Page 113 of Regrets

I suppose I do not like how temporary all this feels, but of course we always knew that Netherfield Park would not be available for purchase.

Your loving sister,

Jane

Chapter One Hundred and Two

The day of the ball saw Lady Catherine in her element, ordering scurrying servants about like a general on the eve of war. The house had been scoured from top to bottom, every vase was filled with flowers, the kitchen had been operating without cease for the past three days to create the various delicacies Lady Catherine demanded. The dance cards were beautifully arranged with gold ribbons in a large bowl at the entrance to the ballroom; the floor had already been chalked; and the musicians had arrived from London that morning.

Lady Catherine’s own maid, Lucy, had been assigned to Anne as well, and Lucy had spent the past week trying different coiffures on Anne to see what might best suit her.

When Anne finally came downstairs, her mother caught her breath. Anne looked absolutely splendid. Her ballgown, which had arrived as promised by Madame Blanchet, was ice blue, with an overlay of white lace. Her slippers were that same ice blue, with tiny crystals sewn on them. Her hair was arranged most artfully, held in place with two dozen diamond pins.

“What do you think, Mother?” Anne’s face was rosy, and her eyes glittered with excitement.

“I think you look utterly sublime,” Lady Catherine said softly. A tear made its way down her cheek.

“Oh, no, do not weep!” Anne cried, rushing to her mother’s side.

“It is a tear of joy, my dear, not sorrow,” Lady Catherine explained. She continued, almost as if she was speaking to herself. “So many years of worry, so much fear, all for naught!”

“Not for naught,” Anne said, staunchly. “Had you not protected me so very well, likely I would not be so strong today!”

Lady Catherine nodded. It might be true, it might not – but it was a very good thought.

***

Those lucky enough to be invited to the Rosings Ball had spoken of almost nothing else for the past fortnight. The talk was particularly fevered amongst the mothers of second sons. The suspicion that the ball was being held in order to find a suitor for Miss de Bourgh had metamorphosized into certainty. Lady Catherine was ready for her daughter to marry, and that daughter came with an incomparable dowry: the whole of Rosings Park.

The old fairy stories of the prince searching for a bride were turned on their heads; now it was a princess searching for a groom. Miss de Bourgh, as everyone recalled, was no beauty, and she had no conversation, but what did such things matter, when Rosings Park was on offer?

It was with enormous expectations, then, that the guests arrived at Rosings. They were ushered through the house – which many of them had not seen in years – up the stairs to the second level, and into the receiving line, which consisted entirely of Lady Catherine and Miss de Bourgh.

And what a surprise Miss de Bourgh was! Why, she looked utterly splendid! She curtsied gracefully as she greeted her guests, spoke clearly, and seemed completely self-possessed.

“Fred, I am in love!” Mr. Dawson told his friend, Fred Griffiths.

“Do not be a fool, Simon,” his friend advised. “You have not exchanged a single word with her!”

“True love requires no words,” Mr. Dawson insisted.

Mr. Griffiths only rolled his eyes. He would not admit that he, too, had been captivated by the very idea of marrying Miss de Bourgh and becoming the master of Rosings Park, but he well understood that he had a good deal of competition.

Mr. Hughes strolled up with a look of smug satisfaction that both Mr. Dawson and Mr. Griffiths immediately took exception to. “Gentlemen,” he said, offering a small bow.

“Henry,” Mr. Dawson muttered.

“I believe I am one up on all of you already,” Mr. Hughes said, smiling.

“How is that?” Mr. Griffiths demanded.

“Why, I have secured the first dance with Miss de Bourgh!”

“What! But how?”

“By the simple expedient of asking her while in the receiving line.” Mr. Hughes extended his fingers and examined his manicure, while watching his rivals from under his lashes.

“By Jove, that is not at all cricket!’ Mr. Griffiths exclaimed.