Page 3 of The Secret Diary of Anne de Bourgh

“Surely they’re not letting her blood so much,” Richard said in some disbelief, and Sanderson came striding back across the room. I blinked up at him blearily as he bent over me.

“We’ll just take this spencer off, Miss de Bourgh, this room’s too warm for you,” he said, and I could offer no help as he eased it down my arms.

“Mary Mother of God!” It was Richard who spat the words out, and then he was on his knees again in front of me, holding my hands, looking at the mass of tiny scars that stretched from my elbows to my wrists on the inside of both arms.

“Jesus wept,” Sanderson whispered, staring, and then he was putting a steadying hand on Richard’s shoulder. “Colonel – easy. Easy, now. You know about it now. You can take care of it.”

“How long has this been going on?” Richard asked, and, a little foggy from the brandy, I shrugged.

“Since Papa died of the scarlatina,” I said. “I lived, but I was weak. Mother insisted that the doctor must come to me every week, and every week he has bled me.” The tears came, then, finally. “I don’t want to. I don’t want him to bleed me any more, Richard, please don’t let him cut me any more.” I leaned forward, put my arms around his strong neck, and sobbed desperately into his shoulder. “Please. I’ll do anything. I thought Darcy might take me away and not let him cut me any more but he married Miss Elizabeth and I’m happy for him, truly, she is lovely and I could see how much he loves her, but I want to get away so much...”

Once the tears had started I could not stop. Richard drew me into his lap, and I buried my face against his shoulder while he gave Sanderson orders over my head.

“Get an express off to London. Two, actually, one to my father and one to Darcy. I want them both here by tomorrow noon or I’ll know the reason why. Tell Darcy to bring his wife and his doctor, and then send another express to the General, tell him I want Doctor Spears for a few days.”

“What about the local quack who’s been doing the damage, Colonel?” Sanderson was scribbling frantically at the Colonel’s desk.

“He’ll keep. I’ll make sure he doesn’t touch my cousin again.” Richard spoke so quietly that Sanderson looked up from his writing. At last I stopped crying.

“Promise me,” I hiccuped, and Richard seemed to know at once what I meant.

“On my honour, Anne, that doctor will never touch you again, if I have to shoot him myself to ensure it.” He drew me closer. I caught the scent of leather on his coat, and for a moment I did not want him to let me go.

“Once you’ve got the letters off, Sanderson, get down to the kitchens and get some food. She won’t be up to much. And I don’t doubt my aunt has banned them from giving her anything but gruel, so tell them it’s for me – tell them I’ve a sore throat and I want some chicken soup and fresh bread.”

“Yes, sir!” Sanderson kept writing, and a few minutes later he was folding the letters. Richard held out his hand with a ring, and Sanderson used it to seal the letters, handed it back and was out of the room.

“Finish this off, Anne.” Richard held the brandy glass to my lips. “It will give you a little strength until Sanderson gets back.”

I drank it down greedily. The next thing I knew, Richard was shaking me gently awake. I was still in his lap, and Sanderson had returned with a tray of food.

The soup was rich with chicken, and the bread was fresh and crusty. I ate every scrap. Richard had set me down and was pacing the room, talking to Sanderson.

“Mrs Jenkinson obviously can’t be trusted, nor any of the maids. Darcy will bring his wife, but until then, what can we do? We need a woman to tend her.”

“Charlotte,” I said, finishing off the last of the soup.

“Who, Anne?”

“Charlotte Collins. You remember, the nice woman who married the silly parson? She’s very kind, and she was Elizabeth Bennet’s best friend...”

“Get her,” Richard told Sanderson, and the man was off again.

But before Sanderson could get back with Charlotte, there was a commotion outside in the hallway and I could hear Mrs Jenkinson berating Elsa, my maid.

“Where has she gone? You know she’s not allowed to wander around alone!”

Richard glanced at me and put a finger to his lips. I watched as he opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. He did not close the door quite behind him, and I could hear every word.

“What is the cause of all this commotion?” he demanded coldly. “I am trying to attend to my correspondence!”

“Begging your pardon, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Mrs Jenkinson said, her voice instantly turning servile and cringing, “but Miss de Bourgh is not to be found. She is not supposed to leave her rooms without me.”

“As far as I am aware,” Richard drawled, “Rosings is Miss de Bourgh’s house, and you are her employee. If she wishes to go anywhere in her house, she does not need your permission to do so.”

“She is very ill.” It took Mrs Jenkinson a good couple of minutes to find a reply to that. “I am only concerned that she might have wandered off somewhere and become lost or chilled.”

“I cannot imagine Anne becoming lost in her own house,” Richard said, “and I think my cousin sensible enough to keep herself warm. Leave be, Mrs Jenkinson, and if you must make a racket, kindly do not do so outside my room!”