Richard Gardiner made several worthwhile suggestions, while Colin Elliott and Anne-Marie listened carefully, taking note of his valuable advice. Mr Elliott was obviously impressed by Dr Gardiner’s knowledge and experience, yet Cassandra sitting beside her mother and watching them from across the drawing room, detected something more in the air.
“I think he is in love with her, Mama,” she whispered. “He keeps talking of doctors and hospitals, but he cannot tear his eyes away from her, even when Richard is speaking.”
Elizabeth smiled, “Yes, I had noticed that, but then, my dear Cassy, even your handsome husband cannot compete with Anne-Marie’s looks. She is looking particularly well tonight,” she said and Cassy agreed.
“Indeed, she is; that brilliant blue suits her well. Could it be a serious attachment, Mama? Will they marry, do you think?”
Elizabeth was noncommittal. “I do not know, my dear; I am not the confidante of either party. But one thing is clear to anyone who has eyes to see, he is in love with her, and if people see them together often, it is going to be the talk of the county.”
“Do you think he will ask her?”
“Probably, but how soon, I cannot tell. He seems a very proper young man and it is possible he will want to ask her father’s permission first,” said Elizabeth.
Later, Elizabeth and Caroline played the piano and Fitzwilliam was easily persuaded to join his wife in a song, as the party went late into the night. Neither Colin Elliott nor Anne-Marie volunteered to perform and, though they were seen talking earnestly as they sat together taking coffee, he did not propose.
Colin Elliott had been very tempted that night. The atmosphere of gracious living that Pemberley afforded them, together with good food and music, all enhanced his mood of romantic anticipation, especially with Mrs Bradshaw looking particularly appealing. Yet, something held him back and he decided to wait until they had returned to Hertfordshire. Elizabeth had read him correctly; he intended to approach Mr Bingley first. The letter he had written regarding the role Anne-Marie might play in the administration of the hospital at Bell’s Field would afford him a convenient opening, he decided. Clearly, the family at Pemberley would have to wait a while longer to discover the answer to their question.
Later that night, Elizabeth revealed to her husband the gist of her conversation with Mr Elliott and her conviction that the gentleman was showing a clear partiality for Anne-Marie. Darcy had listened while she spoke, and when she asked, “What is your opinion? Do you think I was right to reveal the circumstances of Amelia-Jane’s death or do you believe I was indiscreet?” he answered in his usual measured way, “That is hardly likely, Lizzie, my dear. That you chose to speak openly and honestly is to my mind a virtue. I believe you had no alternative; there was nothing to be gained by dissembling and trying to conceal the facts; he was bound to have discovered them anyway. There are enough people who make a living by spreading rumour and gossip, who would have seen fit to apprise him of the circumstances, no sooner had his connection with the Bingleys become common knowledge among the denizens of Hertfordshire. You, my dear, have forestalled them.”
Elizabeth was pleased to have his approval.
“That was certainly my intention. I thought it also important to indicate that we were proud of Anne-Marie, not allowing her to be in any way tarnished by her mother’s foolhardy escapade, tragic though it was in its consequences. But I admit, I have been apprehensive that my words may have discomposed him and caused him to change his mind regarding Anne-Marie.” Darcy smiled; he was very proud of his wife’s perspicacity.
“I can see no reason for that, my love; you were absolutely right to be frank and open with him. If I were Mr Colin Elliott, I would rather know the truth about the background of the lady I was hoping to marry than be surprised by any unpleasant revelations later.”
Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled; even though it was very late, all thought of sleep had fled. “Thank you, my dear, you are very kind. You have completely restored my belief in my judgment. Now let me put your powers of prediction to the test. Do you believe he intends to propose?”
“Lizzie dearest, I make no claim to any such powers, but I have eyes to see and I have no doubt he does. Fitzwilliam and I noted that Elliott hardly moved from Anne-Marie’s side all evening. I am convinced he is in love and very likely to propose to her as soon as they are back in Hertfordshire.”
“Cassy and I were surprised that he has not done so already,” she said, prompting a typical reply from her husband, “Ah yes, no doubt you ladies would have him surrendering to the romantic ambience of the evening, eh? But, I believe he is a rather cautious man, who wishes to do the right thing and probably means to apply to her father first.”
“And do you believe Jonathan will consent?” she asked.
“He has no reason not to do so; from what I hear of him, Elliott is a fine, principled young fellow, with excellent prospects,” he replied.
She pressed him further. “And Anne-Marie, will she accept him, do you think?”
This time, he was more circumspect in his answer.
“That, my dear, is quite another matter. As you well know, Lizzie, I am not a good student of the minds of women in general and even with those with whom I am most intimate, I may sometimes blunder. Furthermore, the young lady is very good at keeping her feelings to herself. On that question, we shall have to wait and see.”
Elizabeth laughed softly. She had asked the question more to test his mood than to obtain a definite answer. She knew her husband well and was content to find him in such a relaxed and amenable frame of mind.
Neither of them had any doubt that Colin Elliott had shown a strong partiality for Anne-Marie and knowing how deeply hurt she had been in her first marriage, they hoped sincerely she would be given another chance at happiness.
After what, she was able to pronounce with confidence, was a very useful and enjoyable stay in Derbyshire, Anne-Marie returned to Netherfield Park to find her father alone. “Teresa and Cathy are gone to Ashford Park to spend a few weeks with your grandparents and thereafter to Pemberley, I believe,” he said.
“And Anna?” she asked.
“My dear wife has been called away to her sister in Hampshire, who I believe is unwell,” he explained. “Not again?” Anne-Marie was sceptical; Sarah Martyn was one of those women, whose indispositions tended to arouse more amusement than sympathy, so frequent and unaccountable had they become. She was married to a farmer in Hampshire, whose skills in animal husbandry were obviously of a higher order than those expected of a husband. While his mother-in-law assured everyone that Mr Martyn was an excellent farmer, she could never assure them of his success as a husband and father with the same degree of confidence. Apart from siring several children, who were also prone to innumerable ailments, he appeared quite incapable of caring satisfactorily for any of them or, indeed, his long-suffering wife. Her only recourse in such emergencies was to send urgent requests for help and consolation to her mother and sister.
Since her marriage to Jonathan Bingley, Anna had tried assiduously to avoid having to rush to her sister’s bedside at regular intervals, but on this occasion, their mother, Mrs Faulkner, being unwell herself, there had been no help for it. Anna had to go.
“Whatever is it this time?” asked Anne-Marie, who was disappointed to find Anna away. She had wanted very much to confide in her. There were several matters she had wished to discuss.
Her father showed a little more patience. “I cannot be certain, but I gather from Dr Faulkner that this time, it has more to do with the mind than the body. In short, I believe Mrs Martyn suffers from depression.”
Anne-Marie was unconvinced. “I am sure it is just another device to get poor Anna to rush to Hampshire and hold her hand. She has probably quarrelled with Mr Martyn or one of her children and wants a shoulder to weep on.”
As she chattered on, Jonathan rose and went over to his desk, taking out a letter, which he unfolded as he stood before her.
Anne-Marie stopped talking and, looking up from perusing the letter in his hand, her father said, in a fairly matter-of-fact voice, “My dear, I have received this letter from Mr Elliott.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when she went crimson with embarrassment and ran from the room. Jonathan Bingley stood still for fully five minutes, before realization dawned. He had clearly made some sort of faux pas, giving her the impression that the letter contained a proposal of marriage from Mr Elliott. Unprepared for such an eventuality, Anne-Marie had been embarrassed and upset and fled the room.
Oh dear, what have I done? Jonathan mused, putting down the letter.
All he had set out to do was to inform Anne-Marie of Colin Elliott’s proposition that she be persuaded to take up the management of the children’s hospital at Bell’s Field.
Folding the letter and putting it away in his pocket, Jonathan set off to find his daughter. Approaching her bedroom, he knocked and went in to find her sitting by the window, looking out on a bleak scene, with a fine spring drizzle obscuring her view of the park.
Jonathan was apologetic. “Anne-Marie, my dear, I am sorry, I should have said…” he began, but she did not let him finish. Tearful and sad at having upset her father, she protested, “No Papa, it is I who should be sorry; it was stupid and childish of me to have run away. I do apologise, sincerely.” He put his arms around her and suddenly, weakening, she was in tears.
When she was calmer, he persuaded her to return to his study.
“First, let me reassure you, there is nothing whatever to be alarmed about in Mr Elliott’s letter. Here, read it yourself,” he said, taking it from his pocket and putting it in her hands.
On reading it, Anne-Marie’s face became pale; she was mortified and embarrassed at having misunderstood the writer’s intention and behaved in such a juvenile manner. She bit her lip and looked ashamed as she handed it back to her father. “Papa, I am truly sorry, I feel such a fool. I cannot think why I thought as I did and behaved as I did,” she said, and he smiled.
“Do you not? Perhaps it will become clear later. Well, now you know what he has suggested, what have you to say? Would you like to have charge of the children’s hospital you have worked so hard to establish?” he asked.
Her eyes were shining and not from her tears.
“Papa, nothing will make me happier. But is it what you would wish?”
“My dear child, it is not my wish that matters, but, of course I would like to see you do it and I know you will do it well. The whole scheme is not mine; oh, I know I purchased the site and helped in other ways and will continue to do so, but it was your brainchild and, together with Mr Elliott, you have worked to establish it. When it is completed, you must do whatever will bring you satisfaction,” he said.
“And Mr Elliott suggests that I am able and qualified enough to do it?” She sounded a little unsure, but her father had no such qualms. “Indeed, he does.” Jonathan picked up the letter. “He writes,”
“I cannot think of any other person better suited by qualification, experience and temperament to perform this important duty to our community, not to speak of her enthusiasm for the task.”
“Clearly he appreciates your dedication and experience,” he said and read on,
“Trained as she is in the best traditions of nursing care, should she accept, it will enhance the credentials of the children’s hospital and curtail quite considerably the Council’s capacity to criticise.”
“Now that is an excellent recommendation from the local Member of Parliament, even if he is a Tory!” said Jonathan, and Anne-Marie had to agree. Still blushing, she said, “Mr Elliott has been very generous with his praise, Papa.”
“He speaks only the truth, my dear. You are well qualified for the position,” said her father. She smiled and embraced him, then said, “Papa, Mr Elliott is not such a diehard Tory, is he?” and Jonathan, realising the point of her question, said in a reassuring voice, “Indeed no, in fact I am beginning to believe he is almost a Liberal.”
At this, they both looked at each other and broke into laughter, becoming engrossed in the recollection of a variety of matters upon which Mr Elliott’s views and actions would surely have him marked out as a Reformist at least!
So wholly occupied were they with this fascinating exercise, they failed to notice that an express had just been delivered to the door.
Mrs Perrot collected it and brought it in. She looked excited as she said, “It’s from Mrs Bingley, sir,” and she lingered as Jonathan opened it up, and Anne-Marie peered over his shoulder to read.
Glancing over it very quickly, he said, “Thank God, she’s coming home tomorrow. Mrs Perrot, would you tell Mr Bowles we shall need the carriage to meet Mrs Bingley at Meryton tomorrow around midday.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Mrs Perrot, glad to have her mistress home, “and I think we might have a celebratory dinner to welcome her back?”
“Most definitely, Mrs Perrot,” he replied.
Anna Bingley was so happy to be home, she wept as they turned into the lane leading to Netherfield Park. With Jonathan, Anne-Marie, the baby and his nurse, they were quite a crowd. Anna could not wait for the journey to end. Her visit to Hampshire had left her physically and mentally exhausted. Never had she been happier to see the welcoming façade of Netherfield House, looming as it was through the rain; it could well have been a beacon signalling that she was home at last.
Mrs Perrot and the staff welcomed her and did their best to make a celebration of it. Anna did her best, too. Bathed and rested, she dressed slowly for dinner, savouring every moment of her homecoming to a comfortable, orderly, and loving household, the very opposite of the Martyn’s chaotic farm. So utterly tired was she, Jonathan urged her to retire early, but she was reluctant to disappoint the staff and especially the cook, who had prepared all her favourite dishes to welcome her back. But in the end, having thanked them all, she excused herself and went upstairs to bed. When her husband followed her an hour or so later, he expected to find her sound asleep and was alarmed to hear her sobbing. At her side immediately, he was anxious and concerned.
“Anna, my dearest, what is wrong? Are you unwell?” he asked, attempting to discover the cause of her distress, but she shook her head and hid her face in her pillow, weeping as he had never seen her do before, inconsolably. He felt helpless and unhappy, unable to do anything to ease her anguish.
Anne-Marie, on her way to bed, looked in to say goodnight as she often did, but her father waved her away, indicating that something was amiss. Seeing her worried expression, he went later to reassure her that Anna was not ill, only tired and distressed.
She had given him no further explanation and, after an hour or more, Anna fell asleep. Clearly, something had caused her grief and it had to have happened while she was in Hampshire with her sister Sarah.
Jonathan slept only fitfully, troubled by the vision of his wife’s tears, his own anxiety exacerbated by the fact that he had not been able to comfort her or share her pain. Ignorance of its cause angered and grieved him.
Towards dawn, he awoke with a start and found her gone from their bed. A light in his dressing room attracted his eye and he went over to the door and there, on the couch, was Anna. She looked up as he entered, and he went to her at once and held her close. This time, she did not weep and he was able to take her back into the bedroom, where it was warmer, and sit her down.
“Now, Anna, I think I am owed an explanation. What has distressed you, my darling? You must tell me. Has someone said or done something to cause this pain? Did anything untoward happen in Hampshire? Your sister is not recovered from her illness? Is someone in trouble? One of the children is ill? No?” She was shaking her head; it was none of those things.
“What is it then, Anna? I must know; I cannot bear to see you so miserable,” he pleaded.
Then, as if a dam had broken inside her, she began to speak. It was an unhappy story, one whose truth she had suspected for many years,
yet she had colluded with her sister to hide it, never openly questioning the accepted version, that Sarah was happily married to her farmer and enjoyed having five or six boisterous children, from whose clutches she rarely, if ever, escaped.
As Jonathan listened, in astonishment and disbelief, she told him, “Sarah is desperately unhappy; in spite of having five children by Mr Martyn, she hardly knows him, she fears him, and at times she hates him. He is often so engrossed in the welfare of his farm animals that he fails to take any notice of her existence for most of the day, until he sits down to a meal or climbs into bed,” she said bitterly. “Poor Sarah, she used to long to be married and she thought, when Mr Martyn asked permission to propose to her, that he must have loved her dearly; well, she knows now that he loves all of his cows and sheep more.”
As Jonathan stared, uncomprehending, she added, “If one of them were to fall sick, he would spend all night with the creature, but when Sarah was ill, he claimed her coughing was disturbing him and went downstairs to sleep. Jonathan, it is pathetic; she is alone and so deeply unhappy, I felt guilty leaving her, even though I hated every day I had to spend in that house. He has no sympathy for her, does not even see the need to make an effort to understand her feelings. This time, he simply handed her over to me and went.”
“Went? Went where?” asked Jonathan in bewilderment.
“To the Spring markets with the pigs. He said, quite rudely, that if they did not sell their produce, they would have no money and, when I asked if one of his men could not go in his stead, he snapped that he would not trust them with his pigs or his money.”
Jonathan shook his head. “Oh, my dear, I can see why you seemed so relieved to be home and yet you were so exhausted; it must have been hell,” he said, and she nodded, “Yes, and for poor Sarah, it is hell; Jonathan, a loveless marriage to a selfish, unfeeling man, with no escape—for what will she do with five young children? It’s quite hopeless.”
The Ladies of Longbourn Page 19
