Later, at breakfast, when the household was again assembled and Mr. Wickham was not in attendance, Anne ventured to speak. “Mother, I hope you will not think me impertinent if I observe that you appear… particularly engaged by Mr. Wickham’s society.”
“Anne!” Lady Catherine exclaimed, more from surprise than anger, though a slight colour rose upon her cheek. “You mistake the matter entirely. Mr. Wickham is attentive to his duties, and I find it proper to encourage such conduct.”
“I do not question his diligence,” Anne replied softly. “Only—that his attentions seem directed beyond what duty alone might require.”
“Your observation is unnecessary,” her mother returned, recovering her usual tone of authority. “I am perfectly capable of distinguishing propriety where it is concerned. Mr. Wickham conducts himself as he ought.”
Anne inclined her head. “I meant no offence. I would only wish that you might not be… inconvenienced by any misapprehension.”
“There is none,” Lady Catherine said, with finality. “You allow yourself too much conjecture. Pray do not repeat it.”
The conversation ceased. Anne did not attempt to renew it; yet neither was she satisfied. What she had perceived could not, she felt, be dismissed as entirely without foundation; and though she was not accustomed to oppose her mother, she was not prepared to disregard what appeared increasingly evident.
Returned to her room, Miss de Bourgh seated herself at her writing desk and began a letter to Mr. Darcy. Her hand, though not rapid, was steady; and if her style lacked ornament, it did not lack precision. She described, with as much exactness as she could command, the altered course of the household: Mr. Wickham’s constant presence, the ease of his address, and the particular attention with which he was received. She did not exaggerate; still less did she soften.
Anne then added, after a moment’s pause, that his presence had not passed without remark among the servants, whose observations, though imperfect, were not always to be disregarded.
When she had finished, Anne read over what she had written, not in search of elegance, but of accuracy; and, finding nothing she wished to retract, sealed the letter with quiet determination.
Whether she had judged rightly, she could not be certain. But Anne de Bourgh was persuaded that what she had witnessed admitted of no easy explanation, and still less of indifference.
The letter, once dispatched, became her only recourse; for the rest, events must take their course—and Miss de Bourgh, though seldom inclined to interference, was not wholly prepared to abandon what she believed to be her duty.
CHAPTER2
11th September 1811, Longbourn.
Remote and somewhat hidden from the outer world of Hertfordshire, the small and picturesque village of Longbourn was nestled in the heart of a large valley, which made it a place of tranquil beauty. Its lanes, though not wide, were neat and well accustomed to the modest traffic of carts, riders, and parish visitors; and the cottages which stood along them, softened by climbing roses, weathered brick, and garden hedges carefully kept, gave to the whole prospect an air of settled comfort rather than of consequence. With its winding lanes lined with cottages adorned with flowering gardens, it embodied all the charms one would expect of an English countryside settlement.
At the centre of this idyllic place stood the Bennet family home, a handsome estate that exuded warmth and elegance. Longbourn itself was not a seat to command awe at a distance, but one to recommend itself more strongly by habitation than by first appearance; it had, in its windows, walks, and well-used rooms, the unmistakable character of a house thoroughly lived in by a family at once affectionate, opinionated, careless in some respects, and exacting in others.
Within the walls of this beloved abode resided the Bennet family, a lively group of individuals, each possessing their own unique qualities. The head of the household, Mr. Bennet, was a gentleman of wit and discernment, often finding amusement in the antics of his wife and daughters. His pleasures were chiefly domestic, though not always participatory; for he preferred, when occasion allowed, to observe rather than prevent, to laughrather than correct, and to retreat to his books whenever the clamour of family life threatened to require from him more steady application than his indolence approved. His dry humour and occasional bursts of sarcasm provided a counterbalance to the more excitable nature of his spouse.
Mrs. Bennet, a woman of great energy and determination, was primarily occupied with securing advantageous marriages for her five daughters. Her enthusiasm for matchmaking knew no bounds, and her intentions were always doubled by genuine maternal love and concern for the offspring’s happiness. That her plans were not always coherent did not prevent them from being earnest; nor did their frequent alteration diminish, in her own estimation, the wisdom from which they sprang. If she was at times imprudent, she was never indifferent; and if she alarmed, she also loved.
The eldest of the Bennet sisters, Jane, was blessed with extraordinary beauty and a gentle, compassionate nature. Her benevolent spirit endeared her to all who had the pleasure of making her acquaintance, and she was known throughout the village as a paragon of kindness and grace. There was in Jane such an habitual sweetness of temper, such reluctance to suspect wrong, and such readiness to excuse it when found, that even those who might have preferred more animation were compelled to admire her.
Elizabeth, the second sister, was gifted with a lively mind and quick wit that could engage the most discerning gentlemen. Possessing a fiercely independent streak, Elizabeth cherished her own opinions and often found herself at odds with society’s expectations. Despite the strength of her character, she remained a steadfast favourite of her father and a loyal confidante to her elder sister. Her spirits, though lively, were notcareless; she observed more than she confessed, judged more than she declared, and brought to every subject a readiness of perception which, in a quieter girl, might have produced reserve, but in Elizabeth produced conversation.
The younger Bennet siblings, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia, each displayed their distinct characters. Mary, studious and severe, found solace in her books and her music, while the spirited Kitty and Lydia were ever in pursuit of excitement, militia officers and adventure. Together, they formed a family of diverse talents and temperaments, united by their affection for one another. Kitty’s opinions generally followed the strongest voice nearest to her, while Lydia, secure in the liveliness of her own, seldom found reason to borrow anybody else’s. Mary, by contrast, borrowed her sentiments chiefly from improving authors, and valued them more in proportion as others valued them less.
As the sun rose over Longbourn, casting its golden light upon the Bennet home, it seemed as though the day would unfold like any other; and there was in the stillness of the hour nothing to suggest that a name, unknown the evening before, should before breakfast become the subject of the whole household’s curiosity, alarm, speculation, and amusement.
The morning daylight cast a dappled pattern of shadows through the lace curtains of the drawing room, where Mr. Bennet sat, ensconced in his favourite armchair with a newspaper in hand. He was less occupied by its contents than by the convenience of appearing occupied; for though his eyes moved with sufficient regularity down the columns, his attention had more than once wandered to the domestic scene around him, and returned from it not entirely displeased. Elizabeth had taken her place near the window, a book open on her lap, but her thoughts were elsewhere, carried away by the gentlerustling of green leaves outside. The volume itself had not been neglected from want of interest, but from the competing attraction of a mild morning, a quiet room, and that species of indolent reflection to which a young woman of active mind will sometimes abandon herself when no immediate duty compels her otherwise.
Mrs. Bennet, seated opposite with her workbasket beside her, had already expressed dissatisfaction with the weather twice—first because it threatened rain, and then because it did not; Jane had answered her each time with the same good-humoured attention; Mary had arranged and rearranged a pile of music on the pianoforte, as if conscience required preparation even where performance had not yet been requested; and Kitty and Lydia, not wholly awake to sobriety at that hour, had divided their interest between the window, the breakfast remnants, and each other’s unfinished remarks.
“Ah, Jennings!” Mr. Bennet exclaimed as their long-serving old maid entered the room, bearing a silver tray with a letter set on it. “What news have you brought us this fine morning?”
“Good ones, I hope, sir,” the maidreplied, presenting the letter to Mr. Bennet. “This missive arrived just now, and I thought it best to bring it directly.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Bennetsaid, taking the letter and breaking the seal. His brow furrowed as he read the contents, a flicker of surprise crossing his countenance. He read more slowly toward the close than at the beginning; then once again from a point near the middle, as if to assure himself that the writer had not, through some private defect of judgement or penmanship, conveyed more than he intended. “Well, this is most unexpected.”
“Pray, Mr. Bennet, do not keep us in suspense!” Mrs. Bennet almost cried from across the room, her needlework momentarily abandoned on her lap. “What does the letter say?”
“Forgive me, my dear,” Mr. Bennetreplied, folding the parchment neatly, with a deliberation which had no object but to increase her impatience. “The vicar position at Hunsford was filled quite differently than we expected.”
“Filled?—but not by Mr. Collins?” Mrs. Bennetechoed, her eyes widening with concern. “But how could this be? We had every assurance that our dear cousin, Mr. Collins, would receive that appointment!”
