Chapter 35
Drawing Room
Matlock House
London
The Next Morning
Anne contemplated the tangle of yarn around her fingers for a few minutes before spotting her mistake.
It took her a bit more to unsnarl the skein and correct the dropped stitch.
Then, pleased with her success, she looked up, stretching her neck and glancing about the room.
The fire was well built up in the grate, throwing off a welcome heat.
Lady Matlock had chosen a color scheme of cream and peach and soft green for this room, resulting in a refreshing spring-like atmosphere.
The impression was helped along by the sunlight pouring in through the bank of windows occupying one wall.
Anne glanced at Mrs. Jenkinson, who was seated comfortably by the fire and absorbed in a book borrowed from Lord Matlock's library.
Anne smiled at the sight before looking ruefully down at her knitting.
She could easily imagine her mother's spasms of horror at the sight of slim needles and sturdy wool yarn in Anne's hands.
Knitting, according to Lady Catherine, was the pursuit of peasants who had no choice but to make their own clothes.
Lady Matlock held a very different view; she was often to be found with a bit of knitting in her lap and several brightly colored skeins trailing down to her workbasket.
She was skilled in the art, for art it was, and could produce beautiful bags and scarves and mittens at will.
She had been kind and patient with Anne's desire to learn to knit, assuring the younger woman that her skill would grow with time and practice.
In fact, both Lord and Lady Matlock had been indescribably generous, sheltering Anne and putting their house and garden and even a carriage and horses at her disposal.
Anne had been greatly enjoying her walks in the garden, visible as a burst of color beyond the windows.
Hyacinths, snowdrops, tulips, and daffodils grew tall and proud and beautiful, vivid and vibrant through the polished panes of glass.
The London garden was not as large as the extensive gardens of Rosings, of course, but with charming little paths, convenient stone benches, and an attractive water feature right in the center of it all, Anne found plenty to please her on her daily walks.
Lady Matlock had suggested that if Anne grew bored with the Matlock gardens, she could take a few footmen and Mrs. Jenkinson and take a carriage to Hyde Park.
There, she said, Anne would find miles of long, winding trails on which she might while away many pleasant hours.
Anne had thanked her aunt, but she had decided against departing their home.
In spite of the support of her relations, she could not shake the conviction that Lady Catherine would arrive at any moment to destroy her peace and drag her back off to what had been a miserable captivity at Rosings.
Her aunt and uncle had assured Anne that they would permit no such thing to happen in their house, and Anne felt reasonably safe with them.
Thus, she never ventured out of the house unless in the company of at least Lady Matlock.
When the family attended church, Anne rode in the carriage, secure in the presence of both Lord Matlock and his lady, and once they had taken her out to attend a concert, which had been wonderful.
On the whole, she was content here at home with the peaceful garden and the warm fire and her nascent knitting.
She questioned how long it could last because every day felt like borrowed time.
Every night felt like a ticking clock counting down the hours until Lady Catherine arrived like a particularly unpleasant thunderstorm.
It was strange that she had not arrived yet, and from time to time, Anne had wondered uneasily what was keeping her.
Perhaps it had to do with poor Miss Bennet’s father dying so suddenly.
A terrible tragedy for the family, if rather a windfall for Mr. Collins, though the man was too decent to delight in the death of his cousin.
Nonetheless, he would likely take immediate possession of Longbourn, and presumably, Lady Catherine would busy herself acquiring a new rector for Hunsford.
With any luck, this would take her some time before she was able to turn her attention to other matters; namely, chasing down Anne.
It was a comforting thought, and Anne heaved a sigh of relaxation as she picked up her needles and yarn once more.
A few repetitive, soothing rows later, she began to feel truly serene again.
A noise from the corridor outside made her pause in her stitching to listen, and then that hard-won serenity shattered like the most fragile of glass.
She knew that voice, currently raised in outrage, knew it better than her own.
“Take me to my daughter immediately!” Lady Catherine snarled.
A calm male voice responded, but within a few seconds, the mistress of Rosings snapped, “Bring me to Miss de Bourgh now, or I will see you lose your position. Do you understand?”
Anne set her knitting aside and stood up, her back straight.
The door opened just as Mrs. Jenkinson, to her eternal gratitude, stepped up beside her.
Lady Catherine was dressed in her finest traveling attire, with an ostrich-plumed hat on her head. She was still, at fifty years of age, a fine figure of a woman, but her countenance was a mottled mixture of red and white, and she looked, Anne thought, both furious and ugly.
“Anne! Here you are! How dare you leave Rosings without my permission? Do you know how much I have worried about you?”
Anne glanced at Mrs. Jenkinson’s calm visage and then turned back to her mother.
“I am five and twenty, Lady Catherine,” she said and was pleased when her voice did not shake. “I have every right to go where I wish, whenever I wish.”
The remaining white on her mother’s face transformed into plum, and now her mother looked like an enraged watermelon.
It would be funny, except that Anne had spent her entire life under the thumb of her overbearing mother, and it took every ounce of courage in her heart not to retreat.
“Good afternoon, Sister.”
Anne released a sigh of relief as her uncle, Lord Matlock, entered the room.
Lady Catherine turned bulging eyes toward her brother.
“Frederick, I cannot believe that you did not send me a note, one simple note, to tell me that Anne is here. Do you know how worried I have been? I have been sending servants to various hotels here in London and to Pemberley as well, as I assumed that if Anne were here, you would let me know!”
Lord Matlock stepped farther into the room and considered his sister, his expression calm. “Anne did not want you to know where she was.”
Lady Catherine blinked and turned angry eyes on her daughter. “You did not want … how could you, Anne? When I think of how much I have done for you, this is how you repay me? By scuttling away before sunrise and forcing relatives to hide your presence?”
Anne opened her mouth and then closed it when Lord Matlock said, “I think we had all best sit down. Catherine, do you need some tea?”
The outraged lady sniffed and said, “No, I am taking Anne home right now. Mrs. Jenkinson, have the maid pack Anne’s clothing, and…”
“Anne is not leaving this house,” Lord Matlock said to his sister, and then he turned toward his niece. “Sit down, please, my dear, and perhaps Mrs. Jenkinson could sit next to you?”
Anne thankfully retreated to a small settee nearby, and Mrs. Jenkinson settled down beside her, a comforting bulwark. Lady Catherine stared first at her daughter and then at her brother and said, “You have no right to interfere…”
“I have every right to interfere,” Lord Matlock interrupted, and now his voice was icy, “especially when I discovered only yesterday that you have deceived your daughter about the disposition of Rosings.”
Anne turned a bewildered look on her uncle, only to notice a moment later that her mother’s skin had shifted rapidly from plum to white again.
“Frederick,” the older lady whispered, “do not…”
“Rosings belongs to you, Anne,” Lord Matlock said coolly.
“I discovered that yesterday when I called on the de Bourgh lawyer. According to your father’s will, Rosings was held in trust under the authority of your mother until you turned five and twenty, which you did four months ago.
You are now legally the mistress of Rosings. ”
Anne turned disbelieving eyes on Lady Catherine. “You told me that I would not inherit Rosings until I was thirty years of age.”
Lady Catherine sat down suddenly on a chair.
“I told Sir Lewis,” she quavered, “I told him that you were too sickly to oversee the estate and that five and twenty was absurd. He should have trusted me…”
Anne discovered, rather to her surprise, that she was now genuinely angry. “So that is why you tried to compromise Darcy and me! You wanted us to marry and for Darcy to carry me north to Pemberley so that I would not interfere with Rosings!”
Lady Catherine leaned forward, and Anne thought that she had aged ten years in the last few minutes.
“Anne,” she said in a pleading tone, “you are not well enough to care for Rosings, nor do you have any experience. You know that, and I know that. I was doing what needed to be done…”
“By attempting a forced compromise and lying?” Lord Matlock demanded.
“Do not be absurd, Catherine. It is obvious that you were determined to continue as mistress of Rosings by fair means or foul, but that is at an end. Now that I know the truth, I will be assisting my niece to take her rightful place, and you, dear sister, will be in the Dower House.”
“No, no,” Catherine de Bourgh cried out. “No, you cannot … Anne, Brother, the Dower House is…”
“Five bedrooms, with a fine drawing room and sitting room,” Lord Matlock said drily. “You will do well enough, Sister.”
Anne turned back to her mother and was shocked to observe genuine tears leaking down the older woman’s face.
For one brief moment, guilt seized her. Her mother was, for all her many, many faults, still her mother. Did she have the right to upset her so very much?
Five seconds later, rational thought returned. Her mother was not being cast like a beggar into a random ditch. Lady Catherine would live comfortably indeed in the Dower House, with servants and a sufficiently robust jointure to pay for everything she needed and much of what she wanted.
Moreover, for all that Anne was not experienced in managing an estate, she knew perfectly well that Lady Catherine was not a kind or generous mistress.
The tenant houses were not in the best of repair, and the substantial income of Rosings was more often spent on expensive furniture and fancy attire for its occupants rather than fences and drainage and tenants.
She would, by the grace of God, be a better mistress of Rosings than her mother had ever been.