Page 4 of The Secret Diary of Anne de Bourgh

“Yes, Colonel Fitzwilliam. I apologise, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Mrs Jenkinson said meekly, and he came back into the room and closed the door firmly behind him. She had no chance of seeing me past his broad back, but I found myself cringing into the chair anyway.

“So the quack bleeds you, and what does she do that makes you cringe so?” Richard asked quietly, coming back to my side.

“She holds my hand still and watches with him as the blood drips into the bowl,” I whispered, “and then she makes up the foul potions he prescribes and makes me drink them.”

“It’s a wonder you haven’t followed Uncle Lewis to the grave,” Richard said bleakly, and then he took my hand and looked at my arm.

“Oh, please don’t look. It’s so ugly,” I begged, trying to draw my hand away, and much to my surprise he lifted my fingers to his mouth and kissed them.

“Anne, the only thing ugly about this whole business is the behaviour of the people who should have been taking care of you. People say my scars are a mark of my courage, and I think no less of yours.”

“That’s the kindest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” I said in wonderment, and Richard shook his head.

“What a blind idiot I’ve been, and Darcy too. We accepted what my aunt told us without asking you.” He glanced at my arms. “Thornely will not touch you tomorrow. I shall see to it.”

“My mother...” I half-sobbed, fearing somehow that she would stop him. “She’ll throw you out...”

“She can try,” Richard said darkly. “But unless she’s hiding an expert swordsman somewhere among her staff, no one will pass that door without my permission.” He gestured, and I saw his cavalry sword lying unsheathed on the table beside the door. “No, Anne, they’ll not evict me from this room tonight, and by tomorrow reinforcements will be here.”

Charlotte arrived then with Sanderson. It seemed clear that he had given her merely enough time to toss on her cloak and a bonnet, and she looked very windblown and startled. Richard drew her aside and spoke in a voice too low even for me to hear, and Charlotte’s lips tightened to a thin line.

“I wondered,” was all she said. “You can rely on me, Colonel. Lady Catherine can do what she will to my husband but I’ll not be party to such as that.” And she came walking over to me, stopping to look at my arms and shaking her head, and then stooping to give me a hug that surprised me utterly.

“Come, my dear. You need to rest. The Colonel guarantees your safety.”

I nodded, too full of the best food I had tasted in years and drunk on brandy to argue, and stood to follow her. Charlotte tucked me into a wide, comfortable bed I had just enough wit left to realise must be Richard’s, and sat beside me, holding my hand. “I’ll stay right here,” she promised softly as she saw me fighting to keep my eyes open. “I won’t leave you. I promise.”

And because she was Elizabeth’s friend, I trusted her. I closed my eyes and slept.

21 March

Charlotte told me afterwards what happened while I slept. Mrs Jenkinson had searched the house, seen Charlotte being escorted to Richard’s rooms, and demanded entry. When Richard refused, she accused him of kidnapping me—and worse. I could scarcely believe she thought him capable of it.

Mother arrived back in the middle of the row and, once she understood what was going on, joined in. Richard merely stood in front of the door, which he had ordered Sanderson to lock from the inside, and refused her entry. He accused her of attempting to murder me so that she could have Rosings! The accusation enraged her so much that she swooned, and the staff and Mrs Jenkinson were much occupied getting her to her rooms.

I did wake at dawn, and could not sleep again, so I borrowed a charcoal pencil from my cousin’s bedside table, slipped my dear diary from the little pouch about my waist where I keep it, and wrote down as much as I could remember of the happenings of the day. Charlotte had indeed not left me, she lay asleep on the bed beside me, and when I opened the door to the sitting-room stealthily I found Richard asleep on the floor in front of the bedroom door and Sanderson in front of the door to the hallway.

An hour past dawn, Charlotte stirred and sat up. She looked across the room and saw me sitting by the window. “Anne,” she said, a first for her, because always before I had been Miss de Bourgh, “are you well?”

“I’m hungry,” I admitted.

“I’ll get you some food. I’ll make it with my own hands, I promise. The Colonel told me last night, everything that’s been happening. I’m so sorry.” She pressed her fingers against mine for a moment, and was gone. I heard her speaking to Richard and Sanderson in the other room.

Charlotte returned with tea, buttered bread, honey, and a coddled egg and some ham. She insisted I eat every bite, refusing to share. “I’ll get myself something later. I’ve not been starved for years, and certainly I could stand to lose some weight!” She laughed slightly and patted ample hips.

“The Colonel – and Sanderson...”

“That Sanderson strikes me as a very resourceful type,” Charlotte said, a note of respect in her voice. “I’ve no doubt he’s already found some rations for himself and for Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

I let Charlotte put more honey on my bread. No one made me drink anything that turned my stomach.

At mid-morning there was the sound of horses outside. Richard came into the bedroom, excusing himself, to look from that window because it had a view of the drive.

“Spears, and he’s brought a troop of four men with him,” he called to Sanderson. “Go and bring the good doctor up.”

“I don’t want a doctor!” It was an instinctive reaction, and I pressed against the wall, trying to get away. Richard turned to me, his brow furrowed in concern, and took my hands in his.

“Anne, Spears treated me when I was wounded in Spain. Sanderson too. I have seen men recover under his care whom others had given up for dead.” Richard waited until I looked at him. “He will not bleed you. I shall stay while he examines you.”