By E.A. Cunningham
Providence has given human wisdom the choice between two fates: either ‘hope and agitation’ or ‘hopelessness and calm’ . Evgeny Baratysky
Act II
England
The Latter Share
Prologue
Before their father was cold, Anne’s sister had been put from the house. Anne did not say goodbye. She had not been allowed. She stayed instead at her father’s side, cooling along with him. Cooling and cooling and cooling. She stayed until the rotting set in. They came and took him away. Once the rosemary and storax were gone, there was nothing left but the stench. It clung to her, crept over her like mold. It robbed her of health, occupation, interest, and all good company. Something, however, lay beyond its reach—a nectar that rose up in her every so often and moved through her like a great sigh. Beyond hope, she had no proper name for it, but in it she felt more herself than at any other time. It was, perhaps, the only thing keeping her alive.
Chapter 1
The landau jostled, shaking out the cough she’d been choking back for a quarter of an hour. Nurse Jenkins stopped her nervous picking and gave a worried look. Anne turned further to the window, drawing back the curtain to peek at the rising moon.
Calamity comes of the mind besieged by boredom, plagued with ponderings of The More, dogged by unfulfilled desire.
She curled the phrase in a hundred different ways, like a nest of snakes in her head. The cranking of the carriage wheels; the call of the coachman and snap of the horse whip; the picking of her nurse’s fingernails, and the whistling of her mother’s nose . . . All rankled her nerves. She bit her lip and listened beyond them, searching through the infernal opus for a single strain of music—the kindness of Middle C. At pains, a melody emerged—stark and sweeping—like those of that young genius composer. Rumour had it he was losing his hearing. Perhaps he too had to listen beyond the din. Did his music not sound as though it were dragged from the depths of his soul? Anne could only hope for such a blessing: that her failings may be her genius. For now, they were ever her misery. Sucking in a breath, she stifled another cough.
The symphony mounted, sending her mind out, twirling amidst the crags of the darkening peaks. Out there, she was not weak and frail. She did not ache and shiver. She did not cringe. Out there, she was bathed in moonlight and stroked by the wind. She flew. She danced. She soared. Out there, Anne de Bourgh was alive, vivacious, and free.
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“I might have known, the moment the Colonel’s brother died, and he claimed his title, Elizabeth would dangle her trifling little sister under his nose. Your cousin’s wife has never been interested in anything other than money, and she does not care what good name she drags through her family’s slop house to get it.” Lady Catherine’s voice cut through the opus, yanking Anne back into the carriage and reviving her cough as the last strains of music drained from her body. Nurse Jenkins had fretted herself to sleep, and Anne was left with the rare opportunity of speaking to her mother alone. It took some moments before she could brave a murmur. “You needn’t vex yourself on my account, mother. I have no more desire to marry Cousin Fitzwilliam than I did to marry . . .” “At seven-and-twenty years of age, what you desire has even less to do with it now than it did then.” Anne cringed and muffled her cough. Her mother continued. “You will marry your cousin and claim our rightful title. It is too galling to think of a Bennet with my mother’s address. She would turn in her grave.”
Anne thought of her grandmother and could not imagine that the Duchess, long deceased, cared a whit about her late address, or her grandson’s choice of bride. Surely, far greater considerations awaited us all beyond the grave. At least Anne hoped as much. It gave her something to look forward to. At present, however, she had only her mother’s latest fixation.
A letter had been dropped off from Hunsford Parsonage. Vicar Collins had not the courage to deliver his missive in person, so he wrote it down.
Her most benevolent Ladyship,
It is with some trepidation that I bring you news of your nephew, for I know your sensibilities are so far heightened that I fear you shall come under some shock. Yet, I venture forth, knowing that your unparalleled fortitude and constitution will easily bear the brunt of such disturbing news as I must deliver, and your greater judgement will know immediately what course of action is best. My dearest Charlotte and I, as you know, have returned from our recent foray to the North, where we occasioned to visit with Mrs. Collins’ distant friend, Elizabeth Bennet (come Darcy). Whilst there, we had the great good fortune of crossing paths with your own nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, now Earl of - ___________. May I interrupt myself here to say what a great honour it was to be in the company of one nearly as distinguished as yourself. If I dare say, the Colonel has settled into his Earldom exceedingly well. Thus, it is all the harder to give you this news, for surely if some remedy is not found, such a thing could lead to disaster.
There were several other guests while we were at Pemberley—and one of particular note. My unfortunate young cousin, Katherine, was there visiting her sister. I say unfortunate as she is still under her parents’ roof and influence, and while she does improve with the better society to which her sisters have been miraculously lifted, it is hardly enough to undo the stain of such a household. This, I tell you, to make clear the peril of the situation. It would seem that the Earl met young Katherine at the Bingley’s ball at Highmarten in the spring and has since had several occasions to share her company at Pemberley. Indeed, by all appearances, they are willfully brought together whenever possible, by Mrs. Darcy herself. My dear wife does not agree with me on this point and says rather that Elizabeth is occupied elsewhere, but per your benevolent advice, I endeavour to forgive when she succumbs to her past influences in the hopes of guiding her beyond them. While I cannot give any personal account of seeing the Earl and Katherine together, the whole of Derbyshire seems ready to burst with chatter of it any day. It was with great relief that I could offer the service of removing Katherine back to Longbourne on our return home. The girl played oblivious to my insinuations, but such has been her education, to feign ignorance. My suspicions were only further aroused. Thus, did I take it upon myself to write to you immediately upon our return, knowing that you have singled out Colonel Fitzwilliam for your fair and brilliant daughter, and will justly take the matter in hand to rectify this situation, which weighs so heavy on the mind of your most loyal.
Rev. William Collins
Every defilement of the Bennet name had scraped itself across Lady Catherine’s tongue during the first half of their journey. It had wounded Anne, for she liked Elizabeth, and doubted very much the vicar’s account. She might have braved saying as much but for the greater wound, which followed swiftly the first: in Lady Catherine’s lamenting of her poor, wretched daughter, destined to live out the rest of her short life, loveless and alone and a burden to her mother in the process.
Chapter 2
The coach pulled up in front of the Great House, and Lady Catherine immediately began admonishing the footman for his sluggishness in getting her door. Climbing the steps to the front entrance, where the housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds waited, Lady Catherine hastened Anne out of the carriage with a strong bark. Anne stepped down and followed her mother into the front hall. She drew a breath. Pemberley always smelled so good, the air so fresh and warm. There seemed room to breathe here. Even with her mother’s voice bouncing off its walls, Pemberley seemed . . . like a home.
Lady Catherine called at once for her nephew, so insistently in fact, she failed to hear Mrs. Reynolds inform her, no less than three times, that the Darcy’s were not at home. They were visiting Mr. and Mrs. Bingley and were not expected back for several days. This news, when finally heard, sent Lady Catherine into further eruption, demanding that they be sent for directly; that tea be brought to the drawing room and Mr. Orin’s savoury fingerling pastries not be forgotten. In a moment, the hall was empty but for Anne, who took another breath, let it seep out, and made her way to the drawing room.
A summer fire had been set. She took a seat at the softening edge of its light and watched as her mother paced the length of the carpet, snarling indignations at each turn. It was remarkably inconsiderate of the Darcy’s to not be home to receive guests. It was the season after all. And what choice of society. Had they needed some time away, surely Rosing’s Park was not an inconvenient distance for a couple of days, what with the improvement of the roads, and it was a good deal closer to town where Mrs. Darcy might benefit from more varied company. And what could be taking so long with the tea? Service at Pemberley had certainly suffered under the untrained direction of Mrs. Darcy, though that was to be expected when someone from the lower ranks marries above their station. It was a wonder, however, that her nephew tolerated it. Like all men who are beguiled into an unsanctioned match, he had clearly succumbed to the lazier habits of his wife.
Anne gazed into the fire and brought her kerchief to her mouth, unable, as she was when her mother was in this state, to stifle her cough. Nurse Jenkins checked Anne’s forehead several times. Though her touch revolted Anne, at such times she had learned to afford the woman the small mercy of an occupation. Tea finally did arrive, and Lady Catherine barely noticed it, except to comment on the pastries being obviously yesterdays. She would have none but insisted Anne do so. She, herself was too preoccupied with waiting and pacing and plying her impatience to partake of any refreshments. At length, her tongue seemed to tire, and there were brief interludes of silence in which the fire snapped, and the minutes ticked off the clock in time with the plucking of Nurse Jenkin’s fingernails.
Anne sipped her tea.
While Lady Catherine’s speech had slackened, her stride had not, and with each lap of the room, she grew more flushed and shorter of breath, so much so that her dialogue had been largely reduced to grunts and low rumblings. Anne could not help it: the tiniest of smiles tugged at the corners of her mouth, and she turned her face to the shadows. The footman arrived with still more vexing news. The Darcy’s and Bingley’s had left that morning for the seaside, accompanied by a Mr. Throckmorton, who was visiting Mr. Bingley from the north of England. Word had been sent of their departure that morning. “No doubt the note is sitting on your desk, Mrs. Reynolds – unopened,” Lady Catherine said. While this was not strictly true, it was not for Mrs. Reynolds to contradict her Ladyship, nor was it for her to disclose her master’s whereabouts if she was certain he would not want it known until he was out of reach. It was Mrs. Reynolds’ hope that a good night’s sleep would placate her Ladyship enough that she might spare the Darcy’s an untoward return. At minimum, she had allowed them another day’s reprieve. For her service, Mrs. Reynolds bore the full brunt of her Ladyship’s wrath, made worse by the housekeeper’s remarkable equanimity and the insult of stale pastries. Lady Catherine’s fervor was reaching its peak. Her face was red and bloated; froth had begun to collect in the corners of her mouth and an endless stream of spittle flew out before her as she marched back and forth between Mrs. Reynolds and the hearth. Her breath came in great heaves and her voice, ever increasing in volume, sounded nonetheless choked and broken. Had Anne been anyone else’s daughter, she might have asserted herself in calming her mother. As it was, she could only watch quietly and try to think pleasant thoughts.
Then, just as she was beginning to wonder how much longer her mother could sustain the tirade, it stopped, and the room fell silent with a thud. Nurse Jenkins let out a cry, bringing Anne to her feet. Lady Catherine lay in a ragged heap on the floor.
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