“It sounds like Mr Darcy is just being lazy.”
Anne continued in a hushed, forced whisper. “I asserted the same thing—vehemently. After that, I advocated for the alternative theories that he was afraid, timid, shy, ungentlemanly, or just a lunkhead.”
“And how did the lunkhead respond?”
“Most annoyingly. He said, “Anne, this is important!Why would you trust an apprentice when the master is readily available?’”
Elizabeth stared hard at her and gulped. “He thinksIam the master.”
“He thought you might say that. He suggested I ask you to complete the phrase ‘Mistress of …’”
Elizabeth let out a long, exasperated groan, but finally relented. “Awkward Conversations.That seems to be my fate in life. I spend most of my time dealing with awkward situations.”
“Will you look at my diaries…please?”
“All right. I return in two days. If you can get this nag back to the parsonage, I will do as you ask, but do not be surprised if you disapprove of what you see in the mirror, or if you find it to be exactly what you expected and you have put me through a spot of bother for nothing.”
Anne’s face lit up like a sunrise, which confused Elizabeth since she seriously doubted she was going to make any real change to the lady’s life. However, she had agreed and did not have anything pressing for the next two days anyway.
Anne got the groom’s attention, and a quarter of an hour later Elizabeth sat in her room with the first diary open, wondering just what she had got herself into.
Diary
My name is Anne de Bourgh, and I am 15 years old today. I decided to write my thoughts down because, after the past month, it seems unlikely I will boast of reaching 16. I have been terribly ill these past 2 months. The doctors, apothecaries, physicians, and various other ‘learned men’ who attend me speak to my mother in hushed tones, believing I neither hear nor understand. They mostly believe my remaining time likely to be short and unpleasant; after the past months, I believe them.
I cannot call this a diary, because if things go on as they have recently, I will only be able to write sporadically, if at all, as many days, I can do nothing more difficult than listen to a servant read to me. The only consolation in this sad little life might be that I enjoy the world’s greatest literature—much of which my mother would no doubt disapprove if she knew.
In the past month, there were 3 days when I was utterly convinced I would not see the sunrise. The pain was nigh on unbearable, and most of the remedies either failed or, more often, worsened my suffering. Laudanum has been administered generously, but it seems to cause more problems than it solves. It leaves me with terrifying nightmares and exacerbates my cough. Bleeding and various foul-tasting concoctions have been used with little success and, to be honest, little in the way of demonstrable skill or knowledge in my physicians to give me confidence. They seem to mostly be trying different remedies at random, betting my life with each cast of the dice. The grave looks from my attendants do little to persuade me they expect any better outcome.
For my own sanity, I will make a mark for each time I am certain I might die. I will use the Greek symbol for infinity, as it seems to indicate both the depth of my pain and my expectation that I shall quite soon be merged with the infinite. Thrice this month: ∞∞∞
Perhaps, as I go on, I will identify other useful symbols; for the moment, my hand cramps, and I must hide this journal before my maid returns.
~~~
Tears streamed down Elizabeth's face as she read the first few pages, and she was horrified at the level of pain and despair contained therein.
She also found herself inspired by the flashes of subtle humour shining through even that first introductory page. Anne had somehow learnt to hide herself from the world; and, from their interactions over the past several weeks, perhaps she had learnt to hide herself from herself as well.
Anne had written the journal in pencil. It was an unusual choice, but the instrument made sense for someone who was mostly an invalid. Managing quills and inkwells in bed would be disastrous, and in the end, why did anyone bother with ink at all? The pencil was easy enough to read, it would last long enough, and it would be child’s play to keep a dozen about.
Elizabeth diverted her mind from the horror of what she was reading by thinking about the mechanics of the operation. Did her young friend have an assistant to sharpen the pencils, as a penknife and an invalid did not seem especially compatible? Did she have to hide her writing, and if so, what excuse explained the pencils and journal books? Did the lady write other things or draw things to fool her guardians?
Most of all, how did someone live with that despair day in and day out without going mad? She continued for many months that held descriptions ranging from the deepest despair to the heights of what might almost pass for contentment.
Fitzwilliam visited today, and Mother and I made every possible effort to hide our conditions (my sickliness and her obsessiveness), though for vastly different reasons. It has been more than a month since I felt an impending discussion with St Peter, and I feel tolerably well now.
My cousin has been of age for a year, and Mother thinks she will somehow browbeat him into marrying me, so she does everything she can to hide my condition. I believe she would have more luck browbeating the tides than Fitzwilliam Darcy, but there is little point wasting what little strength I have in arguing with her. My mother is not one to be dislodged from her chosen course by logic, practicality, or common sense—or any kind of sense, for that matter.
I hide the true state of my illness from him because I would like to have one person in the world who does not pity me. He has no idea just how ill I am, and I would keep it that way, though sometimes it takes extraordinary measures to keep it hidden. I imagine it will become more difficult over time. I suppose the same should apply to my other cousin Richard as well. The two visit at Easter, just as they always have, and I will endeavour to show them that I am ‘ill’ but notthatill’. I will no doubt eventually have to convince them I am not ill but just disagreeable.
It will be difficult, but I have endured worse.
~~~
Was the young Anne, at that point, selfish or foolish to keep her health a secret from two cousins who would no doubt have been happy to help her? It was obviously not for Elizabeth Bennet to decide. The girl had been about Lydia or Kitty’s current age, and Elizabeth could not imagine either of those two even contemplating such a decision, let alone making it thoughtfully. For her own part, her 15-year-old self had still been practising Charlotte’s drills, so she could not have boasted of any great fount of wisdom, either. She could not really criticise, but she could sympathise with the girl that once was.
The ever-present ∞ signs showed the young lady at least believed herself at death’s door at least once a month, and often twice. As Elizabeth continued through the months and years, one awful month had 6.
