Chapter 8
“Well, Mrs Darcy,” said her husband, as soon as they were alone together, “what do you think now?”
“I shall never forget the sense of relief, as the carriage came into view. I saw only two ladies in it; one was Georgiana and the other was clearly not Lady Catherine,” Elizabeth said. “We have been spared! But I was never so surprised in my life as when I saw your cousin Anne! she is just as thin and small as ever, but she holds herself better; she looks so much livelier, and she smiles and talks much more readily.”
“I never realised before how much she resembles her father,” said Darcy. “I am sorry you did not know him; I was very fond of him. Dr Lawson asked to speak to me, before she arrived at the hotel this morning. He believes that this poor health of hers is due to nothing more than bad medicine and lack of food. He told me she has been taking a mixture of substances that would damage the constitution of the healthiest person; they have depressed her appetite and harmed her nerves, and she has been eating far too little. I never did like that doctor my aunt employs; I believe his only concern was to flatter her, and feather his own nest by prescribing more and more rubbish, for which, of course, she pays him. And since he declared that Anne was ill, ill she had to be.”
“The poor girl! It is monstrous!” exclaimed Elizabeth indignantly.
“No,” said Darcy, musingly, “my aunt is not a monster. She means no harm. She is a capable and clever woman. Rosings is as well managed as Pemberley, and her tenants speak of her with respect, though not with affection. She would never, for example, tell a lie, or swindle one of her tenants. She has two serious faults: one is that she has far too much regard for rank. The other is that, whatever is going forward, whatever is needed to be done, she must be the one to do it; the one to plan, to arrange, to carry out. She cannot allow anyone else to control anything. Her man of business must always consult with her first, and do exactly as she sees fit; she leaves nothing to his judgment. Did you know that the Rosings property is not entailed? Sir Lewis made a will soon after they were married, leaving everything to her, house, land, and money; for he said that he knew she would look after it well, and that where there is an entail, the eldest son always becomes expensive, and selfish.”
“Yes, because he cannot be disinherited. It is a great pity that they had only one child, and that a daughter. She would have managed any number of noisy, self-willed sons.”
“She reminds me sometimes,” Darcy said, “of Queen Elizabeth. I am sure that, if she were in charge of the parliament, the country would be well governed.”
“I seem to recall,” said Elizabeth, “that Queen Elizabeth took almost twenty years to think whether she would cut off the head of the poor Queen of Scots. If Lady Catherine had to decide, I do not think that she would take twenty minutes. But now, what about Anne? It seems to me that now she is here, and without her mother, we have a heaven-sent chance to do some good. I should like to, for I feel she has had but a poor life of it, at Rosings.”
“I believe that my aunt is, in a sense, right; we owe Anne something—or at least, I do. Because of me, she has been allowed to spend years in the vain expectation that we would marry.”
“Could you not have made it clear that you did not intend to marry her?”
“You may well ask, but though clearly it was, for Lady Catherine, a thing understood, it was never referred to, or not plainly. I was frequently asked to Rosings, but there was always a reason: Fitzwilliam was coming to stay, or the pheasants needed shooting, or my advice was wanted about some matter on the estate. There was never a moment when I might stand up and say, 'Madam, I am not going to marry your daughter.' It is not an easy thing to do.”
“I think,” Elizabeth said, “that we must do precisely what your aunt has asked us to do; we must find a husband for her.”
“It will not be as easy as my aunt thinks; her portion is very large, but she is five-and-twenty, and although her looks have improved, I would not call her handsome. I would not wish her to marry a man who only wanted her for the sake of her money.”
“Do you think,” said Elizabeth, hesitantly, “that she and your cousin Fitzwilliam might like to marry?”
“Fitzwilliam? He has known her for years, and I have never seen anything of affection—anything beyond cousinly regard.”
“Well,” said his wife, “I think they would be very well suited. They are close in age, equal in rank, and they know each other. Her money would be in good hands, and it would be very useful to him.”
“But he is a soldier, and he loves the life. If she married him, she must go where he goes, and follow the drum. Would her health be adequate for such an existence?”
“Well, there is another matter that I think I should mention to you. My dear, has it occurred to you that Georgiana is becoming very fond of him?”
Darcy looked astounded. “I think it is only a schoolgirl's admiration,” Elizabeth said, “but it might become more.”
“Fitzwilliam is as good a man as ever lived—but he is too old for her.”
“I believe,” said Elizabeth, “that your cousin's wounds, and his courage, have had a great effect on her. There is a sort of chivalry in Georgiana. I think that she fell in love with Wickham, you know, because he represented himself as ill-used, neglected, and lonely. I talked with Colonel Fitzwilliam a little today—no! of course I did not mention my suspicions—but I am pretty sure that there is nothing on his side beyond the natural affection of a man for a younger cousin. He is a man of honour, and would never try to gain a young girl's affection for the sake of money. But it might make Georgiana unhappy.”
“Good heavens! What can I do? This place is his home, until he is fit to rejoin his regiment. I cannot send him away.”
“No, you cannot. The best we can do is to make sure that she has other choices, other interests. We have lived here, you know, very happily since we married, and, my love, I would wish for nothing more—but our comfortable, elegant family circle is very restricted. I believe that, for Georgiana, there should be a more varied society. In the ordinary way, she would have had a season in London, but as things are, we cannot give her that. Let us see how many things we can do to provide her with other people who she might admire or love. It could not be other than good for Anne, too.”
“We must go to the assemblies,” her husband said, “in Lambton and Burley. We have neighbours whom we can invite for dinner parties, and musical evenings. We can do much more than we have done. Summer is coming, there are race meetings, there are even cricket matches. I would see Anne more occupied, too—stay!—suppose we engage Georgiana, as an affectionate cousin, to help us with Anne? Would not that chivalry of hers be well engaged—to give Anne new interests and occupations—to look after her health— even to look for a husband for her?”
“Yes, indeed it would; it is the very thing. I will talk to her tomorrow.”
The morrow, for Anne, brought surprises indeed. She and her cousin Georgiana had a delightful drive around the park in Mrs Darcy's pony carriage. In the course of it, it transpired that Georgiana had an inordinate number of dresses, outgrown or outmoded, that only needed a little cutting down, and a few stitches, for Anne to be able to wear them. “And Anne dear, the Caldwells are coming soon, maybe next week. You must have something fashionable to wear!”