Chapter 22
Anne held her breath and tiptoed past her mother’s rooms.
“Anne! Anne, is that you?”
Sighing in defeat, Anne sucked in a lungful of air and resignation and walked into her mother’s room.
“Good afternoon, Mother. Did you rest—”
“You were gone too long. Where did you go?”
Anne sat in the chair beside the bed. “Only to the apothecary’s.”
Mother narrowed her eyes — ever suspicious, always unhappy. “All this time? I have been awake this quarter of an hour.”
“I inquired into the ingredients of the tonic, and Mr. Jones was kind enough to explain.” Anne felt it best not to tell her mother she had seen Fitzwilliam and Richard. “I apologize if I took longer than you expected.”
Her mother huffed. “It is no matter. I was able to attend to some correspondence while you were away.” The smugness in her expression gave Anne pause.
“To whom did you write?” she asked, eager for an opportunity to intercept if Mother had, indeed, written to the asylum director as she had threatened.
“What an impertinent question! I hope I have raised you with better manners than to inquire so directly after another’s personal affairs…” Mother chastised Anne for a solid five minutes on the matter, during which Anne’s thoughts wandered to more pleasant pastures.
Richard had said that the navy had been good to Patrick.
Mr. Gibbs. He had an estate, a cozy one, he had said.
Anne hoped it was near Bath. She preferred Bath to all other places.
So many fashionable people to watch, and so many events to observe, Anne could pretend she was allowed to participate.
Mrs. Jenkinson had sneaked her the most delicious toasted cake from a tea shop there.
If Anne tried hard enough, she could taste the sweetness on her tongue, feel it melt in her mouth.
“...Bethlem Hospital.”
Anne snapped out of her reverie. “Bedlam? The palace for lunatics?”
“Do not refer to the hospital by that vulgar name. It is a respectable institution established in one of the finest buildings in London.”
“The foundation is unsound. Not to mention the horrors that ensue within its crumbling walls.” Anne had seen images of the front gates, guarded by two grotesque statues made of Portland stone.
Their names: Raving Madness and Melancholy Madness.
She had also seen etchings portraying the barbaric treatment of the patients on the other side of the palatial facade.
Surely, if Anne was aware of these atrocities, her mother was not ignorant.
“Nonsense,” her mother huffed. “I insisted that the director send his finest physician.”
Anne’s heartbeat galloped. “Whatever for?”
“I do not trust Mr. Collins’ account—”
“He was here?” Anne blurted boldly.
“Do not interrupt, Anne. It is most unbecoming in a young lady of your standing in society. One would think you had been too often in the company of that … that dreadful, manipulative girl.”
Who was being manipulative? Anne dared ask only in her mind. Aloud, she said, “I was not aware Mr. Collins had called.”
“You were away a long time.”
Of course. It was her fault. Could she have prevented Mr. Collins from betraying his own kith and kin had she been present? Anne chewed on her lips, deeply troubled. Think, Anne, think. For once in your life, make yourself useful! Intercept the letter.
“What did Mr. Collins say?” she asked, probing for any useful information she might share with Darcy.
“That girl appears to be in excellent health, and he noticed nothing untoward. But he let slip one detail of tantamount importance when he relayed that she still had not recovered her memories of Darcy. According to my discussion with Mr. Jones yesterday, she is now in grave danger of her condition deteriorating. The asylum doctor will know what to do with her.”
“Where is the letter?” Anne asked.
“Mr. Collins posted it for me already.”
Anne gasped. “Mother, that was presumptuous of you. I beg you not to interfere.” If the post coach had not left already, she might be able to retrieve it before it was too late.
“And see you unmarried while Darcy attaches himself to that headstrong girl with a scandalous family? She will sully the Darcy name. I am only doing this for your benefit and that of our family. Darcy does not see it now, but he will thank me later.”
Anne struggled to find the right words, her shock at her mother’s aggressive coldheartedness astounding.
“But what of Miss Elizabeth? You would send her to Bedlam merely to prevent her from marrying Darcy? He would despise me, and you would sooner find yourself cut off entirely from his association. Do you not see what you have done?”
Mother waved off her concerns as she would an irritating fly.
“You do not know what is best, nor how to carry it out, Anne. Trust your betters to arrange matters.” Mother smoothed the coverlet around her, her lips pinched, the tremor in her hand suggesting her conscience was not completely undisturbed.
Just as Anne began to harbor hope of convincing her mother to leave Miss Elizabeth be, the great lady added, “I am under no obligation to her just as she told me in no uncertain terms that she is under no obligation to please me. She brought this upon herself, and I daresay if she is to go insane, I am doing her a favor by ensuring she is in an institution which can provide her with the care she requires.”
Anne clasped the edge of her chair. “She is not insane.”
“You cannot possibly know that. You know I forbid your association with that scandalous lot. Mr. Collins confirmed she does not yet remember Darcy, which bodes ill for the fragility of her mind. It is only a matter of time before she breaks completely.”
“You cannot believe that.” Anne certainly did not.
“I would not have written to the director unless I did, and if you had any sense at all, you would thank me for looking out for your interests.”
Anne could do no such thing. Rising to her wobbly feet, grasping the back of the chair to steady herself, Anne spoke as boldly as she was capable of speaking.
“I want nothing to do with the ruin of a young lady my cousin deeply loves. Think of what he has done for her already. Think of what she has done for him. His character has softened considerably in recent months. Miss Elizabeth is the cause.” Proof of that was the manner in which he had spoken with Anne only minutes ago.
He had never inquired after her or shown any interest in her wishes beyond what was polite and expected.
Mother smoothed the covers again. “Calm yourself, Anne, or you will fall ill. If that girl is not diseased, then no harm will be done. However, if she is altered, then I am saving Darcy from attaching himself to a woman he will have to watch go mad, who would taint everyone she touched by association. It would have been cruel of me not to interfere.”
Now that her mother had justified her behavior behind an image of self-righteousness, there was no dissuading her.
Anne crossed the room without a word of dismissal, nervous energy coursing through her limbs, propelling her to run to the post. Such a scene she must have given, curls hanging limp around her face, rushing like a ruffian down the street and barging into the office. Anne cared not.
“Has the”—she gasped for breath—”post coach departed?”
The man standing behind the counter with his pen poised over a ledger regarded her over his spectacles. “I am sorry, Miss, but it left about five minutes ago.”
Anne’s knees buckled under her, but another woman who had been waiting her turn to be attended reached out to catch her. “A chair for the lady!” she shouted. “Hurry!”
Recovering what strength she could summon, Anne leaned against the woman’s arm until she could lean against the back wall by the door she had burst through a moment ago. “Thank you. I am well enough. I apologize for interposing.” As soon as her legs could carry her, she left.
She wanted so desperately to do something, but she had no idea what. She was already too late.