Lady Anne Darcy
Content Warning: This book contains themes of child loss and miscarriage.
We know very little of Lady Anne Darcy. We know Fitzwilliam Darcy's father died five years before the events of Pride and Prejudice, but of his mother... They speak of her like she is dead, but what if she wasn't?
From the moment young Fitzwilliam discovers his mother's hidden grief, Lady Anne Darcy's life begins to unravel. As mistress of Pemberley, she must navigate the delicate balance between duty and desire, between the demands of motherhood and the yearnings of her own heart. Lady Anne faces an impossible choice between the life she was born to and the life she dreams of living.
What could have happened to make her family speak of her as if she were dead? And how will the truth change everything we thought we knew about Pride and Prejudice?
A compelling exploration of motherhood in all its joy and grief, passion, and the price of defying society's expectations in Regency England. Lady Anne Darcy's story challenges our understanding of duty, desire, and what it means to be a woman in a world that allows so little freedom to choose.
Chapter 1 - Echoes in the East Wing
Fitzwilliam Darcy was seven years old when he first understood that his mother's smiles were not always real.
It was a crisp autumn morning, and Fitzwilliam had escaped his tutor's watchful eye to explore the east wing of Pemberley. As he crept down the long corridor, a muffled sound caught his attention. Curiosity piqued, he followed the noise to a door left slightly ajar.
Through the crack, he saw his mother, Lady Anne, seated at her writing desk. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs, her usually immaculate hair falling in disarray around her face.
Fitzwilliam's father stood behind her, one hand resting awkwardly on her shoulder. "My dear," his father said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, "we must accept God's will in this matter. We'll try again."
Lady Anne's head snapped up, her eyes flashing with an emotion Fitzwilliam couldn't name.
"Try again?" she repeated, her voice hoarse. "As if our child were nothing more than a failed crop to be replanted?"
Fitzwilliam's breath caught in his throat. A child? But he didn't have any siblings. Unless…
His father sighed heavily. "Anne, please. What would your mother say if she saw you like this?"
"To hell with what my mother would say!" Lady Anne cried, pushing away from the desk. "I've lost three children, George. Three. And I'm not allowed to grieve for them?"
Fitzwilliam stumbled back from the door, his mind reeling. Three siblings he'd never known about. Three losses his mother had suffered in silence. And he, caught between confusion and an overwhelming desire to comfort her, could do nothing but watch from the shadows.
The sound of footsteps approaching from the other end of the corridor startled him out of his daze. Panic rising in his chest, Fitzwilliam turned and ran, his small feet carrying him swiftly back to the safety of the schoolroom.
Mr. Hawkins, his tutor, looked up from his book as Fitzwilliam burst through the door, face flushed and out of breath.
"Master Fitzwilliam! Where on earth have you been?"
"I… I needed to use the water closet," Fitzwilliam lied, avoiding his tutor's stern gaze.
Mr. Hawkins frowned but didn't press the issue. "Very well. Let us return to your Latin declensions."
But Fitzwilliam found it impossible to concentrate on his lessons. His mind kept returning to the scene he'd witnessed, to his mother's tears and his father's awkward attempts at comfort. As soon as Mr. Hawkins dismissed him for the day, Fitzwilliam made his way to the nursery, seeking out the one person he thought might have answers.
"Nurse Fairfax?" he called out tentatively, peering around the door of the nursery.
His nurse looked up from her mending, her weathered face creasing into a smile. "Master Fitzwilliam! What brings you here at this hour?"
Fitzwilliam hesitated, unsure how to phrase his question. "Nurse, I… I was wondering… Do you know if I was supposed to have any brothers or sisters?"
The smile faded from Nurse Fairfax's face, replaced by a look of concern. She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could speak, a sharp voice cut through the air.
"What an impertinent question, Fitzwilliam!"
Lady Catherine de Bourgh swept into the nursery, her imposing figure filling the doorway. Fitzwilliam instinctively straightened his posture, his heart racing.
"Aunt Catherine," he stammered, "I didn't know you were visiting."
Lady Catherine's eyes narrowed as she regarded her nephew. "Clearly not, or you would not be pestering the servants with such inappropriate inquiries." She turned to the nurse. "You may go."
The nurse curtsied hastily and scurried out of the room, leaving Fitzwilliam alone with his formidable aunt.
Lady Catherine settled herself into a chair, her gaze never leaving Fitzwilliam. "Now, nephew, explain yourself. What has prompted this sudden interest in siblings?"
Fitzwilliam swallowed hard, torn between his curiosity and his fear of his aunt's disapproval. "I… I overheard something, Aunt. About… about children that were lost."
A flicker of something—was it pain?—crossed Lady Catherine's face before her expression hardened once more. "Fitzwilliam, you should not eavesdrop. It is beneath a gentleman of your station."
"But Aunt Catherine," Fitzwilliam pressed, emboldened by his need to understand, "is it true? Did Mother lose other children?"
Lady Catherine's lips thinned into a tight line. "These are not matters for children to discuss, Fitzwilliam. You have no brothers or sisters, and that is all you need to know. Be grateful for what you have, and do not question the will of Providence."
She fixed him with a stern look. "You are the heir to Pemberley, Fitzwilliam. That is a great responsibility. Focus on your studies and on becoming a worthy master of this estate. Leave these other matters to the adults."
Fitzwilliam nodded solemnly, though his mind was still full of questions. "Yes, Aunt Catherine."
"Good," she said, rising from her chair. "Remember, Fitzwilliam, you have a duty to your family. When you are grown, you will marry my Anne, uniting our estates. That is the future you should be contemplating, not idle speculation about the past."
As Fitzwilliam turned to leave, Lady Catherine called after him. "And Fitzwilliam? Do not trouble your mother with such questions. A lady's private sorrows are her own."
The following afternoon found Fitzwilliam atop his pony, trotting around the paddock under the watchful eye of Mr. Wilkins, the riding master. Usually, Fitzwilliam relished these lessons, but today his mind was elsewhere.
"Sit up straight, Master Fitzwilliam!" Mr. Wilkins called out. "Mind your posture!"
Fitzwilliam straightened in the saddle, but his thoughts continued to wander. He couldn't shake the image of his mother's tear-stained face, or the sound of her anguished words. Three children. Three siblings he would never know.
"That's better," Mr. Wilkins nodded approvingly. "Now, take him around again, and this time, I want you to—Master Fitzwilliam, are you listening?"
Fitzwilliam startled, realizing he had let his pony slow to a walk. "I'm sorry, Mr. Wilkins. I was… distracted."
The riding master's brow furrowed with concern. "Is everything all right, young sir? You seem out of sorts today."
For a moment, Fitzwilliam considered confiding in Mr. Wilkins. But Aunt Catherine's stern warning echoed in his mind: "Do not trouble your mother with such questions. A lady's private sorrows are her own."
"I'm fine, thank you," Fitzwilliam replied, forcing a smile. "Just tired, I suppose."
Mr. Wilkins didn't look entirely convinced, but he nodded. "Very well. Let's continue then. Take him around once more, and this time, I want you to practice your posting trot."
As Fitzwilliam urged his pony into a trot, rising and falling in rhythm with the animal's gait, he found himself wondering about the brothers or sisters he might have had. Would they have shared his love of riding? Would they have been here in the paddock with him, laughing and racing their ponies?
The thought of it made his chest ache with a strange mix of longing and guilt. He had always known he was fortunate—Aunt Catherine never tired of reminding him of his position as heir to Pemberley. But now, that fortune felt heavy, almost oppressive.
And what of his cousin Anne? Aunt Catherine seemed so certain that they would marry one day. But the Anne he knew was sickly and quiet, nothing like the lively siblings he had imagined.
"Excellent form, Master Fitzwilliam!" Mr. Wilkins' voice broke through his reverie. "You're a natural horseman, just like your father."
Fitzwilliam managed a small smile at the praise, but inwardly, he wondered: was he like his mother too? Did he share her capacity for deep, hidden sorrow?
As he guided his pony back to the stable, Fitzwilliam made a silent vow. He would be the best son he could be—studious, obedient, everything his parents and Aunt Catherine expected. Perhaps then, he could ease some of the sadness he had glimpsed in his mother's eyes.
But a small, defiant part of him also promised to remember—to honour, in some way, the brothers and sisters he would never know.
The next morning, Fitzwilliam woke early, his mind still churning with thoughts of his mother's hidden sorrow. As he dressed, a plan began to form in his mind. After breakfast, he slipped away to the gardens, carefully avoiding the watchful eyes of the servants.
The morning dew still clung to the flowers as he made his way to Lady Anne's favourite rose bushes. With great care, he selected the most perfect blooms, mindful of the thorns as he gathered them. His small hands trembled slightly as he arranged the flowers, trying to remember how he'd seen the gardeners do it.
It wasn't perfect, but he hoped the gesture would speak louder than the arrangement's artistry. Clutching his makeshift bouquet, Fitzwilliam made his way to his mother's morning room. He hesitated outside the door, suddenly unsure.
What if she asked why he'd brought her flowers? What if she realized he knew about the lost children?
Taking a deep breath, he knocked softly.
"Come in," Lady Anne's voice called out.
Fitzwilliam entered, his heart pounding. Lady Anne sat at her writing desk, a letter half-finished before her. She looked up, surprise flickering across her face at the sight of her son.
"Fitzwilliam? What brings you here so early?"
He stepped forward, holding out the flowers.
"I… I brought these for you, Mother."
Lady Anne's eyes softened as she took in the slightly crushed roses and her son's earnest expression.
"Why, thank you, darling. They're lovely." She reached out to accept the bouquet, then paused, noticing a small cut on Fitzwilliam's hand.
"Oh, you've hurt yourself on the thorns." Fitzwilliam shook his head, trying to hide his hand behind his back. "It's nothing, Mother. I just wanted to… to make you smile."
Something in his voice must have betrayed him, for Lady Anne's expression changed. She set the flowers aside and drew Fitzwilliam close, her eyes searching his face.
"Fitzwilliam, is everything all right?"
For a moment, Fitzwilliam considered telling her everything - about overhearing her conversation with Father, about Aunt Catherine's stern warnings, about the brothers and sisters he'd never know. But looking into her concerned eyes, he couldn't bring himself to add to her burdens. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug.
"I love you, Mother," he whispered. "I just wanted you to know that."
Lady Anne held him close, one hand gently stroking his hair. "Oh, my darling boy," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "I love you too. So very, very much."
As Fitzwilliam nestled against his mother, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume, he made a silent promise to himself. He might not be able to erase her sorrow, but he would do everything in his power to bring her joy. It wasn't much, perhaps, but it was a start.
ooOoo
Lady Anne Darcy sat at her writing desk, quill poised over parchment, but the words wouldn't come. Her eyes drifted to the vase of roses Fitzwilliam had brought her earlier that morning. The sight of the slightly crushed blooms, so carefully arranged by her son's small hands, brought a bittersweet smile to her face.
She set down her quill with a sigh. How perceptive Fitzwilliam was, how attuned to the moods of those around him. It was a quality that both warmed her heart and filled her with concern. In a world that often valued stoicism over sensitivity, especially in men of their class, would his gentle nature be a blessing or a burden?
A soft knock at the door interrupted her musings. "Come in," she called, straightening in her chair.
Her sister, Catherine, swept into the room without waiting for further invitation. "Anne, I must speak with you about Fitzwilliam."
Lady Anne suppressed a sigh. These conversations with Catherine rarely ended well. "What about him?"
"He's been asking questions," Catherine said, her tone sharp with disapproval. "About brothers and sisters. About children lost."
A chill ran through Lady Anne. "What did you tell him?"
"Nothing, of course," Catherine replied. "But the fact that he's asking at all is concerning. You and George must be more discreet in your… discussions."
Lady Anne felt a flash of anger at her sister-in-law's presumption. "Catherine, Fitzwilliam is a child. It's natural for him to be curious—"
"Curious children become indiscreet adults," Catherine interrupted. "You must nip this in the bud, Anne. For the sake of the family's reputation."
Lady Anne stood, her patience wearing thin. "And what of Fitzwilliam's emotional well-being? What of my right to grieve?"
Catherine's expression softened, if only slightly. "My dear, I understand your pain. But we must think of the future. Fitzwilliam is the heir to Pemberley. He cannot be burdened with… unnecessary sorrows."
Lady Anne turned away, her gaze falling on a small portrait of Fitzwilliam on her desk. Her beautiful, sensitive boy. How could she protect him from the harsh realities of their world without stifling the very qualities that made him so precious?
"I will speak with him," she said at last, her voice quiet but firm. "In my own way, and in my own time."
Catherine opened her mouth as if to argue, then seemed to think better of it. "Very well," she said. "But remember, Anne, the future of two great estates rests on that boy's shoulders. We cannot afford to let sentiment cloud our judgment."
As the door closed behind Catherine, Lady Anne sank back into her chair, suddenly exhausted. She reached out and gently touched one of the rose petals Fitzwilliam had brought her.
Before she could fully collect her thoughts, another knock sounded at the door. Lady Anne stifled a groan. "Come in," she called, forcing composure into her voice.
Mrs. Darcy, her mother-in-law, entered the room with a rustle of silk skirts. Her keen eyes took in Lady Anne's dishevelled appearance and the roses on the desk.
"I've just passed Catherine in the hall," Mrs. Darcy said, settling herself into a chair without invitation. "I gather you two have been discussing Fitzwilliam."
Lady Anne nodded, bracing herself for another lecture.
"My dear," Mrs. Darcy began, her tone crisp and matter-of-fact, "I know these past years have been… difficult for you. But we must consider Fitzwilliam's future."
"And what of his present?" Lady Anne countered, surprised by her own boldness. "What of his need to understand his family, his place in it?"
Mrs. Darcy's expression remained impassive. "Anne, I don't mean to diminish your losses. But there are ways to handle these matters that don't involve burdening a child with adult sorrows."
Lady Anne felt tears pricking at her eyes. "How do I protect him without lying to him? How do I honour the children I've lost without casting a shadow over the son I have?"
Mrs. Darcy's lips thinned into a tight line. "By remembering your duty, Anne. To your husband, to Pemberley, and to Fitzwilliam himself. Our personal sorrows must not interfere with the running of the estate or the raising of its heir."
As Mrs. Darcy rose to leave, she paused at the door. "And Anne? Remember that you are not alone in this. We all want what's best for Fitzwilliam… and for the Darcy name."
After the door closed behind her mother-in-law, Lady Anne sat in silence for a long moment. Then, with renewed purpose, she picked up her quill once more. Perhaps she couldn't speak of her sorrows aloud, but she could write them down. For herself, for Fitzwilliam, for the future. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it was a start.