“I think there is one thing I must make clear to you, ma'am: my cousin is five-and-twenty years old, and she knows her own mind. She dislikes Lord Francis, as she has made abundantly clear; and for my part, given the differences between them, I cannot believe that it would be a happy marriage.”
“Pooh! Nonsense; he is as good-natured a man as ever lived. There is no reason why he would not make a perfectly amiable husband. If she is so foolish as to wish to write books, he is not likely to raise any objection.”
“No, as long as he has money to spend on his gambling and profligacies. I am surprised, ma'am, that you would wish to see the resources you have husbanded so well, at risk of being wasted.”
“Oh! He has given up his gambling; all that is at an end. Of course Anne's money would be tied up, in some way. The lawyers would see to it. In any case, she cannot stay here for the rest of her life. Well! She must come back to Rosings with me. We will have the Duchess and her brother down to visit, for she has several times said that she would like to see the place, and we will see if Anne cannot be persuaded. But she is not to bring that detestable little dog with her; I cannot abide it. It is savage, and should be shot.”
“I beg you, madam, do not attempt to persuade her into an unhappy marriage.”
“You married to please yourself, and it has turned out well; now you think that every marriage, made for family reasons rather than love, must be unhappy. It is not so. And Anne is not the girl to choose well, left to herself. Stay—she has not done so? Is that the reason for all this high-flown sentiment? Has she said anything to lead you to think that she has some person in mind?”
“No, madam.”
“Then answer me: who gave her the dog?”
“I could not lie to her,” Darcy told his wife, later. “I made it clear that Caldwell had abandoned all pretension to her hand, and is leaving the country besides, and that she has said nothing as to any attachment; but I could not lie.”
And Lady Catherine marched back to the house to speak to her daughter. When she went to climb the stairs, however, she found herself confronted by Dr Lawson. He had ridden over to take a look at Mrs Darcy, and found that she was very well. But Anne was a different matter. He remembered Lady Catherine, and waited for no greeting.
“If you are thinking of seeing your daughter, madam,” he said, “it is impossible; you must wait.”
“Must? Must? Nonsense, man! It cannot hurt her to see her mother. Stand aside.”
Dr Lawson was a large man, and his bulk effectively blocked the stairway. He did not budge.
“Do you want to kill her, madam?”
“Out of my way, sir!”
Dr Lawson repeated, “Do you want to kill her, madam? She has had a severe concussion; she is sleeping; she must not be disturbed.”
“Oh, very well. But I cannot be hanging about here all day, I wish to be on my way. I will write to her. Darcy, I must ask you for the use of your writing desk.”
“Very well, ma'am. But my cousin is not well. I beg you not to write what will distress her.”
“I think, nephew, a mother is the best judge of what she may write to her daughter.” And Lady Catherine sat down to write.
When Anne read the letter, it threw her into a fever. Her worst terror was the threat to Minette. She could even bear to go back to Rosings, she thought, but she would rather die than go there and risk her dog's life. No, she did not trust anyone. Her mother might promise to spare Minette, but then if she so much as growled at some servant or keeper, there would be the excuse to get rid of her. If Minette died, she would die, too. Or, if worst came to worst, rather than die, she would marry Lord Francis, at least he had said that he liked the dog—but would she be able to keep Minette alive until the wedding day? Perhaps she could leave Minette at Pemberley for a while—but the idea threw her into a passion of tears. Dr Lawson became anxious.
Chapter 22
Anne was ill with misery all that day and the next. Then something strange happened. At some time, in the middle of a sleepless night, she began, instead of suffering, to think. It was not good enough to cry; crying would not save her or Minette; she must do something. It was never of any use to appeal to her mother's sympathy—she never felt sorry for anyone. Nor was maternal affection a powerful impulse with her. She got her way by being forceful, by being determined, by always being sure that she was right. Well! she was her mother's daughter; she would use her mother's weapons; supposing her to be in this situation, what would Lady Catherine do?
She could not refuse to go to Rosings; no young woman could do such a thing; it was beyond the bounds of possibility. Nor could she ask her cousins at Pemberley to house her in defiance of her mother's expressed wish; such a request would place them in a position of great embarrassment. However, suppose she could make it clear to Lady Catherine that she was a different person now, that living at Rosings would be a different experience for both of them?
As soon as it was light, Anne rang for her maid, got herself put into a dressing gown, and writing materials brought, and wrote a letter. It took her several hours, and we will not enquire how many sheets were left torn up on the floor, but the letter was eventually written:
Madam,
The respect due to a parent makes it impossible for me to propose disobeying your commands; but I do request you to reflect. You wish me to come to Rosings with you, and I have no intention of refusing, although because of the injury to my head, it will not be possible for me to travel, probably for many weeks.
You wish me to accept Lord Francis's offer of marriage, and out of respect for your wishes, I will re-consider his offer, but only when he comes to me, and makes it himself. He can do so, if he wishes, more expeditiously from Burley, than by going into Kent. That is, I will consider it—I do not say that I will accept it. My wealth and rank have, as you know, prevented my thinking of marriage with a man with whom I believe I could have been happy. Wealth and rank are not going to force me into marrying a man whom I do not love, and who does not love me.
You wish me to reside with you at Rosings: you have yourself acknowledged that my improvement in health dates from my leaving Rosings. The location does not agree with me, I have never been well there, and I do not wish to return to a state of sickness. If, in deference to your wishes, I must reside there, I will not have Dr Fillgrave as my medical advisor. I will choose my own doctor, and pay him myself. I must have a horse to ride. I must have a personal maid-companion of my own; I will not be attended by Mullins. Above all, I will not be carried here and there to seek a husband; I shall spend my time in the library, writing. I intend to publish my writing; however, in deference to your views, I will publish under a pseudonym.
I think we are both agreed that it is high time for me to find an establishment in life, but are disagreed on what that establishment should be. I am of full age and know what I want. I require a similarity of interests; I require a situation of mutual respect and affection; and if such a situation is not available, I am resigned to spending the rest of my life as an unmarried woman. We left Rosings because there were no prospects of marriage for me in such a restricted society. I believe my chances of finding the establishment I need are far better here than at Rosings, and this is where I wish to remain. I beg you, madam, to return to Rosings and leave me here.
As for the dog, she is not dangerous, and I will not allow her to be destroyed. She has never bitten or snapped, and did not do so yesterday; raised voices frighten her and she growled and barked, that is all. I will not come to Rosings, or go anywhere else, without her, and she will never leave my side. If you refuse to allow her to enter your drawing-room, I will not enter it, either.