Poor Little Fool

Before Elizabeth by Rohase Piercy suggests a more complicated past for Anne de Bourgh than Jane Austen allows in Pride and Prejudice. In this extract, a very young Anne talks to her cousin Edward and discovers that the future holds surprises.

At first, Edward seemed amused by my questions. “Why, Anne, what is all this? Are you so concerned for my future? I shall not be an Ensign for long, you know; thanks to my father I can expect a rapid promotion, and in a year or so I shall be a Captain, with a hundred men under my command! And a Captain, you know, must be with his battalion for most of the time. But I shall always have a home at Evesham, I expect, unless my brother marries someone who takes a dislike to me; and yes, I shall probably take a house in town eventually. Why so serious, little cousin? I shall always come often to Kent, to visit my uncle and to assure myself that the heiress of Rosings is still the most beautiful and accomplished young lady in the country. Will that do?”     The phrase ‘heiress of Rosings’ was not lost upon me. I nodded and smiled, but persisted in my questioning: “Will you not need an estate of your own though, Edward, when you are married?”     My cousin knelt down amongst the daffodils and began to select blooms at random, suddenly preoccupied. At length he repeated, “An estate of my own! Well, I do not know about that. I shall do well enough for a younger son, I dare say; I'm sure plenty of people will advise me to marry a rich heiress, and acquire a grand house in that way. But as I said, I am to be a soldier. That is the life I have decided upon, and it will suit me well enough for the foreseeable future. I may choose not to marry at all; what do you think of that?”     I did not know what to think of it. “I thought everyone had to be married,” I said, heedlessly crushing the hem of my gown into the dirt as I sat back on my heels to consider the matter.     Edward laughed. “Well, it is not yet enshrined in English law! It is the general expectation, I suppose, and maybe in due course I shall give it some thought. But not yet, and certainly not now, on such a beautiful spring day when the Park is dancing with daffodils! Come now, cousin, you are not keeping to your part of the bargain - I have a fine armful of blooms already, and what have you? Nothing! You must match me stem for stem, and we will carry them back to the house and ask Mrs Jenkinson to bring us two great vases. Then we shall have a display to do justice to Mr Wordsworth! My uncle tells me you have been enjoying his poetry - will you read to me while I am here? I should dearly love to hear you.” 

As we wandered back happily towards the house with our saffron bundles, I determined to set Miss Harvey right at the earliest opportunity.  The only design that my cousin had upon Rosings was to visit often, and assure himself that its heiress - that was I - was still the most beautiful and accomplished young lady in the country!  I searched for her later that afternoon, but failing to find her I returned to the schoolroom to daydream amongst the daffodils, imagining a dozen pleasant future scenarios involving Edward, my father and my grown-up self before hitting upon the one that so obviously suited every convenience and solved every problem that I leapt to my feet, transported by the genius of my own imagination!

What was it that had Edward said? 'I'm sure plenty of people will advise me to marry a rich heiress, and acquire a grand house in that way.'  Well, I would be a rich heiress - why should he not marry me in due course, and come to live at Rosings? Unable to remain still, I began to dance about the room as the possibility took root in my imagination and began to put forth shoots. What if this had been Papa’s plan all along?  Would not that explain everything, from his special treatment of Edward to my cousin’s embarrassment when I brought up the subject of marriage?  Oh, what to do – should I speak to Papa immediately, or wait until the Fitzwilliams had left us? Mrs Jenkinson would certainly advise me to wait… but Miss Harvey …

Determined to find her there and then, I rushed headlong out onto the stairway, where I almost collided with Mrs Jenkinson coming to fetch me for supper.

“Oh Jenky!” I gasped, ignoring her gentle admonition, “Do you know where Miss Harvey is? I’ve been looking for her everywhere!”

“She is out walking,” was her cool reply, in tones so laced with disapproval that my curiosity was aroused.

“Out walking where?” I demanded, as she ushered me firmly along the corridor towards the nursery – and then, as an unmistakable peal of laughter rose up the stairwell towards us, I ducked out from her restraining grasp and rushed to the banister just in time to see my governess enter the hallway on the arm of my cousin John! Disengaging herself from his eager grasp, she removed her bonnet and re-arranged a stray curl; and as he pulled playfully upon her arm, Mrs Jenkinson pulled firmly upon mine, telling me not to tarry as my soup was cooling.  Dumbly I followed her, unable to make sense of the scene I had just witnessed - for had not Miss Harvey  described John, in tones heavy with contempt, as a 'great coxcomb' and 'a danger to the female sex'?  Why then would she walk with him, laugh with him, even – there was no other word for it – flirt with him in so obvious a manner?  I had never seen her behave so, and it troubled me deeply.  Upon reaching the nursery, I went straight to the table and ate my supper in silence - a silence upon which Mrs Jenkinson did not intrude, though she regarded me with watchful eyes.

John remained at Rosings until after Easter, giving me ample opportunity to observe the flirtation that he and Miss Harvey pursued whenever they thought themselves unobserved. They were discreet enough to escape the notice of my parents and uncle, but not that of the servants, whose barely concealed disapproval caused me agonies of mortification. It distressed me beyond words to see my beloved governess reduced to a simpering ninny by a man I so much disliked, and whose attentions she could surely not imagine to be serious.  Could she not see that she was being made a fool of?  When John left for London, abruptly and with no word of farewell to anyone save my mother, I breathed a long sigh of relief.

Miss Harvey’s red eyes on the following morning, however, could not but arouse my pity.  In an attempt to raise her spirits - and also to divert her attention towards a more deserving object - I invited her to join me in reading poetry with Edward that afternoon, a pastime which had already given me much pleasure.  She looked at me as though I were utterly mad.

“What a baby you are, Miss Anne,” she sniffed, tossing her red curls. “’Tis as well I set little store by your judgment of the male sex.  Go and read to Mr Edward by all means, but don’t expect me to hold your hand – not that you’ll need a chaperone in his company!”

My pity evaporated upon the spot, and I retaliated in kind: “Just because my cousin John has made a fool of you in front of the whole household, 'tis no reason to take it out on me!  And you were utterly wrong, you know, about Edward - Papa has no intention of adopting him.”

I saw her fist clench, and knew that she would have struck me had she dared.  Her face contorted into a sneer.  “Well, I can see that!” she snapped; “I was wide of the mark there, and no mistake. That will teach me to listen to peasants’ gossip! No wonder your poor mother complains - the sooner that young man goes into the Army, or gets married off to some poor undemanding fool, the better!”

At the mention of marriage I blushed involuntarily, and my cheeks burned hotter as Miss Harvey stared at me. Suddenly she began to laugh.

“Oh Lord!  I don’t believe it! You think you're to marry Mr Edward, don't you? You poor little fool!  Well I've news for you Miss Anne, 'tis another cousin who's in line for you - young Mr Darcy, your mother's sister's son!   What do you think of that?  And you’d better raise your expectations before the wedding or you’ll be in for a shock!”

I felt the blood drain from my face, leaving me as pale as I had been scarlet the moment before. “Young – young Mr Darcy?” I stammered, as William’s stern, aquiline features and haughty expression leapt into my mind. 

Miss Harvey laughed on, enjoying my discomfiture.  “Don’t tell me you had not an idea of it?  Why, your mother is quite determined upon it, ‘tis the talk of the household!  He’s quite the young gentleman, I hear, and handsome to boot – I’m sure I wish you joy.  I'd settle myself for a husband half so fine!”

I left her still laughing as I ran from the schoolroom, heading for the sanctuary of the nursery where I could be alone.  Closing the door behind me, I threw myself down upon the bed, burying my face in the bolster as the hot tears spilled.   

In less than three months' time we would be making our annual summer visit to Pemberley, which William's brooding presence and disapproving frown would no doubt once more drain of all enjoyment. It was always the same: my aunt and uncle would welcome me affectionately and do their best to put me at my ease, but all of their efforts would be brought to naught by their son's unsmiling, rigid manner.  Whilst remaining perfectly polite, he would make it clear that he found my presence an irksome nuisance to be borne only at his parents' behest; he would dutifully chaperone me and my cousin Georgiana on all outdoor excursions, observing our play with haughty composure whilst refusing all invitations to participate; he would converse with me only when strictly necessary, in tones designed to reduce me to painful confusion.  The possibility that this arrogant young man could be my future husband had never in my wildest dreams occurred to me.  Was I to be sent away from Kent into the rugged wilds of Derbyshire?  Was I actually to leave Rosings - my inheritance, my home – behind, and become the lifelong companion of someone whose society I dreaded?  Did Papa know of this?  Could this possibly have his approval?

With a few careless words Miss Harvey had rocked my world to its foundations, and now everything, everything was changed.

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.  

"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.  

"...without Miss Bennet to dominate the conversation ... "

 

Readers of Pride and Prejudice will recognise this crucial point in the story - and here we experience it from Anne de Bourgh's point of view. 

Enjoy this delightful extract from Rohase Piercy's Before Elizabeth

My cousins were due to leave us at the end of the week;  but to my surprise, they were easily prevailed upon to extend their visit by several days, with William seemingly the more anxious of the two to accede to Mama's invitation!  She of course chose to see this as a compliment to me, but I knew otherwise and was extremely puzzled.  Not once had William sought my company, encouraged my conversation or paid me any particular compliment; in fact he had seemed preoccupied and distant since the moment of his arrival, never offering to take Edward's place beside me in the phaeton but preferring to walk the Park alone.  I was at a loss to account for his continued presence with us, though glad to have Edward at Rosings a little longer.

Two days into their extended stay, Edward entered the drawing room where William and I were sitting – William engrossed in the newspaper, and I occupied with my needlework – with the following cheerful announcement: “You may congratulate yourself, Darcy, on having prevented yet another imprudent marriage! I have just encountered Miss Elizabeth Bennet quite by chance in the Park, and took the opportunity to make it perfectly clear that I have no intention of proposing to her.  It was all most discreetly done, I assure you.  You may express your approval, if you like.”

Mama was not present to conduct an interrogation, but William looked uncomfortable, as well he might; he hastily folded the newspaper and sat back in his chair. “What did you say to her?” he asked warily.

“Oh, I merely commented that younger sons cannot afford to marry anyone they happen to like.  Or words to that effect.”

“Well, that was hardly discreet!  What said Miss Bennet?”

“She said, 'unless they like women of fortune, which I think they often do!'  That was  astute, was it not?  I really do not think she will be pining for me.”

William seemed to find this both pleasing and amusing.  He rose and strolled over to the window, smiling to himself, while I begged an explanation from Edward as to what he meant by 'yet another imprudent marriage'.

“Oh, Bingley,” he replied airily; “At least I assume it was Bingley – Darcy, will you not confirm for us that it was Charles Bingley you referred to when you said you had advised a friend against an imprudent marriage?”

I turned questioningly to William and he did confirm it, though without further elaboration.

“And who was the lady?” I pressed, eager for details.

“No-one you would know, Anne.  A Hertfordshire acquaintance.”

“And why would it have been an imprudent marriage?”

“The usual reasons: vulgar connections, an unsuitable family – the lady herself was pleasant enough.  Excuse me, Anne – Fitzwilliam – I believe I must speak to my aunt.”  He bowed perfunctorily in my direction, and made towards the door.

“Well, Miss Bennet seems to think your interference in the matter unnecessarily officious,” commented Edward with a shrug, picking up the newspaper and preparing to occupy the chair that our cousin had just vacated. William froze abruptly in mid-stride, and wheeled around with an expression horror on his face.

“Miss Bennet?  You mentioned the matter to her?  By what right?  What on earth possessed you to speak of such a thing?”

Edward and I were equally astonished, and he not a little annoyed.  “For heaven's sake Darcy!” he retorted, “Am I now not allowed so much as a word of conversation without your permission?  Yes, I mentioned the circumstance to Miss Bennet, as an example, if you must know, of the constancy of your friendship.  I was speaking in praise of you; but I will save myself the trouble in future!”

Now, I thought, William must surely apologise; but instead he persisted with his questioning.

“Did you mention Bingley by name?  Did you speculate as to the identity of the lady involved?”

“Yes, I mentioned Bingley by name.  No, I did not speculate about the lady; why on earth would I?  I have no idea who she is!  Now, if you will allow me, Darcy, I should like to read my newspaper in peace!”  And Edward sat himself down in high dudgeon, unfolded the broadsheet and left William to wander distractedly from the room.

I remained in my seat, lost in silent speculation as to the cause of his discomposure.  The unsuitable lady, I surmised, must be a mutual acquaintance, though why Miss Bennet's knowledge of William's involvement should agitate him so I could not imagine.  There was more to his interest in Charles Bingley's affairs than he was willing to disclose;  could he perhaps be hoping to secure his friend for Georgiana?  I dwelt long upon this possibility, which fitted neatly with another that I had already considered, viz. William's own plans regarding the unmarried Bingley sister, Miss Caroline.  If Charles Bingley were to marry William's sister, might he not feel obliged to be punctilious in returning the compliment?  Could he even now be speaking to Mama, releasing himself from his supposed obligation to me?  Was that why he had prolonged his visit?  If so, we were in for an uncomfortable evening, especially as the Collinses and their guests had once more been invited to drink tea with us!

The evening arrived, however, without my having observed any ill humour between William and Mama; I concluded that I had either been precipitous in my surmise, or that William, for whatever reason, was biding his time.

When our guests arrived, I found myself greeting only the Collinses and Miss Lucas; Miss Bennet, it transpired, was indisposed with a headache and sent her apologies. I was initially disappointed, having planned to scrutinise her manner towards Edward; it occurred to me that his declaration of disinterest might have disappointed her more than he supposed.

Mama was extremely put out – she did not much like Miss Bennet, but expected her to attend upon us when invited to do so, and now Mrs Jenkinson must be called upon to make up the numbers for cards.  William seemed likewise put out, inquiring most particularly into the severity of Miss Elizabeth's headache as though he also suspected her of shamming. 

The visit progressed well enough however;  without Miss Bennet to dominate the conversation I actually managed to engage Miss Lucas, and discovered her to be, beneath her shy exterior, a pleasant and intelligent girl.  When tea was over we prepared for cards, and I hardly noticed when William excused himself and left the room.

As the minutes passed, however, his absence began to impinge upon us and at length Mama sent a servant to inquire for him.  He was not in his room; and it soon transpired that late as the hour was, he had gone out – alone, on foot, and without explanation!  Mama excused his rudeness to our guests as best she could, though her displeasure was evident for all to see; and eventually she made up a table with Edward, Mr Collins and Miss Lucas, leaving Mrs Collins, Mrs Jenkinson and myself to occupy ourselves as we pleased. 

It was a fine May evening, and I chose to take a book to the window seat while the other two conversed alone. There was plenty of light still to read by, but I could not keep my mind upon the page for speculating about my cousin's strange behaviour and current whereabouts.  Nor could I help overhearing Mrs Collins and Mrs Jenkinson, who were speculating likewise.

“It is most unlike Mr Darcy,” Mrs Jenkinson was saying, “to leave so suddenly, and with no explanation to Lady Catherine. I thought at first that he had been taken ill; but if that were the case he would not have gone out.  I do hope he has not received distressing news!  But no message has arrived this evening, and if anything of import to the family had occured Lady Catherine and the Colonel would have been likewise informed.  'Tis all very strange – do you not think so, Mrs Collins?”

Mrs Collins concurred.  “It is certainly most strange. He cannot have gone further than the village on foot; but who could he possibly be calling on so late?  We are all here excepting Miss Bennet, and he knows her to be indisposed.”

We are all here excepting Miss Bennet. I was just suppressing a gape when the jolt shot through me, rendering me fully awake as the scales finally fell from my eyes.  Miss Caroline Bingley, forsooth!  How could I have been so blind?

'Such unequal matches take place all the time'. 'It would be as well to make yourself clear, Fitzwilliam - I think Miss Bennet does find your company a little too agreeable'.  'You have mentioned this to Miss Bennet?  By what right? Did you speculate as to the identity of the lady involved?'

Oh yes, I echoed silently, grimly exultant, it is certainly most strange that Fitzwilliam Darcy should be so very concerned as he seems to be about the inclinations, opinions and matrimonial prospects of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

'Cousins in Hertfordshire, Mr Collins? What relatives are these, pray?'

Before Elizabeth by Rohase Piercy is a marvellous glimpse into the shadows of 'Pride and Prejudice'. Anne de Bourgh's life with her impossible mother, Colonel Fitzwilliam's unexpected secret, Elizabeth Bennet's behaviour - not to mention Mr Darcy's - are all portrayed from surprising angles in this convincing Austen pastiche.

Whilst fretting and fuming over the Darcy family’s behaviour, Mama gave vent to her dissatisfaction by interfering further in Mr Collins’ affairs. The Parsonage, she declared, was in need of a great many improvements, which only a feminine hand could properly attend to; the kitchen garden was shamefully neglected. Mr Collins was a diligent shepherd to his flock, but his domestic life was in a sorry state; indeed how could it be otherwise, since he lacked a wife? And how was he ever to secure one, since he did nothing to recommend himself to any of the ladies to whom he had been introduced since his arrival at Hunsford? (I can vouch for the truth of this: Mama had invited several respectable spinsters of the parish to take tea with us when Mr Collins was present, and without exception they were appalled at the company they had to endure, and could not escape the experience quickly enough!)

“He does nothing to help himself by conversing with such tortuous pomposity,” was Mama’s despairing comment. “I am quite at a loss, Anne. Where shall we find a wife for Mr Collins?”

“Could we not just leave him to find his own wife?” I suggested; but she threw up her hands in horror.

“Good heavens, child, that will never do! Goodness knows what kind of a person he is likely to attract if left to his own devices! For he must have a gentlewoman, you know – I could never countenance anyone other than a gentlewoman at the Parsonage – but she must also be an active, useful sort of person, able to live happily on Mr Collins’ income. I have told him all this often enough! But he will never manage it for himself.”

Mr Collins, however, was to surprise us all, for he did manage it for himself, and in the following manner.

“I wonder, your Ladyship – I have been intending to ask – might I have leave to visit my cousins in Hertfordshire next month? Of course I would not wish to put your Ladyship to the slightest inconvenience, but I feel -”

“Cousins in Hertfordshire, Mr Collins? What relatives are these, pray?”

“A cousin of my late father, Lady Catherine – a Mr Bennet. A very respectable gentleman by all accounts, though an unfortunate disagreement between him and my father has prevented our becoming acquainted. I am persuaded, however, that enough time has now elapsed for me to offer the olive branch with equanimity; indeed, as a clergyman, I feel honour bound to do so. Mr Bennet has five unmarried daughters, and -”

“Five!” (I silently echoed my mother’s exclamation, and sat forward in my chair. This could be interesting.)

“Five daughters! What was the man thinking of? And all unmarried, you say – pray, what are their ages? And what is Mr Bennet’s estate?”

“He is the principal resident of Longbourn, Lady Catherine, a village near the town of Meryton in Hertfordshire. He keeps a very respectable house, I am assured. The youngest Miss Bennet is fifteen, I believe, and the eldest – I am not sure – no older than three and twenty. The estate of Longbourn is – entailed upon myself, in default of any male heir.”

Mama was rendered speechless for a moment, and I could not suppress a smile. There was more to our Mr Collins, it seemed, than either of us had supposed.

“Entailed! Upon you! You have never told me, Mr Collins, that you are to inherit an estate! Why, pray, have you never spoken of it before?”

“Well, I – your Ladyship -” stuttered the unfortunate man, “I did not feel it my place – until, that is, I have made my peace with Mr Bennet – I thought it unseemly to presume -”

“Oh, I understand, I understand. No use putting all your eggs in one basket. But this is news indeed! Longbourn, you say, in Hertfordshire; and five daughters of marriageable age! Well, depend upon it, one of them will easily be prevailed upon to accept you, especially as you are to inherit their father’s estate. Indeed, they can hardly do otherwise! A very pretty scheme, upon my word! You shall certainly have leave to go, Mr Collins, and I go so far as to charge you expressly not to return until you are an engaged man!”

“You may depend upon it, Anne,” reflected Mama when the grateful suppliant had been dismissed and we were able to discuss his prospects in private, “If the Bennet daughters do not have the good sense themselves to look favourably upon Mr Collins, their mother will see to it; she will be a very short-sighted woman if she does not! She has her husband’s estate to think of, and her comfort in old age, as well as the possibility that one of so many daughters may end an old maid, and dependent. She will persuade one or other of them to have him, mark my words!”

But when Mr Collins, who always did what Mama required of him, returned from Hertfordshire an engaged man, it was not one of the Miss Bennets who was the chosen partner of his felicity. We were surprised to learn that he had instead secured the eldest daughter of one Sir William Lucas, a neighbour and friend of the Bennet family. This gentleman, though formerly in trade, had been distinguished during his mayoralty of the town of Meryton by a knighthood; and his daughter Charlotte was declared by her enraptured lover to be the most amiable, most accomplished and most virtuous young woman of the neighbourhood. Whether she could possibly be of sound mind was a matter of speculation between myself and Mrs Jenkinson; but this was exactly the kind of wife Mama would have chosen for Mr Collins herself, and once she had got over her astonishment at his not having got one of his cousins, she was all affability and approval, and declared that the wedding must take place as soon as possible.

“Miss Lucas is the eldest daughter of her family, you say? Pray what is her age, Mr Collins?”

“She is seven and twenty, your Ladyship.”

“Well! She will not be wanting a long engagement, at seven and twenty! Pray return to Hertfordshire as soon as you like, and arrange the date! And her father is Sir William Lucas, is he? Well, you may tell him from me that he will be most welcome to visit his married daughter whenever he likes, and I will receive him here at Rosings!”

Mr Collins saw nothing untoward in my mother’s giving Sir William Lucas permission to visit his own daughter; he was all effusive gratitude, as usual. I was not paying attention to all that he said, for I was wondering whether all five Miss Bennets had refused him in turn, or whether he had become disheartened after one or two rebuttals and decided to look elsewhere. His description of his cousins was uncharacteristically reticent – ‘they were most pleasant girls; the eldest was likely to be married quite soon; their father and mother had been most hospitable.’ It was not like our Mr Collins to be so economical with words. Something, I suspected, had gone awry in that quarter.

I was aroused from my reverie by the exclamation: “Oh! My dear Lady Catherine, I have omitted to mention a most particular circumstance. Whilst in Hertfordshire I had the pleasure of meeting your nephew – Mr Darcy, of Pemberley!”

I bent my head to avoid the significant glance cast in my direction, while Mama inquired somewhat suspiciously into the circumstances of this meeting.

It transpired that a ball had been given by Mr Bingley at his Hertfordshire residence, to which the Bennets and their guest had been invited. It was there that Mr Collins had encountered William, and taken the liberty of introducing himself – ‘taking advantage’, as he put it, ‘of that privilege which we members of the clergy may claim, in being permitted to lay aside the established forms of ceremony’ – and of assuring him that his esteemed aunt and amiable cousin were both in good health. I was mortified, imagining William’s haughty surprise at being thus approached, and was relieved to hear that Mr Collins believed himself to have been received with ‘most affable condescension.’

Whilst Mama, her displeasure towards the Darcys temporarily suspended, waxed eloquent upon the impeccable manners of her nephew, I experienced an unpleasant succession of emotions as I pictured a flurry of Miss Bennets, Miss Lucases and other importunate female residents of Meryton all vying for William’s attention. The man who had once claimed to find balls so tedious had obviously not been averse to attending this one! And supposing he had already formed an attachment? Mr Bingley’s unmarried sister, for instance – how could I have overlooked that possibility? How long would it take Mama to get around to it? I stole an anxious glance in her direction, and was grateful to see that Mr Collins had the whole of her attention, and that my burning cheeks were safe from scrutiny. I surreptitiously placed a hand upon my heart, in a vain attempt to still its unruly clamour. Accept it, Anne, I told myself; accept the inevitable. Miss Bingley, or someone similar, will soon be mistress of Pemberley.

Mr Collins was married in Hertfordshire early in the New Year, and returned with his bride very promptly to Hunsford to be visited by a great many people, all curious to see how the new Mrs Collins conducted herself. Mama and I were of course among the first to pay our respects, and I was on the whole very favourably impressed. Mrs Collins was plain, neat, and well mannered. She smiled a little too readily, but this could of course be due to nervousness. Her conversation, when her husband’s verbosity allowed her to speak, was sensible, desirous to please but not disposed to flatter. Mama seemed likewise well satisfied with her, and invited the happy couple to dine with us the next day.

The Collinses soon became fairly regular guests at our dinner table, being much more welcome as a couple than Mr Collins had been in the single state. Although they were neither lively nor witty company, the husband was often unintentionally amusing and the wife always pleasant and friendly. I began to admire Mrs Collins for the diplomatic way in which she handled her husband, and for the equanimity with which she bore my mother’s interference into every aspect of her domestic affairs. Her age and situation, I decided, were sufficient explanation for her having accepted Mr Collins’ proposal; and if she did not show much obvious affection for him, neither did she betray any repugnance or regret. She seemed cheerfully determined to make the best of her situation, and I could only wish her well.