“Well, Mr Bingley agrees with me. I intend to return to Hertfordshire tomorrow. I shall leave early; perhaps we can meet up at Tillyard’s office in the afternoon and decide on our next move.”
Thomson agreed and took his leave, promising to “keep an eye open for anything useful” and at last, gratefully, Colin Elliott was able to get to bed.
When he awoke the following morning, he felt refreshed, even though he’d had only a few hours’ sleep. The hope that the Sutton children may indeed still be in Hertfordshire, in Meryton even, had lifted his spirits. The weather had cleared and he was always pleased to be leaving the bustle of London. At least, he thought, looking for the girls may be easier in the country and it was quite likely they’d be safer. He left early, hoping to make the first part of his journey by midday. Despite his concern for Lucy Sutton’s children, Colin Elliott was far more anxious about his meeting with Anna Bingley, wondering what was about to be revealed to him and hoping he would be able, soon afterwards, to see Anne-Marie again.
Advised by express letter from Jonathan, Anna was expecting Mr Elliott. She had a shrewd idea what his visit was about, too. When he arrived, she was kindness itself, making him welcome, plying him with refreshments and making sure he was comfortable and at ease.
Naturally, her first questions concerned the whereabouts of the Sutton children. “Poor Mrs Sutton has been desolated; she will neither eat nor sleep and Anne-Marie has been sharing the burden of her grief. Mrs Collins has not been too well either and Harriet Greene has been kept busy attending upon her. We have all been awaiting some news from London. Mr Bingley wrote to say you would have some news for us,” she said and Colin Elliott told her all he knew. He was able to give her some little hope, but sadly, not the good news they had all been waiting to hear.
Mrs Bingley sighed and looked very worried as he tried to reassure her.
“We hope that it will not be long before they are found, Mrs Bingley,” he said. “Meryton after all is not London. It is not easy to conceal persons for long here; especially not two small girls. Someone is bound to notice.”
“I sincerely hope and pray you are right, Mr Elliott. It is not just poor Mrs Sutton who suffers while ever this dreadful business goes on. I am truly at a loss for words to say what I think of the villains who do this type of thing.”
Colin Elliott realised she had been under great strain, especially with Mr Bingley away. He tried to reassure her, suggesting that with the police and Tillyard’s men all looking for them, the children would surely be found.
She appeared to draw some comfort from his words and turning to him, changed the subject. Her voice was suddenly lighter, her expression less grave, and she smiled as she addressed him. “Mr Elliott, Mr Bingley says you wish to discuss a private matter with me. How can I help?” He was completely taken aback by the frankness of her approach.
Understanding his surprise she added, “I did not mean to discompose you, Mr Elliott. I received an express from my husband this morning, he expects to stay on in town for a day or two, and in it, he mentioned that you would be calling on me and that you had a private matter of some urgency to discuss with me.”
She saw him relax visibly and invited him to take his time, for there was no hurry. If there was something that troubled him, she was happy to listen.
Colin Elliott was confused. “Mrs Bingley, believe me it is not a matter that has troubled me at all, indeed I am not even aware of its substance. It was Mr Bingley who suggested that I should speak with you about it.”
“On what matter?” she asked, “Is it concerning the hospital?”
He shook his head; plainly Mr Bingley had not indicated clearly to his wife what they were to discuss. He felt a trifle put out, but took a deep breath and said, “Perhaps, I had better start at the beginning…” Anna agreed that might be a very sound idea.
And so, over the next half hour or so, he revealed to her, as he had to Mr Bingley, his love for Anne-Marie and his wish to marry her. He had written to Mr Bingley and asked Anne-Marie herself. Mr Bingley had given his consent, but had, at the same time, suggested that he talk to Mrs Bingley first. It was something to do with Mrs Bradshaw’s first marriage, he said. Anna waited until he stopped to catch his breath and asked, “Has Anne-Marie given you her answer?” Colin Elliott looked concerned at her question, wondering whether Anne-Marie had spoken of his proposal to Mrs Bingley. Did she know more than he did? He wondered and was uneasy.
Anna was determined that she was not going to make things easier for him; she wanted to hear exactly what he had to say.
“I have asked Anne-Marie to marry me and she has asked for some time to consider my proposal,” he explained.
“And did you tell her you loved her?” she asked, cautiously.
He smiled and answered without hesitation, “Of course, with all my heart. I told her much more besides and I am hopeful she believed me and will accept me,” he said, then seeing her smile, he appealed to her, “Mrs Bingley, please, if you know of any reason why she may refuse me, some impediment that I know not of, I beg you to tell me.” Anna’s heart was moved by the sadness of his countenance and the sincerity of his voice as he spoke.
She responded gently, “Mr Elliott, if you do love Anne-Marie dearly, as you have said you do, you have told her so and, in so doing, convinced her that you do love her, and if she believes that she loves you, too, I can see no reason why she will refuse you.”
His spirits lifted instantly, she could see it in the straightening of his shoulders and the brightness of his expression. Speaking quite slowly and confidentially, she said, “Anne-Marie was married for about fifteen months, to a man, a clergyman whom she did not love and who must not have loved her, else he would not have agreed to the marriage on those terms. Quite clearly, he did not care greatly how she felt and when they were married, insisted upon his marital rights as her husband, despite a total lack of affection between them.
“Anne-Marie was absolutely miserable. Barely one-and-twenty, she had been persuaded to accept his offer by friends, whose good intentions were clearly misplaced, and she suffered terribly for her lack of judgment.
“Yet, her loyalty to her husband and her refusal to blame anyone else for her unhappy state prevented her from confiding in any of us. She said not a single word against him for all of that time, despite her anguish.”
Anna was conscious of the disturbed expression upon Mr Elliott’s countenance. Her next sentence brought a gasp of surprise.
“Then, one day, without warning, he collapsed and died in the vestry after Evensong.” Anna paused before continuing; she could see he was deeply shocked.
“Anne-Marie’s reaction to her husband’s death was quite strange; at first she went through all the traditional rituals, the wife in deep mourning, a continuation of the charade that her marriage had been. But very soon, the mask began to slip; she began to feel free and genuinely happy and, of course, she was consumed with guilt about having such feelings. She suffered as I have seen no young woman suffer and it took a terrible toll upon her body and mind. She was very ill for several months, until my sister-in-law Mrs Wilson took her to stay at Standish Park. She remained with them until she recovered completely and was ready to return home. She came back to us last Spring, a healed and changed young woman.”
Anna heard him say, “Thank God,” under his breath as she went on. “So you understand why my husband thought you should speak with me first. Anne-Marie is very precious to him, to all of us, and we would hate to see her hurt again. Mr Bingley probably thought it was best that you knew all about her first disastrous marriage and its painful consequences before you heard her answer. I agree that it was best that you knew what she has suffered; it is only a year or two ago and you may find she is still sensitive about it. I do know she has not forgotten it. You may need to be very gentle with her,” she said.
Colin Elliott was shocked and deeply touched, not just by the troubling circumstances of the story he had just heard,
but by the deep affection and care that her family had lavished upon young Mrs Bradshaw when she had needed them. It was the sort of affection he could never have found in his own family, where as a boy, he had often been left to his own devices and only his mother had cared whether he lived or died. After her death, he had had to fend for himself in what had been a rather cold, hard world of masculine disdain for tender feelings.
It served only to increase his regard for the Bingleys and their family, whose affectionate concern for one another he found endearing. As for Anne-Marie, it had made no change at all to his love for her and he was confident he could help her overcome any residual fears resulting from her unhappy marriage. He told Mrs Bingley so and, when they parted, Anna was sure he was right.
From the outset, she had liked Mr Elliott for his good sense and clearsightedness. The excellence of his understanding was never in doubt and her husband Jonathan had already claimed him as a sincere and passionate Reformist. All this and a reputation for exemplary conduct had set him well apart. That he had fallen in love with Anne-Marie did not surprise Anna in the least, for of late her beauty had been greatly enhanced by the return of her qualities of enthusiasm and warmth, which they had missed for a while. They were traits naturally attractive to a young man like Colin Elliott.
“Thank you, Mrs Bingley, for your kindness and your good counsel. I am very grateful. I hope now to go to Longbourn and see Mrs Bradshaw,” he said as he kissed her hand, preparing to leave.
It was midafternoon. They both knew that Mrs Collins, who was a creature of habit, always rested in her room upstairs at this time of day. He hoped this would allow him an opportunity to speak with Anne-Marie alone. Anna Bingley smiled and wished him success.
On a fine afternoon, with very little wind about and a cloudless sky overhead, Colin Elliott was glad of the shade afforded by the closed carriage in which he was riding. He felt some pity for a young man who passed him, riding furiously in the opposite direction, on the road between Netherfield and Longbourn. With only a battered hat for protection from the sun, he looked hot and tired, as though he had ridden a very long way.
Arriving at Longbourn, he slowed his horses down as they made their way up the road and into the drive, so as not to alarm or disturb the occupants of the house. Approaching the house, he was struck by the silence, as the old place basked in the afternoon sun. He recalled that he had arranged to meet Thomson at Tillyard’s office later that day. Looking at his watch, he decided he had plenty of time to see Anne-Marie and obtain her answer.
Even though he felt reasonably confident of winning her affections, he could not avoid a feeling of uncertainty and trepidation that assailed him, as he alighted and walked to the entrance.
There was no one about. On such a soporific afternoon, even the servants were probably resting, he thought. He led the horses round to the side of the house, where he found the man who came regularly from Netherfield Park to help with the garden pruning a hedge. Gratefully surrendering the vehicle and horses into his care, Colin Elliott went around to the front door.
Anne-Marie had spent all morning trying to compose a letter to her aunt Emma Wilson. Ever since Sunday, when Mr Elliott had first declared his love for her, asked her to be his wife, and then raced off into the night because someone had kidnapped Lucy Sutton’s children, her thoughts and feelings had been in turmoil. It was not that she had any doubts about the sincerity of his words or the strength of his feelings. It was her own diffidence that gave her concern.
She had wanted to confide in Anna, but it had not been possible to get away from Longbourn for any reasonable period of time. Though Mrs Collins was much recovered, there was the problem of Mrs Sutton and her missing children. If Anne-Marie had left her grandmother alone and Mrs Sutton arrived with bad news…there was no knowing what might happen.
Having struggled with a letter to her aunt and having written less than a paragraph, she determined that it would get done that very day. She needed to ask for some counsel and there was no other way. After Mrs Collins had retired to her room for her usual afternoon rest and Harriet had set off in the pony cart for Meryton, Anne-Marie had taken her writing materials, a rug and cushions and set off to sit in the shade of her favourite oak, on the far side of the house, out of sight of visitors.
It was there Colin Elliott found her, having drawn a blank at the house, in the kitchen garden and the shrubbery. She was deeply engrossed in her letter and did not hear him approach until a twig snapped underfoot and she looked up in some alarm. She was not expecting anyone; when she saw him, she could not believe her eyes.
“Mr Elliott! Why, you’re back already…have they been found?” she cried, stumbling as she tried to get to her feet. Helping her up, he kept hold of her arm as he told her the news, grim and unsatisfactory though it was.
“I am sorry the news is not any better, Mrs Bradshaw,” he said apologetically. “Unfortunately, it seems we raced off to London, believing the children had been removed from the neighbourhood, but they have not been seen with the two men, at all. We are now inclined to believe that they have been concealed here, possibly lodged with a person known to Mr Sutton. Perhaps he intends to return and take them away later, when the general alarm has died down.”
Anne-Marie looked confused. Sensing her bewilderment, he took her hands in his, reassuring her, trying to convince her that they had not given up on finding the Sutton children. Then, before she could ask any more questions, he asked her if she had considered his proposal and did she have an answer for him. At first, it seemed to him that she was going to weep; her lovely face seemed to crumple under the wide-brimmed hat she wore to protect herself from the sun, and he was afraid she was going to refuse him. Indeed, he steeled himself for just such a response, determined to plead with her to reconsider.
At the very moment that he thought he had lost her, Colin Elliott knew how very dearly he loved her. But, she sat down again and indicated that he should sit beside her. He obeyed, sitting awkwardly in his travelling clothes and boots upon the rug she had thrown down on the grass. In his hands she placed the letter she had written to Emma Wilson, which lay beside all the torn and crumpled sheets of paper she had tossed away, testimony to the degree of difficulty she had encountered trying to express her feelings.
Colin Elliott looked at her, a little unsure. “Do you really want me to read this?” he asked, and she nodded. “Yes, please” she replied, indicating that was exactly what she wanted him to do. He unfolded the pages and began to read silently, and she watched him as he read. It was not an easy letter to read.
My dearest Aunt Emma, she wrote,
I had not expected to trouble you with this subject, not at any rate for many years. Marriage was not a matter in which I had an interest in anymore.
Dear Aunt, you, more than anyone except perhaps Papa, know why this is such a difficult thing for me to deal with. However, no one, not even Papa or Anna, kind and well-intentioned though they are, can advise me, for they, unlike you and I, have not known the utter humiliation of discovering that one has quite deliberately married the very last person on earth with whom one could hope to find happiness. It was because you had shared the same pitiful fate and understood clearly what I had been through, that you were able to help me recover my lost esteem and restore my faith in my fellow human beings.
Yet, dearest Aunt, I seem not to have been able to recover my belief in my own judgment and this time, I am so afraid of making another mistake, for if I do, I shall not merely destroy my own happiness, but I should be responsible for ruining the life of another as well; someone I hold very dear.
Indeed, having known the bleak indignity of a loveless marriage, I would not wish to risk the happiness of someone who has been a good friend and seems to mean more to me every day. Unless I could be utterly certain of my own feelings, I would not wish to take this step and put his happiness in jeopardy. I think, you will have guessed that I speak of Mr Elliott, who has asked me to be his wife. I know th
at you and Mr Wilson like and respect him, as does Papa. Indeed there is not a single person I know, who does not.
Even as he read her words, Colin Elliott glanced across at her, his eyes expressing both gratitude for her kind words and a plea for his case; but he said nothing and read on as she watched him in silence. Her words seemed to spill out across the paper, as if she had been unable to hold them back…her writing, usually neat and disciplined, seemed to be racing across the page trying to keep pace with her thoughts…
I want very much to say yes, because, if the truth were told, I have not met a better man, nor one for whom I have felt so much affection. And I know he is a good man, yet, I fear that if I make goodness alone my standard, I will be undone as I was before. You will recall that everyone agreed Mr Bradshaw was a good man! Of such appalling errors of judgment are barren marriages made, no matter how many children they may produce. Significantly, ours produced none.
My dearest Aunt, if you understand my predicament, please write me as soon as you are able and tell me just one thing: if I were to accept Mr Elliott, as I truly want to do, how ever shall I ensure that the ghost of Mr Bradshaw will not hang around us and draw us to the same desolate fate?
The letter was unfinished, the writer having been interrupted…
Colin Elliott put it down and turned to Anne-Marie, who had watched him read the letter and seen his changing countenance, as he struggled to understand and absorb the meaning of her words. He wondered if by speaking out he would help or hinder his cause.
Anne-Marie was silent; she had given him the letter precisely because she had known that she could never tell him in so many words of the doubts that assailed her, even as she acknowledged her love. Not even with Anna, whom she adored, could she have spoken openly and frankly as she could with Emma Wilson. Shared sorrow and shame at having made the kind of error that had led Emma to marry her first husband, a domineering, cruel young man, and allowed Anne-Marie to be persuaded by her friend that a man of good reputation could also be a good husband even though she felt no love for him, had forged a strong bond between them.
The Ladies of Longbourn Page 27