“Right away, Miss,” Mrs Frobisher said, a grin splitting her face.
Anne marched to the tall windows, unlatching the iron shutters and pushing them open. Sunlight flooded the room, casting away the shadows. She peered out over the leafy square, the hustle and bustle of London life rushing by, ready to be seized.
“Mrs Frobisher.” Anne clapped her hands together, the sound echoing in the cavernous room. “Your time starts now. Let us build an empire. But first, let us inspect the rest of the house.”
They took to the stairs and reached the landing, pushing open the door leading to the mistress’s chambers.
Anne paused on the threshold. Unlike the cavernous, plum nightmare of the drawing room downstairs, this room had an unexpected, airy grace. The shutters had already been thrownwide open, allowing the breeze to sweep through. The walls were panelled in a soft, faded cream, and the four-poster bed was draped in pale gold silk that, while undoubtedly twenty years out of fashion, still managed to appear inviting.
“It is lovely,” Georgiana breathed, stepping past Anne to run a hand over the carved footboard. “It does not look like a mausoleum at all.”
“No,” Anne agreed, a strange flutter in her chest. “It looks like someone was happy here.”
“The late Master and Her Ladyship were very fond of this room, Miss,” Mrs Frobisher offered, her voice dropping to a hushed, reverent whisper. She moved past them to open a side door. “This leads to the dressing room. If you intend to take up residence, I must ask... what would you have us do with the contents of the wardrobes?”
Anne’s brow furrowed. “The contents?”
“Her Ladyship’s London clothes, Miss. They were left behind when she departed twenty years ago. She never sent for them.”
Anne exchanged a look with Mrs Annesley. Lady Catherine de Bourgh abandoning possessions was a concept that defied logic. The woman was known to inventory the teaspoons in the servants’ hall on a bi-weekly basis.
Intrigued, Anne strode into the adjoining dressing room. It was a long, cedar-lined space with huge wardrobes. Mrs Frobisher unlocked the largest one, the hinges groaning in protest, and pulled the doors wide.
The scent of dried lavender, camphor, and time rushed out to greet them.
“Good heavens,” Mrs Annesley murmured, stepping up beside Anne.
The wardrobe was a veritable museum of late eighteenth-century excess. Before the sleek, high-waisted, column-like muslins of modern days had taken hold, fashion had been a matter of architectural engineering.
Georgiana gasped, reaching out to touch a sleeve. “Oh, the fabric! There is enough silk here to rig a moderately sized naval vessel.”
Anne reached into the depths of the wardrobe, ignoring a confection of striped taffeta, and her fingers caught on something soft and heavy. With a grunt of effort—for the garment weighed more than a small dog—she hauled it out into the light.
A collective intake of breath echoed in the dressing room.
It was arobe à l’anglaise, an exquisite relic from 1791. The silk was the colour of midnight striking a ruby—a deep, iridescent claret that seemed to glow from within. The bodice was pointed and structured with whalebone. The skirts were cut to accommodate subtle hip-pads, meant to fall in voluminous, majestic folds, and the elbow-length sleeves were finished with cascading tiers of frothy, yellowed Alençon lace.
“It is magnificent,” Georgiana whispered, her blue eyes wide. “But how did one sit down? Or breathe?”
“One did not breathe, Georgiana,” Anne said, holding the wooden hanger up to her shoulders and turning to the tall cheval glass in the corner. “Breathing was considered a vulgar activity for the lower classes. One simply existed in a state of glamorous suffocation.”
Anne stared at her reflection. Even draped awkwardly over the front of her modern, slim-fitting dress, the wine-coloured silk transformed her. The rich colour brought out a startling flush in her cheeks and made her eyes seem intense and dangerous.
“It suits you, Miss de Bourgh,” Mrs Annesley observed, her head tilted in critical appreciation. “Though I suspect if you wore it in Hyde Park today, people would assume you were either attending a masquerade or staging a rebellion against the Prince Regent.”
“I might just wear it to dinner at Darcy House tonight,” Anne mused, turning side to side to watch the silk catch the light. “Just to see if Robert chokes on his soup. I bet I could hide a roasted chicken in these skirts and no one would be the wiser.”
Georgiana giggled. “You are like a queen, Anne.”
“I am like a fire hazard,” Anne countered, though she could not stop smiling. “Seriously, Mrs Frobisher, look at the boning in this bodice. If I were stabbed in the chest while wearing this, the blade would snap in two. It is not a gown, it is armour.”
“ANNE DE BOURGH!”
The voice shattered the quiet of the bedchamber behind them.
Georgiana shrieked, leaping backward and nearly knocking over a washstand. Mrs Frobisher dropped her keys. Even Mrs Annesley flinched.
Anne froze, her eyes meeting the reflection in the glass.
