“And?” Darcy urged her to continue.
“Mama and Lord Matlock had no intention of allowing the estate to pass to my father’s family. I needed a husband, but Mama would never have accepted a man of my own choosing. For some time, I had reason to believe she was already seeking one for me—”
“And would that have been so dreadful? Many women marry without love and are content in marriage.”
“With a man chosen by my mother, entirely subject to her? I think not. I should only have exchanged one master for two…to live all my life as I have lived it until now.”
Darcy inclined his head in agreement. He had begun to see Lady Catherine for what she truly was—a cold, calculating woman, concerned only with her own interests, and wholly indifferent to her daughter.
“You were the ideal solution, in more ways than one.”
Darcy did not fully grasp her meaning yet. He remained silent, watching her, and waited for her to explain.
“When you were at Rosings with Cousin Richard, I overheard a conversation. There is a small room in our library, where my father’s secretary once worked. I sometimes read there. One evening, I was there. I know I should not have listened, but I knew so little of the world…and I was curious. You spoke of having proposed to Miss Elizabeth—and that she had refused you.”
Darcy said nothing. He would hear her to the end.
Anne, no longer afraid, went on with growing steadiness.
“You left the next morning, and Miss Elizabeth came to dinner that afternoon. Believe me, she did not look happy, nor indifferent.
“She was angry,” Darcy murmured.
“No, she looked plainly unhappy. Mrs Jenkinson and I both agreed that she bitterly regretted her refusal.”
“Mrs Jenkinson knows as well?” he asked, and for the first time there was anger in him, though he did not let it show.
“Yes, she knows everything. We both deplored Miss Elizabeth’s unhappiness and felt very sorry for her. Before we left, we even thought of writing to you—as a farewell—and telling you about that dinner and the feelings Miss Bennet has for you. She kept looking towards the door even after my mother told everyone you had gone to London.”
He fell silent again, struck by the thought that he had learned too late of her regret. For a few moments, Elizabeth was ready to take hold of his thoughts, but he forced himself back. That evening was not about her.
He began to understand how lonely and cut off from the world Anne must have felt. If, in the past, he had thought Lady Catherine merely severe, he now saw her as something elseentirely—a mother who had ruled and confined her daughter’s life thinking only at her interests.
“Fitzwilliam,” she said, and there was something new in her manner—steady, composed, and perfectly capable—“I saw you with Miss Elizabeth at the Bingleys’ dinner. You stood next to each other, and only a few moments were enough for me to understand how much you love each other.”
“But that was after I proposed to you…and you agreed to be my wife.”
“Yes. It only confirmed that my plan would harm no one—that you have another road to take in your life.”
“Another road?” he repeated, in complete disbelief. “You cannot mean that. Our marriage is a serious commitment.”
“I am sorry that I misled you. It was not my intention to betray your confidence or to make a mockery of our marriage. It was the only way to save myself, and perhaps to save you as well.”
“It is difficult to understand your plan,” he said, though he already understood more than he wished to admit.
“When you proposed to me, everything became clear. You were deeply unhappy, and even to me it was obvious that you wanted only to marry—to forget the past and build a future. But that is not the state of mind and heart for marriage. For me, however, it was an unexpected way to improve my plan and leave England with sufficient funds. You are the only man who would give me part of what is mine and still be content to leave this marriage before it has truly begun, even in such circumstances.”
“You cannot be serious. Let us sleep on this, and perhaps tomorrow—”
“Fitzwilliam, my decision is made. In seven days, we shall board a boat in Liverpool that will take us to Dublin, and then to Philadelphia.”
“But we cannot separate. Divorce is impossible.”
“It is difficult—I agree—but not impossible. Not for someone like you, who has the highest connexions in Parliament. Lord Matlock will do anything to rescue you from this mess, and your new marriage will be met with compassion and understanding in society.”
“We could obtain an annulment,” he said, already thinking of another possibility.
“No. An annulment would return the estate to its position before our marriage—but with an angry Lord Matlock, who would make sure I never receive anything that is mine, neither the estate nor the income.”
