collins, of which at first she was uncertain, until her cousin assured her that he, being acquainted with the clergyman, found them very amusing indeed.

However, it had been two months, and Rosamond had not yet written.

Anne's confusion over the matter had sunk into anger, for there could indeed be no excuse for such negligence. She began to question every thing she knew of her friend; whether all of her smiles, all of her kindness, had not been some clever charade. Yet this line of thought inevitably reminded led to the same cold sinking of her heart which accompanied her thoughts of Theodore, and she resolved not to think of any of the Hart family if she could help it. (She could not often help it.)

In preparation for the winter Season, Lady Catherine had begun corresponding with various friends of hers who were well-connected in London. Her aim was to gain as complete as possible an understanding of the scene that would await them when they arrived in February, and she had taken to reading Anne bits and pieces of the letters she received, particularly those that concerned the eligible gentlemen of her friends' acquaintance. To Anne, it often sounded as though her mother were assembling a catalogue, of sorts—as though finding a husband were as easy as choosing a new bonnet or a set of cutlery. She complained about this to Mrs. Collins, who responded with quiet amusement.

"You are fortunate to have so much choice in this matter, Miss de Bourgh," the clergyman's wife told her pleasantly, her eyes on the knitting in her lap. "There are not many women with as many gentlemen to choose from."

"But it is not I who will do the choosing," Anne protested. "It is my mother; all I can do is hope that no gentleman likes me well enough to propose."

"You may yet be surprised, Miss de Bourgh," Mrs. Collins replied, looking up at her. "You may one day receive a proposal which pleases you very much indeed."

"That is not likely," Anne said, rather irritably. "There are a great many gentleman whom I find agreeable, but I doubt I shall find any whom I could tolerate day after day."

Mrs. Collins gave a small, secretive smile, and returned her eyes to her work.

Though she of course had not said any thing of the matter to Lady Catherine, the truth was that Anne had rather resigned herself to the life of an old maid. In spite of his faults and her doubts about him, Anne was quite certain that Theodore was the only gentleman in the world who could make her truly happy; and if she was not to be his wife, she was resolved not to be any body's. After all, she reasoned, she had more than enough money to support herself upon her dowry alone, and would be quite wealthy indeed once she came into her inheritance. She had her own home at Rosings Park, and had already begun to claim a place for herself there. She would have liked to be a mother—but she had, or would soon have, nieces and nephews to dote upon, and was that not more convenient? There were a great many advantages, she decided, to being an old maid, and though she had always thought she would marry eventually—well, some things simply were not meant to be. As Mrs. Collins had said, she was fortunate to have so much choice in the matter; how horrid it would be, if she were forced to marry out of necessity!

(Yet she had begun dreaming of houses: large houses, small houses, sometimes in Bath and sometimes in Kent and sometimes in London—night after night, she dreamt of houses. They were always different, yet always filled with the same voices, the same music. In her dreams, she felt Theodore's arm entwined with her own, felt his ring upon her finger, felt her head against his shoulder. Sometimes, there were children; sometimes, they were alone; sometimes, Theodore's brother and sisters sat with them, always laughing. These, she reminded herself, were silly dreams, and she refused to interpret them.)

And Rosamond still had not written.

Another month passed, in which nothing changed. Despite all her resignations and resolutions, despite the books and walks and visits and drawings with which she filled her time, Anne could not help beginning to feel the faintest stirrings of boredom. It was people that were missing, she realized: aside from Mrs. Collins, there was no body in Kent with whom she could converse. Though the solitude was peaceful, it did, after a time, begin to wear upon one.

And so she set her thoughts ahead to Pemberley in the fall, where she would be surrounded by all (almost all) of her friends; and then she set her thoughts to London in the winter, which might be a rather more trying ordeal, given Lady Catherine's determination to marry her off—but she would be meeting people, and going places, and at least, she thought wryly, her mother's efforts to find her a husband, and her own efforts to thwart her, would offer plenty of variety.


It had been three months since she had returned to Rosings, and Anne awoke one morning to find the skies gray and the wind rising, though the rain had not yet begun. She attempted to amuse herself indoors for the day; but there was something very romantic, she thought, about the calm before the storm, and at last, having spent much of the morning gazing idly out the window, she donned her shawl and ventured out into the world.

She had never felt more like a heroine as she emerged from the house, the wind whipping at her dress. She imagined herself out on the wild moors, though in fact she was walking the well-kept garden paths, and was scarcely a hundred yards from the house. The air was thick with the promise of a storm, and she rather enjoyed the warm humidity encircling her, and the distant flickers of lightning that were, as yet, unaccompanied by any stronger sentiments.

Unfortunately, after only a quarter of an hour, the darkening gray skies made good on their threat, and a cold, steady rain began; Anne, sheltered only by a thin shawl and bonnet, was obliged to hurry indoors again. The fastest route was to cut across the kitchen garden, which brought Anne around to the side of the house. The rain fell thicker and faster and she nearly ran up the path, skipping around quickly-forming puddles. There was a rumble of thunder in the distance, and Anne burst through the kitchen-door only moments before the first real flash of lightning.

She pulled her bonnet off her head. Her shawl, too, was soaked through, and she hung it on one of the hooks near the door to dry. It was quiet; the kitchen servants were generally allowed an hour or so to themselves between clearing the dishes from breakfast, and beginning preparations for tea, and most of them spent it in their own quarters. Alone, then, Anne allowed herself a brief laugh, for her race through the rain had rather exhilarated her, and pulled the pins from her damp hair (the light summer bonnet had done very little to protect it), allowing it to fall down over her shoulders so that it might dry faster. She gave her head a little shake, and ran her fingers through her hair once (how intolerably messy curls could be in wet weather!), as she made her way out of the still kitchen.

The fastest way to her room was through the serving-pantry and the dining room and up the grand stairs in the entrance hall. She hurried through the large, empty rooms, darkened by the gray skies outside, wishing very much for a warm fire and a set of dry clothes. Her haste rather distracted her, and it was for this reason that she paid no attention to the voices in the entrance hall until she had already entered it, and caught the attention of the parties within.

"—understand that Lady Catherine is not at home; it is Miss de Bourgh whom I have come to see," Theodore Hart was saying, in a tone of distinct annoyance.

"I have been informed, sir, that neither of the ladies are at home," the footman returned, looking equally irritated. "Perhaps you would care to leave a card."

Theodore opened his mouth to answer, but it was at this moment that Anne stepped into the hall, and his eyes fell on her.

Her eyes fell on him in the same moment, and she stopped dead in her tracks, her heart leaping into her throat. My God! she thought, desperately, quite unable to speak. That he should be here—here—she was quite uncertain, for a moment, whether he was even real; yet he turned towards her, his features showing almost as much surprise and apprehension as her own.

"Excuse me, Miss de Bourgh," the footman said, sounding quite disgruntled. "This gentleman was asking for you; I have explained to him that you are not receiving visitors."

"Forgive me," Theodore said, still staring at her. "Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude."

Anne could say nothing, could not take her eyes from him. She suddenly thought, uncontrollably, how she must look: her hair loose and wet, her shoes and dress muddied, her face flushed from her exercise. What a fright she must appear to him—quite a wild thing!

"I believe you should leave, sir," the servant said sharply, breaking the silence. Theodore glanced at him, then returned his gaze to Anne. The footman moved forward, as if threatening to remove him; Theodore glanced at him again, shook his head as if waking from a dream, and, with a little bow, turned towards the door.

"No," Anne broke out, surprising even herself. She took a few steps towards Theodore, then stopped, feeling as though she might faint. How often she had dreamed of this moment, considered what she ought to say to him, and now her words and her nerve failed her. "No, please don't go. You must have come such a long way—"

"Only from London," Theodore murmured.

"Allow me a moment," Anne continued, her face hot, "and I will see you. I only need to put on something warmer.—Show Mr. Hart into the library," she said to the footman, doing her best to sound imperious. It seemed to her that the library was the place least likely to contain Lady Catherine, who traditionally spent her afternoons in her private sitting-room upstairs, or in the east parlor. The servant, giving Mr. Hart a distasteful glance, bowed to Miss de Bourgh. Anne offered a meager curtsy to Theodore, and fled up the stairs with all the haste that her dignity would allow, her face burning. It was not until she had taken several steps that her mind registered the sight of the single gold band which had adorned Theodore's fourth finger.


Anne dressed slowly, her mind spinning. She was too shocked, too nervous, to think. The only question which troubled her now was the obvious one—why was he here? A million possibilities occurred to her, too many for her to consider seriously a single one. What was she to say to him? How were they to speak to one another? She had not been alone with Theodore for nearly a month before her departure from Bath; and that had been three months ago. He had occupied her thoughts since then—she had imagined herself confessing her love to him, had imagined him doing the same to her; she had imagined herself rebuking him for the coldness of his manner, and his confession that he had only been rendered shy by his great adoration of her. But these were nothing more than the silly ramblings of an idle and romantic mind, which had been fed on too many novels for far too long. Faced now with the tangible and breathing (and, it seemed, married) subject of her musings, she was lost.

She lingered as long as she could, her heart beating fast. As much as she wished to see him again, to hear him speak, she also dreaded the interview. Perhaps she could send her maid down with a message that she had been taken ill very suddenly, or perhaps she could merely climb out of her window and down the wall and run as fast as she could to the comforting warmth of the parsonage, where he surely would never follow her. She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks.

At length, however, she had donned a dry frock and pinned her hair into place, had splashed her face with cool water and paced anxiously to and fro for at least five minutes, and there was no other occupation with which she could reasonably absent herself from her visitor. Clenching her sweating hands and feeling rather nauseous, Anne cautiously emerged from her room and descended the stairs.

Theodore, it seemed, was scarcely less anxious than herself, for she caught him pacing before the fireplace as she entered the library. He turned, startled, at the sound of the door opening, and pulled himself to an abrupt halt, regarding her with wide eyes. She curtsied; he bowed; and they stared at one another.

"You must forgive me, Miss de Bourgh, for my calling on you without prior notice; it is most irregular, and most impolite of me," he began, after several moments of tense silence.

"Not at all," Anne managed. "Will you not sit?"

They both took chairs on opposite sides of the fire. Anne smoothed her hands over her knees, now quite unable to look at him, for she had caught the flash of his ring in the firelight.

"You said you had been in London, Mr. Hart," Anne attempted, after another long pause.

"Yes—for my exam. I have been admitted to the bar," he replied, giving a small smile, which quickly faded. "I may now call myself a qualified barrister."

"My congratulations, sir," Anne said quietly.

"Thank you."

There was another silence, which irritated Anne. Why had he come, if he did not mean to speak?

"Miss de Bourgh," Theodore said at last, "you must know that I have come here as an agent of my sister.—Rose has missed you dreadfully since you left Bath, and asked me to make my way to Kent, if I could, after my examination, to see that you were well, and give you her regards."

At this, Anne's temper flared. "If Miss Hart has missed me," she replied shortly, "then surely she might have written me herself, rather than selfishly placing such a burden on her brother. Under the circumstances, I cannot give much credit to her regards."

"I beg you would not speak so of my sister, Miss de Bourgh, for it makes me like you less." Mr. Hart's eyes narrowed.

"I speak as I find. It could not have been convenient for you to come here; and it is exceedingly ill-bred of Miss Hart to promise that she will do some thing, and then fail to do it."

"Now that I have been privileged to see the famous Rosings Park, Miss de Bourgh, I suppose I must allow you the authority to comment on my sister's breeding," Mr. Hart returned heatedly. "Clearly it is unequal to your own; and I have heard that it is the prerogative of the rich to accuse others of their own crimes."

"I do not take your meaning, sir."

"Then I shall make it very plain.—Rosamond has written you faithfully, at least once every fortnight, and you have never once responded, though you swore to her that you would. I suppose that is good breeding!"

Anne, struck quite dumb, could make no reply.

"Your silence has concerned her greatly; she was for a time even convinced that you lay fatally ill, until Mrs. Fitzwilliam mentioned that your cousin had received several kind letters from you since your departure. She now worries that she has somehow offended you, and begs me to make whatever apologies are necessary on her behalf."

"I never received her letters," Anne said faintly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I never received them—not a single one. You say she has written often?"

"At least once every fortnight, and once or twice again when some thing has occurred which she thought might amuse you." Theodore's features softened slightly. "And none of them have reached you? The stupid child, she must have written the wrong direction!"

This seemed, to Anne, very unlikely, and indeed another possibility was then occurring to her, which she did not mention to Theodore. "And I have been so angry with her," she said instead, in a rather wondering tone of voice.

"I am sure you both will find this very amusing one day, Miss de Bourgh," Theodore answered, smiling, and looking rather like his own droll self. "It is very Shakespearean—a true comedy of errors. Lord, how I shall tease her!"

Anne shook her head to clear it, and met his eyes again. "You must give her my apologies, then, sir, and my affection, and tell her—" She hesitated. "Tell her to address her letters to Hunsford Parsonage, henceforth; I shall write the direction for you before you go. I imagine there is less chance of their getting lost there," she muttered.

Theodore looked somewhat confused, but agreed to do as Anne instructed; and they fell into silence again, though it was rather less tense than it had been before. The fire crackled softly, and the rain dripped onto the roof and the windows. Theodore ran a hand through his hair (it had grown since Anne had seen him last; yet it suited him), and the motion caused his ring to catch the light again. Anne looked away, casting her eyes intently on the bookshelves that stood on either side of the fireplace, as though fascinated by them.

"I wonder if you will remember, Miss Anne, a conversation which we were having once, in which we were interrupted," Theodore began at last, quietly. "It was during one of your last visits to Hart House; I had asked you—" He hesitated again. "I had asked you what I had done to offend you, or perhaps hurt you, for I had noticed that your manner towards me had changed considerably, and for some time prior you had seemed rather—irked by my presence."

Anne's stomach sank. She had been glad of the interruption then, and should be glad of one now, but there were no footsteps in the passage and she could think of no reason to flee the room. She swallowed hard, her heart pounding so loudly that she wondered Mr. Hart could not hear it.

"You assured me, Miss de Bourgh, that I had done nothing wrong, but then you said: 'Only—'. My father came in just then, and you took your leave, but I wonder—do you remember how you should have finished that sentence? Only what—what had I only done?"

"I do not remember, Mr. Hart," Anne said uncertainly.

"But I think you must, Miss de Bourgh, for when you said good-bye to us all at Hart House, you were yet quite cold with me; indeed, you seemed almost angry. Surely there was some reason for your resentment?"

"I cannot remember. I was very tired, and did not wish to leave Bath, and perhaps these circumstances made me rather irritable."

"You were not too irritable to embrace my sisters, or even to clasp my brother's hand. I was the only one who was brushed away, and I beg to know the reason."

"I do not know!" Anne snapped, surprising even herself. Theodore leaned forward in his chair.

"Please, Miss de Bourgh, if I have insulted you in any way, or caused you any pain, I would be made aware of it, so I can offer my sincerest apologies."

"You must not press me, sir—"

"Indeed I must press you, Anne, for you are keeping something from me!"

"Why do you care?" Anne cried, leaping to her feet. Theodore stood as well, his tall frame seeming to fill the room. "Why are you so concerned, Mr. Hart, with my feelings—you who shall never see me again! We have an acquaintance of three months, no more; do you pester every body you meet in this manner? When you perceive any lack of warmth in some person's manner towards you, do you pursue them to their home, demanding to know the reason? Tenacity is an admirable quality, sir, but obstinacy is not!"

"You should speak of obstinacy!" Mr. Hart declared scornfully. "You are not some person, Anne, you are—"

"What am I?"

"You are—" He seemed to deflate somewhat, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. "You are Rosamond's dearest friend, and I should not like our own relations to be strained."

Anne leaned against the mantelpiece, rather disappointed in spite of herself. Silence reigned for a full minute; Mr. Hart clasped and unclasped his hands, shifted, took a step forward and then back again. He looked rather as if he were performing some dance; if she had not been so frustrated, Anne might have been amused. Several times, Mr. Hart opened his mouth as if to speak, though what he had to say, Anne could not imagine. His ring gleamed. She turned her head to examine the figures on the mantelpiece: a bust of some revered philosopher, two small porcelain statues of shepherd and shepherdess, a large gilded clock. She wondered if Mr. Hart and Miss Cates were happy together; she wondered if they lived at Hart House, or if they had moved to their own household. She glanced back at Mr. Hart. He was looking around the room, as though looking for some thing, and at last he met her eyes and said:

"That is not true."

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"You are not Rosamond's dearest friend—or, you are, but that is not what you are; not to me." He paused, took a breath. "Forgive me, Miss de Bourgh, if I confuse you, for words are failing me just now."

Anne made no reply, though she was indeed rather confused.

"Your feelings are important to me, Miss de Bourgh, because I—admire you." He took another breath, and watched her carefully. "I admire you, and I respect you, for I find you to be a woman of honest intelligence, who is desirous of learning, and of doing right, and of correcting her mistakes, whenever possible. I know you to have a truly independent mind, and I know you to be deeply compassionate, and loyal to those who deserve your loyalty. There is no gentleman who could fail to be moved by the distress of such a creature, particularly when he himself must have been the cause. This, then, is why I am so concerned, and this is why I must ask you, again, to tell me how I have hurt you, and how I can make amends."

The plea had rather taken Anne's breath away, and the blush rose on her cheeks. She had never heard herself so described—at least not with such sincerity—and she felt herself melting. This, then, laid all her fears and doubts to rest; she could not question him now; the look in his eyes, the tone of his voice, would brook no argument. It is no wonder he has become a lawyer, she thought, rather wryly, for indeed he speaks very well.

Yet how could she respond? To tell him that she loved him was no longer merely a problem of humiliation; it had also been rendered highly inappropriate, and even unfair to him, by the fact of his marriage. Such a confession would surely signal the end of their friendship.

But she could not lie to him.

"Anne," he said. "Please."

His voice was heartbreaking.

She lifted her eyes to him, gazing at him through a watery curtain of tears, and whispered, "Can you not see?"

He stood stock-still, watching her, and for a moment his face did not change; but then, to her surprise, a wide smile broke upon his features, and he moved forward. Shocked, she took a step back.

"You mustn't," she exclaimed. "It would be cruel of you."

"How could it be cruel?" His voice was soft.

"Are you so blind? You are married, and I have no intention of causing pain to any body else, no matter my—my feelings for you. I have too much love and respect for your family, to insult them in this manner."

Theodore was staring at her, a peculiar mix of emotions flitting across his face, annoyance and confusion among them. He looked as though he wanted to speak, but could not find words, and when at last he did open his mouth, the only thing he said was, "Married?" And then again, more incredulously, "Married?"

"I am no fool," Anne snapped, her emotions strained nearly to the breaking point. "I expected it before I ever left Bath, and Miss Cates confirmed my suspicions, and the ring on your finger—"

Theodore raised his hands. "You are a fool indeed," he interrupted, affectionately, "my dearest Anne, if you cannot tell the difference between a gentleman's left hand, and his right." He held out his right hand, and she took it, hesitantly. There sat the gold ring, on his fourth finger, shining in the firelight.

Anne suddenly felt overwhelmingly, exceedingly stupid.

"It was a gift from my father," Theodore was explaining, "on the event of my examination. He received it when he took his medical degree, and gave it to me in hopes that it might bring me the same success. Which it has," he added, smiling.

"As to Miss Cates," he removed his hand again, and his face darkened somewhat. "I do not deny that I was—attracted—to that lady, for some little while; but that I ever had any intention of marrying her, I must certainly claim as false, whatever she may have said to you or whatever you may have believed. Indeed, I am sorry for the deception, which has clearly been the cause of much wasted time between us. Miss Cates and I should not have been happy together, for our characters are—ill suited." He looked for a moment as if he wished to say more, but thought better of it.

"And furthermore, Anne," he went on, teasingly, "you recoiled from me just now, as if you thought I meant to commit some grave impropriety, when indeed, I meant to do nothing more than kneel on the floor before you," (he did so), "and take your hand," (he did this as well), "and say some thing very romantic and tender, which I shall now attempt, though I have no talent for it."

"I think I shall faint," Anne said weakly.

"Sit down, then, my dear; I won't be offended."

Anne sank into the chair behind her, though she was careful, in doing so, not to remove her hand from Theodore's.

"Miss Anne de Bourgh," he began, "I have, for some time, considered you to be one of the most admirable women of my acquaintance."

"Oh God," breathed Anne, her heart pounding.

"Do be silent for a moment," Theodore scolded, though his eyes were laughing. "I have already described the qualities which have attracted me to you, and to my earlier remarks I can only add that while your habit of concealing your emotions until the last possible moment is indeed rather infuriating to me, I must confess that it is a fault that we share. For if I had told you four months ago that I loved you, a great deal of pain and confusion should have been avoided."

Anne was rather surprised, and gratified, to hear him say four months, for indeed she had only loved him for three-and-a-half, or so. But she did not dare interrupt.

"Yet I cannot regret the mistakes and misjudgments which we have both made, for they have revealed to me, in a manner not to be mistaken, how greatly my life has been improved by your arrival in it, and how desperately I should feel your absence if ever you should go. I am determined not to feel that absence again, for I do love you, Anne, as I could never love anyone else. Anne—dearest Anne—you know where all of this has been tending, and so you will not be surprised when I ask: will you marry me?"


Lady Catherine was exceedingly surprised when the door of her private sitting-room was flung open, and her daughter strode into the room, her head held high.

"What is the meaning of—" Lady Catherine began.

"Where are they?" Anne demanded.

"I beg your pardon?" her mother replied stiffly.

"My letters, your Ladyship. Where are they?" Anne moved to the bookshelf and began pulling books out of their places.

"Are you ill?" Lady Catherine said crossly. "Are you feverish, Anne? For that is the only explanation which I can think of for your behavior."

"You are at a disadvantage, then, Lady Catherine, for I can think of a great many explanations for your behavior, and very few of them are at all charitable," Anne said, turning to her mother. "You need not look so surprised; of course I should have realized it before long. Are they under your bed, or hidden in your dressing-room? Have you burned them?"

Lady Catherine held her daughter's gaze for a long moment. Anne did not appear angry; merely resolved, and honestly curious. Indeed she had expected Anne to find out before long, and this was not the reaction she had been anticipating. Perhaps, she thought, Anne's fondness for the doctor's son had faded more quickly even than she had hoped; perhaps she sought the letters now so that she might burn them herself. Buoyed by this little optimism, Lady Catherine at last answered:

"They are in Mrs. Jenkinson's room."

"Thank you." Anne nodded once, and moved to the door again. Stopping just short of exit, she again turned back to her mother.

"By the way, your Ladyship, I am going to be married—to Theodore Hart, the barrister. I told you before that I thought there was very little chance of his asking me; but he has, and I have accepted, as I told you I should. I am sorry for your sake that he is not Mr. Darcy, or Colonel Fitzwilliam, but for my own sake, I am glad. I know without a doubt that we shall be most marvelously happy together."

She smiled. In that moment, with her eyes glittering and her back straight, a look of pure determination gracing her features, she looked more like Lady Catherine's daughter than she ever had before.

Her Ladyship was still staring at her. She sputtered for a moment, before at last she managed to declare coldly, "I shall write you out of my will entirely, Anne. What will you live upon? Will the daughter of Sir Lewis de Bourgh keep house upon a barrister's salary?"

"I will," Anne replied frankly, "and it will bring me the greatest of pleasure. Besides, let us not forget the matter of my dowry, of which I, at twenty-four years old, am mistress.—You may keep Rose's letters, Lady Catherine. Perhaps they will serve you as useful examples of honest goodness and affection. At any rate, I shall not need her letters, for Rosamond herself is to be my sister before long. Mr. Hart and I shall dine at the parsonage this evening; Mrs. Collins has invited us. Good-night, your Ladyship."

And with that, she was gone.