“Mrs Bradshaw, I am sorry, I should not have run on so, please forgive me,” he said, but it was only a momentary slip; soon she was herself again and Colin Elliott never knew, that it was not the memory of the wounded men, more the recollection of personal misery, that had assailed her at that moment.
But, as she had learned to do and successfully did on many occasions, Anne-Marie used the present to heal the past and rose, saying it was time to go back in and relieve Mrs Martin, who was watching over the children as they tossed and slept fitfully through the night.
A few other women had come in from the village and a nurse from Meryton was sent for to help. Mr Griffin had put his kitchen at their disposal and one of the women had prepared hot soup and tea, while the Rector himself, flitted in and out, saying prayers and offering words of comfort, wellintentioned but mostly ineffectual.
Charles looked weary and in need of sleep, but would not leave until Dr Faulkner came to relieve him and then only because his sister insisted that he return to Netherfield House for a bath and some dinner.
Colin Elliott waited on, reluctant to leave, even when there was little he could do. “At least let me stay until Charles returns,” he said. “You may need the carriage, if we have an emergency.”
Anne-Marie was glad of his company. Later, she returned to find him propped up against an old pew at the back of the hall, fast asleep, his cravat askew, his coat dusty. Looking at him, she smiled, feeling for the very first time a tug of affection upon her heart. It was a feeling born of gratitude perhaps, and some admiration for his tenacity and compassion, which she now knew to be genuine.
At first, when he had agreed to support the campaign for the hospital, she had thought he was doing what politicians did best, winning votes by espousing a good cause for his constituents. Yet, she had suffered no qualms about using his support, if it meant they could get the hospital built.
But over the weeks and months and especially in the last few days, she had begun to believe that he was sincerely committed to the cause and would even go as far as alienating his own father to support it. She recalled his words, as they had parted on that night after dinner at Netherfield: “I give you my word, Mrs Bradshaw, I shall not give up on this. I know how important it is to you and to this community and as your Member, I intend to fight for it.”
At the time, she had thought they were fine words and had wondered whether they would come to anything; now she believed they were sincerely spoken. Colin Elliott was clearly willing to do his best to help achieve what had now become their common goal.
Anne-Marie was particularly remorseful about the flippant remark she had made about surgery on his heart and was grateful for the magnanimity he had shown in taking no offence. Later, Anna had taken her to task for the hurtful implications of her words, and Anne-Marie had been pleased to assure her that she had apologised and the matter was settled amicably between them.
“Mr Elliott is a very gentlemanly man, Anne-Marie, and your father regards him well. He is also from a family of consequence and influence in the county. It would have been unfortunate, if there had been a falling-out between you, as a result of some thoughtless remark. I am happy it is settled.”
“Dear Anna,” she thought, “how right you are. He is indeed a very gentlemanly man; else, he would not so easily have forgiven me for my apparent impertinence.”
Mrs Martin came in with some tea for Anne-Marie, and her footsteps roused the sleeper who, seeing them, jumped to his feet in some embarrassment. In the half-light of the hall, he could not make out the time on his watch and they followed him as he stumbled out into the open. It was cold and the hot drinks were welcome.
The first tentative strands of dawn light appeared in the sky, and a few early birds had begun tuning up for their morning chorus. He ran his fingers through his hair and made some show of dusting off his coat and tying his cravat, before gratefully accepting tea in a plain rectory china cup. Having returned his cup, he thanked Mrs Martin, then addressed Anne-Marie, “Mrs Bradshaw, plainly you have had no sleep at all; will you not let me drive you home, so you can get some rest?” he asked and when she hesitated, added, “If you intend to be constantly with these children, it would be best that you get some food and rest, else you may well fall ill, too.”
She was touched by his concern for her and had to agree with the logic of his argument.
When two more women arrived to relieve those who had been with their children all night, Anne-Marie decided she would take his advice and return to Netherfield. He helped her into the carriage and drove slowly down to the main road and then on towards Netherfield House.
It was that perfectly peaceful time between darkness and dawn, usually lasting no more than a few minutes, when one is reluctant to speak above a whisper. A fine mist lay over the fields and meadows and, in the distance, the rising head of Oakham Mount was just being touched by the late rising sun.
After admiring the loveliness of the scene, they fell silent and remained so for most of the journey; it was a comfortable silence, not a strained or disconcerting one, and neither felt any pressure to break it.
When they were still some distance from Netherfield, however, he slowed the horses down to a trot and turning to her said, “Mrs Bradshaw, may I say how much I have admired what you and your brother have done here; I cannot recall another occasion on which I have seen such dedication and hard work.”
Anne-Marie smiled and, in spite of her weariness and lack of sleep, he was struck by the singular sweetness of her face.
“What else could we do, Mr Elliott? These people and their children are part of our responsibility. They, no less than the members of our immediate families, depend upon us for their livelihood and welfare. My father and grandfather have always held this to be the case, and Charles and I know of no other way to live. They have shared our joys and our sorrows; it would be unthinkable to use their labour for profit, as we do, and turn our backs on them in hard times. Do you not agree?” she asked, but in a quiet, gentle voice, not being at all didactic or argumentative.
He did and said so immediately, wanting her to understand that in expressing his appreciation, he had accepted the correctitude of the way her family dealt with their tenants.
“I most certainly do and, believe me, I envy your family’s reputation for enlightened management of your properties; unfortunately, I have only to be ashamed of mine. Even though I have never been personally involved in running my father’s estates, I almost choke at having to accept that my family’s fortunes are the result of some pretty shameful practices in the past. Even today, my father’s tenants fear him more than respect him, and in Africa and Australia, where he has vast tracts of land, the record is even worse.”
Anne-Marie shook her head and looking at him directly said, “Mr Elliott, I am aware of those matters of which you speak, but you cannot be held responsible for the sins of your father and grandfather. In your own right, I think you have clearly shown yourself to be a man of principle and compassion, and I can only applaud that. Keep to that path and you will soon feel none of that shame and guilt; it is theirs, not yours, and your own actions will help you cast off its burden.”
“Do you really believe that?” he seemed incredulous.
“Indeed, I do. We can all do what we can to right past wrongs and if, as I am sure you will, you do your part, you will soon discover that Mr Colin Elliott will be regarded as a man in his own right and not just as the son of Sir Paul Elliott, the unyielding businessman. People who know you will value you for yourself, not for your connections.”
“You are very kind; I fear I cannot believe that I will escape the opprobrium of their actions,” he said.
But she was absolutely certain.
“Mr Elliott, you can and you must, else you will spend your days bewailing your family’s guilt and doing nothing to alleviate it. I mean no disrespect to your father, but his uncaring attitude towards the children’s hospital is an example; there is an opportunit
y, which he has turned down and you have picked up. If you persevere with it and help us achieve what we have set out to do, no one will remember your father’s intransigence; they will not, however, forget his son’s tenacity and diligence in the service of his community. These are both very valuable attributes for a good local member.”
By this time, they had slowed down almost to a walk and the sun had crept up on them, slowly filling the late Autumn sky with golden light. Colin Elliott wanted to say much more but, despite the lightness in his heart, he decided this was not the time to speak. Instead he simply picked up her hand and kissed it, before saying in a quiet voice, “I thank you, Mrs Bradshaw, from the bottom of my heart,” and as they drove on, more briskly now, they met Charles Bingley on his way back to the church hall.
He slowed down as they waved to him and asked after the children. Anne-Marie leaned out to assure him that all was still well and Dr Faulkner was with them.
It was still quite early in the morning and Charles was not an early riser. Neither his sister nor Mr Elliott made mention of this fact, but they could not fail to grasp the significance of it, as he drove on.
In the course of the next week, five more children were taken ill and sadly, despite the best efforts of Drs Faulkner and Bingley and all of the hard work done by Anne-Marie and her team of mothers, who never left the children unattended for a moment, two of them, a boy aged two and a girl of five, whose parents had not recognised the seriousness of her condition, succumbed to the fever. They had tried everything they knew, but these two had been too frail and had slipped from their grasp.
Anne-Marie was devastated. Nothing, not even the gratitude of the parents who thanked her for all her hard work, could assuage her sorrow. Anna was afraid she would relapse into her previous mood of depression and tried to advise her not to attend the funerals. She was sure the sight of the little coffins would exacerbate her grief.
But, determined to support the families in death as in life, she went, as did Jonathan, Charles and Colin Elliott and many others in the neighbourhood.
In the days following, the newspapers told the story in vivid, touching words and, at the end of the week, the Council, stung by the anger of the community and the opprobrium heaped upon them by the press and public, reversed its decision. It may also have been influenced by the trenchant criticism voiced at the Council meeting by the new local member, who had angrily demanded to know how many more of the children had to die, before the Council could be persuaded to change its mind?
However, this was not generally known when the decision was announced that the Council had agreed to the establishment of a hospital for children on a piece of private land at Bell’s Field, with private money. The Council would not fund it because the Council could not control it, they said, pointing out that public funds may not be diverted to private projects, however meritorious.
Stephen Tillyard, who’d been with Mr Elliott when the decision was announced, rushed away to write it up for his paper. He had already suggested that a public trust be set up to collect funds for the hospital, promising a generous donation from his newspaper. Colin Elliott, thinking this was a capital idea, pledged that he, too, would donate money and hoped other landowners and businessmen would follow suit.
Leaving Tillyard at his office, Elliott drove on to Netherfield House to take the news to the Bingleys. Their exultation was a joy to witness, but unhappily, his was short-lived. He had barely sat down in the parlour and accepted a glass of sherry, when a messenger, who had gone first to his house and been sent on to Netherfield, brought an express from his brother. On opening it, Elliott discovered that his father had died that morning of a stroke and he was summoned home to Hoxton Park.
He had only a few minutes to tell them and accept their condolences, before it was time to leave. Seeing him go, his countenance suddenly grave, they wondered whether he had fully comprehended the implications for him, of his father’s death. It was likely, Jonathan observed, that he would not realise its full import until much later.
Jonathan and Anna, Charles and Anne-Marie attended the funeral before Charles Bingley returned to his practice in London. The grateful families of the five children in the village who had survived the fever went, too. News had got around, based on whispers from the Council clerks and, of course, a prominent article in the Herald, which told of the part played by their local MP in winning the Council’s agreement for the children’s hospital. Although nobody said a word to him, everyone knew what he had achieved and their admiration knew no bounds.
Eager to show their gratitude and demonstrate their enthusiasm, they began work at Bell’s Field even before Mr Elliott returned to Meryton. With Mr Bingley’s permission, the site was cleared of brambles and Mr Griffin was persuaded to assist with the restoration of the old graves.
When the fallen headstones were cleaned and set upright, it was discovered that they had stood over the bones of an entire family called Harlow, who had lived in the area several centuries ago, as the church register showed. A special ceremony was held and the entire village turned out for the blessing of the restored graves; it had to be said also that Mr Griffin and his little choir excelled themselves. A Mr Harlow, who still lived in Meryton, came too, having discovered the graves were those of his ancestors, of whose existence he had known nothing at all.
Colin Elliott, returning some weeks later after the completion of the formalities following his father’s death, was delighted with the progress made at Bell’s Field. When they met at the Church on Sunday, Anna Bingley invited him to join them at dinner, an invitation that was accepted with pleasure.
So much had happened and so much more was known than before that the occasion promised to be a lively one. For a start, he was to discover that his role in changing the Council’s decision was, by now, well known, since his friend, the editor of the Herald, had made it very clear that the local Member had won the day for the community. This had only served to confirm the rumours of his fiery speech in the Council, which Anne-Marie had heard word for word from the wife of Mr Briggs, the Council clerk, who had taken it all down, of course. Mrs Briggs had been effusive in her praise of him. “It was all Mr Elliott’s doing, ma’am; they say he asked to be allowed to address the council and spoke out like no other gentleman has done before,” she had said, “My Joe thought he was marvellous.”
“They thought you were wonderful, Mr Elliott. Congratulations,” said Anna, and he was overcome with embarrassment, especially when young Cathy Bingley declared innocently, “and so did Anne-Marie!” at which the lady named seemed to disappear under the table, scrabbling around for her napkin and taking quite some time to recover it.
Jonathan Bingley saved the day, when he turned the conversation to the more mundane business of money, commending Colin Elliott and Tillyard on their idea of a public trust for the hospital.
“We have already had several amounts pledged,” he said, “sums both large and small. Mr Griffin’s church group has been working hard and the people on the estates and in the town are all being very generous.”
Colin Elliott nodded. “That is good news, Mr Bingley, but unless we can get the funds together more expeditiously, we will not be ready by next Winter, when Charles tells me we can expect an epidemic of influenza.”
“Each member of my family is donating a hundred pounds,” said Jonathan, “and Anne-Marie has decided that she will donate the whole of the sum she inherited from the late Mr Bradshaw, a sum of 500 pounds, to the hospital trust.”
As he finished speaking, Mr Elliott looked up and said very quietly, “Mr Bingley, you have all been more than generous. It is now my turn, as the local Member, to make a contribution.”
He looked directly at them as they sat around the table.
“I do not think you will blame me if I say that I shudder at the very thought of going back to the Council for funds, to flint-hearted businessmen like Ludgate and Stamp, whose indifference to the suffering of the poor must be seen to be believed
,” he said, and Anne-Marie understood the mortification he would have suffered, having to plead with such men for permission to build the hospital.
“How would they understand the needs of poor children, living as they do in considerable comfort?” she asked.
“How indeed, Mrs Bradshaw? It was a point I had to make most forcibly to obtain permission to build.” He went on, “I have therefore decided, and indeed I have had all the paperwork completed for the transfer, before I came here today, I have decided to donate the total proceeds of the sale of my shares in some of my father’s businesses to the hospital trust.”
When there were gasps and raised eyebrows around the table, he said quickly, “Please, do not imagine that I am attempting to make some grand political gesture; nothing could be further from my thoughts. I find that I have inherited most of my father’s business interests, while my brother gets all the property, save for a town house in Knightsbridge, which was a gift to me from my late mother when I returned to India.”
He proceeded to explain. “Some of these businesses are not the sort of enterprise I wish to be associated with, much less profit from. There is, for instance, a gold mine in Africa using native labour and paying them a pittance, in which my father had shares. I have instructed my agents to sell my shares and place the money in trust to provide income for the hospital. I have not as yet ascertained how much will accrue to the trust, but I expect to know before Christmas. There are other similar enterprises, the sale of which I expect to negotiate very soon.”
There was no need for words. He could see clearly the appreciation on their faces. Presently, Jonathan spoke, “Mr Elliott, this is most generous, but…”
Colin Elliott held up his hand, “It is what I wish to do, Mr Bingley. You must all know that my father and grandfather did very well from their landholdings in Hertfordshire, sometimes at the expense of the local people. I am hoping to give some of that wealth back to the people, by this means,” he said.
The Ladies of Longbourn Page 14
