Netherfield Park Revisited

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  Copyright © 2008 by Rebecca Ann Collins

  Cover and internal design © 2008 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover photo © Bridgeman Art Library

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  Originally printed and bound in Australia by SNAP Printing, Sydney, NSW, 1999. Reprinted in June 2001, March 2002, and June 2004.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Collins, Rebecca Ann.

  Netherfield Park revisited / Rebecca Ann Collins.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4022-1155-3

  ISBN-10: 1-4022-1155-4

  1. Young men—England—Fiction. 2. England—Social life and customs—19th century—Fiction. I. Austen, Jane, 1775-1817. Pride and prejudice. II. Title.

  PR9619.4.C65N47 2008

  823’.92—dc22

  2008012617

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  An Introduction

  Prologue

  Part One

  Part Two

  An Epilogue

  Postscript

  Appendix

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Prologue to Ladies of Longbourn

  Back Cover

  Dedicated to

  Averil, with love, 1999

  An Introduction …

  Devotees of Jane Austen will not need to be reminded that the news of the arrival at Netherfield Park of Mr Charles Bingley, “a single man, possessed of a good fortune,” begins the story of Pride and Prejudice.

  It affects dramatically the lives of the Bennet family at Longbourn—in particular, Jane and Elizabeth.

  In the end, after the inevitable heartrending exasperation that plagues every romance, Jane marries her beloved Bingley, while her sister is claimed by his enigmatic friend Mr Darcy. Both young women marry and move away, out of provincial Meryton society, to live, we are assured by Miss Austen in the final chapter, happily ever after.

  Having observed their passage through some of the following years in The Pemberley Chronicles, the author’s first book, I have long been intrigued by the prospect of a return to Netherfield in a new era, by another, younger Mr Bingley.

  It was a story that asked to be pursued; hence the new Master of Netherfield, Jonathan Bingley, son of Charles and Jane, returns to his father’s former home at a crucial time in his life in this third novel in the Pemberley series: Netherfield Park Revisited.

  Jonathan Bingley’s decision has some interesting and unforeseen consequences for himself and others. Inheriting from his parents not only a sizable fortune but also his engaging nature, Jonathan Bingley could quite easily have walked into or out of one of Miss Austen’s own stories. The circumstances in which he finds himself are both probable and believable in the context of mid-Victorian England. A man of passion and integrity, he faces some difficult choices, and a more complex fate than that of his amiable father awaits him.

  For the benefit of readers who may need reminding, a list of the main characters in Netherfield Park Revisited is provided in the Appendix.

  RAC/ June 1999

  Prologue

  There can surely be no more anticlimactic occasion than the day following a wedding in the family, or as was the case at Pemberley in the Spring of 1859, two weddings in the family.

  The wedding of Julian Darcy, son of Mr and Mrs Darcy of Pemberley, and Miss Josie Tate, daughter of Mr and Mrs Anthony Tate of Matlock in Derbyshire, had brought together a vast number of family and friends, some of whom had not seen one another since the last wedding in the family. Even more so, since it was held together with the wedding of Louisa Bingley to Dr Matthew Ward.

  Jonathan Bingley, the only brother of Louisa Bingley and eldest son of Mr and Mrs Bingley of Ashford Park in Leicestershire, being a dutiful and courteous young man, decided to call on his favourite aunt and uncle before returning to Kent, where he managed the estate and business affairs of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

  His wife, Amelia-Jane, stayed behind at Ashford Park, complaining of tiredness and a headache, while Jonathan set off for Pemberley.

  He was not expecting his visit to result in anything more exciting than cakes and tea and a pleasant exchange of views with the Darcys, who were always excellent company.

  They greeted him warmly. Their nephew and godson was a special favourite, and since he was not as often in Derbyshire as they would have liked, he was always welcome at Pemberley.

  “Jonathan, how very nice it is to see you and how good of you to come especially to see us,” said Mrs Darcy, while her husband rose to congratulate him on the news that he had recently been rewarded for his services to the nation with a significant civilian honour.

  Jonathan, with his usual modesty, protested that it was, if the truth were told, a reward for services rendered to his party—being a most loyal and active member of the Reformist wing of the Whigs during some twelve years in Parliament. He did add, however, that he was very proud to receive it all the same.

  The morning room in which they sat was filled with Spring sunshine while outside, the servants cleared away the debris and dismantled the great marquee which had accommodated the wedding guests.

  Turning to his aunt, Jonathan said, “Aunt Lizzie, you know I could never have left for London without seeing you and Mr Darcy again. There was so little opportunity at the wedding to talk of anything but the two singularly handsome couples and the excellent repast provided for your guests. Of course it goes without saying that Pemberley looked splendid, as always.”

  Elizabeth thanked her nephew for his generous compliments as she took his arm and went out onto the terrace and into the garden, promising to show him her latest roses. Darcy fell in beside them and asked, “Jonathan, am I right in believing that Lady Catherine has asked that you supervise the transfer of some of her treasures from Rosings to her residence in Bath?”

  “Yes indeed, Sir, I imagine it will keep me very busy throughout this month and well into the next. Her Ladyship has sent a long list of items—many of her particular favourites,” he replied, with a tiny grimace.

  Elizabeth smiled. “With detailed instructions as to how they should be packed for transport, no doubt,” she said.

  “Indeed, how did you know, Aunt Lizzie?” asked Jonathan, unaware that Mrs Darcy had previously experienced Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s very particular form of instruction on the correct way of doing everything from packing a trunk to practising the pianoforte!

  Mr Darcy remembered and laughed at Jonathan’s surprise, recalling an occasion many years ago when his aunt had urged him and his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam to procure the services of a particular valet to have their coats pressed and packed before leaving for London.


  “She declared that he always packed Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s trunk when he travelled and he was a perfectionist, of course,” said Darcy.

  “Of course,” said Jonathan, echoing a sentiment he had heard often enough. They were all laughing as they returned to the house, when Jonathan drew their attention to a carriage that had just driven into the park. It was an unfamiliar vehicle and neither Darcy nor Elizabeth was expecting any visitors.

  “I wonder who it could be,” said Elizabeth, as they went within.

  Soon, however, their callers were announced as they were shown into the saloon: Dr and Mrs Faulkner and Miss Anna Faulkner.

  Instantly, Elizabeth rose and went to them, greeting them cordially, for it was her dear friend Charlotte’s younger sister Maria, her husband Dr John Faulkner, and their daughter, Anna.

  They had been at the wedding, too, and Jonathan, standing a little apart, recalled seeing the handsome young lady at the reception, but he had totally failed to recognise her.

  On being introduced, he confessed, “Miss Faulkner, of course—it is Anna. Good heavens, you must forgive me, my recollection of you is of a mischievous little girl in a smock, with your hair in braids. It is completely at odds with your present elegant appearance, Miss Faulkner. This is a most pleasant surprise.”

  Miss Faulkner, handsome and tastefully dressed in the most modish European style, smiled cheerfully and extended her hand to him.

  “I am not surprised, Mr Bingley, I do not think we have met in almost ten years. I have a vague recollection of your wedding, when I was a very little girl, I think,” she said, looking to her parents for confirmation, “and later, when I was about fourteen, we attended a session of Parliament at which you spoke quite passionately, although I must confess I have quite forgotten your subject. We were, I recall, in London for a family wedding.”

  Astonished at her recollection, Jonathan laughed. “That must have been either the Ten Hour Day debate or the Public Health Act; we were pretty passionate about both matters. Those were most exciting times,” he said as they moved to sit down.

  Elizabeth, who had ordered more tea and cakes, joined them to ask what Anna had been doing with herself over the last few years.

  Before Miss Faulkner could reply, her father intervened to tell them that Anna had spent most of the last four years in Europe. “Mostly in Brussels and Paris, to be exact,” he said, “with a family named Armande, recommended highly by Mrs Collins. They run an excellent school for young ladies wishing to improve their knowledge of French and study the Fine Arts.”

  Dr Faulkner was clearly proud of his daughter’s achievements and took plenty of time to detail them. Anna, he told them, was “especially interested in Art and Music.” She had excelled at playing the pianoforte and the harp and her drawings had been highly praised.

  “Indeed,” he went on, at the risk of severely embarrassing his daughter, “her watercolours of fruit and flowers are quite remarkable.”

  Elizabeth, who could neither draw nor paint, was most impressed. Turning to Anna, she said, “You must let us see some of your work, Anna. Do you only paint in Europe or have you been working over here as well?”

  “I’m afraid most of my pictures are at the Armandes’ studio in Brussels, Mrs Darcy, but I have been doing a few smaller paintings since I’ve been home. However, there is some prospect of seeing some of them when Monsieur Armande comes to London to conduct a Summer school in French Art. I have hopes that he may include a few of mine in his students’ display,” she explained, trying modestly to dilute some of her father’s fulsome praise.

  “You must let us know when it is to be open to the public,” said Mr Darcy, whose interest in Art was well known, and Jonathan expressed the hope that he might come up to London to view them, too.

  They were all quite disarmed and charmed by the artless manner in which she acknowledged their interest, without presumption or false modesty.

  Jonathan, whose interest in the Fine Arts had been rather neglected of late, was quite fascinated by Miss Faulkner’s accomplishments.

  While her parents and the Darcys became engrossed in family small talk, he struck up an interesting discussion with the young lady.

  The Faulkners, who had admired the situation and elegance of Pemberley were delighted to be invited to take a short tour of some parts of the house. Sensing Miss Faulkner’s interest at the mention of the gallery, Jonathan offered her his arm and they joined the rest of the party as they toured the music room, the library, and the picture gallery, before going out to view the grounds and walk across the lawn towards the lake.

  Dr Faulkner and Maria had gone on ahead with Mr and Mrs Darcy, but Miss Faulkner lingered in the gallery, stopping to admire the remarkable collection of Italian masters.

  Jonathan asked if she had been to Italy, and she answered with alacrity, “Indeed, I have, but while I admire their Classical Masters, such as we have seen here, I must confess my present favourites are the new French painters. They seem to have a very special genius, they make it appear so effortless; there is not the painstaking detail, the quality of artifice that marks the work of the old masters, more a simplicity of line and splashes of glorious, glowing colour … it is all quite magical.”

  Jonathan, who had not heard such articulation of form and colour before, had to confess that he knew very little of the new French painters. Names like Degas, Manet, and Pissarro meant little to him, unknown as they were in England and certainly in Kent, where the decidedly traditional range of the De Bourgh collection had rather dominated his world lately.

  Miss Faulkner explained that the new French artists were finding it difficult to gain acceptance even in their own country, but she was most enthusiastic.

  “They are too good and too many to be ignored,” she declared with a smile. “Monsieur Armande is convinced that they will be the next generation of great European artists, and I am sure he is right.”

  Her enthusiasm was infectious, and as they moved to join the rest, Jonathan promised himself that on his next visit to Paris, he would attempt to seek out the work of these new painters. Anna had convinced him it was an experience not to be missed.

  “It must be one of the greatest of God’s gifts,” she said, “to capture light and texture with brushes and paint as they do. I would give anything to paint half as well.”

  While they had been talking, Elizabeth’s younger sister Kitty, who was married to the Rector of Pemberley, had come around to meet her dear friend Maria, and more time was spent in greetings and conversation. They were old friends and had much to talk about.

  Later, the Faulkners left after Jonathan had promised to call on them at Haye Park when he was next in Hertfordshire, for as he observed, they were but a few miles from Longbourn, where he visited regularly.

  Following their departure, he continued to express astonishment at the accomplishments and charm of their daughter Anna.

  “I have to say I am at a loss to understand how young ladies of today become so accomplished,” he declared. “They can all play and sing as well as draw and paint and speak two or three languages …”

  Elizabeth wondered aloud why Anna Faulkner, clever and lovely as she was, had remained unwed.

  “Is it by choice, Kitty?” she asked. “For I cannot believe she has had no suitors.”

  Kitty waited until the servants had removed the tea things and left the room before she told a story of great sadness that explained why the Faulkners’ daughter Anna, now almost twenty-five years old, was still single. Jonathan Bingley, though feeling some degree of embarrassment as an outsider, was too intrigued not to want to listen.

  The tale Kitty told was of a romance some six years ago, between Anna Faulkner and a Captain Lockhart in the Royal Navy, who had achieved rank, but had not as yet a ship to command. This was not uncommon, for in the forty years of peace since the Congress of Vienna, it was the British Merch
ant Navy that had grown prodigiously.

  However, while their friendship had flourished and an engagement had been generally expected, the outbreak of the Crimean War in 1854 had precipitated his urgent recall to active duty on board a ship bound for the Black Sea.

  There had followed a proposal of marriage, to which an almost immediate answer was required, since he was commanded to sail for the Crimea within the fortnight. Dismayed at the very thought of war, which she abhorred, and revolted by the idea that she would have to endure the sights and sounds of battle, young Anna Faulkner had refused his offer of marriage, to the astonishment of her family and the utter consternation of poor Captain Lockhart.

  It was not that she did not love him, she had said repeatedly, but she could not bear the thought of being there to see him die; and die he did, at the horrible carnage that was Sebastopol. He died not, as she might have expected, in the midst of some heroic action, but of the dreaded cholera, well before confronting the enemy, like so many other young men.

  As Kitty told it, Anna, being not yet twenty, had been terrified at the prospect of being aboard the ship, witnessing daily scenes of death and destruction in the midst of a war of which she had no understanding whatsoever. Born in the long period of peace and prosperity that had followed the final defeat of Bonaparte, she had never expected to be confronted with such a conflict.

  Jonathan, astonished at Kitty’s tale, was, nevertheless, understanding of young Miss Faulkner’s predicament.

  “Surely,” he said, “it should not have surprised anyone that such a young woman would have found the prospect of marrying a man and sailing immediately for the Crimea, where we were at war, considerably daunting. I cannot believe that any of my sisters would have found the proposal attractive, nor would my parents have welcomed such a marriage, fraught with danger as it would have been.”

  Darcy agreed, pointing out that the catalogue of blunders that had followed Britain’s ill-prepared and unnecessary entry into the Crimean War would only have served to confirm her fears.