Anne's Adversity Read online

  Anne’s Adversity

  The Cousins Series: Book 2

  Jennifer Joy

  “Anne’s Adversity: A Pride & Prejudice Variation”

  The Cousins Series: Book 2

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without permission in writing from its publisher, Jennifer Joy.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Jennifer Joy

  Facebook: Jennifer Joy

  Twitter: @JenJoywrites

  Email: [email protected]

  For access to bonus chapters, sign up for my Historical Romance New Release Newsletter!

  Copyright © 2015 Jennifer Joy

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9962310-2-2

  For my dreamy-eyed little boy.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Thank you!

  About the Author

  Other Books by Jennifer Joy

  BONUS MATERIAL

  Chapter 1

  Rosings, Early March 1812

  Anne de Bourgh stared at the letter she held in her trembling hands.

  “How did you get this?” she asked Molly, their newest addition to the housekeeping staff. Molly wrung her hands in her apron and hung her head.

  “Come, Molly. You have nothing to fear from Miss Anne. After all the effort it took to convince Lady Catherine to take you on, do not think Miss Anne would let you go so easily,” said Nancy, Anne’s maid.

  What Nancy said was true. Anne had found Molly a couple months ago. It was one of those cloudless winter days when the promise of sunshine lured residents outside. Tired of being cooped up in the house, Anne had taken her pony and cart for a drive. As she neared Hunsford, the rectory on Mother’s estate, she caught sight of the girl nearing the parish. She looked to be about fifteen years of age. Anne watched as she hid behind a bush outside the garden.

  Anne did not want to startle her, so she slowed her horse and spoke to it out loud. “You troublemaker, Puck. Must I bribe you with an apple on every outing?” She pulled out a shiny, red apple and held it up. Out of the corner of her eye, she checked for movement in the bush.

  Puck would have to receive his treat later. The girl’s hunger drew her out and Anne asked where she was going. The girl’s name was Molly. She had escaped from an overcrowded orphanage and was looking for work. Unlike most girls in her circumstances, she knew how to read. Anne did not have the heart to tell Molly that the ability she was so proud of would prevent her from entering into service. Most households frowned upon educated servants, believing them to be more rebellious. Her mother was no different.

  But, Mother’s last maid had left in a hurry. Mother went through too many maids for Anne’s memory and her reputation of being impossible to please prevented her from finding a prompt replacement. Still…

  Anne explained the position and Mother’s character in the short drive back to Rosings. Molly agreed at once, thrilled to be given such an opportunity. Better to have a full belly and a safe, warm place to sleep than starve in the cold outside.

  After sneaking her in downstairs for a good scrub and a change of clothes, Anne began her campaign to hire Molly. And now, with Molly standing before her, Anne understood another reason families preferred not to hire literate servants. They might stumble upon a secret.

  Anne waited for Molly to speak, still stunned with what the girl had discovered.

  She was happy that Nancy had approached her while she was seated at her writing desk, sketching away. Had Anne not been sitting, she might have fallen to the floor. Her limbs felt numb.

  Stepping forward with her hands extended, Molly pleaded, “I know it was impertinent of me to read the addresses of the letters. I had been told to leave Her Ladyship’s desk untouched, but until today, it was always closed. When I saw it open, I assumed it was left thus for me to dust. I know I shall lose my position over this. I beg your pardon, Miss Anne, but when I saw the letter addressed from your father, I could not remain silent. Perhaps it is because I am an orphan and long to hear anything about my own family that made me act so impulsively.” Molly spoke of Mother in the same exalted way the rest of the household staff did.

  Anne empathized with the girl. She had never known her father, Sir Lewis de Bourgh. As far as she knew, he had died six months before her birth from poor health. It was a fact she had shared with Molly on their first meeting to put her at ease.

  The letter, still clenched in her hands, was dated 1786. She was born in 1785— six months before the letter was penned; six months after her father’s funeral. Full realization of what she held in her hands took her breath away and Anne had to remind herself to breathe. How could her father pen a message after his death?

  Nancy spoke. “Molly came to me directly and told me of the letter. It was not until she mentioned the date of it that I thought to bring it to your attention.”

  Anne closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Nancy was not only her maid, but had become a good friend and confidante over the years. She, of anyone, would know what this meant to Anne. Mother avoided speaking of Father. Anne had learned that it was best not to ask.

  “Thank you, Molly. What you did was very wrong and any house would see you immediately to the door—” Anne stopped when she looked at the girl. Molly stood still, with her head up and her eyes looking directly at Anne. But her chest heaved up and down with her sporadic breaths and her eyes shined with tears which would undoubtedly fall the moment she left Anne’s room. She did not need more reproof than she had heaped upon herself. She needed some kindness. “— but I will do my best to help you when this comes to Mother’s attention. Nothing goes unnoticed by her, but I promise that your name shall not cross my lips as regards this communication. We will do our best to keep this a secret.”

  Nancy nodded her agreement and Molly relaxed her stance ever so slightly.

  “Now, you had best hurry about your work and forget about this. If Her Ladyship sees so much as a speck of dust on her stair banister, she will send you packing— letter or no letter,” admonished Nancy.

  Molly curtsied and left the room.

  As soon as Nancy closed the door behind the girl, Anne put her face in her hands and wept. She had never felt such a mixture of emotion as at that moment. Anger, sadness, hope… A million questions flooded her mind and the only person who could answer them was also the one person who would refuse to talk. Mother.

  “Miss Anne, I am so sorry you had to find out like this. But, it is very possible that your father is still alive.”

  It took some time, but eventually Anne’s sobs calmed.

  Now that the initial shock of the moment had passed, Anne picked up the letter which had fallen onto her lap and read it again.

  Fe
bruary 5, 1786

  Paris

  Catherine,

  I do not address you ‘My Dearest’ for we both know the truth. I cannot help but feel that you will be happier with my departure even though my aim these past six years was always to make you happy. Alas, I have failed. So, I will withdraw in such a way to leave my estate and fortune to you. Perhaps you will appreciate them more in my absence.

  Arrangements were made with a doctor in Brighton. He will attest to my sudden passing and will ensure all the proper legalities are seen to. He is trustworthy. I have taken great care to disguise my identity so that you may avoid any scandal.

  It is a pity we have come to this. You may think me a coward, but living with you would have killed me before long and I choose to live. We have no children and for this I thank God. Children deserve a safe haven in a home and I have grown to loathe Rosings. Mostly, I despise myself and the man I have become.

  So, Catherine, it is all yours to do with as you please. I hope it brings you happiness. As soon as I find somewhere suitable to settle, I shall send you an address should you need it or, dare I say, desire to write.

  I remain yours in name only,

  Attentively,

  Sir Lewis de Bourgh

  Clutching the yellowed letter to her chest, Anne tried to imagine what her parents’ relationship had been like. Had they been in love? Had they been happy at one time?

  There was a portrait painting of Father and Mother in the sitting room. The artist had exaggerated Mother’s features so much, she appeared to be a pleasant person with full, rosy cheeks and a wide smile. Anne had never seen Mother smile, so she doubted the portrait represented them well.

  Is he still alive? Could he really have been that weak? I can see how Mother could drive a man past his limits. What would he look like? Do I resemble him? I certainly do not resemble Mother very much. Why was this kept from me?

  Interrupting her thoughts, Nancy said, “It is almost time to dine. Would you like to wear your green satin with lace or the blue with gold tassels?” Nancy held the dresses up as she described them.

  Anne wished she could dress in the simpler frocks she saw the townswomen wear. The frills and fluff on the dresses her mother chose made her feel smaller than she already was. She felt like an overdressed child. I am a woman of seven and twenty. I should be able to choose my own gowns.

  Anne’s thoughts must have summoned the great lady. Three staccato knocks sounded at her door and Mother entered without invitation. Seeing Nancy standing there with the dresses in her hands, she promptly walked over and felt the fabric of the blue gown. “Hmm. You will wear the blue tasseled dress, Anne. The green does nothing to compliment your complexion.”

  That decision taken away from her, Anne sat and fumed. Why did you have it made if you did not like it? You probably never let Father choose his own stockings. Yet, as was her custom, Anne remained silent.

  She had spent a lifetime holding her tongue. Her mother, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, believed that children should be seen and not heard. If Anne had any opinions of her own, she did not know them. Mother’s opinions were law in the de Bourgh household and nobody dared go against them. Not even Anne.

  The paper crinkled under her hand, reminding Anne that she held something precious.

  “What is that?” demanded Mother.

  Anne’s heart pounded in her chest. She could not lose her father’s letter yet.

  “Just an old letter. I was arranging my writing desk when you came in.” She flung the letter face down on top of her unfinished sketch on the writing table and did her best to look bored.

  “You should take better care of your letters,” Mother counseled.

  “I will. Did you need something or did you just come to pick out my gown for dinner?” Anne asked. She was horrified to hear the edge in her own voice. She swallowed hard and looked down at the floor.

  “I do not appreciate your triteness, Anne. I came to inform you that Fitzwilliam will arrive tomorrow. He is coming to propose and I want you to discuss a London wedding in June. The weather is perfect at that time of year and all of the fashionable families will still be in town. That is all. I expect you in the dining room in an hour.” With that, she turned and left the room.

  Anne sat in silence while Nancy laid the blue dress on top of Anne’s dressing screen. When she had finally chewed one paper-thin nail down to a stub, she made herself stop. She looked down at her hands. Only one thumbnail remained that had not been bitten down to the quick. Once again, Anne felt completely out of control of her own life. And her fingers were ugly to boot.

  She looked at her writing desk. Her father’s letter had landed on top of a book of poetry full of sonnets she had never seen brought to life in the theater because her poor health prevented it. Treatment after treatment had not appeased the general malaise Anne felt day in and day out.

  Anne reached out and touched the letter with her fingertips, wishing she could escape like Father had.

  And just like that, an idea formed. Anne could not speak her mind, but maybe words were not necessary.

  “Nancy, please lay the green dress out. I choose lace over tassels tonight.”

  Nancy froze in place, her mouth open in disbelief. “Are you sure, Miss?”

  “Yes, I am quite sure. This letter means that my father might still be alive and I aim to find out tonight.” Anne’s words sounded confident, though she trembled inside.

  Changing quickly, she checked her reflection in the mirror. The dark green was not as becoming as the blue would have been, but she had a point to prove. The color, in fact, reminded Anne very much of the green curtains in the dining hall. But, she was a grown woman and able to make decisions on her own— especially such a trifle thing as choosing her own gown for dinner.

  The letter remained on top of the desk. Anne thought to take it with her but, on second thought, she shoved it between several cushions on a couch in the corner of her room by her door. She did not know fully how valuable it was, but it felt powerful to her and she did not want it out of her sight until she learned more about Father.

  “Be brave, Miss Anne,” said Nancy before opening the door.

  Anne nodded and faked a smile. Then, she walked down the hall and descended the stairs.

  “Be determined. Be strong. Be brave,” she repeated to herself in rhythm with each step.

  Chapter 2

  “You do not have much of an appetite. Are you ill?” asked Mother at the table.

  Dinner had not started out well. Mother did not take kindly to Anne’s small rebellion and Anne began to doubt the wisdom of her plan. How in the world did she expect to get Mother to talk— when she avoided the topic like the plague— by wearing a gown that neither she nor Mother liked?

  Anne moved her boiled potatoes around the delicate china plate. She never had enjoyed a healthy appetite and often wondered how others could find such pleasure in food. Of course, she had been on a restrictive diet consisting mostly of bone tea since she could remember.

  Mother looked at her expectantly, so Anne bit the dry potato and started chewing. At least she did not have to talk if her mouth was full. It tasted like sawdust and seemed to grow in her mouth. It took several drinks of water before she could swallow.

  How can I tell her what I know? I need to say something, but how?

  The longer Anne waited, the more difficult conversation became. Her determination weakened with each passing minute.

  “Anne, if you will not eat then might I suggest you take some bone tea in your room.” It was not a question so much as a direct order. Mother signaled a servant, who would go to the kitchen to ask Cook to prepare the vile broth.

  Anne forced down another potato. Perhaps if she were allowed some of the cream sauce it would go down easier.

  Dabbing her mouth with a napkin, Anne took a deep breath and said, “Mother, there is something of great importance I wish to ask you about.”

  Mother looked up from her clean plate, eyebrows
raised.

  “I would like to know about Father.”

  “Your father died before you were born. His health became very poor after we married.” It was the same answer Mother had recited to her and everyone else over the years.

  “That is what I have been told. Is there no small chance that… perhaps…” How to say it? Anne’s eyes wandered about the room, searching for the right words. She was glad she did for she nearly overlooked the presence of the servants. Mother would never talk while they were present.

  “Speak up, Anne. An accomplished lady speaks her mind with the utmost tact and understanding.”

  Mother’s words were an insult to Anne. She was very aware of her lack of accomplishments and inability to speak her mind. How did Mother expect her to speak up when she had been raised to be silent? How could she expect Anne to be accomplished, when her efforts had never been good enough?

  Mother’s words ignited a small fire in Anne which gave her just the amount of courage she needed.

  She felt Mother’s interest grow when she dismissed the servants from the room.

  “What I want to know is if there is any possibility that Father might still be alive.”

  “No,” Mother answered before Anne could even pronounce her last syllable. “What nonsense. What would make you think Sir Lewis could be alive when he has been dead these twenty-seven years?”

  “I found something…” Anne felt her bravery seeping away from her as her mother seemed to grow taller in her chair.