Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
In Kent, Anne was pleased to see how many of her orders had already been carried out—and with a promptness she had not thought possible.
One of her earliest letters had summoned her cousin, Andrew Fitzwilliam, Viscount Trentham, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s elder brother; and even now, he and his wife, Eleanor, were assisting her in removing nearly all trace of her mother’s former control.
Anne had turned five and twenty only a few months before. She had long known that Rosings was hers by right, and that it was to pass into her control upon that birthday. Yet her mother had said nothing—and Anne had come to understand that she never intended to.
She had raised the matter only once.
“I believe, Mama, that the management of Rosings must now fall to me as Father’s will indicated,” Anne had said, with more steadiness than she felt just a few days after her birthday.
“You are not equal to such responsibility,” Lady Catherine had returned at once. “I shall continue as I always have. Your father was not considering your delicate constitution when he wrote the will the way he did.”
Nothing further had been said—but Anne had understood then that her mother would not willingly relinquish control.
From that moment, she had begun to plan.
Letters had been sent to her cousins—Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Lord Trentham—and, in cautious exchanges, they had discussed how best to secure for her what was already hers.
All recognised the difficulty; none underestimated Lady Catherine nor her insistence on getting her own way.
Yet when Darcy wrote to her of his coming marriage, Anne saw at once that the opportunity she required had at last presented itself.
She made her preparations quietly and waited for the moment for them to be fulfilled.
Her companion, Mrs Jenkinson was her aid in this, ensuring that her letters could be sent and received without her mother’s notice, and she had also taken upon herself to carry out some arrangements to make it easier for Anne to take control when the time came.
When Mr Collins arrived in a state of breathless agitation to announce Darcy’s engagement to his cousin and former houseguest, Anne had scarcely been able to conceal her satisfaction at her mother’s immediate determination to quit Rosings and set matters right, or at least, right in her mind.
Within hours of Lady Catherine’s departure, Anne acted. Several servants—those whose loyalty lay wholly with her mother—were dismissed without delay. Their protests were immediate and, at times, heated.
“You have no authority—none at all!” one declared.
“On the contrary,” Anne said, her voice quiet but unyielding, “I have every authority since Rosings is mine.”
The footmen sent by Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam—who had been lodged for the past few days in an empty tenant cottage—required no further instruction.
Together with the new housekeeper sent from Darcy House, they oversaw the packing of trunks and the removal of those dismissed.
Anne herself ensured that conveyances were provided, though she was careful that none should remain at Hunsford or within easy reach of Rosings.
The following morning brought the arrival of Lord Trentham.
“You have done well,” he said, after hearing her account.
“I have only begun,” Anne replied.
He met first with the steward, then with the tenants, making it known—firmly and without ambiguity—that Miss Anne de Bourgh was henceforth mistress of Rosings. Sir Lewis’s will was produced and examined, and the steward, upon seeing it, appeared visibly relieved.
“Then I am no longer required to carry out her ladyship’s… particular instructions?” he asked.
“You are required to follow Miss de Bourgh’s,” Lord Trentham answered.
“Then I am very much at ease,” the man said. “I will be delighted to assist Miss de Bourgh however she requires.”
The tenants, too, received the news with cautious approval. They knew little of Miss de Bourgh beyond her quiet manners, and while they could not yet be certain she would differ from her mother, they seemed inclined to hope that she might.
Anne did not mistake their uncertainty—but neither did she shrink from it. She had spoken often with Darcy of what Rosings ought to be, and now, with his guidance and Lord Trentham’s support, she felt she possessed of at least the beginnings of a plan.
There was much yet to be done—but for the first time in her life, she found herself equal to the task.
Saturday, 15 August 1812
Far to the north, the quiet of breakfast was interrupted by the arrival of the post—two letters, one for him and the other for his sister—brought in by the innkeeper himself.
Charles Bingley accepted his without much thought.
They had been at the inn for several days, ever since his sister had declared herself unwilling to remain with their relations in Scarborough during their visit.
She had offered a variety of objections—chief among them that their accommodations were beneath her—but Bingley had long since learned that it was easier to acquiesce than to argue his point.
Turning the letter over in his hand, he was surprised to observe that it was clearly written in the hand of his good friend Darcy, and that it bore the mark of Hertfordshire; on closer inspection, he thought he could even distinguish Meryton.
“What is Darcy doing there?” he muttered, drawing his sister’s attention at the mention of his friend’s name.
“Darcy has written to you?” she asked, setting her own letter aside, evidently far more interested in his correspondence than in her own. In her haste, her elbow struck it from the table; though Bingley saw it fall, he gave it little notice.
“Yes,” Bingley said slowly, wondering how his sister would receive the news that Darcy appeared to be in Hertfordshire.
Had the mark not also suggested Meryton, he might have supposed the letter posted on the road to or from London; but Meryton lay well off the main route.
Why should Darcy be there? he wondered again, not wishing to voice the thought aloud to Caroline.
“Then you must read it and tell me what it says. Has he returned to Pemberley? Does he wish for us to join him? You recall, I am sure, how suddenly we were obliged to leave his estate—no doubt for some reason connected to that odious Eliza Bennet. I shall never understand what she was doing there, nor how she contrived to arrive at precisely the same time. I can only suppose it is part of some design to entrap him.”
His sister spoke so rapidly that he could scarcely follow all her questions. After another moment of this, he interrupted.
“Caroline, I shall never know what he has to say unless I read his letter. Will you allow me to do so?”
“Of course, Charles,” she said, waving her hand impatiently. “But you must tell me what he says immediately after.”
“Yes, Caroline,” he replied, breaking the seal and beginning to read, his astonishment increasing with every line.
In the midst of it, he recollected the second letter, and glanced down to see it still lying upon the floor. Careful not to attract his sister’s notice—she had already turned her attention to scolding the innkeeper’s wife for some perceived deficiency in their meal—he bent to retrieve it.
The direction caught his eye at once. It bore the same mark as his own.
A sudden recollection stirred—how often his sister had mentioned that Miss Jane Bennet had never troubled herself to write after their departure from Hertfordshire; how frequently she had cited this as proof of Miss Bennet’s indifference.
He supposed that she had only said these things when he himself mentioned Hertfordshire or the Bennets, and he again recollected how much he had enjoyed their time together at Netherfield.
Yet despite all her claims that she had not written to her, here was a letter. At least one from Hertfordshire, but if not from Miss Bennet, then who else would be writing to her?
Casting another glance towards his sister, and seeing her wholly occupied by a question from a servant, he carefully broke the seal. It had been some years since he had practised the art of opening a letter without disturbing its appearance, but he found the skill had not entirely deserted him.
His eye fell first upon the signature.
Jane Bennet
For a moment he only stared, his thoughts crowding in upon one another.
If this letter had been written, then one must have been received prior to this—and if Caroline was receiving a letter from Miss Bennet, then was it possible they had been writing to each other all along?
Why would Caroline have lied to him? He thought she had liked Miss Bennet well enough, but even if Miss Bennet had not returned his affection, why would Caroline have not just said that.
It was impossible to avoid the many questions this letter raised, and he was determined to learn what else he could, particularly in light of the letter from Darcy.
Holding the two letters together, he hastily read what it contained. It was brief—only a few lines—but each one struck with increasing force.
Miss Bingley,
I suppose I ought to thank you for providing me with your expected direction, that I might reply to your letter regarding the ‘gossip’ surrounding my sister after her return.
Yet you were unsuccessful in whatever purpose you intended by sending it, and I must reject entirely the unjust accusations it contained.
Elizabeth arrived home on Saturday afternoon, and with her came her intended, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy.
There is little doubt in my mind that they are deeply in love and will be happy together—unlike you, who appear determined to be unhappy, and to render others so, whilst circulating falsehoods wherever you suppose they will be believed.
It was wrong of me ever to suppose you were my friend. That truth should have been apparent when you ‘lost’ each of the letters I sent, and again when I visited you in London and found you so clearly displeased by my presence. Your brief call at my aunt’s house rendered it undeniable.
Finally, your recent letter—accusing my sister of improper conduct at Pemberley, and professing a wish that we might remain friends in spite of these things—has made your meaning perfectly clear.
Do not write to me again. Should we ever meet, I ask that you not pretend to have any former acquaintance with me or with any member of my family—particularly my sister, Mrs Elizabeth Darcy.
Jane Bennet
Bingley was thoroughly at a loss. This second letter confirmed all that Darcy had written—particularly regarding his marriage to Elizabeth Bennet.
He was surprised by such a turn of events; and though he could recall Darcy observing the lady with some attention the previous autumn at Netherfield, he remembered far more clearly the change in him at Pemberley.
There, his regard had been unmistakable—and, if he judged rightly, had been returned.
That they should have met again—by chance, as Darcy claimed—and now be married was almost beyond belief. Had the letter come from any other friend, Bingley might have suspected a jest; but Darcy was not a man given to such things, and he could not doubt the truth of it.
Noticing his sister’s attention return to him, Bingley lowered both letters to his lap and folded them with care, taking particular pains to replace Miss Bennet’s where it had fallen.
“Well, Caroline,” he said at last, waiting until she looked fully at him, “it seems my friend has good news to share.”
“Yes?” she asked, clearly intrigued.
“He is married.”
He allowed the words to settle, watching as a succession of emotions crossed her face—shock, disappointment, anger, and frustration—but nothing resembling genuine attachment.
Before she could speak, he added, “To Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Caroline’s anger gave way at once.
“How could he?” she demanded. “How could he marry her? How could his family permit such a travesty? She is nothing—a nobody—and scarcely even tolerable. She has no accomplishments worthy of the name, no proper education, and is of no consequence in society. She is a hoyden, and her youngest sisters are no better than confirmed flirts. Jane Bennet was a pretty, well-meaning sort of girl, but she was not—she is not—like us.”
“It is curious that you should mention Miss Bennet now,” Bingley said, interrupting her. “You have often said she never wrote to you after we left Hertfordshire. Did you ever write to her? Or enquire why she did not write to you?”
Caroline made an impatient sound. “Why must you speak of her at such a moment? Can you not see that your friend has been ensnared by a most unsuitable woman? Ought we not go at once to Hertfordshire, and see what may yet be done?”
“I shall go to Hertfordshire,” Bingley replied, his tone quiet but resolute, “but you will not accompany me. Indeed, I think it best that you remain here for the present and see about finding lodgings for yourself.”
She stared at him. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am entirely so. You will not approach Darcy, nor will you speak of his marriage—or of any member of the Bennet family—in a manner that might give offence. They are gentlewomen, Caroline, however you may choose to think otherwise.”
He paused only a moment before continuing, more deliberately still:
“You and I are the children of a tradesman. If I choose to marry Miss Bennet—or any lady like her—I do not marry beneath myself—but above it.”