Netherfield Park Revisited

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  Emma and Jonathan were astonished at the calm, measured, and responsible way in which Anne-Marie had organised everything.

  On the journey between Harwood House and Grosvenor Street, Anne-Marie said very little, but she sat close beside her father and held his hand in hers, as if to comfort him, while seeking to draw from him some strength to help her cope with what lay ahead for both of them.

  When they arrived at the Wilsons’ apartments, she ran upstairs to her two young sisters and found them reading to each other. Her arrival triggered both tears and joy, for the girls had longed for their sister.

  She embraced and kissed them and told them they were going back to their own home and their grandmother was coming, too.

  Emma watched, amazed at the way she got them packed and ready, and thanked both James and herself and all the servants for their kindness to her sisters, as they prepared to leave. It was hard to believe that this young woman had been told of the death of her mother a couple of hours ago.

  What neither Emma nor Jonathan knew was that Anne-Marie had spent many days agonising over a letter she had received from her mother the previous week, a letter in which she had hinted at a journey and a new home with kind friends. While she had made no mention of Bath or Mrs Watkins, it had been plain to Anne-Marie that her mother was planning to leave London and her family.

  … I shall write to you, my dearest Anne-Marie, and I hope you will come and see me when I am settled in my new place. I know I can depend on you to look after Tess and Cathy for me.

  They will not be short of money, of that you can be certain, for your father is very generous with allowances; indeed, if he were as generous with his time and affections as with his money, we should have all been a good deal happier.

  Remember, dear Anne-Marie, when you marry, whether for love or money is not the important matter, but whether your husband has time to spare for you …

  If he has not, it is a lonely life indeed …

  The sad little message had lain hidden, even from her friend Eliza, while she had fretted about it, wondering whether she should acquaint her father with its contents. Now her poor unhappy mother was dead, it was unlikely to see the light of day again. The news of her death, even though it had come as a terrible shock, had been almost a relief after that letter, a cry of despair, more sharply poignant than before.

  At least now, Anne-Marie knew what she had to do.

  After Jonathan, his three daughters, and their grandmother had left, Emma and James Wilson found themselves alone in their own apartment for the first time in several days. They were, neither of them, strangers to pain and death, and felt great sympathy for Jonathan and his children. Discussing the circumstances surrounding Amelia-Jane’s death, they were forced to the conclusion, in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, that she had been foolishly misled by her friends into leaving her husband and children for no apparent reason. Her own agony and sense of helplessness was unknown to them.

  Emma, who, for the sake of family loyalty and her children’s security, had borne many years of mistreatment and humiliation in her first marriage, was more severe on her sister-in-law than James, who was willing to allow that there may have been extenuating circumstances that explained Amelia-Jane’s unhappiness; but neither would admit that any level of discontent could justify what she had done.

  As to any thought that Jonathan, by some act of omission or commission could have contributed in any way at all to the problems that beset his wife, nothing could have been further from their thoughts.

  “Jonathan has always been a good husband and father; no one could doubt that he loved Amelia-Jane and the children and has always provided for them most generously,” said Emma, of her beloved brother. “He is devoted to his family, loyal, kind, and hardworking to a fault.”

  James agreed. “He brings the same estimable qualities to his work for the Party and I have no doubt that, should he choose to re-enter Parliament, he will fulfil the duties of a Member equally well.”

  They went upstairs in complete agreement that Jonathan Bingley had been singularly hard done by. Life, they agreed, had not been fair to him.

  The following morning brought even more evidence of this.

  They had risen late, since James did not have to attend the Parliament and Emma was weary from several days and nights of anxiety, and had just finished breakfast when Jonathan arrived. This time, he brought with him a letter from his son, Charles.

  It had arrived that morning and was a short, sharp, hurtful letter, in which he appeared to censure his father for not doing enough to prevent his mother’s death.

  Clearly, Sir, your unwillingness to take a strong stand against Mama’s notion of moving to Bath has contributed to this disaster. I cannot believe that she would have acted as she did had you made it clear to her you desired her to remain in London with you because you needed her at your side.

  I have often felt that, just as you did not always indicate to me what you expected of me, neither did you let Mama know what you expected of her.

  She was, as a result, frequently bewildered, as I was, by what we took to be your indifference and, in such a state of confusion, she would have been easily misled and used by others, as she undoubtedly was.

  Perhaps she was persuaded that there was more satisfaction to be had in the social round of Bath, where she had friends, than by staying in London, when you spent most of your waking hours at Westminster.

  Reading the letter, written as it was in the plainest of terms, Emma and James both felt that young Charles Bingley had obviously misunderstood the situation completely.

  Jonathan was hurt and confused. “He thinks I am solely to blame. How am I ever to convince him otherwise?” he asked.

  Seeing his anxious, unhappy expression, James urged him not to despair. “Emma and I will talk to Charles when we meet. I assume he will come direct to Longbourn for the funeral. We will meet him and persuade him to return with us via London. Have no fear, Jonathan, we will ensure that he learns the truth. He is mistaken. No one who knows you can doubt that.”

  Jonathan was grateful but insisted that they must not try to salvage his reputation by damaging that of his late wife.

  “I will not have you do that under any circumstance; if my son or anyone else wishes to hold me responsible, I will bear that burden, rather than see Amelia-Jane vilified in death. She was, for most of the years of our marriage, a loving wife and mother. Those who encouraged her discontent are far more culpable than she ever was. As for Charles, any attempt to censure his mother will only harden his heart against me,” he declared with great firmness, eliciting from his brother-in-law an immediate assurance that they would do no such thing.

  “You can trust me, Jonathan, I will do no such thing; but I hope to help Charles to understand the facts,” said James, and Jonathan, being somewhat comforted, was persuaded to stay and take tea with them.

  Some minutes later, the doorbell rang. A servant answered it and presently announced Monsieur and Madame Armande and Miss Faulkner to see Mr Bingley. They had heard news of the accident that morning and had come as soon as they could to offer their condolences.

  The Armandes, who were completely ignorant of the strains that had beset Jonathan’s marriage, attributed the tragic accident to the dreadful weather on that night. They could not know that it had only hastened the end of a marriage that neither partner could sustain much longer.

  Miss Faulkner, on the other hand, though unaware of the details, had nevertheless, a more intuitive understanding of the situation. Though not a single word of criticism of his wife had ever passed Jonathan Bingley’s lips during their conversations, his reticence about her, his apparent reluctance to speak of her even in response to the most innocuous enquiries, had led Anna to believe that all was not well.

  Amelia-Jane was her cousin, and Anna was not entirely ignorant of her immature and f
requently self-indulgent behaviour. It had occasioned comment within the family, and she knew it had troubled her aunt.

  She did not know if any blame attached to Jonathan, but on this occasion, she could see enough of the pain reflected in his face and the downward drag of the usually upright attitude of his tall figure to understand how he must feel. Everything she said and did revealed her sincere compassion and concern.

  “If I can be of any help, if there is anything we can do, please do feel free to call on us,” she said, and the Armandes added their voices, too. Jonathan was touched by their genuine solicitude.

  They stayed to take tea, but left soon afterwards, having received a promise that they would be informed of the funeral arrangements as soon as a firm date was known.

  ***

  At Woodlands, the news, received by express letter, had come like a bolt of lightning out of a Summer sky.

  The morning had been bright and inviting, cloudless, with a light breeze to soften the warm breath of late Summer. “An absolutely perfect day for a drive into the country,” Bingley had said at breakfast.

  “And an easy walk through the woods,” added Elizabeth, while Jane proposed, “Why not a picnic in a shady meadow, beside a stream?”

  “I cannot think of anything better; do you not agree, Darcy?” asked Bingley, and Darcy had replied with some degree of enthusiasm, “Certainly, and if you will have all that and a delightful old inn as well, where we might retreat should the weather change, I suggest we make for the country around Horsham. We could take the open carriage.”

  “Do you mean The Black Horse Inn in the village below Monks Gate?” asked Bingley.

  “Indeed, I do—the very place. There are woods and streams enough to satisfy us all,” his friend replied, and soon they were all agreed that it was the perfect spot.

  Preparations were afoot when an express had arrived for Bingley.

  He had opened it in the midst of a lot of light chatter about their plans for the day, not for a moment expecting what was found within.

  “This is probably Jonathan confirming that he has closed the Netherfield deal,” he had said, and Darcy, commenting that it was a pretty good deal too, had added that Jonathan was a fortunate fellow.

  Minutes later, unable to believe his eyes, much less take in what he had read, Bingley handed the letter to Darcy, without explanation, save for a quiet exclamation, “Oh, my God! Darcy, I cannot believe this.”

  Jane and Elizabeth, who were packing a picnic basket in the kitchen, had just been laughing over a silly mistake, when Darcy, his face pale with shock, came in and took them aside.

  He had Jonathan’s letter in his hand, and without too much ado, told them there had been some bad news. Amelia-Jane had been travelling to Bath with friends and her lady’s maid; they had been caught in a storm and there had been an accident, just below Maidenhead, he said and he stopped, unable to continue.

  He did not need to say another word; Jane knew in her heart and cried out as Elizabeth plucked the letter from her husband’s hand and read it aloud.

  As the truth dawned upon them, Jane wept; she could not understand it.

  “Oh, Lizzie, she must have been going to Bath as Caroline Bingley said she would. How could she do it? How could she leave them?”

  Elizabeth tried to talk to her, to console her, to tell her they did not have all the facts, but Jane would not be comforted.

  “Lizzie, is it possible that Amelia-Jane thought so little of her husband and her children, even the littlest one, that she was prepared to leave them? What did she hope to achieve?” she asked, thinking only of her son and her grandchildren and the effect of this tragedy upon their lives.

  Elizabeth would have liked to comfort her by saying otherwise, but she could not, for all the evidence seemed to confirm her fears.

  It did seem as though Jonathan’s wife had decided to carry out her threat to move to Bath if he did not abandon his plans for Netherfield.

  “I am sorry, dearest Jane, but it does seem, shocking though it is, that you are right. Indeed, I cannot find any other explanation. One cannot explain her behaviour on the grounds of youth, ignorance, or stupidity, as was the case with Lydia. All we know is that she has been very depressed since she lost her two little boys, but that is insufficient reason for such an act as this.”

  “Poor Jonathan, how he must suffer, and poor dear Charlotte, what a terrible blow this must be for her,” said Jane, whose concern for others outweighed, as ever, her own feelings.

  Mr Bingley, who had gradually recovered his composure, came in to ask what they wished to do. Following a brief discussion, it was decided they would travel first to London and thence to Longbourn for the funeral.

  The gentlemen went to make the necessary preparations for the journey and Elizabeth, seeing Jane’s distress, took her sister upstairs to rest a while. They gave instructions for their things to be packed, unsure how long they would need to stay in town or indeed at Longbourn. There had been no date fixed for the funeral, as yet.

  “We shall have to get our gowns for the funeral made in London,” said Lizzie. “All my sober clothes are back at Pemberley.”

  Jane had nothing suitable, either; they had brought only light Summer gowns to Woodlands. They would have little use for them now, as pretty floral gowns would give way to the darker tones of mourning clothes.

  The picnic basket was unpacked and the light, open Victoria returned to the stables, where the groom was preparing the carriage and horses for the more arduous journey to London.

  The Summer of 1859 was all but gone.

  ***

  Meanwhile, Jonathan Bingley, together with Annie Ashton’s uncle John, had accompanied young Annie’s body to Hunsford, where her family, despite their desperate sorrow, thanked him sincerely for his kindness and thoughtfulness. They appreciated the genuine goodness of the man who, as manager of the Rosings estate, had been their Master for many years, during which time they had regarded him with affection and esteem.

  His fairness and generosity were well known, frequently tempering the brusqueness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

  That, in spite of his own terrible loss, he had seen fit to acknowledge their loss by his presence and his genuine grief at Annie’s death, had touched their hearts, even more than his benevolence in paying for all of the funeral arrangements.

  When Elizabeth and Jane arrived in London, they went directly to the Bingleys’ house at Grosvenor Street.

  Jonathan had not, as yet, returned from Kent. They found Anne-Marie with her two young sisters, all attired in deep mourning, sitting in the front parlour, with Emma Wilson and Miss Faulkner, who had come to keep the girls company while their father was away.

  All day long, there had been a stream of visitors.

  The younger girls, especially Cathy, seemed unable to comprehend what had happened, and Anne-Marie, despite her best efforts to be brave, looked tired and tearful. Teresa’s eyes were red with lack of sleep, and when Jane put her arms around her, they wept together, and Emma soon followed suit.

  It was left to Elizabeth and Anna Faulkner to try to console them. Elizabeth was grateful to have someone who could help with the girls. Anna Faulkner seemed to manage well. She appeared to have a way with children, and her gentle, unfussy manner put them at ease.

  At first, Elizabeth and Jane did not know that Charlotte Collins was also in London. It was only when one of the girls mentioned their grandmother that they asked, “Charlotte is in London? Where is she?” asked Elizabeth and, on being informed that she was upstairs, in this very house, but was so distraught she had not left her room all day, Elizabeth went at once to her friend.

  She was shocked by her exhausted state, for not only was she grief-stricken, as any mother would be, she was also beset with feelings of shame and guilt. Unaware of all the circumstances surrounding Amelia-Jane’s ill-fated jo
urney, Charlotte felt she had to bear the opprobrium for her daughter’s conduct, and it seemed as if the burden was too heavy for her. Always a devoted and proper mother, who had raised her daughters with sound instruction and by good example, she was at a loss to understand how her youngest child had gone so far astray.

  Charlotte had believed that of her three girls, Amelia-Jane had been the most fortunate in marriage, for not only had Jonathan Bingley been regarded as eminently eligible, handsome, and well educated, with a good income and excellent prospects, he was by far the most amiable young man one could hope to meet. There had not been a mother in town during the season of 1835, who had not congratulated her on the good fortune of her youngest daughter in becoming engaged to Mr Jonathan Bingley.

  She could not think of a single reason to change that judgment. Yet, the excellent marriage lay in ruins and her daughter was dead.

  Elizabeth went to her, her arms outstretched. “Charlotte, my dear friend.”

  They embraced and could not help the tears. Charlotte could barely speak and when Jane followed her sister into the room, her sense of guilt was heightened further.

  “Jane, what can I say? How can I apologise for this dreadful thing?”

  But Jane, despite her sorrow, was not about to countenance such sentiments.

  “Apologise? Charlotte, you have no apology to make to me. You are not to blame, dear Charlotte. Amelia-Jane was surely old enough to know her own mind and make her own decisions, wrong though they may have been. She was responsible and whatever the matter was, it was between Jonathan and herself, not between you and me,” she said, firmly.

  Elizabeth looked on, somewhat surprised, as she went on, her voice, though steady, betraying the strain of emotion.

  “As for those who may have contributed to this terrible tragedy by their constant urging and encouragement of her discontent, some have already paid a high price for their efforts. And Caroline Bingley, my sister-in-law, can add the memory of all four deaths to her book of remembrance.