She was, said Mr Bingley, her grandfather, to those of the party that had travelled together from Derbyshire, “an exceptional young woman, who deserved to be exceptionally happy.” And there was no dissent from his opinion on this occasion.
Later, at the church and the wedding breakfast, no opportunity was missed to praise the handsome couple for their generosity and wish them a most felicitous marriage. Such universal agreement on the suitability of a marriage was rare indeed. If good wishes and fond hopes could ensure conjugal bliss, then this couple’s felicity was guaranteed. Fortunately, they were both far too sensible to depend on such ephemeral gifts alone. Their happiness was more likely to grow out of the strength of their love and their mutual esteem. For the moment, however, no one who saw them together could doubt their delight in each other.
Two days later, they were to leave on their wedding journey to Europe. Anna went to her room to help Anne-Marie pack and found her still in her nightgown; her hair tumbled around her shoulders, tripping around the room in bare feet. When Anna, after a few moments of silence, asked, “Anne-Marie, my dear, is your packing all done?” She had danced over to her and said, “Yes, my dear Anna, I have everything I need, I think,” which, considering her trunk lay half-empty beside her bed and her closet stood open, still full of clothes, was something of an exaggeration, Anna thought. Anna’s indulgent smile gave little away, but once downstairs, she sought out her maid. “Jenny, please do go and help Miss Anne-Marie, I mean Mrs Elliott pack, will you, my dear? Else I fear she will never be ready when the carriage arrives,” she said and Jenny Dawkin’s knowing smile revealed that she was well aware of the situation.
Indeed, Rosie the chambermaid had just informed the entire kitchen staff that she had taken up their tea tray in the morning and, when she went to retrieve it an hour later, “it was almost untouched and the couple were still in bed!”
The giggles and laughter this revelation had aroused had been swiftly suppressed when Mrs Bingley appeared at the door. Her instructions were soon carried out to good effect.
Jenny and Rosie went upstairs and presently, Anne-Marie was packed, dressed, and ready when her husband came to escort her downstairs to the waiting carriage. This time the entire household appeared on the steps to wish them Godspeed. While it is neither necessary nor seemly to intrude upon the private passion of the newlywed pair to ascertain the extent of their happiness, one letter from Anne-Marie to her Aunt Emma Wilson, will suffice to prove their felicity. Written from London, where they spent a few days at Mr Elliott’s apartment in Knightsbridge, it read,
My dearest Aunt,
What can I say? For in truth you know it already, far better than I do.
It was you who taught me what joy a good marriage with a loved and loving man can bring a woman. You who helped me believe that a woman can and must have the right to love and be loved, with sincerity and passion. You who made me understand that it was neither wrong nor wicked to want such love, and for that I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Dear Aunt, it is difficult for me to say just how happy I am, indeed, to describe how I feel, for I fear that you, who know well what a low ebb I had reached, may well believe my language to be extreme. Because I had so little happiness in my previous marriage, you may think that any joy, however small, may seem like heaven!
Please believe me, dearest Aunt, when I say that there is no longer anything more I desire, no one I envy, no one whose good fortune I covet, no woman in the whole world with whom I will exchange one hour of my life, from now on.
This I owe primarily to my husband, but also to you, to my dear father and Anna. Without your love, I may well have given up my struggle and never found true happiness. I do love you all with all my heart,
God bless you,
Your loving and dearly loved niece,
Anne-Marie Elliott.
While in London, Mr and Mrs Elliott dined with her brother, who was now a firm friend of Mr Elliott, whose courageous defection from the Tory Party had won his admiration. Charles Bingley had sat in the gallery as Elliott made his speech in the Commons and confessed later that he had wanted to cheer loudly at several points but was reluctant to risk ejection by the ushers.
“I thought it was superb. Your denunciation of the inertia and lethargy affecting the Tory Party was absolutely timely. I could not have put it better myself!” he declared, at dinner, “and when you stated that you would in the next session of Parliament support Lord Russell’s Reform Bill, you should have seen their faces!”
Colin Elliott laughed and confessed he had avoided looking at some of his former colleagues.
“I have come to despise many of them; they are such consummate hypocrites, Charles. They claim to represent the people in their constituencies, yet they vote down everything unless it props up the privileges of the wealthy. I doubt I could have lived with myself, had I continued to support them,” he declared and his wife added proudly, “Papa says it was one of the finest speeches he has heard in the Commons.”
Charles smiled, hearing the adulation in her voice; it was clear that his sister adored and admired her husband. He could scarcely believe that a short time ago she had been so miserable he had feared she may find life too dreary and difficult to bear. Anne-Marie saw his expression and understood his thoughts. She had herself marvelled at the way her life had changed in the course of a year.
With Mr Elliott and her father both preoccupied with political and social change, she had found herself drawn into the discussion of matters generally regarded as outside her scope. The examples of Emma Wilson, Becky Tate, and Caroline Fitzwilliam, and her own work as a nurse were proof that women’s minds could be occupied with much more than the cut of a gown and the length of a sleeve or the interminable round of society gossip.
She heard her husband say, in reply to a question from Charles, “Nothing can stop the Reform Movement now; even if the Whigs were not to win the next election, I believe Gladstone’s Liberals would take up the cause. His commitment is more genuine than that of Disraeli, whom I do not entirely trust.”
“And you believe he will extend the franchise to working people?” Charles asked, to which Elliott replied, “I have no doubt he will. He has no alternative; there is no turning back.”
“And when do you think women will get the vote?” asked Anne-Marie eagerly, excited by all this talk of reform.
At that, unhappily, they fell silent. Neither man seriously believed this would be soon. However, Colin Elliott was unwilling to dismiss her question. Keen to nurture her interest, he explained gently, “It will not come soon, my darling. There will have to be a prolonged struggle, I fear. Neither the government nor the opposition wants to be first in promising women the vote.”
His wife sounded disappointed and bewildered. “Why? Surely it is an important part of reform that women have the right to vote. Do you support it?”
“Of course I do, my dearest, as do many sensible men in the Parliament. Most see it as inevitable, but those entrenched in power do not want a change. They have irrational fears of what it will do to society. They claim it will destroy the foundations of family life. It’s rubbish, of course!”
Charles laughed out loud. “More likely they have very well-founded fears that it will shake the foundations of their own power,” he declared and Elliott agreed.
“You are quite right, Charles; I regret that the conservatism of the Queen does little to help the cause.”
Charles Bingley, realising how disappointing this must be to his sister, decided it was time to announce some good news. Changing the subject, he said rather brightly, “I have been thinking, for some time now, of moving back to Hertfordshire.”
Anne-Marie was immediately interested. “What? Leave London, you mean?”
“Yes, do you suppose Papa and Anna will have a room for me at Netherfield House?” he quipped.
At this, there was much laughter and Anne-Marie said, “Charles, of course they will; they will be delight
ed. But, what on earth has prompted this decision?”
Before he could answer, Colin Elliott asked, “Does this mean you will give up your work at the practice in East London?” Charles nodded and; seeing the astonishment upon his brother-in-law’s countenance; proceeded to explain.
“Oh, I know I shall miss it. I have learned so much here, especially the work I’ve done on the diseases of children and the problems caused by poverty, malnutrition, unsanitary conditions, all of that has been invaluable. But, they will not go to waste, because I am thinking of applying for a most important position in the country.”
“Indeed? Where?” asked his friend.
“Well, I have it on the best authority,” said Bingley, slowly and deliberately, “that an appointment is soon to be made to the new Children’s Hospital at Bell’s Field.”
At this, Anne-Marie could not contain her joy; she rose and threw her arms around her brother’s neck, to the general amusement of the staff.
“Charles! How wonderful! You want to work with us? Is it not the very best news, Colin?” she cried and there were tears in her eyes as she turned to her husband. She had dreamed of this, but had not dared to suggest it to her brother, fearing he would refuse or worse, accept and then regret turning his back on a career in London. With the big teaching hospitals growing in size and reputation, she had thought he would look to them for a position, rather than a small country hospital.
Now he had made his decision and she was overjoyed. A new children’s hospital with her own staff and Charles as its chief physician; she could not ask for more. Her husband agreed, “This will solve all our problems,” he said, congratulating his brother-in-law. “Charles, you have made a most generous choice, yet I am sure you will not regret it.”
Charles Bingley admitted he had thought long and hard about it; it had been, he said, a difficult choice, but once he had decided, he was quite certain it was the right thing to do.
“I am well aware how much time and effort you have all invested in this venture; Papa, you and most of all, my dear sister, here. I know my father has long wanted to do something significant to improve the health services and education for the children of the estate and the surrounding district. Well, I cannot do much about their education, but I can help improve their health and their chances of survival. I have seen too many die or be scarred by preventable diseases. I wanted to join you and achieve something worthwhile for Netherfield.”
His sister’s eyes shone, “Oh, you will, Charles, you will. And your reward will be great satisfaction; I can promise you that,” she said. “I cannot wait to tell Papa and Anna. I must write tonight, so it will be in the post first thing tomorrow morning.” Both men smiled at her enthusiasm.
“I had intended to write myself, but I would not dream of spoiling your pleasure. I shall delay mine until Monday, by which time yours will have reached them,” said Charles. “However, I am expected at Netherfield for Christmas, so when you return from Italy, I shall already be there, awaiting the grand opening of the hospital by the wife of our new Reformist MP.”
Anne-Marie delayed not a moment, after returning to their apartment in Knightsbridge, before sitting down to write to her father and Anna. Her husband was mightily amused even as he indulged her, wondering what other bride of less than a week would be preparing, late at night, to pen a letter to her father about a hospital! But he knew how much it meant to her. She wrote,
Dearest Papa and Anna, this is but a short note, for it is late, but it brings you the most wonderful news! We have just returned from dining with Charles, who has told us he intends to resign at Christmas from his practice in East London and move back to Hertfordshire. He wishes to work at the children’s hospital! Papa, is this not the best news in the world?
I cannot tell you what a relief it is to know that we shall have in my dear brother such a good, dedicated physician in charge. He must stay at Netherfield House, of course, and when Mr Elliott and I move to live at Longbourn, he can have our suite of rooms. Oh dear, I must not run on so; I had best conclude as my husband has waited patiently for me to finish this, so it may be ready for the post tomorrow.
As her letter trailed to its happy conclusion, her patient and loving husband claimed her attention. For Anne-Marie it was perhaps the best moment of her young life, combining the sweet success of a dream with the warmth of deep and genuine love.
On the following morning, the letter despatched to the post, they left on their journey to Europe, which was to take them first to Paris and thence to Italy, where they were to spend Christmas enjoying the hospitality of a family who had long been their friends.
Two generations of Continis had known the Darcys and through them the Bingleys, with whom they had become close friends. The invitation to Anne-Marie and her husband had come via her father, who had frequently travelled in Europe and stayed with them. For Anne-Marie, who had never left England, it was a whole new experience. Their generous, warm hospitality was almost as overwhelming as the art treasures and architecture of Florence and Rome. The Continis were keen to draw them into their family celebrations and make them feel at home.
However, in the New Year, as the Winter deepened across the continent, they began to feel the nostalgic tug of the familiar and returned to England. Snow, and more often slush and mud, covered the streets of London and most of its environs, drawing them back to the comfort of home and family at Netherfield Park. So keen had they been to be home, they had stayed but one night in London, where the attractions of the city were seriously eroded by the dreadful weather and the condition of the streets.
“At least,” said Anne-Marie to her husband, as they left for Hertfordshire, “in the country, the roads may be equally poor, but the air is infinitely sweeter.”
The cold discomfort of the journey from London was soon replaced by the warmth of the welcome they received at Netherfield. Though it was only early afternoon, it was dark when they arrived at the house and their greatest desire was for a hot bath and bed. Accompanying them up the stairs, Anna informed them that Mrs Perrot was in the throes of preparing a celebratory dinner to welcome them home.
“Charles,” she said, “has gone down to Longbourn at the request of my Aunt Collins, who had been concerned that one of the maids has had a persistent cough, which had worsened despite several home remedies. He has taken the small carriage and should be back in time for dinner.” Anna, urged the weary travellers to take time to rest and recover from what must have been an arduous journey.
It was a respite they welcomed. Travelling in Europe had been all very well when they were being conveyed from place to place in the splendid equipages of the Continis, who had insisted on showing them the splendours of ancient Italy, but traversing the continent by public coach in Winter was not for the fainthearted.
Anne-Marie was very tired and glad indeed to be home and in her own bedroom. Her husband was determined that she should enjoy a long and undisturbed rest.
So deep was the slumber into which Anne-Marie had fallen, she was not awakened when, around six o’clock, there was a loud knocking at the front door and much calling out and shouting in the yard.
Mr Elliott, aroused by the sounds, had looked but could see nothing out of the window, which was thoroughly frosted over. As the noise continued, he decided to go downstairs to investigate. He met Anna on the stairs; she too had been disturbed.
“Who on earth could it be?” he asked and was astonished when she said, “I thought I recognised the Rector’s voice.”
“Mr Griffin? What would he want at this hour? He cannot be here to summon us to Evensong, surely?”
Anna had only just managed to smile at his joke, for by this time one of the servants had come up from the kitchen and opened the door, letting in a blast of cold air that swept through the hall and caught her as she came downstairs, causing her to gasp.
Pulling her shawl more closely around her shoulders, Anna went forward as Mr Griffin and another man from the village scurried into
the hall and the doors were shut again.
Both men looked exhausted, cold and wet with the sleet that had been falling all afternoon, and as they were ushered into the saloon, where they would at least be dry and warm in front of the fire, Anna ordered that they be provided with towels and hot drinks.
But it was quite clear that Mr Griffin was surprisingly unwilling to accept any refreshment, before he had revealed the reason for their visit. This was certainly no social or pastoral call. Both Griffin and his companion looked stunned and distressed as they tried to explain.
“My dear Mrs Bingley, it is very kind of you, but we cannot stay, there is no time to lose; we must find Dr Bingley and take him with us, it is absolutely essential.” Mr Griffin was getting quite agitated.
The mention of Dr Bingley alerted Colin Elliott, “Dr Bingley has gone to Longbourn to see a patient,” he explained and asked, “Why do you need him? Who is ill? What is wrong, Mr Griffin?”
Elliott’s voice seemed to cut through Mr Griffin’s agitation, as he addressed him directly, “Oh, Mr Elliott, I am so thankful to find you here. You must help us find Dr Bingley; he is needed at once,” and he began to blather on again, but Mr Elliott cut him short, determined to discover the reason for his alarm. “Why man, tell me, why do you need the doctor? What has happened?”
Then, as if roused from an autistic torpor, the farmhand in whose cart the two men had travelled to Netherfield, spoke for the first time in sepulchral tones, “There’s been an accident, sir, a terrible accident; there’s been people killed for sure.”
Anna gasped and the maids, who had come in with hot drinks and towels, cried out, as Colin Elliott grasped the man’s arm and demanded to know, “What accident, man? Where?”
Only then did Mr Griffin, by now fortified with a hot toddy, find words to explain what had happened. Still shaking, he began the tale.
“It’s the train, Mr Elliott, the train from London, which was due in at five and when it failed to arrive, those at the station thought it was late on account of the weather and snow on the tracks, but it turns out, it has come off the tracks, sir, as it came around the hill and gone down the embankment and into the creek below Sidley.”
The Ladies of Longbourn Page 33
