Standing in the doorway of the dressing room was Lady Catherine de Bourgh. She was a vision of righteous fury,gripping her cane against the floorboards as if she intended to drive it straight through to the foundations.
But she was not alone. Standing just behind her was Eleanor Fitzwilliam, the Countess of Matlock. If Lady Catherine was the unyielding embodiment of black bombazine, her sister-in-law was the epitome of flowing silk. Lady Matlock had the kind of effortless elegance that made people instinctively apologise for breathing her air.
“Mother,” Anne said calmly, not dropping the gown. She turned slowly to face her. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“I came to instruct the housekeeper on the proper airing of the carpets, since you insist on taking up residence!” Lady Catherine roared, advancing a step into the dressing room, recovering quickly from her initial shock to pivot straight into outrage. “Only to discover the brazen, ungrateful insolence of a daughter who thinks she can march in here and commandeer my—”
Lady Catherine stopped.
Anne watched, her brow furrowing, as her mother’s eyes locked onto the gown she was clutching in her hands. The colour in Lady Catherine’s cheeks drained away, leaving her startlingly pale and old, the cane in her hand trembling.
“Mother?” Anne asked, the retort dying on her tongue.
Lady Catherine took an unsteady step forward. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She reached out a hand towards the cascading lace of the sleeve, stopping an inch before touching it.
“The Carlton House ball.” Lady Matlock’s voice broke the silence. It was soft, melodic, and laced with a profound, aching nostalgia.
Anne glanced at her aunt. The countess was stepping into the room, her observant eyes moving from the dress to Lady Catherine’s stricken face.
“You remember it, do you not, Catherine?” Lady Matlock asked gently, placing a steadying hand on her sister-in-law’s arm. “April 1791. The Prince of Wales had ordered excessive floral arrangements. The entire ballroom smelled like a hothouse.”
Lady Catherine swallowed audibly. “I remember,” she whispered, a sound devoid of its usual volume.
“She wore this gown,” Lady Matlock continued, turning her gaze to Anne. “Your mother was always a handsome woman, Anne, but that night, she was a revelation. When she descended the stairs to the foyer where we were waiting, Sir Lewis was adjusting his cravat. He looked up, saw her, and took a step forward to offer his arm.”
A wobbly, watery sound escaped Lady Catherine’s lips. It took Anne a moment to realise her mother was attempting to laugh.
“He tripped,” Lady Catherine murmured, a tear spilling over her lashes and cutting a path through the powder on her cheek. “He tripped over his own feet and nearly collided with a potted fern.”
“He did.” Lady Matlock smiled fondly. “He told my husband—your uncle—that he had forgotten how to work his legs. He could not take his eyes off her.”
Anne lowered the hanger, the silk pooling around her feet.
“We did not leave the ball until three in the morning,” Lady Matlock said, her voice dropping to an intimate register that made the dressing room feel isolated from the rest of theworld. “The four of us. The Earl, myself, your father, and your mother. We returned to this very house. We sat in the drawing room downstairs and we drank a bottle of champagne while Sir Lewis played the pianoforte.”
“He was terrible at the pianoforte,” Lady Catherine whispered, clutching her cane with both hands. “He only knew one song, and he played it too fast.”
“It was one of the best nights of our lives,” the countess finished softly.
Anne knew what happened next in her family history. June 1791.
“Two months later, the fever took him,” Lady Catherine said, her voice cracking, shattering the illusion of the iron-willed matriarch. She surveyed the dressing room, her chest heaving. “He died in the master’s chamber, next door. You were four years old, Anne. You were so small, and you had his eyes. The house... I could not stay here.”
Lady Catherine closed her eyes, a second tear falling. “I locked the wardrobes, I shut the blinds, I ordered the carriages, and I took you to Rosings Park. I promised him... I promised him on his deathbed that I would protect his legacy. That I would protect his estate. But mostly, I promised I would protect you. I could not lose you too.”
Lady Catherine had lost the love of her life in the blink of an eye, and she had spent the next two decades trying to wrap in wool the only piece of him she had left.
“Mother,” Anne whispered, the gown slipping from her grasp to collapse onto the floor in a heap of silk.
She stepped over it and closed the distance between them. For the first time in perhaps fifteen years, Anne did not bristleat her mother’s proximity. She reached out and wrapped her arms around the stiff shoulders of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
Lady Catherine went rigid for a second, unaccustomed to spontaneous affection, before she crumbled. She dropped her cane, which clattered loudly on the floor, but no one moved to pick it up. She threw her arms around Anne, burying her face in her daughter’s shoulder, weeping with the grief she had locked away twenty years ago.
Georgiana was crying quietly by the washstand. Mrs Annesley was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Even Lady Matlock had turned her head, her elegant profile tight with emotion.
“I am not going to die, Mother,” Anne murmured fiercely into her mother’s elaborate cap. “I am healthy. I am so incredibly healthy. You did your job. You protected me. But you wrapped me so tightly I could not breathe.”
Lady Catherine pulled back, sniffing and searching blindly for her handkerchief. Mrs Annesley produced one and pressed it into her hand.
