Chapter 3 Elizabeth
The rustling of silk fills Anne’s dressing room as I carefully lay out three evening gowns for her inspection. Though I’ve been at De Bourgh House barely a day, I’m already learning the intricate dance of being a companion—knowing when to offer opinions and when to hold my tongue, when to step forward and when to fade into the background.
“The blue silk, perhaps?”
I suggest, running my fingers along the delicate beading at the neckline. “The color would complement your complexion.”
The gown in question is a masterpiece of subtle elegance, far finer than anything in my own modest wardrobe, yet somehow less ostentatious than I would have expected given Lady Catherine’s preferences.
Anne approaches the displayed gowns with careful steps, her movements precise but not entirely as fragile as her mother’s constant fretting would suggest. “You have an eye for fashion, Miss Bennet,”
she observes, touching the blue silk’s sleeve. “Though Mama will likely insist on the burgundy. She believes darker colors lend me a more substantial presence.”
I bite back a smile at her tone—there’s that hint of dry humor I noticed earlier. “And what do you believe, Miss de Bourgh?”
She looks at me sharply, perhaps surprised by the direct question, before a small smile graces her features. “I believe the blue would indeed suit very well for tonight’s dinner. We are expecting my cousin, Mr. Darcy, and Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
She pauses, studying my face. “Do you know either gentleman, Miss Bennet?”
My heart gives an uncomfortable lurch at Mr. Darcy’s name, but I maintain my composure. “I had the pleasure of making their acquaintance in Hertfordshire last autumn,”
I reply, keeping my tone carefully neutral as I begin gathering hair pins for Anne’s coiffure.
“And Mr. and Mrs. Collins will be joining us as well,”
Anne continues, settling herself at her dressing table. “Mr. Collins is one of my mother’s favorites among our parish clergy at Rosings. Though I sometimes wonder if she enjoys his company precisely because he never offers an opinion that might conflict with her own.”
As I begin arranging Anne’s hair, she shares more details about the expected guests and the complex web of London society I must learn to navigate. I listen carefully, noting the subtle hierarchies and unspoken rules that govern this world. It is fascinating how much vital information can be conveyed in the space between words, in the lift of an eyebrow or the particular phrasing of a seemingly innocent observation.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam usually manages to lighten these dinners considerably,”
Anne confides as I secure another pin. “He has a talent for steering Mama’s conversation away from her favorite topics when they become too... overwhelming.”
I find myself wondering what topics those might be, though I suspect I shall soon find out. The dinner party tonight will be my first real test in this new position, and I am determined to acquit myself well, regardless of any personal discomfort I might feel about certain guests.
“I suppose I ought to warn you,”
Anne says quietly as I fasten the last button on her gown, “that Mama will likely spend much of dinner making rather pointed remarks about the advantages of marriage between cousins.”
She turns to face me, her expression a mixture of resignation and embarrassment. “She has long had her heart set on a match between myself and Darcy.”
The confession catches me off guard, though perhaps it shouldn’t. I remember all too well Mr. Collins’s effusive speeches about the anticipated union of two great estates. “And... your own feelings on the matter?”
I ask, careful to keep my tone light as I adjust the fall of her skirts.
Anne’s laugh is soft but genuine. “Darcy is my cousin and my friend—nothing more. We played together as children, and he has always been kind to me, but...”
She shakes her head. “I could no more marry him than I could marry Colonel Fitzwilliam. Besides,”
she adds with another flash of that hidden humor, “I believe Darcy would make a rather terrible husband for me. He would feel obliged to protect me as fiercely as Mama does, and one such guardian is quite enough.”
I turn away, ostensibly to collect her fan and gloves, but really to master the sudden surge of emotions her words provoke. Memories of that terrible afternoon at Hunsford flood back—the shock of his proposal, the anger in his eyes at my refusal, the contents of his letter that forced me to question so many of my cherished notions. How strange that I should now be preparing his intended bride (however unwilling) for dinner.
“Miss Bennet?”
Anne’s voice draws me back to the present. “You’ve gone quite pale. Are you well?”
“Perfectly well,”
I assure her, though my smile feels forced. “I was just thinking... that is...”
I hesitate, then decide that some degree of honesty might be wise. “Mr. Darcy and I are... not entirely comfortable in each other’s company. There was a misunderstanding during his stay in Hertfordshire.”
“Ah.”
Anne studies me with surprising shrewdness. “Darcy can be rather difficult to read if one doesn’t know him well. He has built such high walls around himself that sometimes I think even he forgets how to lower them.”
I busy myself with arranging her shawl, trying not to reveal how accurately her words strike home. “Your mother’s hopes for a match between you must make things rather uncomfortable.”
“For everyone concerned,”
Anne agrees with a sigh. “But Mama sees only what she wishes to see. I learned long ago that disagreeing with her directly serves no purpose. One must be... creative... in managing her expectations.”
The quiet confidence in Anne’s voice as she speaks of managing her mother catches my attention. This is not the meek, sickly creature I was led to expect. “If I may ask, Miss de Bourgh... what do you wish for yourself?”
The words slip out before I can reconsider their propriety, but Anne does not seem offended.
Instead, she sinks into her chair by the window, her expression thoughtful. “Do you know, Miss Bennet, I do not believe anyone has ever asked me that before.”
She traces a pattern on the armrest with one finger. “My mother knows what she wishes for me. My physicians know what they think best for my health. Even my cousins, kind as they are, make assumptions about what would suit me.”
I take a seat across from her at her gesture, our preparations for dinner temporarily forgotten. “And yet you must have dreams of your own?”
“Dreams?”
She smiles, looking out at the London streets below. “I dream of choosing my own path. Of having the strength—both physical and mental—to stand up to Mama’s proclamations. I dream of traveling, though perhaps not as far as some might wish to go. I would love to sketch the Lake District, to visit Bath without being confined to a sickroom.”
She turns back to me, her eyes bright with something that might be defiance. “I dream of being well enough and brave enough to say ‘no’ when I mean no, and ‘yes’ when I mean yes.”
The simplicity and power of her wishes strikes me deeply. How many of us, I wonder, are trapped not by iron bars but by the silken threads of others’ expectations? “Those sound like worthy dreams,”
I offer quietly.
“They do to my ear as well.”
Anne’s smile turns rueful. “Though I suspect they sound rather tame to someone like you, Miss Bennet. I have heard stories of your walks across muddy fields and your spirited debates. You seem to have mastered the art of being true to yourself while still maintaining propriety... mostly.”
I cannot help but laugh at this, remembering my mother’s horror at my muddy petticoats. “I am not certain everyone would agree with that assessment. And being true to oneself can come at a cost.”
Again, unbidden thoughts of Mr. Darcy surface—of harsh words exchanged and painful truths revealed.
“Perhaps,”
Anne agrees, “but is it not a cost worth paying?”
She glances at the clock and straightens in her chair. “We should finish preparing for dinner. Mama will expect us to be precisely on time, and we would not want to give her any cause for complaint, would we?”
As I help her rise, I find myself reevaluating everything I thought I knew about Anne de Bourgh. There is steel beneath that delicate exterior, and wisdom in her quiet observations. I wonder what Mr. Darcy would make of this Anne—so different from the sickly young lady depicted in Lady Catherine’s letters.
“Darcy was the one who taught me to ride, you know,”
Anne remarks as I help her with her necklace. “When we were children at Pemberley, he insisted I could manage a quiet pony despite Mama’s protests. He spent weeks teaching me in secret, showing endless patience when I was frightened or frustrated.”
Her words stir an uncomfortable feeling in my breast. This picture of a patient, caring Darcy stands in stark contrast to the proud, disdainful man I encountered in Hertfordshire. Or does it? I think of his careful guardianship of his sister, his loyal friendship with Mr. Bingley, and even his intervention—however misguided—in my sister’s romance.
“He has always been like that,”
Anne continues, unaware of my inner turmoil. “Taking care of everyone, though he hates to draw attention to his good deeds. When I was particularly ill three winters ago, he relocated his entire household to Rosings for a month, just so his physician could attend me. He never mentioned it was an inconvenience, though it must have been terribly dull for him.”
I adjust her necklace, using the moment to compose my thoughts. How easily we form opinions, I reflect, and how stubbornly we cling to them. Had I not just been surprised by Anne’s hidden depths? Yet here I am, still holding onto my first impressions of Mr. Darcy, despite evidence that might suggest a more complex character.
“He can be rather reserved in company,”
Anne observes, reaching for her fan. “Especially with those he does not know well. I sometimes think he has built such high walls to protect himself that he has forgotten how to lower them.”
The parallel to my own gradually shifting perceptions is not lost on me. “It seems,”
I venture carefully, “that first impressions are not always to be trusted.”
“No indeed,”
Anne agrees with a small smile. “Though I suspect you have already learned that lesson, Miss Bennet, given your earlier mention of misunderstandings.”
Before I can respond to this rather too-perceptive observation, the door bursts open with the force of a small gale. Lady Catherine sweeps in, already speaking before she has fully crossed the threshold.
“Anne, you must be particularly careful about the seating arrangements tonight. I have placed you beside Darcy, of course, and you must endeavor to discuss the new plantings at Pemberley—I have made certain he will expect the topic.”
Her ladyship fixes me with an imperious stare. “Miss Bennet, you will be seated between Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Collins. I trust you can maintain suitable dinner conversation without drawing undue attention to yourself.”
I curtsy, murmuring my understanding while mentally noting the careful social choreography at play. Of course I would be seated safely away from Mr. Darcy—a companion must know her place, after all.
“Anne, you look pale. I knew the blue silk would not do—it washes out your complexion entirely. However, there is no time to change now.”
Lady Catherine adjusts her daughter’s shawl with precise movements. “You must be sure to mention your progress with the new physician. Darcy will want to know you are growing stronger. And do try to show some animation when he speaks of Pemberley—a wife must take interest in her future home.”
I catch Anne’s eye in the mirror and notice her almost imperceptible wince at her mother’s words. The urge to speak in her defense rises within me, but I check it quickly. I am here as a companion, not a champion, and my position is precarious enough without challenging Lady Catherine’s assumptions.
“Miss Bennet,”
her ladyship continues, “I expect you to ensure Anne does not overtire herself during dinner. If she shows any sign of fatigue, you must signal the butler immediately. And do remember that a companion’s role is to facilitate conversation, not to dominate it.”
As Lady Catherine finally sweeps from the room in a rustle of expensive silk, I release a deep breath. My hands, I notice with some annoyance, are trembling slightly as I make final adjustments to Anne’s hair.
“Are you quite all right, Miss Bennet?”
Anne asks softly. “You seem... unsettled.”
“Perfectly well,”
I respond with forced lightness, though in truth my heart is racing at the prospect of the evening ahead. I have spent so much energy focusing on Anne’s comfort that I have barely allowed myself to contemplate my own feelings about seeing Mr. Darcy again.
Our last meeting plays in my mind with mortifying clarity—his proud stance as he handed me that letter, the controlled anger in his voice, the way his fingers had tightened on his hat brim.
How will he react to finding me here, employed as his cousin’s companion? Will there be disgust in his eyes? Anger? Or worse, that cool indifference he showed to those he deemed beneath his notice in Meryton?
“You know,”
Anne remarks casually, though something in her tone suggests the comment is anything but casual, “Darcy has been rather different since his return from Kent this spring.
More subdued, perhaps. Or thoughtful. Even Mama has noticed, though she attributes it to his growing awareness of his duties to the family.”
I busy myself with needlessly rearranging the items on her dressing table, hoping my face does not betray the effect her words have on me. “Indeed?”
I manage to say, striving for a tone of polite disinterest.
“Indeed.”
Anne rises from her chair with careful grace. “Well, shall we go down? As Mama noted, we would not want to keep anyone waiting.”
She pauses at the door, turning back to me with that surprising perceptiveness in her eyes. “Remember, Miss Bennet, you are not the only one who might be feeling... uncomfortable... this evening.”
**
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