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She was seated in the small summer breakfast parlor with her daughter Anne when the footman brought the London papers.

The announcement of Darcy’s marriage was a stunning blow.

With Wickham unaccounted for, she had no way of striking back at Darcy either personally or through his bride—or his sister.

The fine lace collar of her dress seemed unbearably tight, and she raked at it with her fingernails.

“What is the matter, Mama?”

“You worthless, worthless girl!” screamed her mother in a hoarse croak. “You are sickly! Ugly! Useless!” She picked up the silver carving knife from the platter of ham and raised it above her head.

Anne, terrified, ran out of the room as the knife buried itself in the wooden frame of the breakfast-room door.

Hunsford Parsonage - Sunday, August 9, 18__

Charlotte Collins, already dressed for church, was enjoying a solitary walk through the garden at the parsonage when Anne de Bourgh tumbled headlong into her arms. Her appearance was alarming.

Her hair streamed about her shoulders, her skin was pale and damp with perspiration, and her eyes were red from weeping.

She breathed in great, alarming gasps, and she felt feverish to the touch.

Charlotte put her arm about the young woman and guided her to a bench.

“Miss de Bourgh, do not try to talk. Whatever it is, you are safe here.” Charlotte wiped the young woman’s face with her handkerchief and smoothed her tumbling hair. “Just sit here and try to catch your breath. Tell me about it when you feel you are ready.”

A few minutes later, Anne’s breathing had returned to normal.

She spoke in a voice that was barely audible as she revealed the shocking details of her mother’s behavior with the hot tea and that morning with the carving knife.

As she finished her story, she burst into tears and wept bitterly in Charlotte’s arms.

At that moment, Mr. Collins emerged from the house and started down the walk toward them.

“My dear, what is the meaning of this? Why are you not ready for church?” He sputtered to a stop as he saw who was seated next to his wife.

“Miss de Bourgh, what an honor! May we escort you to services this morning?” Too self-absorbed to take note of her distress and condition, he continued. “But where is your mother?”

“Mr. Collins, Miss de Bourgh will not be attending church this morning. She has been taken ill. I shall not be attending either. I will take her into the house and assist her to lie down and will summon the doctor if needed.”

“But Mrs. Collins, regular and faithful attendance at Sunday service is necessary, and nothing can be allowed to interfere. Why Lady Catherine herself . . .”

“Oh, Mr. Collins,” his wife snapped. “What Bible have you been reading? Here is a sick person. Am I to abandon her because it is the Sabbath? I do not think so. Do not make yourself late for church. And do not mention this to Lady Catherine, although I doubt very much that she will be there.”

Mr. Collins, abashed, had no choice but to depart for the church, leaving the two ladies behind on their bench.

Charlotte assisted Anne into the house. They passed the maid as they entered, and Charlotte asked her to bring strong tea to the guest room.

“Miss de Bourgh is ill. And bring the brandy.” The girl threw her a worried look.

“Do not worry. I will tell Mr. Collins that you were not in church because you were assisting me to care for a sick person.” She gently escorted Anne upstairs to the same small, comfortable room that Elizabeth had occupied the previous spring.

“Now, let me help you remove your gown.”

The sight of Anne’s arm shocked Charlotte. “Let me assist you into bed, Miss de Bourgh. I suggest you remain in your chemise rather than trying to put a nightgown on over this. I shall send for the surgeon this afternoon.”

Anne, having choked down a small measure of brandy and a cup of strong, sweet tea, began to look better. Her color returned, and Charlotte placed a cloth dipped in lavender water on her forehead.

“Do you feel more able to talk, Miss de Bourgh?” Charlotte had seated herself in a chair by the bed. “Tell me what has happened.”

Anne nodded and took a deep breath before speaking.

“For some time now, I have felt that something was not right with my mother. She is often heard shouting—screaming really—when no one else is present. She has always been harsh with the servants, but now she abuses them horribly and several of the housemaids have suddenly disappeared. I have heard whispers from the other servants that my mother sent them to a house for fallen women in London! She has dismissed others, including some of our most faithful servants, without references, a fate with which she now daily threatens Mrs. Jenkinson. She has also taken to drinking my father’s stores of port, and she drinks far more than what the gentlemen might consume after dinner.

I believe she may have finished the Madeira. ”

Charlotte remained silent as Anne de Bourgh related the story of her mother’s descent into drunkenness and madness.

When Anne had finished, Charlotte rang for the maid and requested the London papers for the day before.

When the anxious girl brought them, Charlotte said, “Yes, yes, I know it is the Sabbath and we do not read the newspapers. But I will read them. And send someone for the surgeon immediately.” Turning to Anne, she said, “What portion of the paper was your mother reading this morning when she threw the knife at you?”

“I am not certain, but it looked like the advertisements or social announcements.”

Charlotte shuffled through the pages with a slight frown. “Do you think this is the thing? Mr. Darcy has married Miss Elizabeth Bennet. It says here they were married two days ago at his parish church in London. I must say, I am astonished. Your mother told us. . .”

“That Miss Bennet had fallen from grace,” Anne bit her lip. “That she had thrown herself into the arms of some depraved viscount or other.”

“Could this have been enough to throw your mother into that sort of rage?”

“Easily. For years she has been attempting to promote an engagement between Cousin Darcy and myself. Everyone knows that no such engagement ever existed. Yet she has never given it up. She was beside herself with fury after reading this announcement.” Anne paused and wiped her eyes.

“Miss de Bourgh, why have you not removed yourself from Rosings or asked your relatives for assistance? Have you been too ill to ask for help?”

“No. That is what my mother wants people to think. Although I am undersized, I am not as sickly as I am made out to be. I was slow to recover from the measles as a child, and my mother has made the most of that for years. My diet is severely restricted, my food is not nourishing, and I am always hungry. My mother gives me no freedom, as you must have observed, Mrs. Collins. She does not allow me to leave Rosings and I am certain she prevents my letters from being posted. I have no contact with the outside world, nor with my relatives, except that which she permits. I have found it is better to be invisible in my mother’s presence than to assert myself. ”

Anne drew a deep breath. “I am now twenty-six years old, and my twenty-seventh birthday is in less than three months.”

“Is it indeed? I had not realized. You have always seemed so young.”

“Rosings has been handed down for generations through my father’s family.

It is not entailed to the male line. I am perfectly well acquainted with the terms of my father’s will.

I am his heiress, and I should have succeeded to Rosings and its income on the day of my twenty-fifth birthday.

However, my mother has not permitted me to do so. ”

“Oh, my dear girl! I am so very sorry. Rest assured that I will help you. Mr. Church will be here in a few minutes to look at your arm.” Charlotte took Miss de Bourgh’s hand in hers. “What is it you wish to do now, Miss de Bourgh? Name it.”

“My first choice would be to go to my uncle in Derbyshire. That is so far away, I am not certain I will be able to manage it on my own. I believe if I can get to my Cousin Darcy in London, he will assist me in contacting my uncle. However, I do not see how I can travel to London. I have no money with me, not even my reticule.”

“Be easy on that head. I believe I can get you to London in safety.” There was a knock at the door. “Ah, Mr. Church. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

The surgeon entered, followed by the maid bearing a basin of water and clean towels. He unwrapped the bandage and nodded as he examined the burn. “Someone with some knowledge dressed this,” he said.

“The housekeeper at Rosings.” Anne was pale.

Mr. Church bathed the injury with cool water, tore some of the linen into strips, and bandaged the arm loosely.

“I do not believe in applying butter or other grease to burns,” he said.

“My observation is that they prevent air from reaching the wound and cause it to putrefy. Continue to wash and bandage it in clean linen—immaculate linen—morning and evening, and if the blisters open, leave them alone. This is not a large burn, though it is painful and quite deep. There is no reason why it should not heal well.”

“We may have to travel to London tomorrow.” Charlotte was troubled. “It is completely unavoidable.”

“I will give you draughts to help ease her discomfort. Watch the area carefully. When you get to London, if it shows any sign of putrefying, she must see a physician or surgeon immediately. Other than that, keep it clean and, as I have said, watch it. And see that she receives a digestible, nourishing diet. She is underfed.”

He gave Charlotte the medicine with instructions for its use. “I will see myself out.”

“Thank you, Mr. Church.”