Chapter Text
More than anything, Anne pitied the girl.
She didn't know that she deserved it. Miss Anne de Bourgh was not particularly kind or agreeable. But after all, she was likely a product of her upbringing - a quieter Mary, perhaps - and Anne understood life under a proud, vain, domineering parent. She could not help but be sympathetic. They were cousins, however distantly; they shared a name; Anne had a heart easily touched.
Dinner was eaten and the party was sitting in the drawing-room, Sir Walter and Elizabeth fawning over Lady Catherine, who was holding court. The Annes had been ushered to the fire with Mrs. Jenkinson, and whether that lady was Miss de Bourgh's nurse or companion or keeper, Anne could not say. At any rate, she would rather be sitting with her present company than with the others.
"We have made a great many improvements at Kellynch recently," she heard Sir Walter say, his voice an odd mix of pride and obsequiousness.
"They were necessary, from what I remember of the place," sniffed Lady Catherine.
"Oh, Kellynch is nothing compared to Rosings, of course!" Elizabeth said with a high trill of a laugh.
Anne blushed and turned to her companions, not wishing to hear her father and sister make fools of themselves. Miss de Bourgh, always unhealthy-looking, appeared positively ill today, her face pale and drawn, her eyes sunken and red, her body thin and bony.
"Are you quite well, my dear?" she asked gently.
"I am never well," Miss de Bourgh answered with a heavy sigh.
"She is not strong, I am afraid," said Mrs. Jenkinson, patting her charge's hand.
"Perhaps a change of scenery would do some good," Anne suggested. "Many swear by Bath." She hated the place of course, but that did not make it entirely useless.
"I never stir from Kent," said Miss de Bourgh.
"Well," said Anne, forcing a note of cheerfulness into her voice, "I am sure you have a constant flow of friends here to visit you."
"Mama's friends visit."
How lonely a life Miss de Bourgh must live. At least Anne had Lady Russell and the Musgroves.
"I am sure that is a comfort." She imagined the sort of people who would be friends with Lady Catherine and chastised herself for so inane a comment. "And we must write to each other more frequently, if we cannot often meet."
It was such a paltry consolation that Anne felt rather ashamed to offer it, but Miss de Bourgh looked cheered by the thought.
Well, Anne thought later, as they packed up to return to Somersetshire, her situation was not ideal, but she would rather be there, with friends nearby, than isolated and trapped at Rosings.