Chapter 15

Fifteen

Saturday, April 18

The oft-forgotten sitting room had been one of Sir Lewis's favourite sanctuaries at Rosings. The de Bourgh coat of arms was proudly displayed on the far wall, and the settee and its two matching armchairs were upholstered in blue fabric with a gold fleur-de-lis design. As Lady Catherine was fond of reminding everyone, her late husband came from a respectable, honourable, and ancient line.

On that Saturday, under cover of darkness in the wee hours of morn, actively engaged in their mischief, one pilferer turned to the other. "Do you not suffer even a modicum of guilt over these ill-gotten gains?"

A scoff was heard. "No," Dubois then whispered, "not at all. Belonging to our mistress, they are not ill-gotten. Why would I suffer guilt? We commit no sinister act, no crime causing bodily harm. We are not plotting to behead the King or blow up the House of Lords."

"Heaven forfend!" cried Mrs Jenkinson, a little too loudly.

"Hush, madam," Anne hissed at the elderly woman.

The five cushions with which Mrs Jenkinson was attempting to abscond were more than she could manage. Repeatedly, she dropped one, bent to retrieve it, complained about her rheumatism, and dropped another cushion in the process.

Unseen in the dim light, Anne rolled her eyes and practised patience. Mrs Jenkinson was still supposedly her companion. Soon, though, she would be, in Dubois's words, de trop .

Stepping up, Anne reminded Dubois that her uncle sat in the House of Lords. "Do not even whisper of blowing up one of our Houses of Parliament." She supposed her abigail, having left during France's Revolution of 1789, could not help but remember her country's ruthless atrocities.

Careful not to set anything aflame with her candle, Anne stooped to admire the settee and armchairs with all their gold-thread embroidery. How I wish pieces of furniture were more portable!

Softly saying, "Tassels! Tassels!" and bouncing from foot to foot, Anne's lady's maid pointed towards the curtains. With all that moving about, her candle flickered and extinguished.

Anne peered into the dark depths of the room. "Excellent, Dubois."

The abigail relit her candle from Anne's before fetching her scissors.

It is just as well the colonel departed when he did. Dubois had an admiring eye for not only Colonel Fitzwilliam's person but for his uniform's golden epaulettes.

Still, Anne was grateful to her maid. As a remedy for the ennui to which her mistress had succumbed earlier that year, Dubois had introduced parfilage , as it was known in her country. When the pastime reached England's shores, it was named drizzling. Stripping metallic threads from textiles caused tiny flecks of gold or silver to fall—like drops of drizzle—from their core of silk or linen.

Once popular with France's aristocracy, parfilage gave ladies the opportunity to exhibit graceful, elegant hand movements while picking precious threads from fabrics. In Anne's case, drizzling began as a lark but soon became an addiction.

"Well, ladies," she whispered as they gathered round. "Five cushions and a handful of tassels—a worthy yield for one night's work. I believe we now have all the thread I need to finish my creation." That clever idea had come about on the same day Anne had met Miss Elizabeth Bennet and noticed the formal drawing room's aureate cornice with its golden curves, spirals, and flourishes.

Guiding her accomplices out of the sitting room and up the staircase, Anne was sorry their lark was coming to an end. Although it all started as a harmless frolic with which to amuse themselves, she had learnt something useful in the process. She finally could proclaim herself an accomplished woman. Alas, no one other than Dubois and Mrs Jenkinson had witnessed her astounding feats of dexterity. Soon, though, others will see how gracefully and skilfully I have used my hands.

Only two days then remained until her twenty-first birthday, the celebratory ball, her surprise for a certain gentleman, and what would be shocking announcements for her mother.

Freedom and adventure were within sight. Giddiness increased apace.

So agitated by the promise of happiness, she scarcely could contain an urge to dash up the stairs and skip gaily along the halls.

Patience was not Anne's forte.

In a tiny sewing room while morning light shone upon the forgotten needlework on Anne's lap, she and Mrs Jenkinson listened enraptured as Dubois told them about the ‘Field of Cloth of Gold'.

In June 1520, Henry VIII met France's Fran?ois I in an attempt to ease the conflict between the rival kingdoms. With each monarch striving to outshine the other, the occasion became a magnificent spectacle with temporary pavilions, jousting, music, feasts, pageantry, and glittering tents and clothing of expensive fabrics woven with silk threads of silver and gold.

At least Anne listened to the splendour of it all while Mrs Jenkinson dozed by the fire. It was little wonder the elderly woman slumbered, considering their early morning ransacking of Sir Lewis's old sitting room.

The ballroom would not be quite so splendorous as a field of gold cloth, but Lady Catherine was sparing no expense to impress her guests and ensure their envy. Let her. Most likely, it will be the last time my mother—or Rosings Park, for that matter—hosts such an event.

Despite her grumblings to the contrary, Anne was fond of her mother. However, on the Fitzwilliam side of her family—with the exception of the colonel—there was an inherent arrogance she could not endure. And she supposed Darcy had inherited the same from his mother.

The de Bourghs, however, were neither titled nor did they feel in any way entitled. Instead of being imperious, they were fun-loving, adventuresome people. Anne missed them all. And, unfortunately, she was the last of that line of de Bourghs. It would end with her, as she was unwilling to have children of her own. It was not her intention to become maudlin that morning, however. Recollecting herself, she picked up the abandoned needle and resumed stitching while across the way Dubois added embroidery to another garment.

Lady Catherine had not seen her daughter's full-dress gown since witnessing its last fitting, a painful experience Anne still remembered well. Showing an abhorrent lack of respect, Dubois—miffed for some reason or other—had pricked her not once but several times with her nasty little pins. I suppose I should be thankful it was not a guillotine.

Anne assumed her mother still took for granted that the full-dress gown was the same pale, wholesome, unadulterated, bespoke garment they had commissioned in London months prior during a horrendous winter excursion. While the gown retained its modesty with no striking resemblance to Brinton's depiction, Dubois had altered it to better flatter Anne's small frame. And the trim she worked onto it perfectly matches my eyes—at least according to my dear maid. Daily, they prayed Lady Catherine would not demand another peek at the gown before the ball.

Having just then finished embellishing the robe, Dubois offered to lend her expertise to the item her employer was fashioning. Anne thanked her but declined. The work must be mine and mine alone. She was, quite literally, working her fingers to the bone to complete the garment.

Besides, Dubois had only a few days in which to add her magic to Miss Bennet's gown.

Time had grown short, and since most of those invited would not travel on the Lord's day, houseguests might start arriving at any moment, and her ladyship would expect Anne downstairs to receive them.

Making rapid stitches, she stabbed herself. A ruby-red droplet of blood beaded on the pad of her thumb. Staring at it, Anne grew lightheaded and clammy.

"Dubois, do fetch the salts. Everything is going quite…white. I fear I am going to…"