“If only they would settle at Pemberley; it is their home,” Elizabeth mused. “There is so much to occupy her, she would have far less time to be depressed.”
Cassandra was more understanding than her mother.
“I know also that Josie has been concerned that Julian and she are not here to play their part at Pemberley. She has told me that she feels she is letting you and Papa down. I have reassured her that I am happy to help with the work at Pemberley; I enjoy it and Richard does not mind, but I know Josie is not convinced. She believes she is not doing the right thing, yet her loyalty is to her husband.”
“As indeed it should be,” said Jane.
Elizabeth had voiced her own disappointment, and that of her husband, that their son had shown very little interest in managing the family properties, content to leave it to his father, his manager, and stewards. Not even the gift of one of the Welsh estates, on the occasion of their wedding, had engendered much enthusiasm, apart from a short trip to Bristol. Elizabeth, Jane, and Cassandra all knew that Darcy had been bitterly disappointed, especially when his son and heir had decided, at very short notice, to return to work at Cambridge.
“Perhaps, if they were to have another child?” suggested Jane a little tentatively, but Cassy was doubtful.
“Josie has declared that she could not cope with another child just now. Anthony, who is three, is a lively little boy and she has her hands full keeping up with him,” she explained, and then, seeing Richard and her father approaching, begged her mother to keep these details from him.
“It would only upset Papa and I should hate to do that.”
Cassandra was her father’s favourite and they had an excellent understanding. They shared a deep love of Pemberley and spoke frankly together of many things. Yet, she was just as eager as her mother to protect him from undue anxiety or hurt. As it happened, Darcy was deep in conversation with his sonin-law, for whom he had great affection and respect, about his work on a new method of preventing infection in hospitals. Darcy, having financed Richard’s initial research in antisepsis, was exceedingly proud of the work he had done. He was fast becoming an authority on the subject.
Fond farewells over, Cassy and her husband left, hoping to arrive in Cambridge early on the following day. Darcy, having heard a version of the news from Richard, was glad he was not leaving for London; clearly, Elizabeth would be anxious and needed him at Pemberley.
At Longbourn, when Colin Elliott and Anne-Marie read the letters that had arrived from Netherfield, they took some time to understand the situation and its implications.
There was Mr Darcy’s letter to Jonathan Bingley and Jonathan’s note to his wife Anna, both of which had been passed on to Anne-Marie, with advice for Mr Elliott.
Then, there was a short note from Anna. She had sent the letters ahead by the same man who had delivered them to Netherfield, she said, to save precious time. She would follow, with Mr Bowles, as soon as she had been able to organise her household and they would pick up Mrs Sutton on the way, she explained. She urged Anne-Marie to advise Mr Elliott to pay heed to the warnings contained in Mr Darcy’s letter.
“It is quite clear that Sutton is not to be trifled with; he seems to be an unreliable and violent man,” she cautioned. As they read on, taking in all the details, they began to realise that they faced a particularly perilous situation.
If Mrs Sutton’s children had been lodged with Mrs Wickham, at her house on the outskirts of Meryton, Sutton could quite easily call and collect them without anyone being any the wiser.
“And they may never be restored to their mother again,” said Anne-Marie, her voice breaking with emotion at the thought.
Colin Elliott sought to reassure her, “He must be stopped, but we have very little time,” he said. “I should go at once.”
Anne-Marie had no wish to see him go into a situation fraught with danger,
“But both Mr Darcy and Papa have warned against confronting him,” she protested. “If this man is as desperate as he seems, would it not be wise to call in the police?”
Colin Elliott explained gently, that if this were done, it was almost a certainty that the police would arrest and charge Mrs Wickham as well, as an accessory to the crime, because she had harboured the children since they were kidnapped. Sensitive to the feelings of her father and his family, he asked whether that would not cause consternation and, once the family connection were known and written about in the press, would not Mr and Mrs Bingley also suffer severe embarrassment? he asked.
She had to admit this was true. “If on the other hand, it were possible to persuade Mrs Wickham to release the children on the promise of some financial inducement, perhaps, she could be kept out of the public eye and the hands of the police,” he said.
Anne-Marie was delighted by his sensitivity and concern for her family’s reputation, but equally she knew it would not be easy to persuade Lydia Wickham to part with the children. She had probably accepted money from Sutton and would surely fear his anger.
There was, however, still another question. “Even if you do succeed in persuading Mrs Wickham, do you believe the children will come away with you? Having already been removed from their home once, they may refuse to move,” she said, and this time Colin Elliott agreed that she was quite right. Indeed, it was something he had overlooked.
“Shall I come with you?” she asked, to which he replied at once, “Certainly not, my dear Anne-Marie, I would not let you put yourself in any danger and your father would never forgive me. No, let me think, there must be a way…” He paused and in a moment said, “Ah, I have it. I shall go to Tillyard’s office as arranged and ask him to accompany me. When Mrs Bingley arrives with Mr Bowles and Mrs Sutton, send Bowles and Mrs Sutton to join us at the inn in Meryton. Once we are there, we shall call on Mrs Wickham with Mrs Sutton, and I have no doubt the children will come away with their mother. Now, what can be simpler?”
Anne-Marie agreed, it seemed like a good scheme. “Mrs Wickham will not be able to refuse to release them to their own mother, especially if it is sweetened with cash to compensate her for the loss of Sutton’s money.”
“Exactly. I am inclined to believe it will work,” he said, but she was still concerned about what Sutton might do.
“What if he should turn up, fly into a rage, and attack you?” she asked.
Colin Elliott assured her that they would take great care. “We have no information that he is here in Meryton. He was last seen hiding from the police in London after his partner in crime, Baines, was arrested. I doubt he will show his face here, for a while.” He rose to leave, reluctantly. “Now, my darling, I must go, else it will be too late and we may lose our way amidst the back lanes of Meryton.” Urging her to remember all his instructions, he moved to the entrance.
Anne-Marie held on to his hand as they waited for his carriage to be brought round. “You will take great care, will you not, Colin? I shall wait anxiously for news,” she said, and he sought to assuage her fears. “Dearest Anne-Marie, I am no warrior; I have never been a soldier and will not choose to confront or attack any man, if I can help it. I promise I shall take care and, when we return with Mrs Sutton’s children, we shall have one thing more to celebrate on this lovely day.”
As he kissed her hand and went to enter the carriage, the pony cart turned into the drive. It was Harriet Greene returning and Anne-Marie was very glad to see her. “Harriet, thank God you’ve come,” she cried and spent the next few minutes trying unsuccessfully to give Harriet all the news of the afternoon. She was almost incoherent but finally, Harriet managed to get the gist of the story and expressed feelings of shock and revulsion.
Harriet Greene, who had been with Mrs Collins for several years, was almost a member of the family. Anne-Marie knew she could trust her and confidently told her the whole sorry tale. When she mentioned Lydia Wickham, Harriet shook her head.
“Not her again, ma’am; each time I hope she will learn a lesson, but she never does. Mr Elliott
is right, ma’am, if you call in the police, it will be in the papers and around the county in no time at all. Mr Elliott seems a very steady young man, ma’am, he will not take any risks I am sure,” she said, and then decided it was time to go upstairs to Mrs Collins. “I had better go tell Mrs Collins something of it, else she will feel she has missed out on all the excitement,” she said.
While Harriet was upstairs, Anne-Marie paced the floor, watching the light fade from the sky, gradually bringing the long Summer twilight—that magical time that seems made for lovers. Yet, here she was alone, afraid and wondering if the man she loved was safe from harm. It was an excruciating agony, having discovered only today that she loved him enough to marry him. She could not escape the irony of it. She came back into the middle of the room, and ran her fingers along the old ivory keys of the pianoforte; Emma Wilson had told her that music had kept her sane in the midst of her deepest misery. How she wished she had learned to play proficiently.
When Anne-Marie returned to the window, night had fallen. It was quite dark outside and she heard the sounds of wheels and hooves on the gravel drive before she saw the carriage from Netherfield drive up to the entrance. Anne-Marie was relieved; Anna was here, and she knew everything would be much easier now. She was thankful that both her younger sisters, Teresa and Cathy, had left for Standish Park earlier in the week. They were to spend a part of the summer with the Wilsons, who usually kept them very happily occupied.
Anna Bingley alighted and came indoors. With her were Mr Bowles and an ashen-faced Lucy Sutton, desperate to discover if there had been any news of her daughters. Anne-Marie was glad to have Mr Bowles, who was always good at organising things. A widower in his middle years, he had been with the Bingleys for a very long time and she trusted him implicitly. Though she had wanted to confide in Anna and tell her of her engagement to Mr Elliott, Anne-Marie could find no time alone with her for private conversation in the midst of the crisis that had overtaken them. She did however explain carefully, and in detail, Mr Elliott’s instructions to Mr Bowles and Mrs Sutton.
The latter was, at first, full of questions, but time was of the essence and Mr Bowles, who had to drive them to the inn at Meryton, persuaded her that it was in her interest to remain as quiet as possible. A kind but firm man, Bowles succeeded, where the ladies had failed, in convincing Mrs Sutton that calm and discreet behaviour (“no tears or tantrums, please, madam,”) was the best way to secure the return of her girls. Having assured Anna that he would take good care of Mrs Sutton and promised them all that they would return with the children, he drove out of the park and set off on the road to Meryton.
When Colin Elliott reached Tillyard’s office at the Herald, he found only Thomson present. Tillyard had had to go out on business and Jones, the other reporter, had been called home because his wife was sick, Thomson had said. That meant Elliott and Thomson would have to proceed alone. It was not a promising prospect, especially since neither man knew the way to Mrs Wickham’s house. Worse, Thomson, who had arrived from London that afternoon, had received information that Sutton was on his way to Meryton by train! “He probably means to take the children away tonight, sir,” he said. “No one would suspect it; he would be in and out of here before we could get to him and, once they were on the train, they’d be out of our reach.”
Elliott was determined that it would not get that far. “We shall have to see that he does not succeed. He must not get to the children. You and I will have to persuade Mrs Wickham that it is in her interest to give them up. Tell her Sutton’s a villain and if she helps him kidnap the children, she will go to jail herself,” he said, with greater confidence than he felt. Leaving a hurried note for Tillyard, with some details of their destination and purpose, they left, going first to the inn at Meryton, where they were to meet Mr Bowles and Mrs Sutton.
To their great relief, Mr Bowles, when he arrived, had already succeeded in convincing Mrs Sutton of the need for remaining calm. He was also the only member of the party who knew where Mrs Wickham lived. When they reached the place, a large old house set in a rather unkempt and overgrown garden a mile or so outside Meryton, they were glad to note that there were no other vehicles about, suggesting that Sutton had not already arrived or if he had, he did not have a means of making a quick exit.
Bowles suggested that they conceal their vehicles farther up the lane, which led to a little spinney, before returning to the house on foot. Leaving Thomson on guard by the gate, Mr Bowles led the way in. Mrs Sutton was advised to remain concealed in the garden until it had been established that the children were within. If anyone approached, Thomson was to whistle to alert the others.
Mr Bowles, who was known to the Wickhams as Mr Bingley’s steward, went to the front door and knocked smartly. Colin Elliott had observed that the bedrooms upstairs were in darkness, which must mean the children, if they were here, were downstairs, probably in the parlour. Since the blinds were drawn down, they could not see into the room, but the sound of voices carried to the door.
Lucy Sutton was convinced that she could hear her elder daughter’s voice.
“I know they’re in there,” she said in an agonised whisper, and they had to urge her to be quiet. Despite the sympathy they felt for her, her constant complaining was aggravating. In response to Mr Bowles’s knock, the front door was opened and the maid, recognising him, called out to her mistress, “It’s Mr Bowles ma’am, from Netherfield.” Mrs Wickham sounded surprised, calling in a loud voice, “Mr Bowles? What on earth does he want at this hour? Is someone dead?”
Bowles meanwhile had stepped inside the door, taking Mr Elliott in with him, and asked to see Mrs Wickham. When she appeared, he greeted her politely and introduced Mr Elliott as “our new Member of Parliament.” Colin Elliott was unpleasantly surprised by Mrs Wickham’s appearance and coarse manner. “The new MP? Indeed? I suppose we should be honoured and what can we do for you, sir?” she asked in a rather saucy voice. Colin Elliott played his role perfectly.
He was, he explained politely, here on behalf of one of his constituents, a Mrs Lucy Sutton, whose two young daughters had been taken from their home, some days ago. Mrs Sutton was extremely distressed as no doubt Mrs Wickham may have been in the same situation, he suggested. At this point, Lydia Wickham laughed, loud and long. She had a particularly irritating laugh, he noticed.
“I think I’d have been grateful if someone had taken two of mine off my hands, sir. I had my hands full with five of them,” she quipped.
Mr Elliott ignored her attempt at a joke and went on, “Well, Mrs Sutton has been desolated, ma’am; there has been a great search mounted for the children by the police and just today, information has been received that they are in fact here with you,” he declared.
“With me?” she responded, indignant and quite brazen, her hand upon her heart, as if she was the aggrieved party. She would concede nothing until Mr Elliott said in a cold voice, “Mrs Wickham, I am sure I need not remind you that aiding and abetting an abduction is as heinous a crime as the deed itself and may well earn you a considerable term in jail or even transportation.”
Lydia Wickham’s face turned pale at his words; she certainly did not fancy jail or transportation to the other side of the world.
Elliott went on, “However, if you were to release the children to their mother now, the police, who have been on the trail of Mr Sutton, need not discover your part in his crime at all.”
“I had no part in his crime, I tell you; I knew nothing of any abduction,” she cried. “He told me the children’s mother had gone away and would I keep them until he arranged accommodation for them. He paid well; I knew nothing of any crime, I swear.” She sounded desperate and Colin Elliott almost believed her. For all her bravado, it was plain she did not want to be arrested and taken in for questioning by the police.
He pressed the advantage further. “If you help Mrs Sutton recover her children, we could arrange for you to receive a sum of money to compensate you for any loss.
“And what happens to me when Sutton gets here and finds the children gone? He will probably kill me; he told the innkeeper his wife was dead and he was going to take them to America,” she said, babbling desperately, trying to save herself, careless of the truth, as usual.
Lucy Sutton who had crept round to the front door and heard her words, came forward and begged Mrs Wickham to let her have her children back. “Please, ma’am, you cannot let him take them away,” she cried. “They’re only little girls, and they’re all I’ve got.”
Whether it was her tears or the threat of jail or the lure of money, they would never know, but Lydia Wickham went meekly into the parlour and fetched the two children. On seeing their mother, the girls ran to her and they embraced and wept in the hallway.
Colin Elliott and Mr Bowles had moved farther into the house and were taking out the money they had intended to offer Mrs Wickham.
On seeing it, Lydia looked quite pleased and, when it was put in her outstretched hand, she whipped it away and out of sight inside her bodice.
The transaction over, they were about to leave when a long, drawn-out whistle was heard in the distance. The men looked at each other; it was Thomson warning them of the arrival of someone, possibly Sutton.
There was no going back into the house; they would have been trapped.
Racing out carrying the two children and dragging Mrs Sutton with them, they ran into the yard and the overgrown thicket at the bottom of the garden. Lucy Sutton and her daughters were hidden behind a barn, and warned to stay very quiet.
The Ladies of Longbourn Page 29
