Page 11

Miss Anne de Bourgh stared listlessly out of the carriage window at the passing countryside. She had hoped that this trip—her first outside of Kent in nearly twenty years—would bring back some of the excitement that she vaguely remembered from childhood, but it had not.

Outside, there seemed to be nothing but field after field, interspersed with the occasional dirty little market town.

They had spent six nights at six different posting inns and, despite her mother’s strident demands for the innkeeper’s finest, in Miss de Bourgh’s opinion the conditions had been atrocious.

Anne missed her own comfortable bed (even with Rosings linens she feared to rest her head on a strange mattress—who knew what vermin might breed there?) and her meals prepared just as Cook knew she liked them.

Most of all, Anne ached from the constant jolting and jostling of the carriage.

The barouche box was stuffy and smelly with the heavy colognes of three women who had been cooped up together in a small space for nearly a week.

Anne turned her head slightly so as to better observe her companions.

Her mother had not ceased lecturing since they had entered the carriage that morning.

In truth, it seemed as if Lady Catherine had not stopped talking since they had departed from Kent.

Perhaps she was always like this, but at Rosings Anne could retreat to her rooms or some other hiding place in the enormous house.

Here in the carriage there was no escape and her head ached from her mother’s voice.

“Anne! Sit up straight, child! The future Mrs. Darcy must not appear like some rag doll flopping about without a spine.”

“Yes, Mama,” murmured Anne listlessly and pressed her back into the cushions.

Mrs. Jenkinson took note of her charge’s pallor and dared to venture a soft protest. “Lady Catherine? Might we stop for a bit? Miss Anne is looking rather peaked.”

The older woman glared at her employee. “Don’t be ridiculous! Anne is perfectly well. Indeed, we shall reach Matlock within three hours and it would be nothing short of indolence to delay.”

Anne muffled a sigh and returned to staring out of the window.

Since Easter, when her cousin had attempted to tell Lady Catherine that her dearest wish of a Darcy-de Bourgh alliance was never to be, Anne’s mother had displayed an astonishing shift in attitude.

For several days after the departure of Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam, Rosings Park had been unnervingly quiet.

Visitors had been turned away at the door and the servants had tiptoed around the house to avoid catching their mistress’ notice.

Then, after about a week, Lady Catherine’s foul mood had evaporated overnight.

She had summoned her pet doctor and demanded that he re-examine Miss de Bourgh.

Unsurprisingly, the plump little man had confirmed his employer’s proclamations that her daughter was now miraculously recovered from all that had previously ailed her.

He did not, however, say anything about discontinuing her various tonics, powders, and laudanum, so Mrs. Jenkinson had continued her weekly pilgrimage to the apothecary and Anne spent the spring in her usual opiate- and alcohol-induced haze even as her mother declared to all and sundry that she was the very picture of good health.

There had been several other, more significant changes.

Lady Catherine had summoned a dressmaker from London to create a new wardrobe for Miss de Bourgh.

However, upon seeing Madame Bisset’s designs, Lady Catherine had promptly declared them to be indecent and sent the aggrieved woman packing.

The best of the local seamstresses was then summoned to Rosings and given exacting instructions and constant oversight.

It was probably fortunate that old Mrs. Simpkins had little imagination and no knowledge of current London fashions for the patterns she was given to follow had been out of style for decades.

Nevertheless, in her own languid way Anne was pleased to have new clothes and was particularly fond of a pink morning gown that seemed to compliment her admittedly unimpressive figure.

She was less pleased with the importation of a dancing master, also from London.

Mr. Wimpole was a tall, spindly man whose vanity prevented him from wearing the spectacles that would have lessened his tendency to peer owlishly at whomever had his attention.

The only part of his visit that Anne genuinely enjoyed was his music box; he had brought several cylinders that played appropriate tunes for the dances he taught and their tinkling melodies rather pleased her.

Unfortunately, Lady Catherine’s proclamations of Anne’s perfect health did nothing to help a girl who was not accustomed to doing anything more active than walking up and down a single flight of stairs each day.

More than two minutes of a cotillion left her panting and too light-headed to continue.

Fearing to lose the great lady’s patronage should she check on her daughter’s lesson and find nothing happening, Mr. Wimpole made the happy discovery that his pupil’s companion was both light on her feet and delighted to join him on the floor in whatever dance he called.

As a result, a happy compromise was reached wherein Mr. Wimpole and Mrs. Jenkinson spent a great deal of time “demonstrating” the steps while Miss de Bourgh settled back on a comfortable settee with eyes half-closed and a vacant expression.

When Mr. Wimpole left at the end of his tenure, the best that might be said was that Miss de Bourgh could probably tell the difference between a jig and a reel if they were played slowly.

In a letter to a friend, the dance master confided, “Heaven help her partner if some poor gentleman is ever forced to stand up with her, for the girl knows not right from left nor cares to learn.”

Anne had been disappointed to learn that the departure of her dance master did not mean that she could resume her normal schedule.

Instead of her usual habit of having pastries and hot chocolate on a tray in her room and then napping until afternoon, Lady Catherine now expected Anne to join her at the breakfast table at nine o’clock in the morning (!!

!). Her mother also increased the frequency and duration of her lectures on everything from Trollope’s order of precedence to the housekeeping accounts.

Fortunately, Anne had long since perfected the art of letting her mother’s words wash over her while appearing, if not attentive, then at least awake.

Lady Catherine’s newfound determination to educate her daughter merely made Miss de Bourgh increasingly grumpy.

She had absolutely no interest in the relative importance of a bishop to a baron when seating guests at table any more than the necessity of checking the contents of the tea caddy at random times each month to keep the housekeeper honest. Anne would much rather to spend her time in the comfort of her private rooms with a plate of cream cakes and a penny dreadful smuggled in by Mrs. Jenkinson under the guise of “school books.”

Such was the state of Anne’s preparation to assume the mantle of Mrs. Darcy, Mistress of Pemberley and Rosings Park, when the de Bourgh coach finally jolted to a halt in front of Matlock House.

After brushing out her own skirts, Lady Catherine made a few critical comments on the state of her daughter’s appearance before allowing the footman to open the carriage door and descending to the ground. She nodded approvingly when the Earl and his wife stepped forward to welcome her themselves.

“Brother, Lady Eleanor.” The latter was spoken in a cooler tone. Catherine had never particularly liked her younger brother’s wife whom she considered to have a surfeit of opinions and a disappointing lack of respect for her sister-in-law’s superior understanding.

The Countess replied crisply and then turned to greet Miss de Bourgh and her companion, leaving the Earl to handle his sister.

Her niece’s pallor immediately concerned her.

Anne had descended the carriage steps only by leaning heavily on a footman and was now clinging to Mrs. Jenkinson’s arm as if she might collapse.

Clicking her tongue, Lady Eleanor set about getting the girl inside.

“Anne, we are so glad to have you here at Matlock. Come—I will show you to your rooms and we can get you settled. After such a long trip, I’m sure you’ll be wanting a cool bath and some rest.” She had linked arms with her niece and the pitifully thankful expression that spread over the girl’s face nearly broke the lady’s heart.

With a pointed look to her husband, Matlock’s mistress guided the ladies into the house and up the stairs to the guests’ chambers.

The Earl responded with a slightly exasperated look of his own but was left behind to listen to his sister catalogue the failures that she had already observed in his management of their late father’s estate.

Finally, Henry simply began walking toward the house; in order to continue lecturing him, Catherine was obliged to follow and eventually he was able to deposit her in her rooms and escape.

Henry Fitzwilliam met his wife at the top of the stairs and raised his eyebrows at her worried look.

Eleanor shook her head grimly. “I’ve not seen Anne since we visited Rosings four years ago and I’m sorry to see her looking so poorly.

Hopefully it’s just the effects of travel and she will improve with rest.”

“Should we call the doctor?”