Darcy and Anne by JUDITH BROCKLEHURST Page B

told his daughter, “I would even let Miss de Bourgh into my own library at home, for I will guarantee that she does not chatter, or disturb one by wanting a pen mended, or an argument settled. She is a very uncommon young woman.”
    “There is more to her than any of us thought,” Elizabeth replied. “Who would have thought that she had such an imagination? Such a power of telling a story?”
    But this afternoon, Anne's mind seemed empty. She could not write a line; she could not review what she had written previously; she could not even read. All she could think of were Edmund's words, Edmund's look, Edmund's gesture.
    He had kissed her hand. Men did not commonly kiss a woman's hand; she had never known such a thing. Taken in conjunction with what he had told her, it was as if he were saying goodbye. A farewell. She knew it, and she knew why: he loves me, and I love him.
    It would never do. She knew it; and she understood it was his way of telling her that he knew it, too. His lack of rank, his restricted means, his occupation, not to mention his egalitarian ideas, all would make him unacceptable to her mother. Lady Catherine would refuse even to be introduced to him. Darcy too, she thought: even though he had married a penniless woman, of lower rank than his own, and liked Edmund as a friend, he would not welcome him as a cousin. It was very well for a woman to marry above her station, but for a man to seek to wed a woman of higher rank, and great wealth, with nothing to offer in return, would be regarded as fortune-hunting of the meanest description. Edmund would never do it. Rosings was hung around her neck, a burden she could never escape. Her wealth, instead of giving her freedom, would forever imprison her.
    Musings like this kept her miserably occupied until Mrs Annesley came to find her. “My dear Miss de Bourgh,” she cried. “What is the matter? You are quite pale. And the assembly tonight! You have the head-ache; you have been reading, you have been writing too long!” Anne had no wish to explain the real reason for her wan looks, and allowed Mrs Annesley to persuade her to take a gentle turn around the grounds, and even to walk as far as the stream, which made her feel much better.
    The evening was fine, and the drive pleasant. As they went down the hill through the little town, Mrs Darcy exclaimed, “Oh, my dear, we forgot to find a tenant for the White Cottage.”
    “I did not forget,” Darcy said, “but I like to rent it to someone connected with the family, and there is no one, at the moment, answering that description. I want a good tenant, for it is a pretty place.” The carriage was stopped so that they could see it. It was, indeed, pretty. It stood a little back from the street, separated from it by a small garden, with a good-looking orchard behind.
    “Rent it to me,” Anne suddenly said. “It is just the sort of little place I should like. I will live there, cousin, and write books.” Everyone laughed.
    By the time they got there, the rooms were beginning to fill. It was pleasant to see the kind of stir, the whispering, the smiles of gratification, as the word spread through the room that the party from Pemberley was come. Anne, who had been used to stiffness, embarrassment, and forced cordiality, suddenly realized that her dress was pretty, her jewels exquisite, and her hair very well dressed, and that these people were pleased to meet her. She was introduced here and there; she was asked to dance again and again; and greatest Of wonders, she had no difficulty in dancing, for her partners were so kind and forbearing! She hardly had time to think, and her spirits lifted, in spite of her distress. A ball was indeed delightful!
    She soon noticed that Georgiana was not enjoying herself. At first, Anne thought she was missing Colonel Fitzwilliam, but she quickly realized that Georgiana was simply shy in a large company. She did not know how to reply to well-meant commonplaces, and was