Lady Catherine flatters herself with hopes of her daughter’s marriage to Mr. Darcy
January 26, 1812
“My dear Anne,” Lady Catherine de Bourgh said to her daughter, “I do hope you will be taking your drive today. You need an airing.”
“Is is so cold,” Anne replied fretfully, “I do not see how a constitutional drive can be expected to do any one good in the month of January.”
“You know what Dr. Shaw said,” Lady Catherine put down her eggshell-thin teacup deliberately. “Your health requires a great deal of fresh air, and today it is sunny.”
“A pale sunshine, and I do not believe it is going to last. There are several black clouds. And it is so dreary sitting up in the pony phaeton alone.”
“Take Mrs. Jenkinson,” urged Lady Catherine, “Upon my word, I would go with you myself, only I have an immense deal of correspondence. There are important matters occurring in the nation, and I, as a magistrate, must inform the Prime Minister of my views. And then I must do some sick-visiting. There is a laborer in the village who is refusing to labor, and I am certain he is just shamming.”
“I could come with you there,” said Anne, brightening up a little.
“No; if he is ill, we could not run the risk. You are not strong, Anne, and would be liable to catch cold, in those chilly cottages. Besides, I wish that you would call at the Parsonage.”
“The Parsonage?” Anne frowned. “Oh, Mama, have we not paid sufficient attentions—and more—to those odious people?”
“My dear! Mr. Collins is our clergyman, and a very good sort of young man, I think. Certainly he has shown himself properly deferential to me, as is very right, and treats me as he ought, considering that I am his patroness, squiress, and superior, in every way. Besides, it is to Mrs. Collins that I wish you to speak.”
“Me!” Anne drew back with horror. “What have I done that you must inflict her upon me?”
“Why Anne! She is a harmless creature enough. Where is your objection?” Lady Catherine poured some more tea, and urged it upon her.
“No, I won’t have more tea, Mama. I am too upset. The whole trouble with that Mrs. Collins is that she is common. And you know it.”
Lady Catherine’s heavily marked black brows drew together. “I cannot say that you are not right—but then, I myself urged Mr. Collins not to marry any one high born, or with pretensions. Mrs. Collins appears to me to be a very good sort of housekeeping body.”
“She is not a lady. And her husband is a clown.”
Seldom, very seldom, had Lady Catherine been so at a loss for a reply. After a moment’s consideration she said, “So, this is why you never speak to them at dinner, and are so silent. I had observed that.”
“You are correct. And if I may dare to say so, Mama, it is my opinion that you have been inviting them here to Rosings far too often. I know precisely what sort of pushing, presuming people they are, and if you give them an inch they will take an ell! They have been here seven times in their month of married life, and will soon begin to believe twice weekly visits to Rosings are theirs by right. You are altogether too soft hearted and susceptible to inferiors, Mama.”
“I have ever been celebrated for my kindness of heart, it is true,” Lady Catherine agreed complacently, “but if I may contradict you, my dear, I do believe them to be quite harmless, and agreeable enough. And you know how little company we can have here in these dark winter nights. It is well that a tame clergyman and his wife can be called over at any time for a game of cassino or quadrille.”
“Pah! I would much rather sit with a book, than listen to the pratings of Mr. Collins, or the flatteries of his wife.”
“So that is why you never open your lips from one end of a card game to another, either,” her mother mused. “I see.”
“Exactly so. And may I remind you, Mama, that we need not be so desperately craven for society, as that. When I am married to Darcy, the society at Pemberley will be quite another thing. And you shall spend the whole of every winter with us, I am determined on that.”
“Ah, Anne, your sweetness is fabled. I know Darcy will never be able to resist it, when he sees you. He must be quite ready to settle down by now, and I do hope that another season will see you the happy mistress of Pemberley, as your dear aunt and I always planned. Surely this will be the year.”
“Of course it will,” murmured Anne, who had always seen this fate before her, and in her pride and self-satisfaction, it had never occurred to her to doubt it. “When I am Mrs. Darcy, you know, I will never have to converse with such common women as that Mrs. Collins. Did you see her at dinner the other night? Her gown so very drab and plain, and she could not even eat her soup delicately. That shows her to be so very ill bred.”
“Her father, Sir William Lucas, is a knight,” Lady Catherine pointed out doubtfully. “A recent creation, it is true, but they say he was presented at court.”
“Well, it did nothing for his daughter’s manners,” said Anne tartly. “You know she was nothing but a baby nurse to that dreadful brood of brothers and sisters she talks about, and she has no elegance, no refinement, no air about her at all. And is that the sort of person you want me to associate with, so soon before my elevation to be Darcy’s wife, and chatelaine of Pemberley?”
“I only wanted you to give her the receipt for beef tea that old Nanny wrote out for me,” said Lady Catherine, in a tone of unwonted meekness. “Mrs. Collins believes her husband’s voice is strained, owing to the rigors of his last sermon, and a chill upon his throat. It would be a kindness, my dear.”
“Oh, very well,” said Anne crossly. “I’ll call for the phaeton.” She pulled irritably at the bell-rope, and Mrs. Jenkinson came hastily into the room.
“I am sorry, my dear Anne,” she said breathlessly, “but I was only talking to Nanny about that receipt your mother wanted, at her request. Shall you drive over to the Parsonage now?”
“Apparently so,” Anne replied ungraciously. “I must be a ministering angel to the lowly. Pretty preferment, upon my word, is it not?”
“May I come and keep you company?” asked Mrs. Jenkinson humbly. “I could carry your cashmere shawl, so you will not catch a chill when you get out of the carriage.”
“No; to be sure not. If I am alone, I will say that it is not a regular call, and then I need not get out of the carriage at all. They can come to the gate. I will not give them even one quarter of an hour.” And she swept out of the room, her small, thin figure upright, to put on her driving costume.
Lady Catherine and Mrs. Jenkinson, left alone, met each other’s eyes.
“It is true that the Collinses are common, very common,” said Lady Catherine, “but I do wish Anne could try to be a little more engaging. She thinks she will have nobody to do with at Pemberley but the high born, but managing a great house like that, makes many demands.”
“Oh, but she was born to the task,” said Mrs. Jenkinson, rolling up her eyes and looking at the heavens earnestly. “Was it not Mr. Collins who said that she would be an ornament to the rank of duchess? He never spoke more truly.”
“To be sure,” said Lady Catherine, pleased. “Her grace and condescension are such as are not often seen. Oh, I know Darcy will be very taken with her, when he comes. This must and shall be the year.”
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So Anne can really speak, but what an unpleasant sort of woman!!! She will be in for a big surprise when Lizzie comes for a visit along with Darcy.
Hollis, I was kind of surprised myself to find out what she had to say when she started speaking – but consider what a mother she had!
Heavens! Anne is actually worse than Lady Catherine!😱😱 I can’t wait for her to find out that Darcy will never marry her. 🤣
I’m afraid there is some pride there that is going to be crushed, Glynis!
Oh Dear. Now, I’m going to defend poor Charlotte! She is far superior in manners to this conceited version of Anne!
She is indeed, Sandra! Charlotte was a model of circumspect manners. Anne de Bourgh was not, in my version, but also in the original: remember Lizzy commenting how abominably rude she was to make Charlotte stand out in the cold? So I merely followed the example Austen set!
Oh wow. I had no idea Anne would be like this. But really, it’s not surprising, considering her mother and Mrs Jenkins. She really is in for a rude awakening!
I almost feel sorry for Lady Catherine here! She has raised a brat and can’t bring herself to realize it. (Also, I wonder if the PM really reads any of her correspondence about important national issues? :D)
Thanks, Diana!
Jo, if the PM ever read Lady Catherine’s letters when she started to send them, he would surely have given up the practice fairly soon!
Oh, no. I imagined Anne not only always suffering under her mother’s dominant nature, but secretly preferring Col. Fitzwilliam, who was of a much kinder and gwnerous nature than Darcy.