This was exactly what Anne-Marie wanted to hear.
“Convincing the Council is the hardest task of all” she confessed, sounding a little diffident, but Caroline was optimistic.
“Becky will teach you how to win a round with your Council. She has a vast amount of experience and is very determined,” she said, as they journeyed towards the Tates’ house. “I know they will welcome you and you will surely like them,” she added. She did not mention that Mr Elliott was to be present also.
Meanwhile, Anthony Tate, always an eloquent advocate of a good cause, was taking on Colonel Fitzwilliam, whose support for Palmerston was being sorely tested.
“You do realise, Fitzwilliam,” he said, “that thanks to Palmerston’s bungling diplomacy, Britain will never again be taken seriously by the Prussians or the Danes.”
“Or anyone else in Europe,” interjected Elliott.
Fitzwilliam refused to give in, “Come now, Tate, I do not believe this is going to cause us permanent damage, do you?”
He was trying desperately to find a way out of an exceedingly difficult situation and was not succeeding.
Fortuitously, it was at this point, that Caroline Fitzwilliam and her young companion were announced. Anne-Marie, very beautiful in a gown of lavender blue silk, which complemented her dark hair and brilliant complexion, entered the room feeling rather nervous in the midst of the large party assembled there. Apart from the Fitzwilliams she knew nobody and searched in vain for a familiar face, until her eyes lighted upon someone she knew well, she smiled.
It would be entirely correct to say that instantly, Colin Elliott lost interest in Bismarck, Lord Palmerston and the fate of the Danish Duchies. He was not to know that the brilliance of the lady’s smile was, for the most part, a consequence of the relief she had felt at seeing in the crowd of unfamiliar persons, someone she regarded as a friend.
Persuaded by Caroline that she must wear some jewellery, Anne-Marie had borrowed a simple necklace and earrings, which enhanced her elegant appearance. Mr Elliott noticed the difference and appreciated the sparkle it gave her.
Enchanted, he moved forward to greet first Caroline and then Anne-Marie, and said what a wonderful surprise it was to see her there.
“I had no idea that you were even in this part of the country, Mrs Bradshaw, much less that you were to be at this gathering. May I say what a great pleasure it is to see you and looking so well, too?” he said, and was content to hear her acknowledge that she had been equally surprised and pleased to find him among the guests.
“I know no one here apart from the Fitzwilliams and I was quite daunted by the prospect of spending an entire evening trying to converse sensibly with people I knew not at all,” she said. And then with a teasing smile, she asked, “Now, shall I tell you why I am here or will you go first?”
Unaccustomed to being teased, Colin Elliott almost missed his cue, then recovering his composure, he smiled and explained that he was the guest of Mr and Mrs Tate, to whom he had been introduced by her uncle Mr James Wilson. As they moved towards a large window overlooking the rose garden, he said, “I had not known that your families were related until Mrs Tate revealed that her daughter is married to your cousin Mr Julian Darcy. I believe they are away in London.”
Anne-Marie sympathised with his confusion and explained, “I suppose there was never any occasion to explain, but yes, my cousin Julian is married to Josie Tate and they are come recently to live at Pemberley. Julian is a dedicated scientist; he would rather live permanently in his beloved Cambridge, I am sure, but since their son was born Josie has not been very well and needed help with young Anthony.”
As they talked, she told him of the work being done by Caroline and her sister Emily at the hospital at Littleford.
“I thought it would be useful for me to discover the problems of running such a hospital. When Caroline invited me to visit, I was very grateful for the opportunity and I intend to learn everything I can.”
“So, it is not pleasure alone but a labour of love that brings you here?” he asked with a smile and she answered him just as lightly.
“Surely, Mr Elliott, it is the best sort of labour there is and as such, may bring pleasure as well. Do you not agree?”
It was a proposition with which he found himself in complete agreement. So much so, that he had, even before he knew it, offered himself as a participant in the said labour, asking if it could be arranged for him to visit the hospital at Littleford as well.
“It would be powerful evidence should it be necessary to argue the value of our scheme at Bell’s Field,” he said and with such a cogent argument available, Anne-Marie could see no reason to refuse his request.
“I shall certainly ask Mrs Emily Courtney. She is responsible for such matters now and I cannot believe she will refuse.”
She had begun to tell him of the circumstances in which Emily Courtney had become involved in the establishment of the hospital at Littleford, when dinner was announced. They repaired to the dining room and discovered that were to sit next to each other at table and supposed it to be a happy coincidence. They were unaware that Caroline was plotting a romantic conspiracy; having taken Rebecca Tate into her confidence, she had influenced the seating arrangements.
“My dear Becky, I have no doubt at all. Call me a romantic if you will, but regard this couple and tell me whether you do not agree that they are in love— even if they do not know it,” she had said.
Rebecca had smiled indulgently; everyone knew what a hopeless romantic Caroline was. On this occasion, however, Becky was inclined to agree. Mr Elliott certainly looked smitten, more so than Mrs Bradshaw, whose calm lovely countenance rarely betrayed her deeper feelings.
Happily married and of an affectionate and generous disposition, Caroline was happiest helping others to find true felicity, whether they needed it or not. Her care and concern extended from the poor and needy to her friends and family. Anyone who was bereft, whether of money, friends or food, became the beneficiary of her generous heart. The prospect of bringing together two people, who might be happily partnered was irresistible and she was already planning how she might achieve this end.
Unbeknownst to her, however, Colin Elliott was making plans too. During dinner he had discovered more about Mrs Emily Courtney, the wife of the rector of Kympton. Chiefly in order to avert any possible embarrassment to Mrs Courtney, Anne-Marie had revealed though not in very great detail the tragic love story of Emily and her first husband, Paul Antoine, whose death from tuberculosis had climaxed a catastrophic year for the families at Pemberley. The Darcys and Fitzwilliams had lost young sons, both killed in an horrific riding accident.
“My father believes the responsibility of helping to establish and run the hospital, caring for all those children and the enormous satisfaction of knowing how much she was loved and appreciated in this community kept Emily sane when Paul died and helped her heal herself,” she had said. “Now, she is an inspiration to us all. She does a great deal for the people of the district and there is very little she does not know about running a children’s hospital.”
Clearly Anne-Marie admired Mrs Courtney immensely and Colin Elliott responded that he looked forward to meeting her too.
After they had parted, Anne-Marie to return home to Matlock with the Fitzwilliams, Elliott had retired to his room and penned a letter to Mr Bingley, in which he suggested that Mrs Bradshaw might be, if she could be persuaded, placed in charge of the children’s hospital at Bells Field.
Pointing out that as a trained nurse, her qualifications were impeccable, he further affirmed that it would give the hospital exemplary credentials, so that the Council would no longer be able to cavil and criticise.
Before sending his letter to the post, after breakfast on the morrow, Elliott consulted Mrs Tate. He was keen to get her opinion on his proposition.
Becky Tate, who was privy to Caroline’s hopes for the couple, knew exactly what to say.
“Why Mr Elliott, that is a
n excellent scheme. Anne-Marie is a trained nurse and did a great deal of wonderful work with the unfortunate men returning from the war, when she was at Harwood Park,” she said and then, in a more confidential tone added, “No doubt you know she is only recently widowed—poor girl. For many months her family were unsure she would ever recover her health. But as you see, she did, thanks mainly to the efforts of her aunt—Emma Wilson. I believe your plan could be very beneficial to her; it would give her something to look forward to.”
Colin Elliott had no knowledge of the details of Mr Bradshaw’s death, except he had heard it had been very sudden. Hearing Mrs Tate’s words, he was somewhat puzzled at not having seen any signs of deep emotional distress in the lady, even though she had been quite recently widowed, when he had first made her acquaintance. If what Mrs Tate had said was true, and he had no reason to doubt her word, he could not explain it at all. Perhaps, it was time to confide in her brother, he thought, and determined he would speak with Charles Bingley on his return to London.
For the present, however, he put away those thoughts and seized upon an opportunity provided by an invitation to a soirée and supper with the Fitzwilliams. This extremely talented family was able to produce a complete program of music, from gentle airs and lyrics sung by the younger children to a superb performance of a Mozart serenade by a chamber music ensemble, all of which attained an enviably high standard of excellence.
As the guests were congratulating Fitzwilliam, Caroline, and all the young performers, refreshments were served and Mr Elliott, who had placed himself within reach of Anne-Marie at the back of the room, approached her and suggested they get some coffee. He noticed that she did not look as pale tonight as on the previous occasion and her eyes sparkled as she asked, “Did you enjoy the music?” to which he replied, “Yes indeed, very much.”
“Do you play?” he asked, and she sighed as she confessed that she did not play with any distinction.
“Sadly, I never took the time to learn properly; I became too involved in nursing, but I do enjoy a good performance. Whenever I hear Anna or Mrs Wilson’s daughters, I confess I am filled with regret and envy.” When he appeared surprised, she went on, “I should have loved to have been able to play. I know I cannot sing; only poor Mr Griffin believes I can sing!” she said, with a crooked little smile.
At this, they both laughed and commented upon the simple optimism of Mr Griffin.
“He strikes me as being one of the true believers; like Bunyan’s pilgrim he will struggle valiantly and never give up on anything,” said Elliott, and Anne-Marie smiled her agreement but forbore to say anything. She’d had experience in the past of Mr Griffin’s dogged persistence, too.
When they were serious again, he invited her to attend a function to be held at Hatfield House, where the joint choirs of three parishes were to sing Mr Handel’s great oratorio, The Messiah.
“I know it is probably too ambitious for the parish choirs and I cannot guarantee a great performance, but if you were to attend, perhaps we might at least assist each other to appreciate the great man’s music,” he said and added quickly, “I should be very happy if your father and Mrs Bingley could come, too.” Anne-Marie replied that she would be delighted to attend, and thanked him for inviting her.
“Once, when I used to live at Harwood Park, we went to hear an opera by Mr Handel. I cannot recall the name of it, but it was set in Roman times and it had a most wonderful solo, sung by a splendid soprano; it was divine. When we were returning home I said, if I had died just at that moment, I think I would have felt I was in heaven.”
Mr Elliott thought that a most charming response and said so, but she shook her head. “Do you think so? They just thought I was being childish.”
“They?” he asked, innocently, unaware of the abyss at his feet.
“My friends the Harwoods and my late husband, Mr Bradshaw, of course.”
Her voice was suddenly dull and he knew the exquisite moment had been shattered, like a precious glass, into a thousand sharp pieces. She was silent and uncomfortable.
Colin Elliott felt a pang of regret, wishing he had never spoken, never asked and aroused what was perhaps a painful memory, but there was nothing he could do or say just now. His companion said nothing more that was of any consequence and sometime later, complaining of a slight headache, asked to be excused, thanked him for his company, and went upstairs to her room.
Some of the guests were leaving and Elliott thought it was time to go, too. As he thanked the host and hostess, they expressed their thanks and their disappointment that Mr and Mrs Darcy had been unable to attend. Mrs Darcy had a slight cold, Caroline explained.
“You shall meet them, Elliott; I know you will find both Darcy and Elizabeth excellent company,” Fitzwilliam promised, as they agreed to meet again to enjoy some fishing in the stream that ran through his property.
Colin Elliott, despite the disquiet he felt about his final conversation with Mrs Bradshaw, was generally satisfied with the evening, which had brought unexpected pleasure. He looked forward with some anticipation to their next meeting.
Some days later, Mr Elliott returned as arranged to the Fitzwilliams’ property. Colonel Fitzwilliam met him and took him on a tour of the farm, of which he was clearly very proud. Having admired the house and its beautiful views which rose from the river to the rugged heights of the Peaks, they went indoors, and Elliott expected that the ladies would soon join them, until Fitzwilliam took him into the sitting room, poured out two glasses of sherry, and said, “Caroline has taken Anne-Marie down to Kympton to see her sister, Emily Courtney, who is in charge of the hospital at Littleford.”
Colin Elliott had to struggle to hide his disappointment. He had hoped very much to see Anne-Marie, assuming that she was staying with the Fitzwilliams. After what had been a pleasant evening, he had spent a somewhat sleepless night, wondering whether he was right in believing that there was between them a mutual attachment, which may in time lead to something more. He had hoped at this meeting to discover something of her feelings, perhaps.
But alas, it was not to be, at least not on this occasion.
He had to be content with a political discussion with Fitzwilliam, who was sounding him out about his allegiance to the Tories. He had as good as admitted that he was unhappy with the party, but had wondered what alternative existed.
“What does one do, Fitzwilliam? I absolutely abhor the slothful smugness of my own party, yet I cannot see an alternative in the government. Palmerston has just made Britain look foolish and unreliable, while Russell, who I believed to be genuinely committed to Parliamentary Reform, seems paralysed without Palmerston’s approval,” he complained, “I had hoped to see bills brought forward in this session of Parliament, but nothing has transpired. I find it difficult to believe they are serious about reform.”
He was clearly irritated and Fitzwilliam was sympathetic. A long-term supporter of Palmerston, he attempted to recover the damaged reputation of the man who had dominated British politics for several decades, excusing his current shortcomings and lauding his earlier triumphs. Elliott did not appear very impressed.
Fitzwilliam tried another tack. What, he asked, would Elliott say to a proposition that enabled him to cross the floor and declare himself an Independent private member, who would retain his independence, but agree to work with the Reform Group on special issues. “How would that suit you?” he asked, and Colin Elliott’s eyes lit up.
“That would suit me very well; I should very much like the freedom from the party whip,” he said, “but, is it possible?”
“I cannot see why not,” said Fitzwilliam, quite delighted at this outcome. “I shall send word to James Wilson and ask him to call on you in London. It seems, Elliott, that we can do business.”
Later, it being such a fine day, Fitzwilliam offered to drive his guest down to the village, from where it was a mere five miles to Pemberley.
“How would you like to visit?” he asked.
Colin
Elliott’s expression brightened. “I should like that very much, if you are sure we will not be intruding upon the family,” he said and was assured that they would not.
“The grounds are splendid and the interior of the house has been recently improved without in any way destroying its essential character. My cousin Darcy is obsessed with the place and in Elizabeth he has a wife who has grown to love it as much as he does.”
His companion muttered something about it being a fortunate man, who finds a wife who shares his interests and matches his obsessions, only to have it endorsed in total by Fitzwilliam.
“You are absolutely right, Elliott, I cannot imagine how I would have coped without my Caroline’s support and yet, poor Jonathan Bingley suffered from the very opposite condition.”
Mr Elliott looked bewildered. “I had thought,” he said “that Mrs Bingley was totally supportive of him. In the time I have known them, which has not been long, I admit, I have not heard a single discordant note between them.”
Fitzwilliam laughed, recognizing his mistake.
“Oh, I am sorry. Elliott, I did not mean the present Mrs Bingley; no indeed, Anna is a wonderful woman and Jonathan is a most fortunate man to have married her. I was referring to his first wife, Anne-Marie’s mother. Amelia-Jane Collins she was, whom Bingley courted and married so quickly he did not have time to discover, that apart from a very pretty face and a fetching figure, she had very little to recommend her, especially as a wife for a promising member of Parliament.”
Colin Elliott listened as he went on.
“She was at first very pleased to be seen around London and at Westminster, but the novelty wore off and she lost interest in politics. Caroline believes that she was never interested in the work Bingley did, nor did she try to understand it. Their marriage was in a parlous state; no one blames Jonathan, as he was extraordinarily patient and loyal,” he said. “She took no part in his political work at all and, in the end, became involved with a strange couple from Bath, who were using her for their selfish purposes and was persuaded to leave him.”
The Ladies of Longbourn Page 17
