Anne was a blank, a pale girl who had never spoken—not once—on any of the occasions when they had been in company. The Anne de Bourgh who came to the parsonage or to dinners at Rosings was only a grey shadow. Elizabeth could remember nothing she had worn, nor even whether she was handsome—only a timid young lady whom everybody pitied.
No, he cannot marry her!Elizabeth kept thinking as she turned to her aunt.
“I could understand his marrying an elegant and accomplished young lady from London,” Elizabeth whispered. “If he marries Anne de Bourgh, it is only because he is in haste to marry and has forgotten me.”
“No, my dear,” Mrs Gardiner replied, glancing quickly round the room to make certain they were not observed. “No man marries for such a reason. They are not like us. Try to understand and accept that. You are no part of his decision: he would be too proud for that.”
But Elizabeth would not believe her.
“And more good news: Anne and Darcy are to dine with us tomorrow,” Bingley continued.
“Let me come tomorrow and take you elsewhere to dine,” Mrs Gardiner whispered, this time in real anxiety.
Elizabeth declined the offer. “Sooner or later, we must meet, and I think that if I see him with his intended, my healing may begin. I shall be well.”
∞∞∞
Yet the night that followed was one of the worst she hadspent for a long time. After the first restless nights—just after her return from Hunsford—she had at last begun to rest again, but the thought of meeting Darcy raised so many questions that sleep became impossible. For a moment, she was tempted not to meet him…them. She was certain that her aunt, though the Gardiners were invited, would decline for her sake. But that state of mind did not last long. The very next moment, she wished to see him, to look into his eyes and ask what had happened. How was it possible that he had declared his love for her and, only a few months later, was about to marry another woman? She could not even think of Anne de Bourgh in such terms.
Elizabeth desperately wished to know what had driven him to marry his cousin. She even felt some guilt, but reason told her that a man does not choose a wife out of anger or sorrow. Not he—not the man she had known.
She passed the night between her sitting-room and her bedchamber—looking out at the deserted street before the house, or creeping beneath the bedclothes in search of sleep. She wept, her heart ached, and when sleep finally came, she dreamed of him and woke even sadder.
She was grateful when Jane took them to Clark & Debenham, a fashionable shop in the heart of Mayfair. They were to meet Miss Commack and her mother there, and to discover what the celebrated establishment could offer each of them.
“We met Mrs Commack in Bath, and she told us that at Clark & Debenham one may buy ready-made clothes,” Kitty said, already acquainted with many of the secrets of town life. She was on good terms with Bingley’s friends, and it appeared that their giddy little sister was conducting herself very well in society.
“It seemed to me that Lydia’s influence had made her so superficial and so ready to flirt. In Bath, she looked about herand behaved like the ladies we met there, while Lydia could only follow the same pattern as always.”
The whole morning was devoted to choosing a gown for Elizabeth and a bonnet for Kitty. In spite of Elizabeth’s anxieties, it was an agreeable occupation.
“Are you certain that Mr Bingley will approve such an expense?” Elizabeth asked somewhat cautiously.
Her sister laughed and declared that she had the best husband in the world. “And besides, it was his idea that you should have a gown, as Kitty, Lydia, and I bought so many things in Bath.”
∞∞∞
As she dressed for dinner, she tried to frame the question that tormented her: Why Anne de Bourgh? Jane’s maids helped Elizabeth into the beautiful gown she had just received and then arranged her hair in an elegant chignon, as one of them called it.
In the end, the mirror’s reflection made them smile. “You are lovely and elegant, Miss Elizabeth,” they said almost in one voice.
Alone in her room, she spent some time searching for her fan, though in truth she only wished to gather her courage. When at last she joined her family in the parlour to wait for the guests, she appeared calm, but her hands were cold while her heart seemed to burn within her.
The first to arrive were the Gardiners. Elizabeth suspected that it was not by chance; Aunt Gardiner wished to be beside her when the betrothed couple entered the room. She and her aunt were standing near a window, speaking in low tones, when the butler announced the guests. The colonel and Georgiana entered first, followed by Darcy, with Anne upon hisarm. For a moment, Elizabeth was obliged to lean upon her aunt, but that weakness quickly passed. When the moment came to curtsey, she wore a pleasant smile. Only a faint flush in her cheeks betrayed her agitation; but it might just as easily have been attributed to the rouge she had lately begun to use.
A few words of civility were exchanged; then the colonel led Anne away, while Mrs Gardiner invited Georgiana to look at the terrace that opened onto a beautiful garden on the other side of the room.
Elizabeth and Darcy remained where they were—without understanding how it had come about. They were alone in a room full of people, standing before an open window that overlooked the street. By a silent agreement, they turned to face the room. From the street below came the sound of passing carriages, and from time to time the murmur of a voice. It was a perfect place for conversation, yet some time passed before either of them could speak.
“I knew you would be here,” he said, looking not at her, but at the people—friends and family—talking and laughing. Bingley’s sisters arrived, and there was some little commotion. Nobody paid any attention to them, save perhaps Anne, who glanced in their direction but made no movement towards them, apparently intent upon the colonel’s conversation.
Anne looked so lovely that Elizabeth felt a strange emotion stir within her.I may have many faults, but I have never in my life been envious, she thought. Yet that evening she was undeniably jealous of the woman who had won Darcy’s heart. Anne de Bourgh was handsome, and her simplicity had an air of refinement.
Standing so near to him, Elizabeth might have wept, but she drove back her tears.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, “I wished to tell you that the note you sent me—by a strange turn of fate—was lost. No doubtthrough a servant’s fault; it was only found some days later, lodged beneath the correspondence table. Two months ago, I would have answered…”
Elizabeth made a considerable effort not to appear as distressed as she felt. “Would it have made any difference?” she asked at last.
