Chapter Eighteen #3
“It grows wearisome after nearly a quarter of a century, but I appreciate your enthusiasm for it at present,” Anne drawled. “Another eleven months, and then I will no longer have to expend all my energy on evading her tyranny and perpetual disappointment in me.”
5 March, 1813 —Matlock House, London
Anne awoke with a headache, having over-imbibed the night before at her cousin Roberta’s engagement ball.
The wedding would not take place for another two months, but Anne had seized on the opportunity to spend time in London, and her mother had been no less eager to press her cause with Rupert.
He, in turn, had made sure to include Sir Sidney Parker in all his social invitations since Anne had arrived, and she was pleased with how that scheme was progressing.
Despite the pounding at her temples, Anne smiled at so many pleasant recollections of the evening before.
She had made more new acquaintances than she could count and had liked all of Sir Sidney’s friends.
She had danced every dance, and for several sets had lacked a gentleman to stand up with, allowing her to partner Penelope, whom her cousin had graciously included in the festivities.
And best of all, the evening marked half a year remaining until she reached her majority. She was almost free.
There was a tapping at the door; it was Penelope’s daily ritual to awaken early, slip out of Anne’s bed and sneak back to her own less opulent chambers, and dress for the day before returning under the guise of her duties as Anne’s paid companion.
Today, however, Penelope wore a stricken look on her face as she entered the room.
Anne rushed to her lover and took the breakfast tray Penelope was carrying. “Darling, what is the matter?”
“I—I cannot believe it. I heard something in the servants’ hall. Oh, it is horrible and wonderful, and I am a monster for thinking only of us.” Penelope looked at Anne with wild eyes, gesturing for her to sit, but Anne was rooted in place.
She clenched the gilded silver handles of the tray until her knuckles were white, bracing herself to hear that her mother was no more. And then she set it aside, prepared to give her beloved a celebratory embrace. “Tell me, darling. I am ready to hear it.”
“Pemberley has burned. There was a terrible fire, and it is lost. They say it will take years to rebuild.”
Anne’s heart sank. “That is awful. Of all the ways I might escape my fate—but surely my cousins are unharmed.”
Penelope nodded. “They are well enough, though surely they must be much aggrieved. It is—was—a fine house indeed. The earl’s valet told us they received an express at dawn; your cousin will break the news to you, so you have some time to prepare yourself for an appropriate reaction that will not anger your mother. ”
“What, Darcy is here? In London?”
“No, I referred to the earl,” Penelope said, rubbing Anne’s shoulder in a slow, soothing circle. “Apparently your Darcy cousins sought shelter at an empty tenant cottage on their lands and will remain there for the spring planting.”
Anne’s mind was awhirl; she began to pace.
“Oh, what does this all mean? What will Mother say about it all? I must think. My instinct is that it may be a benefit to us, though at such a horrible cost. But what if it goes the other way, what if we must be wed in haste? Perhaps I should simply marry Darcy and be done with it. He has his house in Mayfair, it would still be an escape from Rosings, and he would prevent her from doing any greater damage.”
Anne had no great love for Rosings Park, but she understood the importance of managing the estate well in order to maintain her comfort and independence.
When none of her other punishments achieved the desired effect, Lady Catherine had learned to direct her wrath to the estate, making decisions that would harm Anne in the years to come.
Powerless to change the terms of Sir Lewis’s will, the bitter widow made no secret of the fact that she would sooner ruin the estate than give it over to Anne and consign herself to the obscurity of a dependent relation in the dower house.
Penelope looked at Anne with tears glistening in her eyes. “You have but six months left, Anne. Giving in now may bring about a hastier end to your mother’s power over you, but at the cost of… of the rest of your life. It is your choice to make, but… oh, please, think it over.”
Anne began to pace. “I have had few enough choices, and they have never been easy. There is so much to consider. I fear Darcy may tire of living in a tiny cottage, and Mother will lure him to Rosings, which would belong to him if we wed.”
“And then we would surely be discovered,” Penelope said softly.
Anne nodded her rueful agreement. “I am surprised that she has never sent you away, in her efforts to control me. Losing you would be….”
“I would find you,” Penelope said quickly.
“As soon as her hold over you was broken, I would find you, and even Darcy could not stop me. But… your cousin Darcy’s allure has always been the great distance between Pemberley and Rosings.
Surely your mother would not contrive a scheme that would oblige her to relinquish control of Rosings immediately, when she has allowed your delay for nearly a year and a half. ”
Anne held her lover’s pensive gaze as the two attempted to consider the situation from every imaginable angle.
“I lost all faith in my own judgement long ago,” Anne sighed.
“My best guess—which may perhaps be too optimistic—is that she may begin to think Darcy entirely unworthy of me now. I know it is awful to say, but if it means we have some chance….”
Now Anne began to reciprocate the soothing strokes and comforting murmurs Penelope had offered her.
The two women clung to one another as Anne mused aloud.
“I am sure he is fastidious enough to have adequate insurance, but even so. Poor Darcy! It does seem wrong to gain from his loss. I had always thought that when I ended our engagement, the ton would celebrate his return to eligible bachelorhood, and he would have his choice of bride. I doubt that will be the case, now.”
“The land did not burn, and that is his income,” Penelope reminded her.
“True,” Anne said, still warring with her conscience. “He has piles of money, and all the privileges of being a gentleman.”
She could see the same struggle in Penelope’s visage as well. “Perhaps by Christmas, his cottage will have been converted to a very elegant dower house, a fine inducement for the matchmaking mothers of London.”
“Those that actually wish to live near their daughters,” Anne grumbled. “I have felt rather guilty since last Christmas. He was trying so hard, the poor man. I did everything I could think of to put him off, even spoken boldly to demonstrate how ill-suited we are.”
Penelope looked chagrined. “I fear our poetic Miss Lucas has been too good at her job; her letters and his have grown most ardent. Perhaps her relocation from Hertfordshire to the Sussex coast has inspired her fancy. Would it be too cruel to terminate the correspondence at such a time?”
“I think we must! Please, write to her today, and end it gently.” Anne flexed the fingers in her left hand, frowning at the disfiguration that had not healed in a decade.
She let out a thoughtful sigh. “Sir Sidney means to return soon to Sanditon. I still think I should be better suited to him than to Darcy, should I be bullied into marriage before my birthday. I imagine she will resort to drastic measures, likely further sabotaging of the estate. If we were to go to Sanditon, she would be removed from Rosings, and I could continue to enjoy Sir Sidney’s lively antics. ”
“Even with your cousin’s estate in ruins, would your mother not prefer him over Sir Sidney? He is very insolent to her.”
“But she would prefer Rupert more than anybody. I must ask him again to help me delay her. He need not actually travel there—surely he must go to Derbyshire and aid Darcy—but if he were to tell Mother he is travelling to Sanditon, and perhaps repeat some of Sir Sidney’s assurances that the places attracts the first circles… .”
“That may be enough to keep her there, even if the earl does not go himself,” Penelope mused with a wry smile. “If Sir Sidney’s claims are true, there will be other eligible gentlemen with pedigrees to please even your mother.”
“And I have always wanted to make love to you in the ocean,” Anne teased, feeling bolstered enough to face the day at last. She stole a quick kiss and then she rose and prepared to face her mother as Rupert informed her of the fire.
19 June, 1813—The Tremont Hotel, Sanditon, Sussex
Anne lingered in the doorway to her mother’s bedchamber, which was situated across a small parlor from her own room in their suite.
She had been feeling more than usually malicious toward her mother that morning; she and Penelope had made the most of a brief interlude of privacy.
“I suppose we have not much longer,” she sighed, watching with adoration as Penelope slid off the bed and pinned her hair back in place.
“She must be gone long enough to convince you that one of the village gossips has informed her of Sir Sidney’s elopement.”
Anne laughed. “As if she would ever permit any of them to address her!”
“Shall you indulge her with a show of surprise and dejection, or will you tell her the truth?” Penelope stepped into her slippers and stalked out of the bedroom. Anne closed the door, pursuing her lover to the parlor.
“I suppose I ought to placate her with a performance of what she expects, and give her a sense of triumph until the Darcy situation is sorted. I still have nearly three months until I gain my independence, and I shudder to think what she might try.”