With anxious anticipation, Anne occupied the front sitting room and kept vigil out the window. Her mother kept talking, something about Anne's eagerness to see her betrothed, not knowing the actual cause of her lack of interest in her needlework. Anne wasn't even betrothed, but that was beside the point. The engagement to Mr. Darcy was a figment of Lady Catherine's imagination. George Darcy, Fitzwilliam Darcy's father, had died only five years before, and he had never upheld the idea of a betrothal between the two young people. He had once told Anne that his wife, when she and Fitzwilliam were very young, had spoken of how it might be a pleasant thing if they were to make a match, but Lady Catherine made much more of it than Anne ever did. As they grew older, neither Anne nor Fitzwilliam had any inclination towards each other. They had discussed it when they were both one-and-twenty, putting the matter officially to rest.
Her cousins were so late in arriving that it was nearly time to dress for dinner when Anne saw the Darcy coach. Lady Catherine was exceedingly cross with the gentlemen, for they had told her they would arrive at two o'clock. They had the reasonable excuse of a broken carriage wheel, but this was insufficient to please their aunt, who lamented her ill treatment very much.
Dinner was much more enjoyable with the gentlemen present, mostly because her mother's attention was directed towards them. The absence of Mrs. Collins and Miss Bennet reduced her joy, although the lack of their pleasant company was balanced by the fact Mr. Collins was also absent.
Anne unsuccessfully attempted to capture the attention of Fitzwilliam after dinner. He barely spoke, often becoming lost in thought as he stared out the window in the direction of the parsonage. She was perplexed what could be so interesting outside since it was dark, and she could see nothing of note.
It took the efforts of Richard to finally gain her a moment of Fitzwilliam's time. He had come to tease him about a lady, although he did not say the name. Anne inquired, hoping that her dour cousin might have finally found someone he found agreeable. This he dismissed out of hand, saying the lady was in no way an acceptable match and she would not soon be gaining a cousin. Lady Catherine then called Richard away, no doubt wishing to leave Anne and Fitzwilliam somewhat alone. For once, her mother's purposes aligned with Anne's so she used the moment to tell Fitzwilliam what she had found.
"I-what? They have been found?" asked Fitzwilliam with great amazement.
"You knew of them?" asked Anne.
"My father mentioned to me once that my mother had spent a great deal of time writing letters in the last days of her life, but when he searched her things, they could not be found. I have always wondered what she had to say to us while she laid dying."
"I suspect my mother had a role in their misplacement, for who else might possibly benefit for them being mislaid, particularly when they were hid in such a manner."
After a brief pause where neither said anything, she heard a choked sound coming from him and when she raised her eyes, she could see the anguish in his expression.
"Excuse me, Cousin," he said when he noticed her gaze. "I believe I shall retire. Would you like to walk in the gardens on the morrow?"
Anne agreed to his plan, thinking that he would need a night to prepare himself for reading his mother's letters. Her mother would not disturb them while they walked in the garden, for she would be hoping there would be a proposal forthcoming. Anne, thence, could give Fitzwilliam the letters in privacy and then leave him to read them in peace. She had no interest in seeing his suffering and suspected he would not be pleased with her being present to observe.
Anne paced up and down the garden pathway. Her maid had spoken to Darcy's valet the previous evening to arrange a time that the two should walk in the garden together. It was still several minutes until the specified time, but she had seen her chance to escape the house without her mother noticing and had taken it.
Anne heard a twig break behind her and whirled around to see both Richard and Fitzwilliam. This did not surprise her overly much, for Richard was no doubt unwilling to be left in the house alone with Lady Catherine.
Anne handed over the letters to her cousin without ceremony after greetings were exchanged. She left quickly, accompanied by Richard, to go visit the parsonage, leaving Fitzwilliam to read in peace.
Darcy stared at the two packages of letters that his cousin had just handed him. They were each bound up with ribbon tied very prettily. The paper had aged and yellowed a little, but the seals of the letters appeared to be unbroken. He slipped the letters for Georgiana into his pocket. He would send them express to her so she could receive them as soon as possible. He wandered to his favourite bench at Rosings, the tall lilac bushes providing a secluded spot away from view of the house. In just a few short weeks, their blossoms would be scenting the air with the most lovely of perfumes. For now, though there were mostly just leaves.
He carefully pulled the ribbon that bound his letters together and felt the silkiness of the material on his fingertips as the bow unravelled. He inhaled the scent of the paper as he scrutinised the exterior of the top letter. On the back was written "After my passing". He looked at the one under that which read "Before my funeral". The next dozen were for birthdays and there were afterwards ones for when he was sad, heartbroken, ill, or made a mistake. Last came letters for upon his engagement and marriage. At least two of the letters were not late in delivery, he supposed.
He figured he should start with the letter his mother had put on top, the one that was meant to be read shortly after her death.
My dearest Fitzwilliam,
I do not know how to begin writing these letters, but I feel I have so much that I wish to say to you that I have not had opportunity to or that you are yet too young to understand. Thus, I have decided that this series of letters will have to suffice, at least until we can meet again.
I remember losing my own mother. You were only five or six then, so you might not recall it. It was quite terrible, but she was quite old and ill, so it was easier to accept it was her time. I was also thirty years old, not twelve. I have no way of knowing how you will feel after I am gone. I hope that you remember the good memories, the times when we went fishing or when I was teaching you to embroider. I do not want to be thought of as a dying woman, but rather the mother who chased you and George around the yard, pretending to be a bear come to eat little boys. We had so many happy times, and I hope you shall remember them with fondness.
The most important thing that I wish you to know is that I love you. I love you and I will always love you, my dear son. No matter what mistakes you make or if you make choices that counter the advice I give you, I will always love you and I am proud to be your mother.
Second, I wish you to know that my death is no one's fault. The wasting disease was not brought on by my confinement or anything having to do with your sister. The timing was simply happenstance, but the doctor said the two were unrelated. Also know that there was nothing you, your father, the doctors, or anyone else could have done or ought to have done. The disease doesn't have any cure, so there was nothing that could have helped. I am grateful that we came to Rosings, for I believe the treatments I received by Mr. Edwin may have given me these last few weeks where I felt somewhat well. I so enjoyed getting to spend some time actually enjoying you, my dearest boy.
Pray, make sure you and your father eat and drink enough. I know when my mother died, I had difficulty remembering to eat with regularity.
All my love,
Mamma
Darcy felt a heavy lump of pain in his stomach. It had been there for the last sixteen years, but ever since last night when Anne had told him about the letters, it was more noticeable. Now it was agonising. He clenched his eyes shut, desperately trying to suppress his tears. He inhaled deeply, attempting to steady his breathing by counting to ten.
Reading his mother's words, he was overwhelmed by a flood of memories and emotions. He often imagined what she would have said in different circumstances. How would she have handled Georgiana last summer? How would she have dealt with that servant who stole from them? What would she have thought about Miss Elizabeth Bennet?
He looked down at the letter again, slowly muttering the words to himself, allowing himself to imagine his mother speaking those words to him.
He could not suppress his emotions any longer. His voice shook as the sobs wracked his body, and it was no use trying to stop them. After several minutes of allowing himself to fall apart entirely, he carefully put the still unopened letters in his pocket. He vowed to himself that he would only read the letter one more time before he regained his composure and took a walk in the gardens.
"Oh!" exclaimed a female voice.
He looked up and cursed, then swiftly apologised for his language. He carefully tucked the letter into his pocket with the other letters, stood, and bowed respectfully to Miss Bennet.
"I- I did not mean to intrude," she said. He was about to say something about her not having intruded, but she turned on her heel and ran.
