Whether her prayers had been heard and duly answered, they would never know, but when they reached the house, the birds had flown!
Only the kitchen staff and the manservant remained, since Mrs Bingley’s maids had gone with her, and all they knew was that the three ladies had left for London. They had heard nothing of any plans to go on to Bath. They had understood that the party would be spending some time at the Bingleys’ house in Grosvenor Street.
Determined that they would be stopped, if it were at all possible, Anne-Marie sent an express communication to her father, who she knew to be visiting Longbourn, informing him of all that had transpired in the last few days and urging him to return to London.
She then decided to travel the relatively short distance to Standish Park and acquaint her father’s sister, Mrs Wilson, with what had taken place.
Eliza Harwood, who was, by now, quite convinced of the seriousness of the situation, even though she did not understand all its complexities, decided to accompany her friend to Standish Park.
Although the drive from Rosings Park to the Wilsons’ estate took them through the picturesque Kentish countryside, so tense and distressed were the two young women that they hardly noticed their surroundings. The short journey seemed interminable, so keen were they to reach their destination.
It was almost dark when they arrived at the house, and even Emma Wilson, who was accustomed to late callers for her husband, was surprised to see them at so late an hour.
Fearful they had brought bad news, she cried out, “Has something happened to Jonathan?”
Eliza Harwood hastened to reassure her that Mr Bingley was not the object of their concern, but his wife.
“Why? Has she been taken ill?” she asked, bewildered by this information.
“Indeed she has, very ill; in the head!” said Anne-Marie, before she collapsed into Emma’s arms.
In the next few minutes, amidst confusion and panic, Emma Wilson—practical and thoughtful as ever—had her niece carried upstairs, revived, and comfortably tucked into bed. It was clear that Anne-Marie was exhausted.
Emma then sat down with Eliza and tried to discover what had brought about their extraordinary journey and her niece’s state of extreme agitation.
Eliza, in whom her friend had confided, had to decide how much to reveal.
At first she was reluctant to speak out without her friend’s authority. But soon, realising that if Anne-Marie’s mother was to be prevented from embarking upon a hazardous and totally ill-advised course of action, a responsible family member had to be told, she related all she knew.
Emma listened, asking only a few salient questions, but she was deeply shocked by what she heard. She had had no indication that the situation between her brother and his wife had deteriorated to this degree.
Despite his promise to return to continue the discussion truncated by the news of Lady Catherine’s death, Jonathan had not had the opportunity to do so.
On making some enquiries, Emma had discovered from her husband that Jonathan had begun work at Westminster and was being kept very busy with the negotiations between the opposition parties.
Emma was therefore completely surprised to learn of the bizarre behaviour of her sister-in-law and even more astonished at the involvement of Miss Caroline Bingley and her new friend, Mrs Arabella Watkins!
When Anne-Marie was quite recovered and had taken some food, Emma asked, “Who is this Mrs Watkins, and how does she come to have so much influence upon your mother?”
The question opened the floodgates of her frustration and she gave vent to her anger.
“She is a dreadful woman, Aunt Emma, a sycophantic hanger-on, who lives with your aunts, Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley. I believe Mama only met her when she attended the funeral of Lady Catherine. Ever since then, she will not leave her alone; all these cards and letters and gifts keep arriving, and I am told Mama now treats her as a close friend and confidante!”
Emma was even more astonished when she continued, “And her only qualification for this role seems to be that she has been widowed twice! My dear Aunt, you should see her; she must surely be the merriest widow in England!”
“Is she young, old, or middle-aged?” asked Emma.
“It is impossible to tell, she wears so much powder and paint! I think she looks vulgar and wears flashy clothes to the most inappropriate places. Aunt Cathy said she came to church on Sunday with Mama and Miss Bingley wearing a yellow taffeta gown and a plumed hat! Can you imagine?”
Emma shuddered at the picture and asked, “How much of this does your father know?”
“Poor Papa, I doubt that he has any idea of their plans. I have sent an express to Longbourn, where he is visiting this week, telling him everything I know and urging him to return to Kent at once. They seem determined to detach Mama from us and take her back to Bath with them. Oh dear, what can we do? Aunt Emma, we must do something.”
Emma Wilson, who had a strong bond of affection with her brother, took only a short while to decide that she would go to London with her niece. Her husband James would have to be told; he was probably the best person to help Jonathan deal with the ladies from Bath.
Having made the necessary arrangements and spoken with her children and the staff, reassuring them that she would be back with Mr Wilson on Friday, they set out the following day after both young women had enjoyed a good night’s sleep.
Eliza Harwood was plainly keen to be home before her husband returned. They went first to Harwood House, where Anne-Marie alighted also to collect some things for her journey and, having begged Eliza to explain her absence to her superior at the hospital, returned to the carriage.
As they continued on their journey, she told Emma more details of the trying situation that had developed between her parents. It was plain that Anne-Marie was exceedingly distressed by it all. Despite Emma’s gentle efforts to comfort her, she continued to look most unhappy and, though she kept a brave countenance for most of the journey, there were many occasions when Emma saw her bite her lip and hurriedly wipe tears from her eyes.
Several hours later, having stopped only for meals and to change horses, they arrived at the Wilsons’ house in Grosvenor Street.
Once there, Emma proceeded to acquaint her husband with the events that had necessitated their journey to London. With Anne-Marie to provide the details, they were able to give him a complete account of what had transpired and some idea of what they feared might yet follow.
James Wilson was almost speechless with astonishment. While he had known of Amelia-Jane’s objections to her husband’s return to Westminster, nothing Jonathan had said had prepared him for such a turn of events as this.
“I cannot believe that Jonathan would have gone to Hertfordshire if he had any knowledge of Amelia-Jane’s intentions. It is quite likely that he is as ignorant of all this as we are,” he remarked.
“Has he given you no indication at all of the involvement of Miss Bingley and her friend, this Mrs Watkins, in Amelia-Jane’s affairs?” asked his wife.
James was adamant. “None whatsoever; had he done so, I would have advised him to seek your father’s help. Mr Bingley is far more likely to have some influence with his sister than Jonathan and may well have prevented matters going as far as this.”
Emma was not so sure. “Papa has never had much influence with his sisters; they have always acted exactly as they thought fit, as a consequence of having been left their own quite considerable fortune by their father. I believe they used to have a much greater influence upon him until Mr Darcy took him in hand.”
“Does that mean Caroline will not heed his advice?” asked James.
“I very much doubt that she will. Indeed, if what Anne-Marie says is true, the Bingley sisters appear to be well and truly under the influence of this Mrs Watkins—whoever she is!” said his wife.
“But, what is to be do
ne?” asked Anne-Marie, feeling helpless and impatient as the conversation swirled around her. “How are we to prevail upon Mama that she must not go to Bath, leaving Tess and Cathy at the parsonage with Aunt Catherine, as if they were orphans!”
Her grief and anxiety moved James to speak more gently. “While it is a private family matter in which one generally ought not interfere, should Jonathan need my support to convince your mother, he will certainly have it,” said James, but Anne-Marie was not comforted.
“But what about Miss Bingley and this dreadful Watkins woman? Who will confront them and ask them to stay out of our lives?” she cried.
James Wilson was not at all in favour of Anne-Marie’s idea of confronting the three women at the Bingleys’ house. “I do not believe that it will accomplish anything, except still more acrimony and embarrassment,” he advised. “I cannot recommend it to you, Anne-Marie, and I do not think your father will appreciate it, either. He will probably feel that it is more than likely to inflame the situation between your mother and himself.”
He did agree, however, that Jonathan should be warned and he promised to send a message to Longbourn by electric telegraph, urgently requesting his presence at Westminster.
Anne-Marie, though not entirely satisfied, was grateful for his help.
***
Jonathan Bingley would remember the Summer of 1859 to his dying day.
It was not a particularly remarkable Summer, as English Summers go, but he would remember it because it was the period when almost every aspect of his life changed radically. Some changes he had made himself, such as his decision to move back into politics, but there were others over which he seemed to have no control at all.
However, when he journeyed to Hertfordshire for his regular visit to the Longbourn estate, he had no hint of the volatility of the circumstances that surrounded him nor the events that were about to occur. The only change he could envisage, and which he would certainly welcome, was the one they had all been working hard to achieve since the election. Negotiations were leading to a point where the defeat of Lord Derby’s government in the Commons was imminent. While the thought excited him, as it would be the culmination of their hopes, Jonathan did not dwell on it as he approached the end of his journey.
The countryside around Longbourn was so pretty and the early Summer weather so mild as to make one forget the clamour of life’s demands on one’s time. The gentle movement of the vehicle and the salubrious environment outside induced a most alluring mood of serenity, which was not necessarily related to reality at all.
Arriving at Longbourn, he found both Mrs Collins, his mother-in-law, and his aunt Miss Mary Bennet in good spirits. They were very excited that he had arrived early.
“Because it means you will be meeting the Faulkners, who are coming to tea with their daughter Anna, who is recently returned from Europe,” said Mrs Collins who was obviously very proud of her young niece. “She is exceptionally talented and remarkably modest with it,” she declared as the women, having attended to Jonathan, busied themselves preparing for their visitors.
“Indeed, she is,” said Jonathan and surprised both Mary and Charlotte when he said, “I had the good fortune to meet Miss Anna Faulkner and her parents on the morning after Julian Darcy’s wedding, when I called on my aunt Lizzie and Mr Darcy. The Faulkners were visiting Pemberley at the same time.”
It seemed a long time ago, but he still recalled their meeting clearly and told Charlotte that he had found her niece charming and, from what he had heard of her work in Art and Music, it appeared she was very accomplished too.
Mrs Collins agreed completely and gave Jonathan a detailed description of her niece’s accomplishments—the catalogue of which would have continued had they not been interrupted by the steward, who had arrived to take Jonathan on his regular inspection of the property.
He was eager to take a look at some new trees that had been planted in the orchard in the early Spring and went with the steward, promising not to be late for tea.
Although he had been exceedingly busy for almost all of the time since their meeting at Pemberley, Jonathan had not forgotten the Faulkners or their talented young daughter. Since he had been back at Westminster, he had met other people who had visited Paris and had spoken enthusiastically of the same French painters that Miss Faulkner had admired so much and he looked forward to telling her so.
Later, having returned to the house, bathed and changed, he came downstairs to find the Faulkners already ensconced in the drawing room, partaking of tea and a delicious array of cakes and pastries. He noted that Anna was talking quietly to his aunt Mary, who sat by the fire, while Mrs Collins was busy pouring out tea.
They all greeted him cheerfully and Mrs Faulkner made a point of coming over to the side table and condoling with him on the death of his former employer, Lady Catherine, and almost immediately afterwards congratulating him on the happy news that she had bequeathed him a substantial sum of money.
Even though she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, Jonathan was embarrassed and tried to dismiss it lightly, but Maria Faulkner was determined that he should know how happy she was for him.
“Your aunt Kitty mentioned it in her last letter,” she said with a funny little smile that made her look almost child-like. “I just wanted you to know how very happy we all are for you. When I read Kitty’s letter, I said to Dr Faulkner—‘it cannot have happened to a nicer person than Mr Jonathan Bingley,’ I said, and he agreed.”
Jonathan thanked her and hurried back to join the others, hoping desperately to change the subject. As they helped themselves to cake, Dr Faulkner gave him the chance, with a remark about the value of properties in Hertfordshire.
“I believe,” he said, as they stood beside the windows each balancing a cup of tea and a plate of cake, “Netherfield Park is vacant again and, this time, it is for sale.”
Jonathan was so taken aback, he could not find anything to say at first, but as he recovered, he asked, trying hard to sound casual, “Is it really? Do you happen to know what price they are asking?”
Dr Faulkner did not know, but said he knew the agent in charge of the sale, a patient of his, and could make enquiries of him.
Before he could ask any questions, Jonathan added quickly, as if to explain his interest, “I was born at Netherfield, but the family moved to Leicestershire soon afterwards and I have never been back.”
“Ah! I see,” said Dr Faulkner in the sort of tone that implied that everything had suddenly become clear to him. “Well, I could give you Mr Armstrong’s address, if you wish to call on him while you are here. His offices are in Meryton. I am sure he would be happy to let you look over the place. There have been some improvements made over the years.”
Jonathan, though not wishing to proclaim his interest too widely, could not hide his excitement. He was glad Mrs Faulkner and her daughter had followed Mary into the library, which now served also as a music room; it allowed him to make a note of the address without drawing their attention. The last thing he wanted was to start some gossip in the town about his interest in Netherfield.
Thanking Dr Faulkner, he requested that the matter of his inquiry be treated as a confidence, to which the good doctor readily agreed.
“Of course, Mr Bingley, you may rely on me. I am accustomed to keeping matters confidential, and not all of them are medical matters! You’d be surprised at the confidences with which people trust us,” he said as they moved out to join the ladies and admire the splendid display of Summer flowers in the garden.
Charlotte Collins was very proud of her achievements in the grounds of Longbourn and wished to show them off. As they walked along the flagged path bordering the lawn, Jonathan found himself between Miss Faulkner and Mrs Collins.
When they reached the terrace, he helped his mother-in-law down the shallow steps and turned to help his younger companion, but she was alrea
dy there before him, smiling at his look of mild surprise.
“You are very sure-footed, Miss Faulkner,” he said with a smile, to which she replied that she had done a lot of walking in Europe and had learned to watch her step, since many of the lesser roads and country lanes were in very poor condition.
“My friends the Armandes are great walkers. Every Sunday, after we had been to church, the entire household would walk miles, in every kind of weather, too,” she said, “and when we got home, usually with our arms full of wild flowers from the fields and meadows, there was always steaming hot soup and fresh baked bread. The scent would fill the house!”
“You make it sound truly delightful,” he said, amused by the obvious pleasure she took in recalling the experience.
Anna laughed. “Oh, it was. I must say, the Europeans know how to enjoy every simple experience. Things we would regard as commonplace, like collecting mushrooms in the woods, picking fruit in the orchard, or even just baking bread, I cannot explain it, but somehow, they seem to gain a new, more pleasurable quality over there. It’s very much like the work of the new French painters, who render very ordinary things—a basket of fruit, a jug of milk, many homely articles luminous and extraordinarily beautiful.”
Jonathan wanted to tell her of his friends at Westminster, who had seen and admired their work, but was reluctant to interrupt her. She spoke with so much feeling and enthusiasm and her eyes and voice were so expressive, he wished she would go on, but suddenly, as if conscious of her own voice, Anna stopped.
They had reached the end of the terrace. This time they had several steps to climb to the drive and she gladly took the hand he offered and thanked him for his help.
The others had stopped to admire a rose bush, of which Charlotte had added several to the garden at Longbourn; Jonathan, conscious of the warm afternoon sun slanting down upon them, led the way indoors.
“And have you been doing any drawing recently?” he asked and was surprised when she replied with obvious pleasure, “Indeed, I have. We visited Hatfield House a week or two ago. My father has an abiding interest in historic houses. When we were in Derbyshire, it was difficult to drag him away from Chatsworth and Pemberley. Well, he wanted to show me Hatfield House and the old Palace where Queen Elizabeth lived as a girl, when her horrid sister Mary Tudor sat on the throne and persecuted everybody who disagreed with her.”
Netherfield Park Revisited Page 7
