Work Text:
The Fragility of Lady Anne
Two weeks before Christmastide
Derbyshire, Pemberley 1791
The child in her womb kicked just as she sat down to attend to all the invitations for the annual Christmas ball. Seeing the pile of correspondence on her desk, she sighed and began to open them. She dipped her quill in black ink and started writing down the names of those who accepted and rejected her invitations in her journal, although there were many of the former and not so many of the latter. So far, the guest list has exceeded one hundred, and she has had some more replies.
Again her babe made its presence known. “Calm down my little one.”
She was enjoying the relative quiet so far. It was inevitable that her sister would enter her study with all the subtlety of a brick flung through a greenhouse, shattering the fragile peace she had managed to attain. Just as a brick turned glass into jagged shards so was her equilibrium in sharp smithereens.
“Anne, we need to rearrange the flowers - what you have chosen is simply wrong for the event.”
Anne's head pulsed with the beginnings of a headache that only her sister Lady Catherine de Burgh, could induce. “Catherine, they are white and delicate.”
“You need white roses, something that makes a statement - you are the daughter of an Earl, married to a man of means. You need to show your wealth. When Anne and Fitzwilliam wed there shall be grander displays from your hothouses!”
“ If they wed, Catherine,” Anne sighed, tiring of her insistence on a dream. “You know George and I want the best for our children.” How she loved saying that. Children! “If this is a girl we need all the funds for a decent dowry. We need to sustain Fitzwilliam's inheritance. We have fifty tenant families to maintain as they aid us. We cannot always display wealth - we need to think of the future, not just for our children but also our tenants.”
Catherine humphed and pinched her lips in a thin line of disapproval, “Yet George is wasting funds on educating that son of his steward so I hear?”
Leaning her head into her hand supported by her elbow on the desk Anne resisted the urge to grind her teeth together. “A point of contention between us, I assure you.”
“I am glad you agree with me on that score. Preserve Rank, sister - it would not do for that boy to get ideas above his station.”
Anne agreed as far as the boy was concerned but for different reasons; she was concerned that the attentions her husband lavished on Master Wickham would inflate the boy's opinion of his rank in the world. It would only cause problems for Fitzwilliam later. The rumours she had heard distressed her; stealing, bullying tenants' children and treating other servants’ children as if they were his servants. Yet there was no proof. Never anything that would condemn the brat. Whilst Anne was generally kind and compassionate, she hated the steward’s son for he always made her uneasy, and whenever there was trouble he was always quick to blame some other servant's child or her son.“I agree, sister, but for different reasons. Ones that I would rather discuss with my husband.”
“I mistrust that boy, mark my words, your husband is making a noose to hang himself with. I can foresee only bad things from that good-for-nothing child. There is a gleam in his eyes every time he comes here that is positively avaricious.”
That was the pot calling the kettle black , Anne thought. You try to act as if you own Pemberley and what is trying to tie your child to mine if not an act of avarice?
“Are these the guests coming?”
“Yes,” Anne said, already fatigued by her sister's interference. Catherine was breathing down Anne's neck and she tensed up, Catherine was bound to find someone to complain about. Anne could almost feel her sister’s disposition turn sour when Catherine read one family's name.
“What are you doing inviting Reverend Smedley and his daughter to this ball?”
“They will be moving to London in the spring and his daughter has met an enterprising young man by the name of Gardiner - it is to fare them well - Martha Smedley has been nothing but gracious. Her grandparents on her mother's side are gentry, they are invited too, the Paynes of Weatherstone Manor just north of here. She has the usual accomplishments befitting a gentlewoman; such as playing the pianoforte and speaking fluently in the modern languages. Miss Smedley also has something in her air that shows understated elegance, she shall not shame us.”
“How much does Weatherstone make?”
“3,000 a year.”
“Hmm, well, if you are certain.”
Shaking her head she was just about to resume her task when there was a noise in the hallway. The sound of something smashing on the chequered tile floor of their hallway broke both their Ladyships perusal of the list of guests, “What in the…” Anne quickly stood up and moved swiftly but elegantly out of her study. When she reached the appropriate place she grasped hold of the beautifully carved bannisters and spied on the scene below her.
Standing between the remains of a vase were two boys facing each other. One boy was seething; whilst the other was grinning. It was an ugly vase Catherine had purchased for her and George on the occasion of their marriage.
“Now look at what you have done, George!” Anne had heard her son say.
“It was an ugly thing anyway!”
“That is not for you to decide! It was a present for my mother and she will not like that you broke it and my aunt even less.”
“I am not scared of that battleaxe.”
“YOU will call her, Her Ladyship,” snarled her son.
“Your son has more sense than your husband,” Catherine said not so quietly.
“I also think your mother will thank me for getting rid of something so utterly repugnant to the sense of sight.”
Anne watched as her son stood trying to keep his temper under control at the impudent boy, his fists clenched at his side as he stood his ground. It was lovely that he defended her and her property. The sisters decided to walk down the stairs as elegantly as her seven-month-pregnant state would allow, Lady Catherine followed with a heavy step designed to create a noise to alert the boys of their coming.
Lady Anne’s heart broke a little at the chagrin and mortification on her son's face as he observed her frown at the scattered pieces of vulgar pottery on the floor. He was cowering with fear at the expected disappointment he thought he would face if he glanced so much as a second on his mother’s face.
“I did not mean to, mama.”
“No, unlike your father, I shall lay the blame where it truly lies. Master Wickham, it is time for you to leave. I shall instruct your father to have strong words with you, Master Wickham, over how to treat other people's property!”
The scowl Master Wickham levelled at her sent quite a chill down her spine, Yes, it was prudent to keep an eye on that Wickham lad.
“Of course, your Ladyship,” he sneered. “May I say goodbye to my godfather first?”
“No, you may not,” Lady Anne said in a firm but fair tone.
Just as Wickham was about to leave through the front door Lady Anne coughed. “I do not think that is the entrance for you, Master Wickham, even your father uses the right way to leave and enter Pemberley.”
Malice glittered in the boy's eyes, such coldness and hatred that it almost made her want to put Fitzwilliam behind her to protect her son from this child’s ire. “Yes, your Ladyship,” he bowed again and prepared to storm off down the hall, through the door that led to the kitchens and the back entrance - before he did so, he deliberately walked in a way as to push Fitzwilliam into her, causing her to lose her balance.
“Mama!” Fitzwilliam shouted as he watched his precious mother teetering on her heels. He quickly grabbed a hold of her hand, stabilising her with all the strength a seven-year-old boy possessed.
“Mark my words,” Catherine stated, “blood will out! His mother is a she-devil and he takes after her.”
Just as she was standing straight again, she noticed Master Wickham standing next to her husband with a smug look on his face. “George tells me you have forbidden him to use the front entrance AND Fitzwilliam caused a precious vase to break!”
Lady Anne's warm blue eyes went cold. “We shall discuss Master Wickham later,” she snarled. “Your precious godson has outstayed his welcome!”
“Better do as Lady Anne says for now,” Anne watched as George visibly winced, he knew his wife had a stubborn temper about her if she thought she was in the right so he went with her.
“But….”
“I believe my husband has told you to obey me, Master Wickham.”
The Darcys and Lady Catherine watched as the boy skulked off grumbling under his breath.
Her head had begun pounding again. “Now, if you do not mind, I have to confer with the cook about the expected guests for the ball.”
“Fitzwilliam, back to your studies,” George said harshly, reprimanding his son for playing.
Anne’s heart froze as she witnessed the lack of care the father was showing for their son, it aggravated her nerves. As a bitch snapped at the hands of strangers to protect her pups, so did Anne for her son. Her eyes narrowed and she growled threateningly, “When I am back from consulting with the cook, I shall have a word with you, George Amadeus Darcy!”
It was with grim satisfaction that she noticed her husband wince. He hated his middle name and he resented his mother's love of Mozart for him to have it. Since then, Mozart has left a bad taste in his mouth and she used his name the way a clever soldier used a gun, aiming true with her shot, piercing his red coat weaved of pride and stubbornness, for when she was truly angered he felt it and this Anne knew throughout her ten-year marriage. Anne felt all the injustice of her son being ill-used and almost forgotten by his father.
Just as she turned on her heel, she swayed a little and felt lightheaded, then all went black.
*
She woke up in her bed with her worried husband beside her. “I told you organising a ball in your fragile state was not a good idea,”
“It's tradition,” she said weakly.
“I have been told you have not eaten today, trying to get things together for this insipid ball,” her husband said. “You need to look after our child - that is important.”
“Take your own advice, Mr Darcy,” she snapped, after gulping down some water.
“What do you mean, darling?”
“Stop treating Master Wickham better than you do our son - you recognise him, do you not, as the heir of Pemberley?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then stop ignoring him in favour of the steward’s son - he is not heir to any estate,” she said. “Did you know Fitzwilliam has had to sneak into my rooms to give me back my jewellery? Rings, bracelets, brooches things that are easy to slip into pockets, I witnessed Fitzwilliam from the shadows, he has no use for my trinkets - No other servant's child has the freedom of the estate that Master Wickham has. Talk to Fitzwilliam. Listen to him, and for goodness sake be the man I fell in love with.”
Her head pulsed violently against her temples causing her eyelids to squeeze out the light.
“All right, it is just that, well George makes me laugh - Fitzwilliam is so - serious.”
Anne withdrew her hand from her husband’s, icy in her defence. “I would rather my son treat life seriously and work hard than be a ne’er do well with no aim in life but to be a burden on others. You are spoiling Master Wickham to the point that he will always think he is entitled to whatever he wants in life without working hard, and will likely get himself hanged!”
George stiffened at this prediction of what would happen to his favourite. “Do not get yourself worked up, it cannot be good for the babe - sit back, relax, and eat something.”
“Someone has to fight for Fitzwilliam if you do not!”
“I will talk to our son,” he promised.
As her husband departed from her bedside a maid entered through the servant's entrance with hot chocolate steaming in a jug with some light sandwiches and cakes.
Her husband’s words were not enough, she would only be content when she saw action on his part. Although, maybe, he was finally starting to understand. For the first time in months, Lady Anne breathed a sigh of relief!
She would relax for now and wait for what the next day would bring.