Catherine paused, trying to remember, after all those years, how she had felt about the two boys and found herself remembering also her changing impressions of Frank Burnett. As the memories returned, she recalled how it had been….he had always been kind and gentlemanly towards her, friendly and concerned, but never presuming upon the acquaintance. There had been, however, at some point in their friendship, a subtle change in her own feelings about him. She tried to recall when she had started to regard him as more than the friend and mentor he had been over many years. Catherine's diaries did record some alterations in her attitude to him, even as she documented his changing role in Lady Catherine's household.
From being the librarian, who confined himself and his activities to the East Wing of the house, he had gradually become increasingly involved in advising Lady Catherine on other matters: where certain artworks should be hung to be shown to best advantage, how best to have a picture framed or a valuable object mounted for display… Her Ladyship clearly valued his advice on all of these questions. She regarded Mr Burnett as an expert for whose services she was paying and whose advice she was entitled to use.
To Catherine, however, it appeared that there was rather more involved—she thought she detected some respect in Lady Catherine's attitude to Mr Burnett for his knowledge and skill and she'd had no difficulty following Her Ladyship's lead.
He comes more often to dinner now and not only when he is invited to help with entertaining a distinguished guest. In truth, it seems he always dines with us on Sundays. Lady C likes to have company on Sunday evening, and Mr Burnett obliges her, I think.
Sometimes, he will call with a couple of books, which he believes I might enjoy, and then he stays to tea. If Her Ladyship is feeling tired and has not come downstairs, we take tea in the small sitting room overlooking the park and read from the books he has brought. Yesterday, we read from my favourite, Keats's "Endymion." Such beauty and such sadness.
As well as his generosity and kindness, Catherine had obviously appreciated also Mr Burnett's well-informed and discerning mind.
I must confess I owe a great deal of my enjoyment and knowledge of literature to Mr B. because without his excellent judgment and discriminating taste, I should be floundering in a sea of words, unable to tell greatness from mediocrity, not knowing which composition was best.
He is so well read and has such a good understanding of all matters pertaining to books and writing it is quite amazing—but then I suppose it is only to be expected—he is after all a librarian, whose livelihood is made from his knowledge of books and their writers. So, in truth, I ought not be surprised. Yet I am, having met not one other person with such clear comprehension and passionate appreciation of so many wonderful books in my small circle of acquaintances. He is so knowledgeable—talking to him about a book or a poem is like entering a closed, darkened room and throwing open the shutters to let the light into every nook and corner of it and seeing it all illuminated.
So absorbed was she in reliving her impressions and remembering the days that had been, that sleep eluded her completely and she read on until the small hours of the morning and then fell into a deep sleep, from which she was awakened only when her maid came in with her tea and drew back the curtains to reveal the day.
***
A few days later, Mr Burnett called at the Dower House.
He had returned from town and brought with him the framed sketches, he said. Catherine was delighted. She invited him to stay to tea and they spent some time looking at and admiring the work of the craftsman as well as the sketches, which, now being mounted and framed, showed to best advantage.
Then he had to leave but promised to return with a workman from Rosings who would hang the framed pictures for her in the places she had chosen.
Before leaving, he asked if she was missing Lilian.
"I am indeed," she replied and told him of the disconcerting silence in the house and how she had been driven to read half the night in order to fall asleep.
"I fear I shall soon run right out of books and then I shall not sleep at all," she said with a light laugh. She did not mention the notebooks and their contents at all.
On the morrow, he arrived with a workman and an armful of books, which he thought she would enjoy.
"I cannot promise you that they will cure insomnia, but I am quite sure they will occupy your mind until you are ready to sleep. Two of them are by a young woman—Charlotte Brontë—who would have been about your age, had she lived. Sadly, she, like her two sisters, died too early."
"Like Keats and Shelley?" she asked on an impulse.
"Indeed, exactly like the poets, but sadly with less recognition of their talent," he replied and she wondered if he had remembered their earlier discussions of the two poets, but he said nothing more.
Catherine could not wait to look at the books he had brought. They included Miss Brontë's first novel, The Professor, and her most famous, Jane Eyre.
That evening, she dined early and went upstairs determined to read them; they should have held her interest, yet they did not engross her as had the diaries, which night after night had taken her on a long journey into her past, into the days when she had been as carefree as it was possible for a young woman in her early twenties to be—before her life became serious again.
She had recorded, too, many of the important occasions in the life of her extended family. Early in 1835, she had written:
Two big surprises, one sad: Emily Gardiner's husband, Paul Antoine, who was afflicted with tuberculosis, has died in Italy, just like the poet Keats. The other—well, it must be happy, because our Amelia-Jane is to marry Jonathan Bingley! She is only sixteen but he must love her very much and I hope they will be very happy. Jonathan is such a fine gentleman and soon to be a member of Parliament, too!
Becky is also toying with the idea of becoming engaged—she writes that the publisher of the Matlock Review, Mr Anthony Tate, has made her an offer, but she has not made up her mind whether to accept him. Is that not just like Becky? But then, I do not know Mr Tate at all. I confess I had thought that Becky liked Jonathan very much, but I was probably mistaken. If she weds Mr Tate, that leaves just me.
In the course of that same year, Catherine's feelings towards Mr Burnett had changed imperceptibly, in subtle ways even she had not recognised.
It had begun with their journey to Derbyshire for the funerals of Edward Fitzwilliam and William Darcy. His sincere desire to comfort and console her, without in any way taking advantage of her vulnerability, had created between them a bond of trust and confidence, which had greatly increased her feelings of esteem for him.
Afterwards, she had begun to notice certain changes in tone and exchanges of looks between them, of unexpected laughter and inexplicable silences, when there had been no need for words. Gradually, these impressions and the deeper feelings that flowed from them had begun to engross her thoughts and occupy most of her waking hours.
Still, she had not allowed herself to slide into fantasy, refusing to believe and even less to put into words what most other young women of her age would have rushed to embrace—that a personable gentleman some years her senior was falling in love with her.
Early in the Spring of 1836, her words were clear:
I seem to be thinking of Mr Burnett a lot of the time I am alone. I cannot explain it. When I ought to be reading the books he has brought me or practising my music with greater perseverance, my mind returns to him. I have no sensible explanation for this phenomenon unless, I wonder—is it possible that I am falling in love with him?
Oh dear, this is difficult—whatever would Lady C say? And Mama? Should I write to her and tell her of it? But what is there to say? How shall I describe what I feel? He has said nothing to me that I can relate—there has been no offer of marriage… no profession of love… so what will I tell Mama? A look… a smile… a kindness? Are all these part of falling in love, or are they mere manifestations of friendship?
Never havi
ng been in love before, I cannot rightly say what this means. But I do know that I have not thought so often or so well of any other gentleman of my acquaintance, as I do of him. His gentle goodness as well as his remarkable learning set him apart from every other man I know.
Many years later, Catherine's cheeks burned as she read her words and recalled with startling clarity how she had felt at the time.
She remembered also what had followed thereafter.
She put away the notebooks and dowsing the light, retired to bed. This time sleep came swiftly.
***
The following day was wet and cold and not conducive to walking out or any other occupation which required leaving the warmth and comfort of one's home. Sitting by the fire in the parlour, Catherine determined to complete her reading of Charlotte Brontë's The Professor.
She had begun to read it several nights ago and found the inclusion of so many French words and phrases into the dialogues vexing. (Catherine's French had never been as good as Becky's—at her father's urging, she had studied Latin more earnestly instead.) Yet, she was determined to press on, knowing Mr Burnett would surely ask for her opinion of the novel.
As the tale progressed, however, she was drawn into the story of the Englishman in Belgium and his young Swiss wife, Frances Henri, and she was glad she had persevered, for the passionate young heroine was a teacher, whose love for her beloved professor was matched equally by her burning desire to teach and educate the young. With his help, she sets up a school, at which point Catherine cheered up considerably.
If Miss Brontë's heroine could start a school and run it successfully, so could she. She decided then and there that she would write to Mr Darcy and Jonathan Bingley and ask for their support.
She wondered what Mr Burnett would say to that!
So taken was she with the idea, she set aside her book and brought out her writing desk; inspired by the enthusiasm of Miss Brontë's heroine, she began to draft her appeal, looking for the most persuasive words she could think of to put her plan to Mr Darcy.
The arrival of the post interrupted her thoughts.
Two letters were delivered, one from Lilian and the other from Mr Adams, who, it appeared from the postmark, was still in France. Curiosity on this occasion overcame even maternal affection and she opened the latter first. What could Mr Adams have to say to her?
His letter consisted of two finely written pages. Catherine was struck by the elegance of his composition and language, as well as the modesty of his manner. It contained a simple offer of marriage for her daughter Lilian.
He was requesting Catherine's permission to propose to Lilian, for whom he professed a deep and sincere love. He claimed that he had not felt able to speak earlier, although his affection for the young lady had been increasing over the past year, because his prospects, despite his title of curator, were not much above those of a clerk in terms of income.
Now, however, following the disposition of his late mother's estate, he was to inherit one third of her property and the whole of his father's wine business, which was a very successful enterprise, bringing him a regular income.
He therefore felt able, he said, to ask for Miss Lilian's hand in marriage, knowing he could provide for her a life of reasonable comfort, while yet continuing his work at Rosings, which he greatly enjoyed. It would mean also that Lilian would live in close proximity to her mother, which he assumed would be a matter of satisfaction to both ladies.
Catherine was still sitting in the parlour, with Lilian's letter lying unopened in her lap, when the door bell rang, and soon afterwards, the maid admitted Mr Burnett. Catherine was a little flustered at his arrival and wondered if she should confide in him and let him see Mr Adams's letter. After all, she thought, he must know the gentleman quite well, having worked together for several months.
But she decided against it and proceeded instead to tell him she had almost finished reading The Professor and related with some degree of excitement her decision to write to Mr Darcy and Jonathan Bingley, asking for their support for the school she wished to establish at Hunsford.
Seeing a degree of bewilderment upon his countenance, she explained.
"There is a great need here for education, Mr Burnett, especially for young girls, who on this estate and the adjacent villages have no encouragement to do other than enter domestic service or work on the hop fields and orchards as casual labourers. Both Mr Darcy and Jonathan Bingley have, on their own estates, promoted the extension of parish schools to provide some education for the children of the district. I propose to ask for their assistance to start a similar school here at Rosings. My late husband Dr Harrison was keen for us to open such a school, but Lady Catherine would not allow it. I feel the time is right to try again. You seem astonished, Mr Burnett, what do you think of my plan?" she asked.
Frank Burnett admitted to being surprised.
"I confess I did not think, when I brought you Miss Brontë's book to read, that it would lead you so firmly in this direction, but I am not unsympathetic to your plan. I value learning more than anything; my life would have been very different had I not received a sound and comprehensive education, and I am well aware that any man or woman who wishes to improve his or her station in life must seek to learn."
Catherine smiled. "Then you do not think it is some silly scheme of mine, which will not stand up to scrutiny?" She looked at him, willing him to say no, and when he said, "Indeed I do not, Mrs Harrison. There is nothing silly about the idea of a school," she was delighted.
"Thank you, I am so very pleased to hear you say that. May I convey your opinion to Mr Darcy? I was just composing a letter to him when you arrived."
He smiled and said he did not know if his opinion would count for much with Mr Darcy, but did not discourage her from submitting it.
"I would have no objection at all, if you wished to do so," he said.
"I do, I am sure it would carry much weight with him," she replied, adding, "Indeed, I would be grateful if you would help me complete my letter. I intend to lose no time—it shall be in the post tomorrow."
Though a little surprised to be asked, he agreed and together they composed the letter to Mr Darcy, which she hoped would help fulfil her dearest wish.
Frank Burnett could see that Catherine would benefit considerably from her involvement in such a project. It would take her right out of her domestic environment and give her solid responsibilities and specific duties, which would absorb and extend her mind as well as occupy her time. He had sensed her frustration at having no particular role to play in the community, now she was no longer the parson's wife.
While he had little knowledge of the details of running a school, he was confident Catherine's project was worth supporting and not only because it would surely bring her great satisfaction. His own life experience had instilled in him an unshakable belief in the value of learning, which where he grew up had not been easy to acquire. Mrs Harrison's plan for a school, he had no doubt, would make a material difference to the lives of young women in the community around Rosings Park.
Later, after he had left, taking with him the letters, which he promised to take to the post on the morrow, Catherine went upstairs. Once in the privacy of her room, she read again the carefully worded proposition of Mr Adams. Then setting it aside, she opened up Lilian's note.
It was brief and written on highly perfumed notepaper, which quite took her breath away. No doubt, she thought, this is another of Becky's little extravagances, hoping Lilian would not become too attached to her aunt's style of living.
Lilian wrote:
Dearest Mama,
This must be only a short note, because Aunt Becky says we must hurry out to the dressmaker's. I am to have a fitting for a new gown, which I am to wear on Saturday night to a supper party at the home of Lady Ashton. (Apparently none of my gowns will do!)
Lady Ashton is a friend of my aunt and since we have been in London, this is the third occasion upon which we have been invited t
o her residence— that is if you do not count the first time, when we called on her in the middle of the day. (Lady Ashton does not rise and come downstairs until half past ten or thereabouts, Aunt Becky says).
Catherine, an early riser, raised her eyebrows at this piece of information
and read on.
I am not so sure that I shall enjoy this supper party on Saturday; the last
time we were invited, there was something of a fuss, because I really did not
wish to go at all. I had been with Aunt Becky the previous night to a soirée at
which they were quite determined to make me sing and I refused, because I had
not brought any music with me and did not like to make some silly mistake
that would make me look stupid.
Recollections of Rosings Page 12
