Chapter Twenty-One The Heiress and the Dress #3
Georgiana was crying quietly by the washstand. Mrs Annesley was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Even Lady Matlock had turned her head, her elegant profile tight with emotion.
“I am not going to die, Mother,” Anne murmured fiercely into her mother’s elaborate cap. “I am healthy. I am so incredibly healthy. You did your job. You protected me. But you wrapped me so tightly I could not breathe.”
Lady Catherine pulled back, sniffing and searching blindly for her handkerchief. Mrs Annesley produced one and pressed it into her hand.
“You are so stubborn,” Lady Catherine managed, dabbing at her nose with a decidedly un-aristocratic honk. “You are exactly like him. He would argue with a brick wall if he thought it was encroaching on his property line.”
“I get my stubbornness from you, Mother, and we both know it,” Anne said, offering a watery smile. She stooped to pick up the fallen cane and handed it back. “Listen to me. We need to negotiate.”
Lady Catherine gripped the cane, sniffing again, but her spine straightened a fraction. “I do not negotiate with mutineers.”
“You do today,” Anne countered gently. She took a deep breath, laying out the terms of her surrender and her victory. “In two months, I will be twenty-five. The estate legally becomes mine.”
Lady Catherine flinched, averting her eyes. “I am aware. I shall begin packing my things for the dower house. Though the roof leaks and the chimneys are woefully inadequate. Not to mention the lack of glazing in the windows. I shall likely catch pneumonia.”
“You are not going to the dower house,” Anne said firmly.
Lady Catherine’s eyes snapped back to her daughter. “What?”
“I do not want to run Rosings Park,” Anne said, waving a hand dismissively. “I abhor tenant disputes, I do not care about crop rotation, and I frankly could not care less about the proper spacing of the elm trees. You know the estate. You love the estate. You run it efficiently.”
“I do,” Lady Catherine agreed, a flicker of her old pride returning. “The wheat yields have never been higher.”
“Exactly. So, you will stay. You will be the Dowager, yes, but you will remain the mistress of the house and the manager of the lands. You will keep Mr Collins in line, and you will continue to terrorise the magistrate.”
Lady Catherine blinked, her mind calculating the victory. “And what of you?”
“I am staying here,” Anne gestured to the dusty room.
“I want to live in London. I want to go to the theatre, to travel to Bath, and perhaps Italy, if I can find a travelling companion who does not mind the food. Robert has mentioned that he has a plan for me, whatever that might be. I want to live, Mother, not just exist.”
The Countess of Matlock stepped forward, linking her arm through Lady Catherine’s. “It is a very sound compromise, Catherine. You keep your kingdom, and Anne gets to stretch her wings. And I shall be right around the corner in Mayfair to ensure she does not cause a scandal.”
Lady Catherine looked at her daughter, at the vibrant flush in Anne’s cheeks, the upright posture, the vitality that had been missing for years.
“No shawls?” Lady Catherine asked, her voice wavering.
“No shawls,” Anne promised. “Unless it is snowing.”
Lady Catherine stared for a long moment. Finally, she let out a long, shuddering sigh. “Very well. But you must take Mrs Jenkinson with you. I will not have you running about London unsupervised.”
Anne decided to pick her battles. “Mrs Jenkinson is acceptable, but she has to undergo training under Mrs Annesley. She has to learn I shall not tolerate having cod liver oil poured down my throat.”
“Very well.” Lady Catherine’s eyes rested on her magnificent gown lying in a heap of glorious claret silk.
“Mrs Frobisher!” she barked, causing the poor housekeeper to jump three inches in the air.
“Y-yes, Your Ladyship?”
“Pick that gown up,” Lady Catherine ordered, pointing her cane at the silk. “Have it brushed, aired, and pressed. And find a seamstress. It needs to be altered.”
Anne’s jaw dropped. “Altered?”
“Yes, altered!” Lady Catherine huffed, smoothing her bombazine skirts.
“The bodice is too long for modern tastes, and the sleeves are atrocious. But the silk is still good. If you are going to reside in London, Anne, you cannot go about like a poorly dressed provincial. We shall have it remade into an evening gown for you. It is time the de Bourghs reminded Mayfair how to dress.”
Anne stared at her mother, a wide grin breaking across her face. “Yes, Mother.”
Lady Catherine nodded, satisfied. “Now, come downstairs. I require tea. And Mrs Frobisher, for the love of God, cover that hideous preserved beast in the hallway. Sir Lewis bought it in a fit of madness and it has always seemed as though it wants to eat the guests.”
As Lady Catherine swept out of the room, leaning on Lady Matlock’s arm, Georgiana rushed forward and threw her arms around Anne’s waist.
“You did it,” Georgiana whispered, beaming.
“We did it,” Anne corrected, glancing down at the gorgeous gown. The ghost of Sir Lewis de Bourgh might have tripped over his own feet, but Anne was finally learning how to walk.