On the 18th July 1817, Jane Austen died, leaving six finished novels as the legacy of her 41 years. The most popular must surely be Pride and Prejudice, which has inspired many a spin-off, from detective stories to steamy romances. Rohase Piercy takes a different tack: she explores the life of that silent, insipid contrast to Miss Eliza Bennett, the object of the heroine's pity and scorn: Anne de Bourgh. We hope you enjoy this extract from Before Elizabeth as our homage to Jane Austen today.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that I have inherited little in terms of character, and even less as to looks, from my mother’s side of the family – universally, because even Mama, having searched in vain for my features amongst two centuries of Fitzwilliam family portraits, has herself been forced to acknowledge it. She comforts herself with the reflection that in my plain, pale countenance and unimpressive figure resides the august history of my father’s family, now sadly diminished; the family into which she married with such hopes of conjugal felicity and consequence two years before my birth; the family de Bourgh.
We are of French origin, and my father and grandfather were anxious to maintain the connection at a time when no-one had yet heard the name 'Buonaparte'. It is my father’s sister, Lady Isabelle, whom I am said most to resemble - indeed I would have been named for her, had not my mother demanded that her own sister’s name take precedence. Her insistence carried the day and I was baptised Anne Isabel de Bourgh, in the little parish church of Hunsford, shortly after my birth in the year 1791. My Aunt Isabelle was not present; she had lately married a French cousin possessed of a fine estate on the outskirts of Paris, thus making her the envy of all the young women of Kent. And so I was destined never to set eyes upon her, for in my third year both she and her husband met their deaths by guillotine under Robespierre’s Terror. Like many others they had thought themselves invincible, dismissing the concerns of their English relatives and delaying their departure from France until it was too late. My grandfather outlived his daughter by less than a year, blaming himself to the end for having encouraged the French marriage.
There is a portrait in the long gallery at Rosings which held a particular fascination for me as a child. It shows my father as a young boy, bewigged and powdered for the occasion, standing stiffly to attention at my grandfather’s knee, his blue eyes betraying even then that look of mild apprehension which I remember so well. His sister, my young aunt, stands encircled by her mother’s arm, equally pale and solemn in stiff blue satins with a Cavalier spaniel at her feet. She is the only member of the group whose eye seems to meet that of the beholder, and to my young self it was like looking at my own reflection in the glass, in spite of the uncomfortable satin and powdered ringlets; for it is true - I do resemble her, in almost every feature. And my father, who had loved his sister dearly, doted upon the daughter who favoured her so closely and was as lavish in his indulgence of me as Mama was lavish in her disappointment. I was their only child, and she had hoped for a son.
It is a question worth asking: why did my parents marry? Why would a man of Papa’s temperament - given the choice as he undoubtedly was of so many young ladies of fortune - choose Lady Catherine Fitzwilliam, probably the least likely to contribute to his domestic happiness? Did it really mean so much to him, to secure the daughter of an Earl? Physically she was quite his opposite, tall and queenly as her bearing still is, with dark eyes and strong features; and as to character - perhaps it was her very air of assurance which attracted him? Perhaps he believed that with her at his side, the social duties required of his situation would be less taxing to his shy and gentle nature. One does hear of such matches, and sometimes they are very successful - but not, alas, in my parents’ case.
And my mother? What could have attracted the Earl of Amberleigh's daughter to a mere baronet, and a quiet and unassuming one at that? Ah, that is easy! In those days as in these a noble name did not of itself secure an income, and the Fitzwilliam daughters could not afford to marry without some attention to their future material comfort. My father was heir not only to a baronetcy, but also to a large, well-managed estate whose revenue was secure. Careless, at that stage, of what disappointments his character might hold for her upon closer acquaintance, Lady Catherine Fitzwilliam would have needed very little persuasion to look favourably upon Lewis de Bourgh’s proposal.
Old Sir Lewis, so the story goes, was initially uneasy; he was a wise and protective father, and knew his son well. But it was an eligible match; the Earl of Amberleigh had given his consent; and perhaps it was in my grandfather’s mind that so strong a young woman would bring robust blood into the family, enhancing its health along with its nobility. The arrangements were duly made, and the wedding invitations dispatched.
Chief among the guests in my mother’s eyes must surely have been her younger sister, Lady Anne, who had entered the marriage state some seven years earlier. She had married for love, and her husband, although wealthy and in possession of a fine estate in Derbyshire, was distinguished by no other title than that of Mr. How Mama must have relished having her restoration to seniority as wife of the future Sir Lewis de Bourgh and mistress of Rosings Park witnessed by Mr and Mrs Darcy of Pemberley, and their six-year-old son and heir!
She was confident, of course, that she also would produce a son in due course. When I arrived she hid her disappointment as best she could, and as the likelihood of my being joined by a brother diminished with each ensuing year she consoled herself by arranging, in her own mind at least, a match between her daughter and her sister’s only son - between myself and my cousin, Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Fitzwilliam Darcy - known in the family circle as William. There, I have done it. I have forced my pen to write his name.
