“My cousin Darcy,” she said, after a moment, “has never trusted him. Perhaps he knows more about Wickham, as they grew up together at Pemberley.”
Elizabeth’s heart, against her better discipline, became immediately attentive.
“Mr. Darcy,” she repeated, with studied composure, “is not, perhaps, inclined to trust lightly in any direction.”
“No,” Anne said, and there was something almost protective in the quiet certainty of her tone, “but where he does care, he cares with more steadiness than people suppose. He is not a manwho displays concern for the comfort of being admired; indeed, I think admiration would make him rather uncomfortable. But once his regard is engaged, it is not easily withdrawn, however much he may appear to govern himself.”
Elizabeth, who had intended no confession and would certainly have denied any expectation of one, nevertheless felt that these words did not pass without consequence.
“He is sometimes difficult to understand,” she said.
Anne allowed herself the smallest smile.
“That is because Cousin Fitzwilliam prefers action to explanation, which is a habit unjustly interpreted by society as pride, though I have often thought it merely a form of caution. He would rather be accused of reserve than of insincerity.”
There was enough truth in this to make contradiction impossible.
After a brief silence, Anne spoke again, though with more hesitation than before.
“I have sometimes thought,” she said, her gaze resting not upon Elizabeth, but upon the garden beyond the window, “that if I were ever to marry, I should prefer a house in Sussex. The air is said to be better there, and the distance greater, which I own I should consider an additional medicinal advantage.”
Elizabeth turned to her in some surprise, but not without pleasure.
“You would choose for yourself, then, rather than merely submit to arrangements made by others, which I think requires both courage and judgment.”
Anne’s expression grew thoughtful.
“I do not know whether courage may be claimed where one only wishes for quiet; but I know that I should like, for once, to inhabit a life arranged by inclination rather than management. My mother thinks principally of consequence. I confess I think more often of peace.”
“And of the gentleman?” Elizabeth asked, with a gentleness that made the question companionable rather than intrusive.
Anne answered with a calm honesty Elizabeth liked her for immediately.
“He must be kind,” she said. “I have no ambition for brilliance. I would rather be respected in Sussex than admired at Rosings. I believe admiration is frequently very expensive, and seldom pays its debts.”
Elizabeth laughed softly.
“In that principle, at least, we are perfectly agreed.Does this gentleman you are talking about also live in Sussex? ”
At that moment footsteps were heard in the corridor beyond, and Anne’s expression altered—not into fear, but into that familiar self-command which long practice had made almost instantaneous.
“Mrs. Younge returns,” she said quietly. “You perceive how quickly philosophy must give way to refreshments.”
Elizabeth resumed her own composure with equal readiness, but not before reflecting that beneath Miss de Bourgh’s habitual silence there existed far more intelligence, and far more loneliness, than Rosings had ever allowed the world to suspect.
The door opened almost immediately thereafter, and Mrs. Younge entered with her usual smooth propriety, followed by a young housemaid carrying a silver tray upon which chocolate,tea, and a small arrangement of cakes had been set with all the precision expected at Rosings. The elder woman moved first, though not with the ease of a servant long secure in her place, but rather with that careful confidence of one who knows herself continually observed and has resolved to appear faultless under inspection.
Her countenance, though composed, possessed that species of civility which never quite ripened into warmth. She smiled correctly, curtsied properly, and yet contrived, by some indefinable quality, to make attendance feel less like service than supervision. Elizabeth, who had once thought such impressions perhaps the invention of prejudice, found herself now far less inclined to distrust Anne’s judgement.
“I feared,” Mrs. Younge said, as the tray was placed upon the table, “that Miss de Bourgh had been left too long without refreshment, and that Miss Bennet, in her kindness, might be sacrificing comfort to conversation. Her ladyship would never forgive such neglect in those entrusted with Miss de Bourgh’s care.”
Anne received this speech with perfect calm, though a slight stillness in her manner suggested resistance rather than gratitude.
“You are very attentive, Mrs. Younge,” she replied. “Miss Bennet and I have not suffered from neglect, only from the uncommon pleasure of being permitted to speak without interruption.”
The maid, who had been arranging the cups with a diligence perhaps greater than the task required, lowered her eyes so quickly that Elizabeth suspected the effort of concealing expression. Mrs. Younge, however, seemed not to notice, or chose not to.
“Conversation is always safest when accompanied by proper comforts, Miss de Bourgh,” she returned smoothly. “Solitude has a way of encouraging unnecessary reflections, and I should be sorry if your morning had been made fatiguing by too much seriousness.”
