Chapter 2

For three days, the coffin housing the remains of Lady Catherine lay at Rosings, bedecked in a profusion of black mourning. A constant stream of visitors entered rooms set aside for the express purpose of honouring her memory. Anne remained gracious, never wavering, thanking everyone from the local gentry to tenants and servants. Her display of fortitude before the sincere mourner and the plainly curious alike astonished both Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam. If Anne spoke only rarely with her relations, appearing solemn and grave in their presence, then perhaps it could be put to exhaustion.

Lady Catherine's funeral was as large as any in Kent that year, complete with black plumes on the carriage, and a solemn procession lead by Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and his father, the Earl of ______. Along the procession route, the curious assembled; tenants as well as inhabitants of the neighbouring villages lined the procession route to witness this singular event, for Lady Catherine was well known in this country, and that one so awful as her ladyship could die and come to dust, was deemed by many to be extraordinary. As befitted her ladyship's stature, interment was in the cold and ornately ornamented stone mausoleum; there her remains lay with those of her long-dead husband, Sir Lewis de Bourgh. In death, they would achieve what they had not in marriage – sharing a room. And with that, Lady Catherine came to her final resting place. Whether she would continue to exert her influence from beyond the grave was another matter entirely.

The Earl and his wife departed for London immediately afterward, leaving the settlement of Lady Catherine's affairs to her nephews.

Mrs Collins also received visitors graciously, her eyes dry. It appeared that no one really mourned Mr Collins, perhaps not even his wife. Mr Collins's funeral was small, simple, and well attended. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam had deigned to attend as a sign of respect for Mrs Collins, who was widely liked for her sensible manners and kindness to the parishioners. Mr Collins, on the other hand, had earned neither warm feelings nor respect - not from the members of his parish and not from the villagers – from them he was considered to be just another recipient of Lady Catherine's noble condescension and as such, no more deserving of any particular attention than they. Interred into a plot in a secluded corner of the small church cemetery, Mr Collins was destined to sink into dust and insignificance.

It was with great relief that Charlotte said good-bye to her father and Mr Bennet just two days after the funeral. Sir William's silliness and Mr Bennet's cynicism had grown tiresome in such close quarters.

Elizabeth and Jane passed their first days at Hunsford quietly. There was much to do for Charlotte, who tried to remain cheerful in spite of an uncertain future. Elizabeth felt great concern for her friend, as Charlotte had no place to go other than to her family and had gained little material benefit from her brief marriage to Mr Collins. She fully expected that Charlotte would be asked to vacate Hunsford at any moment.

However, as it would happen, very little in Mrs Collins's life would change for the worse. One day, soon after the departure of Sir William Lucas and Mr Bennet, Anne de Bourgh drove past the parsonage alone. Most unexpectedly she halted her low phaeton at the garden gate, descended to the ground, and walked up the path to Mrs Collins's front door. Anne entered the front room without ceremony, taking a seat without inspecting the room or the furnishings, and gladly accepted the offered refreshment without a comment beyond “thank you.” Elizabeth watched with a mixture of barely disguised amusement and amazement as Miss de Bourgh helped herself to a second piece of cake, ate it with great relish, interspersed with conversation directed at Jane in a very civil tone. Elizabeth listened with interest for she could not but help compare Miss de Bourgh's means of addressing Jane with the manner in which Lady Catherine had questioned Elizabeth herself last April. In all the times that Elizabeth had seen Miss de Bourgh at Rosings, she had hardly let a morsel of food pass between her lips, nor had she let many words escape. However, since her mother's death, she had developed quite an appetite, both for cake and for conversation. And, while Miss de Bourgh's opinions were every bit as strong as those of her late mother, she appeared to have a much greater capacity for listening; nor was it necessary for her to inflict those opinions upon her companions at every turn.

Miss de Bourgh asked Charlotte a great many questions about her future plans, and listened carefully to her responses nodding thoughtfully on occasion, but offering no advice. Charlotte, who had few plans beyond returning to Hertfordshire and to her family answered simply and without much emotion. Miss de Bourgh surprised all present with the news that Charlotte would receive a sum equivalent to, or more, than what Mr Collins might have expected as income in a single year. She then informed Charlotte that she need not worry about vacating the parsonage immediately, for as Providence would have it, the rector of an adjacent village would become rector at Hunsford as well; possessed of a large family and a large residence in which to house his family, he had no need to inhabit the Parsonage. Charlotte was too surprised to speak for a moment, and Miss de Bourgh looked at her and smiled – her countenance registered benevolence and generosity rather than the condescension one might expect from Lady Catherine's daughter. Likewise, Charlotte thanked Miss de Bourgh with far more sincerity and far less fawning than Mr Collins had ever shown.

After a few more minutes' conversation, Miss de Bourgh rose to depart. She turned to Elizabeth and Jane to say,

“I hope we will all see you soon at Rosings. Certainly we cannot be too festive, but I would welcome some conversation. My cousins are quite dull these days,” she said, looking directly at Elizabeth, who felt the warmth of a blush in her cheeks.

Once Anne had left, Elizabeth sat down on the nearest chair and shook her head, “What on earth has possessed Miss de Bourgh? She barely spoke two words to us when Lady Catherine was alive. I have never before today seen her eat much of anything with enjoyment. Why Mrs Jenkinson nearly had to feed her by force!”

“I do not know,” said Charlotte, entering the room from seeing her guest to her phaeton, and watching her departure, “but I am very grateful to her for her kindness and generosity.”

“Perhaps,” Jane said wistfully, “She has broken free from the prison of expectations, and has learned that there can be pleasure in making herself, as well as others, happy.”

Rosings library was designed to intimidate and impress, finished as it had been in the modern style, with painted walls and a ceiling ornately decorated with scrollwork and gilt. Lady Catherine had never had time for books, and had felt there was little for her to gain from another's thoughts and opinions. Anne was considered too frail to read and was regularly discouraged from such pursuits, for it had been her mother's opinion that her already delicate eyes would suffer severe damage. As a consequence, the library was one of the least-used rooms at Rosings, more often than not cold and empty. As long as he had been a visitor to Rosings, Darcy sought refuge in that cold and empty room; it offered solitude and quiet in which to consider his thoughts and feelings. Darcy settled into a chair and closed his eyes to think.

Darcy had felt some surprise and no little uneasiness upon seeing Mr Bennet at Mr Collins's funeral, for that gentleman had given Darcy barely any notice at all beyond the most minimal of civilities, leaving Darcy to wonder what Elizabeth had told her family about his proposal. Once again, he wished that he had been more observant of her feelings for him. But he had never bothered to consider that she had not been expecting his addresses; her expectations and wishes had been as far from his own as could be. Darcy was grateful that Elizabeth would not be in attendance at Mr Collins's funeral, for seeing Mr Bennet had been bad enough. To see Elizabeth, and to know what she must feel towards him would have been torture, and yet, his need to see her was great. Try as he might, he could not put her out of his mind, and the pain of loss he felt at her refusal settled once again behind his eyes.

The gardens, visible through the window, were perfectly manicured. The recent rains had encouraged rapid growth. As was the case with most aspects of Rosings, the gardens were designed to dominate and impress. Darcy's thoughts turned to his cousin's future, wondering if Anne would concern herself with position to the same extent as her mother, and how she would manage alone, so small and so frail. Silent, almost sullen, Anne had been unapproachable since their return into Kent. Darcy could not imagine how he could possibly help her, for marriage to Anne was not an option he wished to consider.

He was musing over these thoughts when Anne herself appeared in the library, carrying her gloves and wearing her pelisse and bonnet. She appeared to be in an odd way; there was an unfamiliar set to her mouth, a twist of irony on her face that Darcy could not ever recall seeing before. Anne sat down across from him and waved her hand, signalling for him to remain at his place. Darcy watched in silence as she untied her bonnet and flung it down on to the table next to her gloves.

“Well Darcy, so this is where you hide yourself? I must say, this is a quiet room.”

She looked around the room as though it were new to her,

“Odd, is it not? I have hardly been in here at all.” She looked at him closely. “Really, when you think about it, I have hardly been anywhere in this house.” She leaned back against the seat, watching him.

As long as Darcy had known her, Anne had been calm and demure. First as a girl, and then as a woman, she had scarcely looked at him, let alone spoke. But now, she stared at him quite boldly and, if he were not mistaken, quite coldly. He felt under inspection; he felt a vague discomfort as she watched him. He knew he must say something,

“I was wondering what I could do to help? All of us, we are here to provide you assistance, support, whatever you need.”

“Really, Darcy?” Anne's countenance took on a look of amusement

“Why yes, of course.”

Anne leaned into the table a little, smiling slightly and shaking her head, “You have never considered anyone but yourself. Always your own pleasure first.”

“That is neither true, nor is it fair,” he answered, his face a mask of composure. He found himself quite discomfited by the similarity between the assertions of Anne today and those of Elizabeth Bennet some weeks earlier at Hunsford. Darcy's hand tightly gripped the table edge.

“Oh please. Darcy, had you ever intended to offer for me?” Anne stood and walked around the table to face him. Darcy stared at her; she was as strange to him as a person he had seen for the first time. “Of course you did not. Not that I would have wished to accept, mind you, but Mama would have hounded me to the death.”

“I did not think…”

Anne's voice grew louder, “Certainly, you did not think, Darcy. You did not think beyond what you, yourself wished. And for all these years, Mama was under the delusion that you would marry me. It was foolish of her, I think. But you did nothing to dissuade her, Darcy, nothing at all.”

“It was done for the best.”

“The best for you, that is. Meanwhile, I remained locked in this cavernous house, with little society. Waiting and waiting for you to tell Mama that you would not marry me.”

“Could not you tell your mother that you had no interest?”

“I did tell her. She would not listen to me. My mother could not believe that I would disregard such a fortunate match. My mother did not think I had the capacity to know my own mind.”

“Why have I not heard this before? Why could you not tell me how you felt?”

“Why? Because you are completely indifferent! Each year, you visit Rosings and ignore me. To you I am of less interest than the furnishings.” Anne's voice held a tone of disgust.

Darcy moved back in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable where he sat,

“But Anne, the same could be said for you! Rarely did you speak to me, and rarely did you acknowledge my very presence in the same room. And were I to pay any attention to you, any attention at all, what would your mother have done then? By your silence, I thought you felt the same way!” Darcy was incredulous.

“Oh indeed, indeed.” Anne shook her head and laughed bitterly, “Everyone must agree with Mr Darcy. So, it was of course much easier for you to come every year, every year silent, grave, cold and indifferent, every year letting my mother hope? Darcy, never before had I thought of you a coward, but I think that perhaps you might be,” her voice was quiet and low, goading him as she approached him, seated at the table.

“And this year, you paid more attention to Miss Elizabeth Bennet, than you ever paid to me. How strange…” Anne's voice trailed off for a moment before hardening, “Marry her, why don't you? She is back at Hunsford, you know”

Darcy stood, pushing the chair back in frustration as it scraped against the floor. For a moment, he forgot completely about Anne standing next to the table. His thoughts were on Elizabeth Bennet. It was unbearable, knowing that Elizabeth was across the park at the Parsonage; a few minutes' walk. He walked to the window, his back straight, his expression impassive, his face tightly drawn to hide the anguish he felt. Anne, however, was too busy speaking to notice the colour drain from his face.

“Of course, you would never deign to marry someone whose connections are not the equal of yours.” She paused, awaiting a response, but when he remained standing, his back to her; she continued, “Darcy, you are destined to have a cold, bloodless, lifeless marriage of the best connections. And I shall not feel the least bit sorry for you.” She looked at his back for just a moment; grave, stiff, solemn and shook her head. “As for me, I shall not marry unless I wish it. I have no need of heirs, merely to continue such a miserable family line. I despise this place. Richard may have it if he wishes for his heirs.”

Darcy turned and watched in surprise as Anne, with apparent satisfaction, turned on her heel and left the library, footsteps echoing through the large dark halls, and up the stairs as she made her way to her rooms.

Lost in thought, Darcy stood, gazing out the window for a long while. Anne's resentment had taken him completely unawares. He could not credit that she would even consider something so radical as to give up her estate. He had had absolutely no idea of the depth of her resentment. Once again, he had assumed he had known Anne's feelings, and that they were consistent with his own. It had been the same with Elizabeth Bennet. He was glad that for the moment, that duty dictated that he focus on his own family and render assistance to his cousin, in spite of her antagonism.

Still, he could not but dwell on thoughts of Elizabeth at Hunsford. He wondered how long she would remain. As much as he wanted to see her, he could not face another rejection. Her likely reaction to him, were they to meet, was too horrible too imagine. Oh, she would be polite, her behaviour proper, but she would be cold and withdrawn. He felt an involuntary shiver in the chilly, darkening room. There would be no warmth or teasing in her fine eyes, only unhappiness and pain at seeing him. And this he could not bear, not again. He wondered if it was merely the influence of Rosings which made his reasoning so faulty, or if he had ignored the thoughts and wishes of others as a rule.

Anne did not return for dinner; it was a solemn and dull affair. Darcy was not inclined, Georgiana was too timid and Colonel Fitzwilliam soon relinquished any attempt at conversing with two such uncooperative dinner partners. The clash of cutlery on china, glasses against the shined wood of the table surface and the servants' light footfalls were the only sounds heard.

The evening continued along its gloomy, dismal course. Anne did not appear for the remainder. Darcy retired early, after making plans to depart for town in the morning, leaving Georgiana to the care of Colonel Fitzwilliam and her companion, Mrs Annesley.

Darcy felt he must suffocate, caught as he was between memories of Elizabeth's refusal and Anne's antagonism. Settling Lady Catherine's estate, as well has his own private business, would occupy him for a few weeks. Were he to stay at Rosings, Anne would be most unpleasant, and moreover, he would be unable to stay away from Hunsford. He had no wish to court disaster in that quarter yet again.

After a poor night's sleep, Darcy awakened with the dawn. It was a cool, beautiful morning as dense fog swirled about the trees in the lower elevations of the park. He could not resist a brief walk along the path that he frequented last April, the path that he knew Elizabeth to favour. How well he knew she was likely to choose the same path, given her fondness for morning walks; he half-hoped, half-feared he would encounter her. But the park was quiet and empty. Darcy had hoped it would be a time to reflect and think, but he found his thoughts as difficult to discern as the landscape in the fog.

An hour or so later, an elegant carriage rolled past Hunsford on its way to London. Taking a final look, the occupant pulled aside the shade and glanced at the upstairs windows, wondering if he would ever see Elizabeth Bennet again. He sighed, and leaned back against the rich fabric, closing his eyes, in an effort to put that lady out of his mind. But he knew she would remain, lurking just beneath the surface. Finally, he took a deep breath, and sat upright in an attempt to prepare himself for the arduous tasks he would face in the next few weeks.

For there was another family matter which required his attention. Darcy reached his hand into an inner pocket and pulled out a small, elegant wallet. His fingers absently caressed the worn sheets of paper contained within. His mother had such beautiful hand writing, precise and flowing. She had taken great pride in her letters. It was from his mother that Darcy had developed his love of books, of reading, of writing in complex phrases. His father had impressed upon him the need to possess a great library, but his mother had taught him to love what was contained therein.

Chapter 3

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