Catherine listened, fascinated; she had had no inkling of this aspect of Mr Burnett's family. No one had told her, when he had worked at Rosings as a librarian all those years ago, who his parents were and where he came from. Nor had it ever occurred to her to ask, being so little aware of events in the wider world outside of Rosings.
The ladies withdrew, leaving Jonathan and Mr Burnett to continue their discussion and enjoy the port. Lilian, who knew how well Anna Bingley played, opened up the pianoforte and Anna was happy to oblige. By the time the gentlemen joined them for coffee, the mood had changed to one of genteel pleasure. Jonathan joined Catherine as she sat on the sofa, and they listened to the very superior playing of his wife and the rather less perfect but very acceptable performances of both Lilian and Mr Burnett, who had been persuaded to contribute their voices to entertain the company.
"I did not know Burnett could sing," said Jonathan, and Catherine smiled as she said, "Oh yes, I do believe he used to have a very fine voice, but is a little out of practice these days. We, Lilian and I, intend to work on him and persuade him to practice more often when Mr Adams is back. He sings too, you know."
Jonathan nodded. "He does indeed have a fine voice; we have heard him sing. It has a most mellow tone and excellent pitch. My wife was very impressed."
***
Two days later, Lilian left home in the company of Mr and Mrs Bingley to travel to London, where she was delivered into the welcoming arms of her aunt, Becky Tate.
Mrs Tate gathered her into an embrace.
"Oh my dear Lilian, how glad I was to receive your mama's letter saying you would come. Now, let's go upstairs and take a good look at your things; we may need to visit my dressmaker tomorrow to get you a couple of new gowns and we must shop for a hat and some gloves."
Lilian protested. "My dear aunt, I have plenty of perfectly good gowns; Mama made me bring a ball gown even though I said I did not think I would need it, and I have two very good bonnets."
Rebecca smiled as if she had not heard a word.
"Of course you are going to need a ball gown—your mama was quite right to make you bring one. But your bonnets, now, they are quite out of the question. I know them well, and while they are quite fine for walking in the woods around Rosings or trotting down to the village, you cannot be seen driving in Hyde Park wearing one of them. No matter, my love, we shall get you a more suitable hat tomorrow. Now, you must be tired after your journey; when you have rested and had some tea, we shall talk again."
Lilian could neither argue nor demur. Her aunt Becky carried all before her and later that afternoon, they were making lists of the sorts of things they were going to have to purchase on the morrow.
"Ah well," thought Lilian, "at least I shall be able to write a letter while my aunt is busy buying me all these new clothes!"
Sitting alone in her room, which overlooked a quiet street, Lilian's thoughts were all of Mr Adams and how she might contrive to send him a letter. It had been her primary purpose in accepting the invitation to come to London. She turned it over in her mind, pondering how she should write; she must suggest warmth and friendliness without appearing too eager and yet she wanted more than anything to know his feelings.
"How shall I discover them if I do not, at the very least, let him see that my own are open to engagement?" she wondered.
It was a conundrum she would take awhile to resolve.
Chapter Seven
Back at the Dower House, Catherine faced the prospect of spending several lonely evenings without her daughter.
For the first time since the death of her husband, she understood how much she had come to depend upon Lilian for company and friendship. Lilian had promised, when she said good-bye, to write regularly and tell her mother how they spent their time in London, but Catherine knew this would not be very often. Once Rebecca drew Lilian into all the varied activities she had planned for them in town, there would not be a great deal of time for letterwriting, Catherine thought.
She was usually kept quite busy through the day, but did not look forward to those long Autumn afternoons.
On the first evening, she decided to dine early and retire to her room. As night fell and the servants completed their work and retired to their rooms, the silence in the house was unsettling. She came downstairs again and went into the study to get a book, which she hoped would help occupy her thoughts. It did not and she turned to the Bible, which lay on her bedside table; that helped, but not for long.
Finally, determined she would not allow herself to be driven into a panic by loneliness, she opened the bottom drawer of her bureau and took out a pile of old notebooks, which had lain undisturbed in a cupboard under the stairs at Hunsford for many years. They had come to light again when they were disposing of the books in Mr Harrison's study and she, reluctant to consign them to the attic, had hastily gathered them up and carried them upstairs to her room. Here, she thought, was something to engage her mind.
Dating back to the days when Catherine had lived at Rosings, the old notebooks were her own diaries, which, though rather worn and faded, were filled with memories that transported her back through the years. Opening first one and then another at random, she perused quickly the entries—written at first in the round, girlish hand of a fourteen-year-old, they traced the many events of her early days at Rosings Park.
They ranged from very short sentences and scraps of information, such as:
Very cold this morning. Not even the birds are about.
The service at Hunsford church was well attended. Lady Catherine, Mrs Jenkinson, and I went in the carriage. Miss de Bourgh did not feel well enough to go out today, and Mrs J was late. Lady C was seriously displeased and said so.
It is six months since Papa's death and I do miss him, even though he did used to say quite a lot of things I did not agree with… at least he would answer my questions. I do not think I would like to ask Lady C too many questions. She may be "seriously displeased" with me, too!
Then some months later a brief note:
Wrote again to Mama today… she seems quite happily settled at Mansfield… I should very much like to visit the school there… Becky likes it too, she says she wants to write for the newspapers. Poor Amelia-Jane is not yet herself, Mama says. She misses Papa very much, which is no surprise, she was his favourite after all and always seemed to get her own way with him…
Then longer, discursive passages describing various events and important personages within the social circle of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Recollections of life at Rosings came rushing back as she read on, picking up an entry here and there from later diaries.
Lady C is not in a good mood today, even though God is in his Heaven and all seems right with the rest of the world, she had written rather irreverently.
There was a letter from Bath this morning, which must have contained some vexing news, for she has been quite grumpy all day.
Tomorrow, we are to have the honour of entertaining her cousin Lord someone or another, who is visiting from Hampshire. Cook has been warned many times that he does not enjoy fish, so she must search her repertoire for a suitable alternative for the first course!
I have been told I must practice long and hard until my playing of Mr Handel's Harmonious Blacksmith, which Lady C loves, is quite perfect! I shall try my best, of course, though there is no knowing how much of it Lord so-and-so will hear… if Lady C keeps up her usual practice of talking all through the performance!
Then, that night, a surprising entry:
Miracles do happen! Lady C spoke not a word through the entire time that
I played and His Lordship applauded heartily and said, "Well done, Miss
Collins!"
Phew!
A couple of years later, she chanced upon an interesting entry that made her smile:
We now have a librarian again at Rosings—a rather severe-looking gentleman, named Frank Burnett. He seems not in the least afraid of Lady C, whom he addresses without any of the
usual fuss as "ma'am" and she, surprisingly, does not appear to mind!
The library is open again, which means we can take books out to read, which we could not do when there was not a librarian to look after it. I am astonished at the wealth of reading available, yet Lady C hardly reads at all! Perhaps Sir Lewis de Bourgh was an avid reader—he certainly was a dedicated collector for there must be thousands of volumes here, as well as maps and charts and things!
Lady C knows very little of what is in the library. Lately she has come upon me reading and has made me read a page or two to her. But no more… I believe she is just curious to know what I read so earnestly, but is not really interested enough to read it herself.
Her Ladyship clearly approves of Mr Burnett—and not just of the work he has done to improve the library, which is quite considerable. She has asked him to join us at dinner, because we are expecting an important visitor—a Dr Halliday from Cambridge. I think she wants him to keep the great man company. I was to practice and play a piece by Schubert—Lady C does not like it much, she said, but no matter, she thinks Dr Halliday will. He did, and said so, too.
Mr Burnett also liked my playing of the Schubert composition. He seemed very much at ease in the company, and their conversation hardly ceased all evening. Lady C, who had a little snooze while the gentlemen enjoyed their port and cheese, seems very appreciative of Mr Burnett's contribution to the conversation. Perhaps his knowledge of art and literature has impressed her.
Some weeks later she had written:
Mr Burnett came again to dinner today. Lady C must approve of him. They never run out of matters to talk about when he is present. Lord Denham was here for a few days—he is Lady C's cousin.
After dinner, Lord Denham asked for the pretty song by Ben Jonson, "Drink to me only with thine eyes…" which I had learned to sing last Summer and I did not think Mr Burnett would know it. However, he joined me at the piano and we sang it as a duet, though I was a little nervous about singing and playing the accompaniment at once. I think I fudged a chord or two, but no one noticed.
Mr Burnett said it was very good and Lord Denham clapped and called out "encore," which Mr Burnett says is Italian for "once more"—but we did not oblige, because Lady C looked like she was tired and called for her maid Sarah, which is a sign that she would soon be retiring upstairs.
Mr Burnett stayed on to keep Lord Denham company, while he drank more port, no doubt. He is a great storyteller and they were talking late into the night. Sarah says Her Ladyship is somewhat displeased about the amount of port the gentlemen consume when they come to dinner!
Catherine giggled, recalling the occasion; it had been rather funny seeing both Lord Denham and Mr Burnett laughing together at matters Lady Catherine neither knew nor understood, but wanted so much to know.
As she read on into the night, Catherine was drawn deeper into the time when her life at Rosings had introduced her to people and ideas she had never dreamt of whilst at the Hunsford parsonage. From the pages of her old diaries, there emerged long-forgotten pictures of persons and occasions that had been a part of the life she had lived then, a style of life that had seen her grow from a quiet little girl in a country parsonage into an intelligent young woman, able to move in society with confidence.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh had been directly instrumental in this; her patronage had provided the scope for Catherine to discover and pursue her interests and, being a resourceful and intelligent young person, she had set out to make the best of every opportunity that Rosings and its social circle afforded her.
Keen to improve her mind, as much as to entertain herself, Catherine had been attracted to the library at Rosings. She had written enthusiastically of its collection in the Summer of 1833.
There is such a treasure store of wonderful books and things here, such as I never believed existed in England, much less in this very house. Mr Burnett has recently found me a copy of the poems of John Keats, the fine young poet who died of a dreadful disease when only twenty-six years of age—a terrible, tragic loss for England, surely.
I had read some of the poetry of Wordsworth and thought it very pretty, but Mr Burnett says Keats far surpasses him in intensity and having read his lovely Odes, "To Autumn" and "To a Nightingale," I must agree. I could not have imagined such beauty; the words seem to flow with such felicity and grace. It is perfection itself.
Later, Mr Burnett asked if I had enjoyed them. I had to confess that I had, to such an extent that I had copied them out into my notebook, so I could enjoy them again and again. He laughed and said, "I thought you would."
And in her room that night, standing by her open window, Catherine read them again and the mellifluous Odes of Keats still evoked a response in her, no less intense than they had done those many years ago.
Some of the entries were speculative…
I wonder how old Mr Burnett is. He cannot be much older than Jonathan Bingley, perhaps three or four years older at the very most… yet he seems a good deal more knowledgeable than Jonathan on several subjects but most of all about books and learning. To hear him talk with Lady Catherine's visitors, you would have to be forgiven for thinking he was a professor or something…
Later that Summer, there was much excitement.
Mr and Mrs Darcy are visiting this week and what a surprise—they have brought Mama with them. Amelia-Jane and Becky are spending the Summer at Ashford Park with the Bingleys, and Mrs Darcy thought Mama would enjoy the change.
It seems Mr Darcy arranged it all with his aunt Lady C but they kept it a secret—so as to surprise me! Which was kind indeed!
Dear Lizzie and Mr Darcy seem very happy, and their two children Cassandra and William are great favourites of Lady Catherine, especially William, who she says reminds her of her sister, Lady Anne Darcy, Mr Darcy's mother. He is a beautiful child—fair and gentle and already quite remarkably proficient at playing the pianoforte, which greatly impresses Lady C, of course.
I said I thought he will go very far if he chooses to be a musician, but Mama says it is unlikely, for William will need to prepare himself to be the Master of Pemberley one day. Cassy Darcy is very beautiful. Next year, when she is seventeen, there will be a great ball at Pemberley and Cassy will be engaged, Mama says, although she will not say to whom. I wonder who it is?
Then, in the Autumn of 1834, Catherine had recorded a terrible event.
I can hardly write… It has been such a dreadful day.
News came this morning by express from Pemberley of the death of William Darcy and his young cousin Edward Fitzwilliam in a horrific riding accident on the very day that Cassy Darcy and Richard Gardiner announced their engagement! What can be more heart-breaking?
Lady Catherine is desolated—she has not eaten all day and keeps to her room. Her maid says she will take only tea. No one knows what to do. The funerals are to be next week—I wonder, will Her Ladyship attend?
And on the morrow:
Worse news for me today! Miss Anne de Bourgh is ill and Lady C says I am to go to Pemberley and represent her at the two funerals. Oh dear God! how shall I bear it? Am I to travel alone? How shall I know where to stay? This evening Lady C said I should be ready to leave tomorrow. I will be accompanied by her personal maid Sarah, and Mr Burnett will travel with us to ensure that we get there and back in safety. We are to have the big carriage, the one with the de Bourgh crest, and we are to stay at Pemberley. I shall need mourning clothes. The gowns I had made when Papa died are all too short for me now. Besides, Lady C will insist that I wear something fine in silk, no doubt. The dressmaker has been sent for—she will have to hurry…!
On returning from Derbyshire, her words had seemed to rush out on to the page, as though eager to escape from the pain she was feeling.
It was dreadful being at Pemberley… all that beauty and so much sorrow… I do not know how I coped with the funeral; I did stay calm, but I wept all through the journey home. Each time I remembered William and Edward, I could not erase the memory
of the agony on the faces of everyone around me—Lizzie and Mr Darcy most of all, but also poor dear Caroline, who could hardly support herself for weeping, and Colonel Fitzwilliam of course, very brave, holding her throughout as she sobbed. Their Edward was only twelve years old!
Sarah was very helpful and Mr Burnett was kind and patient. On the journey home, he talked to me about the deaths of Keats and Shelley, both young—not as young as William and Edward, but gone before they could fulfil the promise of their youth, he said. Of course, he did not know either William or Edward at all, but he seemed to understand the sorrow of their families. I do believe Mr Burnett is a very kind man.
Back at Rosings, some days later, she had written:
Mr Burnett has found me a copy of "Adonais," the poem Shelley wrote for Keats. It was very kind of Mr Burnett and it is indeed a most moving piece.
Recollections of Rosings Page 11
