Chapter 1
In the household of Netherfield, there was no one who thanked God more fervently for the Bennet sisters’ return to Longbourn than Fitzwilliam Darcy. He feared – with excellent reason – that the continued presence of one of those young ladies might yet undermine his self-control.
Being daily in the company of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, Mr Darcy was compelled to admit that each minute spent in her company only heightened her charms in his estimation – a most inconvenient development. He was in danger of finding himself possessed of a constant admiration for the young lady. He therefore endeavoured to address her as little as civility would permit, and to avoid her as often as was possible – an effort that required constant vigilance and met with only moderate success. All too frequently, he was surprised – and annoyed – by a sensation of regret when she quitted the drawing-room to attend upon her ill sister.
More troubling still, his thoughts too often escaped the strict control he sought to impose upon them, and did so only to dwell upon the verbal disputations into which he drew her; upon her impertinent smile, lively, intelligent repartees, the animated brightness of her eyes, the manner in which she inclined her head with such graceful ease, the loose curl that fell in consequence of the movement…
No, Darcy, this will not do. Why do you persist in allowing such thoughts to take possession of you?
Summoning all his self-command, Darcy forced himself to reflect upon every disadvantage connected with the object of his admiration – disadvantages which, in every respect, forbade him even to consider her as approaching his ideal. He devoted much time to examining her situation in life, which was decidedly inferior to his own; for though her father was a gentleman, the want of fortune and connexions rendered her in no way his equal. She even possessed an uncle engaged in trade – a circumstance Darcy found nearly as alarming as it was undeniable.
Darcy impressed upon himself that these remarkable deficiencies were neither concealed nor compensated by any extraordinary assets of the lady – by which he meant, of course, her fine eyes, her uncommon disposition, and the sharpness of her mind. He persuaded himself that the ill-breeding and mercenary temper of her mother must, in some measure, have exerted an influence upon the daughter. Miss Elizabeth Bennet, after all, could not differ from any other woman who sought his society and good opinion from motives of worldly advantage, recommending herself to him as a future wife. Young women, he assured himself, entertained thoughts of nothing but marriage and money – a conviction that spared him the inconvenience of examining any contrary evidence.
While he reasoned thus, however, none of those women was capable of engaging him in conversation so captivating, or of displaying taste, cultivation, and a well-informed mind.
None – except Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Indeed, it was precisely for this reason that he knew he must exercise the greatest caution. Darcy was not vulnerable to the attractions of pretty women who fluttered their long and undeniably charming eyelashes at him in a flirtatious manner; such tactics were, he believed, easily resisted. But when beauty was joined to quickness of intellect, reading, and wit, the case was altogether different.
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Two days after the departure of the Bennet sisters, Mr Bingley declared the morning to be exceedingly fine and – according to his entirely impartial judgement – perfectly suited to a ride to Longbourn, for the purpose of inquiring after Miss Bennet’s health. To this end, he dispatched several slices of toast with great haste and then redirected his growing impatience towards his friend.
“Darcy, do make haste, man! You have been lingering over those eggs for at least half an hour! I wish to be off at once!”
A slight frown appeared between Mr Darcy’s dark brows, a silent but unmistakable testimony to his irritation.
“I fail to see what my finishing my eggs has to do with your immediate departure.”
“It has everything to do with our immediate departure!” Bingley persisted with undiminished enthusiasm. “Pray hurry, or the Miss Bennets will set off for Meryton, Oakham Mount, or somewhere else entirely, and we shall not meet them at all!”
“Bon voyage,” murmured Miss Bingley over her roll. She took a bite and cast a surreptitious glance at Mr Darcy, endeavouring to detect any sign of emotion upon his handsome features – but she found none. The prospect of not encountering that impertinent, dark-haired country girl appeared to affect him not in the least, and Caroline Bingley felt herself considerably brightened by the discovery.
“Well, for my part, I am quite glad they are no longer under our roof. How pleasant it is to have the house to ourselves!”
As no one – Mr Darcy in particular – minded to remark upon her observation, she added, with a touch of pique and her eyes still fixed upon him, “Yet I fear Mr Darcy mourns the loss of Miss Eliza Bennet’s bold opinions and fine eyes.”
“On the contrary, I assure you,” he said, giving her a glance. “I am as far removed from mourning as it is possible to be. I look forward greatly to crossing swords with Miss Elizabeth Bennet once more. It is most refreshing to speak one’s mind freely – and receive answers equally candid.” At that moment, all appetite for eggs – and for lingering – deserted him. “Bingley, shall we? Hurst – I wish you a good day.”
Caroline remained motionless, watching as the doors of the breakfast parlour closed behind her brother and his friend.
How instructive it is that Mr Darcy’s good sense ends precisely where Miss Eliza begins – and how fortunate that I was entirely untouched by such folly.
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Their route led them through Meryton. It had been Darcy’s idea, for he required a little more time before meeting Miss Elizabeth – and, incidentally, the rest of her noisy family.
Bingley, who needed no such preparation, urged his friend forward. Nevertheless, they could not ride through the town at full gallop. Even Bingley, for all his eagerness, was sensible enough to recognise the necessity of avoiding an appearance before his lady in a cloud of dust and dirt, and therefore consented – reluctantly – to moderate their pace. Even so, Bingley’s horse remained several lengths ahead of Darcy’s mount.
On the main street, not far from the bookseller’s shop, a small group of people were engaged in conversation. Among them stood all five Misses Bennet, in the company of several gentlemen, at least two of whom were officers.
Bingley sprang lightly from his horse, ready to greet his angel, while Darcy remained mounted. He watched Miss Elizabeth with close attention, observing her lips curve into a charming smile and her fine, lively eyes fixed upon a gentleman in a grey coat. The pair were engaged in a lively exchange and at first did not notice Darcy upon his horse.
Bingley began to lead his horse forward, addressing the fair-haired beauty with cheerful warmth.
“What a fortunate meeting! Did you know that we were just riding to Longbourn to enquire after your health?”
Miss Bennet coloured prettily as she replied, “You are very kind, sir. As you see, I am quite recovered.”
At that moment, the two officers, the gentleman who conversed with Miss Elizabeth and another, who appeared to be a clergyman, turned to greet the newcomers.
Darcy’s brows drew together like storm clouds gathering upon a troubled horizon. His face flushed, and his lips pressed into a thin line, as though he were restraining words he dared not utter – certainly not in the presence of ladies.
What is he doing here?
George Wickham had altered very little since Darcy had last seen him a year earlier. He was perhaps a little leaner, but that was all. There was a predatory gleam in his eyes – one Darcy recognised all too well – though his complexion turned as white as the wall upon catching sight of his former acquaintance.
Shock and anger were Darcy’s first sensations. The sounds of conversation and the general bustle seemed to fade entirely from his notice. The figures of all present – even Miss Elizabeth – vanished from his sight. Only Wickham remained.
Damn it all! I am not obliged to endure this. I will not endure his presence – not for a moment longer.
Darcy tightened his grip upon the reins and rode away, leaving behind a bewildered Bingley.
“Darcy!” he heard his friend call after him. “Darcy, for heaven’s sake, wait!”
When Bingley at last caught up with him, he observed the ghastly pallor that had overtaken his friend’s features.
“What is the matter? Darcy, are you unwell? What has happened?”
Darcy shook his head.
“It was Wickham.”
“Wickham?”
Darcy drew upon the reins and brought his horse to a halt.
“I have known him all my life, and you may rely upon me when I say that he is no gentleman. I cannot disclose the particulars, Bingley, but suffice it to say that, despite my former civility towards him, he has treated my family and me in the most disgraceful manner. His sudden appearance here in Meryton has been a severe shock. I had hoped never to set eyes upon him again in my lifetime, and I fully intend not to do so in the future, if it may be avoided.”
Bingley appeared somewhat taken aback.
“If that is so, ought we not to warn the people of Meryton of his questionable character?”
“I cannot do so without revealing the circumstances under which I came to know his true nature – and those must remain secret. Still, I am certain that the inhabitants of Meryton are well able to look after themselves.”
Thus, the subject was closed, and the remainder of their journey passed in silence.
Sleep, however, was long in coming to Darcy that night. His mind continually replayed the events of the day, mingling them with memories of that summer at Ramsgate, when Wickham had nearly seduced his beloved sister and broken her gentle, trusting heart.
And so, he tossed and turned, thinking of Georgiana, of Wickham – of Georgiana, of Wickham – of Wickham in the street, speaking with Miss Elizabeth…
Elizabeth…
He sat upright.
Wickham and Elizabeth…
Oh no. This will not do at all.
Chapter 2
After his encounter with Wickham in Meryton, Darcy avoided travelling into the town, unwilling to risk another meeting with that scoundrel – or, worse still, any further consequences of it. Nor did he accompany Bingley on his visits to Longbourn once he learned that Wickham had been seen there.
Darcy did not know what Wickham had said to Miss Elizabeth, nor to what extent she had credited his tales; but that he had filled her head with falsehoods, of that he felt almost certain – certainty being, in this case, both convenient and distressing. The thought, against his will, discomposed him more than he cared to acknowledge. For this reason, he preferred to postpone the inevitable confrontation, persuading himself that he was merely preparing for it with prudence and dignity, and not postponing it out of sheer reluctance.
Of course – he repeated to himself with admirable discipline – her opinion was of no consequence to him whatsoever. It was a declaration he made with admirable regularity, and with ever-diminishing conviction. The image of Miss Elizabeth deceived by another man’s calumnies, regarding him with distrust – or worse, with contempt – was acutely painful in a manner he would not have believed possible, and returned with a persistence he found impossible to banish.
At that time, however, an entirely different concern presented itself – one that demanded his immediate attention. That afternoon, he was returning from a ride through the surrounding countryside, seeking in motion and cool air some measure of tranquillity. Suddenly, at a bend in the road, he perceived in the distance an elegant carriage, drawn by four horses and travelling swiftly in the direction of Netherfield.
Darcy came to an abrupt halt.
He required no time to recognise the de Bourgh crest upon the carriage door. His heart quickened, and the most disquieting suppositions instantly crowded his mind.
What could have brought Lady Catherine to Hertfordshire? And how did she even know that he was staying at Netherfield? The answer came at once, as obvious as it was vexing. His cousin Anne must have informed her of his whereabouts. Darcy cursed the moment he had decided to reveal his place of residence in a letter to her – a moment of weakness he now deeply regretted.
With reluctance, he urged his horse forward and made his way home, bracing himself for the worst. Lady Catherine’s unannounced visits never boded well.
His apprehension and unease, however, soon gave way to astonishment. It was not his aunt who descended from the carriage, but a slender, pale figure in a light cloak. It was his cousin herself, looking far less formidable than the lady he had expected.
A groom assisted Anne from the carriage, and she greeted her cousin with a smile and evident relief.
“Darcy!”
He dismounted and approached her at once.
“Anne? Has something happened? Why are you here? And… alone?”
The question was entirely justified. Lady Catherine never allowed her daughter to travel without her own company, or that of Mrs Jenkinson. But Anne appeared to have arrived with only a maid, who at that moment was receiving the trunks from the groom.
“Oh, do not look so grim,” Anne said with a light laugh. “It quite spoils the effect.”
“What effect?” Darcy asked coolly, though his uneasiness increased with every instant.
“My escape, of course,” she said lightly and raised her brows with amusement. “I left Rosings under the cover of night. Does it not sound sufficiently dramatic?”
Darcy’s brow furrowed with concern, and his eyes moved restlessly.
“You ran away?”
“Well, you must admit it has all the air of one of those romances my mother so passionately condemns. A young lady fleeing her home to be united with her beloved – an idea my mother would find deeply immoral.” She paused and laughed at the expression on his face. “Pray be calm. I have no lover.”
“Thank God,” Darcy muttered before he could restrain himself – or reflect upon the impropriety of the sentiment.
“But I do have a mother,” Anne continued dryly, “and she has resolved that, if you do not at last fulfil your… familial obligations, she will marry me off to Lord Murray.”
“Lord Murray? The son of the Earl of Thetford?”
“The very same. A viscount with the manners of a rustic and the humour of an executioner.”
“This is absurd.”
“Precisely.” Anne sighed theatrically. “I will not marry a man I detest. I would sooner enter a convent – and I have no vocation for sanctity.”
Darcy regarded his cousin, well aware of the direction this was taking – and of the trouble it would, without doubt, bring upon him.
“Come,” he said at length, with resignation. “I shall take you into the house. Miss Bingley will no doubt be delighted to receive the daughter of Lady Catherine.”
Anne’s expression darkened noticeably.
“Miss Bingley? A tradesman’s daughter? Well,” she muttered under her breath, “this must be divine retribution.”
Darcy allowed a corner of his mouth to lift – an expression he reserved for moments of rare amusement or impending disaster.
“Miss Bingley will attend you as though you were a duchess. You should appreciate that.”
He led his cousin into the house, where the servants awaited her, along with a most animated Miss Bingley and an equally pleased Mrs Hurst.
“Miss Bingley, Mrs Hurst,” Darcy said formally, “allow me to present my cousin, Miss Anne de Bourgh. She will be staying for –”
He looked at Anne in enquiry.
“A few days,” she replied curtly. If I can endure so much time in such inferior company.
“I hope my cousin’s visit will not inconvenience you,” he added, with a sincerity that was perhaps excessive.
Caroline’s countenance brightened in a manner that might have been comical, had it not been so entirely sincere.
“Miss de Bourgh!” she cried with delight. “Indeed, it is the greatest honour to receive Lady Catherine’s daughter at Netherfield!”
Mrs Hurst joined in the welcome with nearly equal fervour.
Anne inclined her head and returned the greeting with far less enthusiasm – a detail Miss Bingley entirely failed to perceive, being at that moment too occupied with her own delight. She immediately instructed Mrs Nicholls to prepare a chamber for their guest and invited Anne into the drawing-room to take tea and some refreshments after her journey.
Upon entering, Miss de Bourgh’s gaze travelled first to the fireplace, then to the curtains, and finally settled upon the sisters with an expression of undisguised dislike.
She seated herself with perfect posture and effortless elegance. Her expression betrayed no pleasure whatsoever – only a restrained tolerance that suggested such forbearance was not commonly extended. Caroline and Louisa sat opposite her, and the latter enquired how Anne had borne the journey.
“It was… long,” she replied coolly, “and fatiguing, given the condition of the roads in this part of the county.” She surveyed the room once more. “Netherfield is… spacious,” she observed, “though rather… new.”
Caroline nodded eagerly, taking this – quite sincerely – for a compliment.
“Yes! I take great care over comfort and tasteful interiors. Of course, I am certain they cannot compare with Rosings Park, but –”
“Of course,” Anne interrupted calmly, thereby bringing the comparison to a decisive end.
Darcy, seated a little apart, observed the scene with mounting tension. It was a disaster he neither intended nor attempted to prevent – and which he suspected no intervention could have improved. His reason told him that any such effort would be as futile as it was hazardous.
When the tea tray was brought in, Caroline filled a cup and offered it to Anne.
“Pray,” she said with a smile, “I hope it will please you. It was imported directly from India.”
Anne accepted the cup and took a small sip, immediately drawing a face, making no attempt to conceal her disappointment. She set the cup back upon its saucer. The sound of the porcelain was soft, but to Caroline it must have sounded almost like a final, and deeply unfavourable judgement.
“The tea…” Anne began, then broke off. “Well. I find that the journey has quite exhausted me. I think,” she added, rising from her seat, “that I must rest.” She spoke in the hope that the bed might prove more agreeable than the tea had been – a hope she did not trouble to disguise.
Her cool, appraising gaze swept the room once more before coming to rest upon Darcy.
“Cousin?”
He rose at once.
“Of course.” He inclined his head towards the sisters. “Pray excuse us. I am certain Mrs Nicholls has prepared my cousin’s room. I shall escort her.”
When the drawing-room door closed behind them, Miss Bingley remained motionless for several seconds – as though awaiting clarification – before turning to her sister, her face flushed with mingled mortification and indignation.
“Did I… did I just suffer a slight?”
Mrs Hurst shrugged.
“Really, Caroline, what did you expect? She is Lady Catherine’s daughter – and, as you well know, Lady Catherine is not famed for her affability.”
Miss Bingley pressed her lips together, her gaze fixed upon the untouched cup of tea.
“Still, she might have shown a little gratitude.”
“Gratitude,” Mrs Hurst repeated with a hint of amusement. “It does not appear to be a quality the de Bourghs deem necessary – or even particularly desirable.”
Miss Bingley looked towards the door through which Anne had disappeared.
“If she intends to remain at Netherfield, we shall have to accommodate ourselves to her.”
Mrs Hurst smiled faintly.
“Or at least survive her presence – with dignity, if possible.”
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Darcy stood for a long while by the window, gazing out upon the grounds of Netherfield, though he perceived neither trees nor lawns. His mind was far too much engaged in the consideration of various possible outcomes, each of them concluding with Lady Catherine’s sudden descent upon Netherfield and her brisk disposal of his friends into their proper corners, as though they were furniture inconveniently placed. The notion was, he reflected, entirely reasonable, and he resolved to learn more of whatever scheme his cousin might presently be contriving – and to do so before it irrevocably involved him.
Accordingly, at the first opportunity that presented itself, he requested a private conversation with her and demanded at once whether she had truly fled her home and whether her mother knew where Anne could be found.
Anne’s lips twitched with amusement even before she replied, “You look as if you expect her to burst in at any moment with a troop of dragoons.”
Darcy’s mouth tightened slightly, for he found the image uncomfortably plausible.
“I should prefer not to have such an image before my eyes. That is precisely why I wish to know – at once – what I must prepare myself for.”
Anne settled more comfortably into her chair and bade her cousin do the same, observing that he appeared rather pale.
“Do you truly believe I should have confided my destination to my mother? I informed her in my letter that I was travelling to London.”
“To London?” Darcy repeated with emphasis, feeling far too unsettled to accept her invitation and take the seat opposite her on the sofa.
“Yes, to London. I do, after all, possess a house there,” she said with an air of innocent composure. “Though my liberty will not last long in any case,” she added cheerfully. “I am quite certain that at this very moment, while we speak, she is dispatching Mrs Jenkinson to fetch me home. Naturally, she will first have administered a thorough scolding – for having allowed me to slip from her sight.”
Darcy released a heavy sigh and turned restlessly back towards the window.
“I do not understand why you submit to this. You are five-and-twenty, Anne. You are a grown woman. You do not require a chaperone at every step – nor permission to breathe.”
“I agree with you entirely,” she replied calmly. “But imagine, if you can, what it is to live under the same roof as a tyrannical creature who believes the world exists solely to gratify her expectations – and is perpetually offended when it does not.”
Darcy sighed. “Will you tell me what lies behind this business with Lord Murray?”
Anne leaned a little closer, and he at last consented to sit down, if only for a moment.
“I fear my mother intends to force me into marriage with him. By some artifice or other – perhaps even by blackmail – but I have no doubt she will contrive something.”
“And how, precisely, am I supposed to assist you?”
Anne smiled too sweetly for it to be entirely guileless.
“It is simplicity itself,” she said, with an air of perfect reason. “You must inform my mother that you intend to marry me. She will then abandon this absurd notion of uniting the de Bourgh and Murray families. Their fortune is undoubtedly vast, and their estate magnificent; it is only a pity that they have nothing else of merit to recommend them to the world.”
Darcy stared at her in utter astonishment.
“No. Absolutely not.”
Anne sighed theatrically and rolled her eyes with studied nonchalance.
“You have not even heard me out, nor learned the particulars of my plan.”
“There is nothing more to hear,” he said firmly. “Such a step would leave us genuinely obliged to marry. That is something I will not do, and I assume you would not wish it either.”
Anne tilted her head and regarded him with careful attention.
“And if we were to do so after all, would it truly be so dreadful?”
Darcy felt the blood rush to his face.
“Anne –”
“I should expect absolutely nothing of you,” she continued lightly. “You might keep as many mistresses as you pleased –”
“Anne!”
“– we need not share a bed,” she went on, entirely unperturbed. “You know perfectly well that I have no desire to marry. I see no sense in it whatsoever. I am an heiress to a fortune and quite capable of providing for myself.”
Darcy sprang to his feet.
“This is madness,” he said, with evident agitation. “You may be indifferent to marriage, but I am not. I intend, one day, to marry a woman whom I shall love – a woman who will bear me children, and who will choose me freely.”
“You do not love me?”
“I love you as a sister, Anne. In our marriage, there would be neither love nor children.” He paused, meeting her faintly affronted expression. “Anne, you must learn to oppose your mother. She cannot compel you to marry. No clergyman in England would perform a marriage ceremony if one of the parties were forced into it.”
Anne rose from the sofa and smoothed a fold of her gown with slow, deliberate movements, taking excessive care. Her countenance assumed an air of polite reserve.
“I see you have no intention of assisting your affectionate cousin,” she said quietly, with icy civility so cold it bordered upon reproach. “That is… disappointing.” She lifted her chin slightly. “Nevertheless, I hope you may yet reconsider,” she added, with a smile that conveyed reproach rather than tenderness.
She bowed to him with ceremony, then turned towards the door. Opening it without haste, she departed without once looking back, leaving him alone with the consequences of having disappointed her.
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The atmosphere at dinner was strained. Anne took her place at the table with the air of an offended princess, making no effort to conceal how little she esteemed the company assembled around her – or the arrangements made for her comfort. She commented upon every dish in turn and inquired, with pointed curiosity, who the cook might be – as though expecting the answer to explain much.
Mr Bingley, plainly uneasy at his guest’s conduct, soon introduced a subject that never failed to give him pleasure. The approaching ball, to be held in three days’ time, was among the events that filled him with genuine delight. Without delay, he extended a most cordial invitation to Miss de Bourgh.
Anne raised her eyes from her plate.
“Three days hence?” she asked. “I fear that by then I shall already be in London,” she replied coolly. As she spoke, she cast a deliberate glance in Darcy’s direction – one he did not fail to observe. “Besides,” she added after a moment, with barely concealed superiority, “I very much doubt that a ball arranged for a country neighbourhood could prove… gratifying. And in such a case, I should hardly wish to attend it.”
“Oh, certainly!” cried Miss Bingley at once, inclining herself slightly towards Anne. “You are entirely correct, Miss de Bourgh. The society here can be… quite ill-bred. Positively rustic, if I may speak frankly.”
Anne turned her head towards her with deliberate slowness.
“I do not recall requiring your opinion, madam.”
The smile vanished from Caroline’s face in an instant. Her face flushed bright red, and she could not bring herself to look anyone in the eye.
Mrs Hurst lowered her eyes, too, feigning interest in her own plate. Mr Bingley appeared utterly bewildered, while Darcy remained silent, his expression unreadable. He feared that any remark of his would only worsen matters, for Anne was plainly displeased with him. And he knew from experience that one did not trifle with an enraged de Bourgh, particularly one who felt herself disappointed. He therefore resolved to keep his peace and later offer his apologies to Bingley for Anne’s behaviour.
At the same time, he could not help reflecting on what a blessing it was that Anne would soon depart and not remain for the ball. He feared that otherwise some great calamity might befall the occasion – especially should Wickham also make his appearance.
His thoughts thus strayed, most unwisely, towards his former childhood friend, and his troublesome imagination tormented him with visions of Elizabeth dancing with smiling, attentive and deceived Wickham. He began to wonder whether he ought not to accompany his cousin to London – whether prudence, at least, might justify such a decision.
When dinner came to an end, the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room. There they sat, each absorbed in her own reflections, until Caroline Bingley resolved that entertaining Anne de Bourgh under her roof was, after all, an honour – and one she would be wise to exploit – and that perhaps she must simply present herself to her guest in a different light. After all, she possessed excellent connections, frequented drawing-rooms near Grosvenor Square, and attended private balls in Mayfair – facts she saw no reason to conceal.
Losing no time, Caroline set her plan in motion. It rested upon her unshakable conviction that a sufficient display of London acquaintances always produced the desired effect, particularly upon those she most wished to impress.
“Oh!” she cried with sudden determination. “I have just recalled a letter I received from London a few days ago. You remember it, Louisa – Mrs Seymour’s.”
Louisa raised her eyes, prepared to play her part, though she felt inwardly that Miss de Bourgh scarcely deserved such attention.
“She wrote of the last ball at Lady Margaret’s, and regretted exceedingly that we were not present.”
Anne sat opposite, slowly turning her fan in her hand, as though the conversation were no more than a background sound – one she tolerated solely out of civility, and with diminishing patience.
Caroline glanced towards her.
“Surely you are acquainted with Lady Margaret of Grosvenor Square, Miss de Bourgh? She is a neighbour of my sister.”
Anne lifted her gaze.
“Indeed.”
“Oh?” Caroline leaned forward slightly, delighted that she and Miss de Bourgh had a mutual acquaintance. “Her balls are always most excellent, and quite indispensable to anyone who wishes to be considered truly fashionable.”
“No doubt for those who feel obliged to remind others of it,” Anne replied mildly.
Louisa coughed softly.
Caroline, however, was not so easily discomposed this time.
“According to Mrs Seymour, the ball, which my sister and I most unfortunately missed on account of our stay in Hertfordshire, featured the most dazzling toilettes,” she continued. “Silks from France, embroideries commissioned expressly for the occasion. Mrs Seymour also wrote that Mrs Gilbert wore a colour destined to be the height of fashion this winter.”
“Fashion,” said Anne with a faint smile, “is often most useful. It allows one to discern at once who is striving to follow it – and who sets it.”
Caroline smiled more broadly, sensing an opening.
“Of course, there are those who possess an innate sense of style.”
“Yes. They are usually the ones who have no need to speak of it.”
A brief silence ensued.
“And yet,” Louisa interposed with visible nervousness, “fashion is so very frequent a subject of conversation, and it is of the utmost importance to keep pace with its changes. And how better to do so than by speaking of it? London affords such opportunities. It is far easier there to remain abreast of what truly matters.”
Anne regarded her with polite interest.
“It is very kind of you to come to your sister’s aid, Mrs Hurst,” she said gently, with a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Though it was quite unnecessary.”
Louisa stiffened.
“To her aid?” Caroline repeated with a nervous laugh. “I do not understand.”
“Of course, you do not,” replied Anne. “In such conversations, it is easy to lose the thread – particularly when one attempts to rescue it with something intended to suggest intimacy with what one imagines to be the centre of the world.”
Caroline felt her cheeks begin to burn as she replied sharply, “London is no suggestion. It is a very real place, frequented by people of consequence.”
“Oh, I do not doubt it. Yet consequences, believe me, seldom require constant reminders.”
Caroline’s eyes narrowed, her brows drawing together.
“I assure you that our family enjoys an excellent reputation. My brother –”
“– is exceedingly amiable. And that is his greatest merit.”
Caroline opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Anne folded her fan and rose.
“You must excuse me,” she said courteously. “After dinner, I always feel a need for quiet. Conversations upon fashion can be… fatiguing.”
At that very moment, the drawing-room door opened, and the gentlemen entered.
Darcy crossed the threshold and at once perceived the unmistakable chill in the air.
Anne passed him without a word and moved towards the window. There she seated herself upon a sofa, taking up a book that lay upon the nearby table.
Caroline smiled at him, though the strain she had endured lingered in the corners of her mouth.
Darcy took a seat, masking his thoughts beneath a veneer of polite gravity.
Good God, if Anne finds herself so thoroughly miserable here, perhaps she ought to depart for London tomorrow. The sooner, the better – for us all.
He looked towards Anne. She sat perfectly upright, her gaze fixed upon the book she was not by any means reading, a triumphant smile set firmly upon her lips, as though the evening had unfolded precisely to her satisfaction.
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Anne resolved to comply with her cousin’s unspoken request and, as early as the following day, made her preparations to return to London – an act she framed to herself as generosity rather than retreat.
Darcy received this intelligence with a relief so palpable that he was almost ashamed of it – and entirely incapable of suppressing it. Yet, before Anne’s departure, he invited her to take a short walk through the gardens of Netherfield, in order to hold with her a conversation he considered indispensable. He assured her that, should her mother persist in the matter of Lord Murray, she would not be left without his support, within the bounds of reason.
Anne listened in silence, allowing him to speak without interruption, her expression carefully neutral.
“But,” he added at last, “I will consent to no schemes of yours whatsoever. No pretence of an engagement, no half-truths, nor any manoeuvres intended to divert her attention and bring inconvenience upon myself.”
An expression of offended dignity appeared upon Anne’s countenance, swiftly and unmistakably.
“I understand,” she replied shortly, which was plainly not the same as accepting it.
“I also beg that you do not resent me for refusing what I simply cannot do in good conscience.”
She was silent for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders.
“I do not resent you,” she said, though her tone suggested that the injury had merely been carefully concealed and would be remembered. “I am only disappointed by your want of compassion,” she added, as though this were the gravest failing imaginable.
Darcy sighed.
With her customary abruptness, Anne changed the subject – having evidently concluded that the matter was settled to her disadvantage.
“And will you accompany me to London?”
“No. I cannot.”
“Ah, of course,” she scoffed, with immediate disdain. “You intend to remain for this provincial ball, given by the conceited daughter of a tradesman, who evidently considers herself an arbiter of good taste, despite all evidence to the contrary.”
“Anne, Miss Bingley is the sister of my best friend,” he said coolly, his patience now exhausted. “And I will not listen to insults directed at his family. I must also observe that your own conduct towards them has been reprehensible. Even Lady Catherine would have been capable of greater civility.”
Anne uttered a loud sigh.
“You are naïve, cousin. You associate with people who may purchase everything except ancestry, and therefore, imagine the deficiency of no importance. Miss Bingley may adorn herself in jewels and procure the finest teas from India, but it will not alter her origin.”
“Enough,” he said briefly, and with unmistakable finality. “We shall not pursue this further.” Anne turned away, offended, and then departed, remarking with cool precision that the hour of her departure was fast approaching.