My Dear Nephew,
You are to come at once. Anne is gone.
I awoke yesterday to find her room vacant, her bed undisturbed, and her writing desk locked. A small valise is missing, as well as some of her personal things. No letter was left, no servant seen departing with her, and no carriage taken from the stables. She vanished as though spirited away by some unnatural force. But I am not one to believe in such nonsense—this is the work of someone’s influence, and I shall not rest until I know the truth of it.
Darcy read on, his expression tightening with every line. Lady Catherine wrote in mounting agitation, cataloguing each detail that made Anne’s disappearance not merely alarming but incomprehensible: her cousin’s frail health, her habitual obedience, her lack of independence, and her lifelong aversion to secrecy or travel. That Anne should leave Rosings alone, without notice, and without Lady Catherine’s sanction was framed as both a personal affront and a moral aberration. Someone, his aunt insisted, must have persuaded her—guided her—corrupted her judgment. Lady Catherine could imagine no other explanation. That Anne should act at all without guidance was, in his aunt’s mind, entirely unnatural.
Richard’s involvement followed next, reported briskly and with pointed approval. He had been in London already, she wrote, arranging to resign his commission—an act she attributed, with unmistakable satisfaction, to his uncle’s timely generosity. Richard had been summoned at once and was expected imminently, but even that was not enough. Darcy was demanded. His discretion, his steadiness, his authority as Anne’s cousin were invoked as obligations rather than requests. This was not merely a family concern; it was a looming scandal, one that threatened Anne’s reputation and Lady Catherine’s standing in equal measure. It must be contained. Managed. Corrected.
By the time Darcy reached the end of the letter, Lady Catherine’s urgency had sharpened into command. He was to come at once. He was to bring whatever resources he deemed necessary. She would expect him at Rosings within three days of receiving the express.
Darcy lowered the paper slowly. The room felt colder than it had moments before. Anne was gone—truly gone—and not merely ill, secluded, or indulging one of Lady Catherine’s dramatic fears. She had vanished without explanation, without permission, and without trace. Whatever had driven her to such a step, it was no small thing. And whatever LadyCatherine believed, Darcy knew one truth with unsettling clarity: this disappearance would not be resolved by bluster, nor by scandal-management alone.
The steady rhythm of his pulse faltered, turning erratic as his aunt’s normally imperious tone gave way to something raw and unguarded—alarm stripped of command.
Anne was gone. Vanished. No note, no explanation, and no warning.
Darcy read the letter through once more, more slowly now, as though careful attention might reveal something he had missed. It did not. Lady Catherine’s distress bled through every line: the locked writing desk, the missing valise, the absence of witnesses, the insistence that Anne could not possibly have acted of her own will. Someone must have influenced her. Someone must be held accountable. And beneath it all lay the unspoken terror of scandal—of whispers taking root before the truth could be contained.
He rose abruptly, shoving the estate books aside and ringing for Brisby once more.
“Ready my things,” he said shortly. “I leave for Kent at once.”
Anne is gone.The words repeated relentlessly in his mind as he climbed the stairs to his chamber, driving out all other concerns. Thoughts of Wickham—of entitlement, resentment, and threats—fell away beneath the weight of this new crisis.
Despite his aunt’s assertions, Anne had never truly been sickly or fragile. That frailty had been carefully cultivated, encouraged, and enforced by Lady Catherine herself. Anne was quiet, reserved, accustomed to obedience—but she was not incapable. And yet, how could a grown woman disappear without a trace? Had Lady Catherine delayed too long in hopes of smothering the matter before it drew notice? Had time already been lost?
He did not pause to dwell on it.
Darcy hastened from the room and summoned Mrs Reynolds and Mr Simmons. In the privacy of the small parlour, he informed them of his immediate departure. “My sister will remain here,” he continued. “I shall ride, changing horses along the way. When I arrive, I will send word with further instructions.”
Mr Simmons inclined his head, his expression grave. “Very good, sir. I pray everything—and everyone—is well at the park?”
“I hardly know,” Darcy replied. “I shall discover it when I arrive.”
With that, he excused them and returned to his chambers. Brisby was already at work, laying out clothing and preparing the saddlebags. Darcy instructed him to pack lightly—only what could be carried on horseback. “You will follow with the coach and the remainder of my things. I expect you in Kent within four days.”
It would require hard riding and frequent changes of horses. His stables were well supplied; his horses well trained. The mail coaches managed over a hundred miles a day, and he had no intention of travelling more slowly than necessity demanded.
“Very good, sir,” Brisby said, still visibly puzzled, but quick to obey.
Within the hour, Darcy had taken leave of Georgiana—who burst into tears at the thought of his sudden departure—and was on his way to Kent, a stiff breeze sharp against his face as the estate fell away behind him.
Whatever had driven Anne from Rosings, whatever hand lay behind her disappearance, he would uncover it—and quickly.
The horse had barely come to a standstill when Darcy dismounted upon the gravel drive of Rosings Park. The sky hung low and pewter-coloured, the estate looming cold and forbidding beneath the weight of unspoken alarm. Before he reached the steps, the door flew open and Lady Catherine de Bourgh appeared in the hall, rigid and wild-eyed, her imperious bearing fractured by panic.
“You are late,” she snapped. “My daughter is missing. Gone without a word. Her bed untouched, her valise missing—and Richard has not yet arrived.”
Darcy offered no defence. He promised action.
Lady Catherine demanded a discreet search, forbidding gossip with the same fervour she once wielded authority. Anne’s reputation—and her own—must be protected at all costs. Darcy began where Lady Catherine could not bring herself to go.
Anne’s chamber told its story quietly. The bed undisturbed. Simpler gowns missing. Her writing desk was untouched. The jewel box, however, lay emptied with deliberate care. Every ornament gone.
This was no flight of panic. Anne had planned her departure.
Richard arrived soon after, travel-worn and grim. Together they acknowledged the truth pressing between them: Anne had not been taken. She had chosen to leave.
