Free Darcy and Anne by JUDITH BROCKLEHURST Page B

Georgiana was thinking of a husband, and that there seemed to be few suitable young men available. Lady Louisa, from a wealth of experience, wondered if an unsuitable one were in the picture.
    Now, she realized, the picture was complex. It did not take her five minutes to recognize Georgiana's admiration for Colonel Fitzwilliam, and to discount it; the Colonel, at his age, was not likely to fall in love with a young girl. Nor, if he did so, would he think it right to persuade his wealthy cousin to marry him. Georgiana was young enough, she would get over it; but another admirer or two would certainly help. And, if she were in the habit of falling in love (there had been rumours), it would be as well to get her suitably married as soon as might be.
    Anne was another matter; her mother had described her as sickly and frail, but she was nothing of the kind. However, she was five-and-twenty if she was a day. Catherine was a great fool, Lady Louisa thought, to let her hang around all those years after Darcy, who anybody could see would only marry a woman of the greatest charm and beauty, a woman to sweep him off his feet. This was not such a girl, though she would not make a bad wife, either. Edmund Caldwell obviously thought so, but that was no use—he could not aspire to the heiress of Rosings and thirty thousand pounds. Lady Louisa began making a list of the men she knew—not too young— deserving of Anne and thirty thousand pounds. It was a quite encouraging list, and she decided to give a ball within the next few weeks.
    The evening was warm and sultry. Dinner was late, and afterwards, everyone was too hot for dancing. The doors of the drawing-room opened on the terrace, and at first everybody strolled about, feeling listless; presently they were all assembled inside. “Would Miss Georgiana play for them?”
    Georgiana played two or three pieces, but seemed disinclined for more. Then Mr Bennet quietly said, “If the company would like it, I will read to you.” Everyone expressed an inclination—to be read to was the very thing, for all they need do was sit, and listen.
    Mr Bennet began, reading from some papers in his lap. It was an historic tale—a prose story, written in such a vein as to be almost poetry; a tale of a castle by moonlight, and a young girl waiting, sadly, for someone who did not return. The water fell plashing into the fountain, the white roses bloomed, the young girl wept. When Mr Bennet stopped, Georgiana drew a deep breath, and Mrs Caldwell wiped away a tear.
    “Who wrote it?” was the question on everybody's lips, and “Was there more?”
    “Papa,” said Elizabeth, “you do not usually read romantic tales— where had you such a story?”
    “Why, my dear,” said Mr Bennet, “did you not write it? I found it on my table in the library, and thought that you had put it there for me to see.”
    “No indeed,” said Elizabeth, “I never wrote anything in my life, longer than a letter; and surely the handwriting is not mine.”
    “All women,” said her father, “write the same vile hand.”
    “The story is mine,” Anne said shyly. “I left the sheets on a table in the library; I did not know, sir, that the table was yours.”
    There was immediate clamour. They had an authoress in their midst—how long had she been writing? Why had she said nothing? How did the story continue? And how did it end?
    “I have written for years,” said Anne. “I had a governess who recommended to me the copying of extracts, to improve my handwriting. I found it very dull copying other people's writings, and began to invent my own: little stories, poems, essays. Then I read a couple of novels and thought them rather silly. I thought I could do as well, and just to amuse myself, I began that story.”
    “And how does it go on?”
    “Oh, she runs away to the Crusades, and has all kind of adventures. It is all nonsense.”
    “But, we must hear it!”
    “One moment,” said Mr Bennet. “Miss de Bourgh