"The Darcy visit was brief, and every bit as difficult as I feared..."

What makes Anne de Bourgh look 'sickly and cross'? Jane Austen never tells us - but Rohase Piercy gives us a clue in Before Elizabeth.  

I have very little memory of my father's funeral.  My main impression is of a room full of people, with Mama in black silk sitting rigidly in Papa's favourite chair at one end and Mrs Henderson ushering in guests at the other.  I do remember feeling both surprised and gratified that a quiet, reclusive man like Papa should have attracted so many mourners; not as many as had attended my Uncle Darcy's funeral, but enough to bear witness that he was loved.  I know that William was there – I remember seeing him in conversation with Edward, and later with Mama – but I do not recall what I said to him.  It was my turn now to be unreachable in grief.

A fortnight or so later, I fell ill.  The shock of losing Papa in so sudden and violent a manner, at a time when my nerves were already at full stretch, made me easy prey to a virulent fever which confined me to bed for three full months.

I did not realise until much later how critical was my situation during those months, or how close Mama came to losing a daughter as well as a husband.  I remember the pain which racked my limbs, and the burning in my head and throat; Mrs Jenkinson's arm supporting my head as a glass was raised to my lips; the movement of the curtain at the open window and the menacing shadows which danced around the candle during long, broken nights. I recall sharp, vivid dreams invading my sleep with harsh voices and garish colours:  my father calling out my name, Miss Harvey's mocking laughter, writhing worms of light, splinters of blue glass.  Several times I became aware of a low moaning sound, only to realise as I surfaced from delirium that it came from my own throat.  I also have a memory of opening my eyes to find Mama sobbing at my bedside, a sight and sound so startling that I long believed it to have been a dream.

When I came to myself I felt drained, exhausted, and light as a feather.  It was a curiously pleasant feeling, as if the flotsam and jetsam of my life had been washed far out to sea, leaving me becalmed upon a wide, white shore.  I was horrified, however, upon first seeing my reflection in the glass: I had always been slight and fair-complexioned, but now my face was skull-like and white as bone.  My hair came out in great clumps upon the brush, causing me to drop it with a cry of alarm.  Mrs Jenkinson was my nurse throughout, singing old lullabies and stroking my head as though I were once again the little girl she had nursed through so many childhood illnesses; and her tender care brought me back to some semblance of health.

“You have nothing to worry about now, my chicken, except regaining your strength.  We have all the time in the world.  Let me help you to the window, precious – that's right, slowly now, lean upon my shoulder whilst I take your arm.  See, I have arranged the cushions nicely for you – let me lift your feet.  Now, we must wrap you against the cold – look, the trees are almost bare, just a few bright leaves clinging to the birches.  You're as pale and slender as a birch yourself, my poor darling, but have patience – we must all have patience - and we'll have you as bright and gay as a daffodil by Easter.”

I was in no hurry whatsoever to be as bright and gay as a daffodil.  I had no desire to do anything other than lie upon the sofa and watch the last leaves succumb to their fate, spiraling down one by from the skeletal birches.  Every movement pained me and tested my strength.  For what seemed like weeks I could walk no further than the window; then gradually I progressed along the length of the corridor outside my room, my knees giving way upon seeing the turn at the landing and the great flight of stairs beneath.  Eventually however  I was able to descend, and spent a hollow and cheerless Christmas by the drawing room fire, trying to force down sips of spiced wine as the sight of Papa's empty chair brought a lump to my throat.  Mama sat watching me anxiously, her voice unusually gentle and low as she read from Georgiana's letter sending me good wishes from herself and William, and promising to visit in the Spring.  I felt no enthusiasm at the prospect.  I had no wish for company, not even William's; the sensations that his very name had once evoked seemed as distant and ephemeral as a fairy tale.  I moved from day to day like one in a dream, feeling quite content to lie upon the couch and watch my life drift by without taking any active part in the proceedings.

It was Edward who first came to visit me, arriving with the crocuses in mid-February.  I was reluctant to see him at first, ashamed of my changed appearance and cropped hair; but he wisely persisted, and his company proved to be the restorative I so badly needed.  I saw in his face that my pallor and thinness shocked him, but he took my hand with brotherly affection, spoke cheerfully, and declared himself happy to be at Rosings again.  We did not speak of Papa at first; in fact I spoke little at all, leaving Edward to manage the conversation.  He talked of matters that seemed as distant to me as the moon: his promotion to the rank of Colonel; Georgiana's continued progress at school; William's new London friends, whom he had lately been entertaining at Pemberley.

“He is apparently reckoned to be the perfect host. 'Tis a transformation I should dearly love to witness, should not you, Anne?  William making himself agreeable in company – well well!  But then a young man in possession of a large estate is always described as the perfect host by guests hoping for a second invitation!”

I tried to smile, but my incomprehension must have shown in my face; Edward looked concerned, and fell silent.  At length he said quietly “I am so sorry, Anne, that I had to leave Rosings so soon after – that I could not stay longer, and be more of a help to my aunt and to you.  It could perhaps have lessened the gravity of your illness.  I have failed in my promise to my uncle.”

He blinked rapidly as he spoke, and my desire to reassure him roused me to speech. 

“You have nothing to reproach yourself with, Edward; what could you have done?  You are a soldier, not a nurse!  I think I was better off in the hands of Dr Harris and Mrs Jenkinson, do not you?”

Mama, to do her justice, was both courteous and welcoming to her nephew.  Grief had changed her; she had softened towards him, and was appreciative of his kindness to me.   Perhaps having now no occasion for jealousy, she could acknowledge his good qualities without rancour; perhaps his promotion to the rank of Colonel impressed her.   According to Mrs Jenkinson, Edward was a brave and gallant officer.  He must, I realised, be required to command obedience, lead men into danger, risk his life for King and country.  William's responsibilities, great as they were, paled into insignificance beside Colonel Fitzwilliam's; and yet Edward gave himself no airs, stood not upon his dignity, remained open and pleasant in his manner to all.  Who would not love such a man? Papa, I reflected, would be so proud of him.

The months passed, and I grew stronger. Eventually I became curious to see how Georgiana was getting along, and to feel myself equal to that meeting, both longed for and dreaded, with William.  No sooner had I expressed the hope, than Mama arranged the visit. My agitation as the occasion approached was only increased by her repeated assurances that a pale, delicate appearance was greatly preferred by gentlemen of taste, and that short hair was now very much in fashion.  I understood fully for the first time that my bloom, such as it was – 'I would not have you lose that delicate bloom, Anne' - had been irrevocably blighted by my illness; I began to regret having prompted the invitation, which it was now too late to rescind. 

The Darcy visit was brief, and every bit as difficult as I feared. William's shock at finding me so changed was obvious for all to see.  He recovered his countenance well, quickly replacing his expression of horror with one of concern, but it was too late to erase it from my memory or to prevent me from calculating the implications of it.  And it was not just I who had changed.  Edward's talk of a 'transformation' had not been exaggerated - Fitzwilliam Darcy was now a man of the world, his manners confident, his appearance fastidious.  He spoke, with a detachment that appalled me, of the vulgarity of public balls, the tediousness of dinner parties; of shooting parties organised by a boorish neighbour, Mr Hurst, who had recently married the sister of his friend Charles Bingley; of the merits and shortcomings of Mr Rowe's stewardship; of pressing matters of business at Pemberly, to which he must shortly return.

Was it really less than two years since we had stood beneath the trees in St James' Park, and I had felt myself melt before the eloquence of his gaze?  It seemed a lifetime ago.  When Mama took him away to make the obligatory call at the Parsonage, leaving Georgiana and I alone together, I felt only relief.

Georgiana was kindness itself, complimenting me upon my hair riband and bringing me extra cushions with sisterly concern.  She brought her chair close beside my couch and proceeded to regale me with such tales of school life as had formerly been my delight - but what a chasm now lay between us!  Beside Georgiana, I felt old at sixteen; an old maid to whom her eager prattle seemed childish, her robust good looks a reminder of long-faded youth. I reproached myself, recollecting that she had lost both parents, and I only one;  but how could I match such resilience?  Why was I so damaged, and she so wholesome?

Eventually my listlessness and obvious disinterest defeated her.  She timidly observed that I seemed fatigued, and offered to ring for Mrs Jenkinson.  I did not object.

When our guests departed on the following day, Mama declared herself vastly pleased with the visit, and with William's solicitude toward me; but I knew otherwise.  All my hopes and expectations regarding my handsome cousin were now as insubstantial as a dream.  He had left me behind, in a realm of shadow, while he forged his way ahead in the world.  

Unequal to battle, I took refuge in surrender;  I remained upon the sofa and watched cherry-blossom drift past the window as spring gave way to summer, and my seventeenth birthday came and went.  

There was now, of course, no question of my being presented at Court.