The next few days passed in a happy blur of visitors, letters, messages and congratulations. However, they also brought two things to Anne herself that were very welcome. First of all, three new dresses were delivered—three dresses that she had decided on, and ordered, and paid for herself. Hardly had she recovered from the pleasure of trying them on, and finding that she looked delightfully in them, than her cousin came to find her; there was a letter for her.
“It must be from my mother,” she thought. But it was not; it was from Mrs Endicott. Mrs Caldwell, it appeared, had read Anne's manuscript to her and her husband, and they were much impressed with it. They both believed that the story, entertaining and lively, would appeal strongly to the public. They hoped very much that Anne would finish the story, and if she were to think of publication, would she do them the favour of discussing the matter with them, before approaching anyone else?
Here was material for delighted reflection! No one else was interested; everyone was busy, everyone was happy; but Anne carried the letter around with her all day, took it out from time to time, and read it again. No letter from a lover is ever more welcome, brings more joy, than a publisher's expression of interest does to a new author! In the midst of her satisfaction, however, Anne had time to wonder: did Edmund know about it? Had he been there, when the story was being read? Had he been the one to read it? Had he thought of her? Was he still at home? The date Mr Caldwell had mentioned was still ahead, but anything could have happened to hasten his journey.
This led to other thoughts: she began reflecting on what Mr Bennet had said to her, while they sat by the stream; that most people have to cut their coat according to their cloth; and that people like Mrs Collins could still have a happy life, or at least, a life of small, quiet satisfactions. He had not said a word about himself, but she suspected, more from what had not been said, that this might be his own situation; and that this was why Elizabeth's marriage was such an especial source of joy to him. Elizabeth, she thought, had taken a great risk in refusing Mr Collins. Her family was not rich, and she might never have got another offer of marriage. As it turned out, she had been right; but what a risk she had taken!
But what did all this mean for her? What bearing did it have on her own situation? Ought she, like Mrs Collins, to find a suitable, good-natured husband, and make what she could of a less rapturous, but possibly quite happy marriage? Ought she to forget her love? Forget Edmund? Never! She could think of no one among her circle of acquaintances who might replace Edmund in her heart. No! she could not do it; like Elizabeth, she could not make do with someone else. There was to be no second-best for her.
But since he could not marry her? Well, possibly friendship could take the place of love. When he came back, or if he came back, he would have forgotten her, and would marry someone else (if he did not bring back the Creole beauty); and sitting alone, thinking along these melancholy lines, she had been present at his wedding, stood godmother to several of his children, and would shortly have attended his funeral, had not Georgiana come to the library to call her to go riding.
Pretty soon, however, all these reflections were thrust into the background, for Lady Catherine came to Pemberley.
She was just as cheerful as she had been at Burley: just as smiling, just as fashionably clad. Anne had never seen her so much the great lady; her very hat gave out intimations of splendour. She patted Georgiana's cheek, and remarked that she had been much admired at the ball; she was civil to Mr Bennet, and even Mrs Annesley got two fingers, and a gracious nod. Although visitors were not yet allowed into Elizabeth's bedroom, she must of course be admitted; and the experience was very satisfactory, for she observed at once that young Lewis Bennet Fitzwilliam was occupying the magnificent cradle that had been a gift to Lady Anne Darcy from her father, Lord Waterson. To Elizabeth, she was extremely gracious; there was little to say once the infant had been admired, and his astonishing resemblance to her late father remarked upon (which resemblance might be said to consist in the fact that each had a nose, and two eyes), and she had the good sense, which more affectionate visitors often lack, to bring her visit to a rapid conclusion. She emerged from the visit smiling cheerfully.
The reason was soon to become apparent; she had lost nothing; she was no longer interested in the reversion of Pemberley. As soon as she had left Elizabeth's bedchamber, she requested a private interview with her daughter. Anne took her to a small salon, seldom used.
“My dear Anne, I am very happy to see you still looking so remarkably well,” her mother said. “The Duchess complimented me on your looks only yesterday. I would never have thought that your health could have improved so much. The air of Pemberley agrees with you, it seems.”
“It does, indeed, madam.”
“Well, it could not have happened at a better time, for now I have something to tell you that will do you more good still. I am happy to felicitate you on your approaching marriage. Lord Francis Meaburn has requested my permission to pay his addresses to you. I need hardly tell you with what happiness I have given my consent.”
“Lord Francis?” said Anne, stupidly. “But he… but I…”
“What?”
“I… I had no idea that he… it cannot be. I have had only the briefest of conversations with him. There must be some mistake.”
“On the contrary, there is no mistake. The Duchess tells me that he is very much taken with you.”
“And what did he say?”
“He? Nothing. His sister has arranged it all, with his agreement, and I may say, you are in high luck to meet with the approval of such a family. Their rank is lofty, and their connections—”
“One moment, madam, I pray you,” said Anne. “The matter is not so simple. If rank were all that were needed in a husband, I might have no objection. His father is a Duke, and his brother is a Duke, and they are all Dukes together. But I do not want a Duke. I want a husband, and I would like one who began by doing his proposing for himself, and who would propose to me, not to my mother.”
“Really, Anne! There is no occasion to speak in such a disrespectful manner! Lord Francis has behaved very correctly.”
“Then I will refuse him with equal correctness. I have walked with him once and danced with him twice. I did not like him, and I am not minded to marry him.”
“I agree, it is a little sudden. Had things been otherwise, I would not have acceded to this proposal at this time. I was waiting to be sure that a more splendid position was not open to you; in other words, had matters here turned out as they might well have done, I would have been the first to urge you to stay here, and wait for a few months, to see how matters turned out then.”
“I do not understand.”
“As it happens, things have gone well, your cousin has an heir, and his wife is safe. While not wishing for a different outcome, it was only prudent to be prepared for it; a man of his standing, should he lose his wife, must marry again, and soon: he has his inheritance to think of, and he is not getting any younger. Had things transpired that way, I think there is little doubt that you would have been the next mistress of Pemberley; for he would not be likely to look further for a second wife, than a cousin, living already in the house, known and liked by him. But all that is at an end, not to be thought of.”
Anne could hardly believe her ears. Her mother had actually been—no, not scheming, not even wishing for—but certainly, as in the vulgar phrase, hedging her bets, on the terrible possibility of Elizabeth's death! That anyone should think of such a melancholy and shocking extremity as something to be anticipated, seemed to her so horrifying that she could hardly believe that she was hearing it. But it was so; her mother had said it.
“I cannot believe, madam, for one moment, that you were hoping for such a terrible eventuality.”