Netherfield Park Revisited

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  They arrived as arranged and met with the Faulkners before repairing to their rooms to change for dinner. Jonathan, who had missed Anna terribly, searched her face for some indication that she had been likewise afflicted. Unfortunately, she was so pleased to see him that her countenance revealed no more than her present satisfaction, and he was almost disappointed. However, as they were waiting to go in to dinner, he approached her and asked how she had spent the past two weeks.

  “Very impatiently,” she replied. “I have rarely felt so restless, I must confess, and I was never keener to set off on a journey anywhere. Indeed, I could not wait to leave.”

  Encouraged by this declaration, he asked in a quiet voice, “May I be so bold as to ask if my absence from Hertfordshire contributed in some small way to those feelings?”

  She smiled and turned to look out at the garden, so her reply would not carry to the others in the room.

  “You may, Jonathan, and I shall answer you truthfully. I missed you very much and longed for your company, for I have had little pleasure in any conversation these last two weeks. I am very happy to see you again.”

  Since he was at least a foot taller than she was, his face, which reflected the delight with which he received these words, was not visible to her as they stood together by the window. Had it been, she would surely have seen how deeply her words had moved him.

  When they went in to dinner, he moved without hesitation to sit beside her. While James Wilson ventured into a political discussion with Dr Faulkner, and Mrs Faulkner concentrated upon the excellent meal, for most of the time Jonathan and Anna were left to themselves.

  It was during this time that he, aware there would be little opportunity for private conversation on the drive to Standish Park, decided to return to the response he had received from her father to his proposal.

  She was not surprised and indicated, softly, that her father had spoken with her on the matter before writing to him.

  “Did you see his letter?” he asked, a little taken aback.

  She shook her head. “No I did not, but he did acquaint me with the sentiments expressed in yours and asked if I was already aware of your feelings and how I had responded.”

  “Am I to understand, then, that you told him you had not made up your mind about me?” he asked, with an expression so anxious that she was immediately concerned that her father’s reply may have offended or hurt him. Could he have been more blunt than she had intended and given the wrong impression? she wondered.

  Keen to ensure that Jonathan understood exactly what she had said to her father, she recounted most of their conversation, trying desperately not to speak in too conspiratorial a manner, yet having of necessity to lower her voice, lest her mother should hear.

  Fortuitously, Mrs Faulkner, being tired from the long journey, excused herself after the main course and retired upstairs.

  When Anna tried to follow her, she urged her to stay.

  “I am not ill, my child. It is just that it has been such a long day. I think I will go to bed,” she said and, bidding them all good night, withdrew.

  Jonathan asked, “Anna, does your mother not know of my letter to your father?”

  “She does, but I persuaded him to keep my response from her until I had decided, because I did not wish her to try to persuade me. I told Papa that you had spoken with me and had agreed that I could have some time to give you my answer, but that I was generally well disposed towards you; oh dear, this is so difficult—can you not spare me and tell me what he said to you in his letter?” she pleaded, now very embarrassed by the situation in which she found herself.

  Jonathan was beginning to see some light at the end of this rather convoluted tunnel.

  “If you wish me to, certainly, but it might be better to wait until we are back in the parlour.”

  It seemed that her father and Mr Wilson were about to rise and Anna was impatient to return to the parlour, where tea or coffee was taken.

  Deep in discussion, Dr Faulkner and Mr Wilson did not notice that Jonathan had left the port to them and gone over to the table for a cup of tea, thereafter seating himself beside Miss Faulkner on the chaise lounge.

  He revealed that Dr Faulkner had written that he had discovered from his daughter that she had asked for some time to make her decision. In view of this, he had said he would be happy to give them his blessing if and when she agreed to marry him.

  The choice was hers, her father had said.

  “Was that all?” she asked, disappointed at the brevity of her father’s reply.

  Jonathan was reluctant to say more, and it was only as she plied him with questions that he was persuaded to reveal the appreciation and pleasure her father had expressed at receiving his proposal. His characteristic modesty prevented him from telling her all, but sufficient was said to reassure Anna that her father had been neither blunt nor too deferential in his response.

  The generosity of the proposal and the sincerity of the sentiments expressed had served to convince him that Mr Bingley was indeed a worthy suitor for his favourite daughter, he had said. He had needed only to know that her affections were genuinely engaged to give his consent.

  Later, when she rose to go upstairs herself, Jonathan followed her into the hall. It was late and there was no one else about. They were standing at the foot of the stairs; she was about to ascend them when he reminded her of his hope that she would at least relieve him of the anguish of uncertainty.

  “My dear Anna, I do love you so much, will you not give me some hope?” he asked, and she could hold out no longer.

  “Forgive me, Jonathan, I have no right to do this to you. If I have hurt you, I am truly sorry. I do love you, I think you must know that already, and yes, I will marry you, but I ask only that we wait a while before announcing our engagement.”

  She was totally unprepared for the excess of joy this statement evoked as she felt herself enveloped in an embrace, which she could not easily resist even if she had wanted to, which in truth, she did not.

  Still holding her close, he asked, “May we tell Emma?”

  To his delight, she said, “Of course,” causing an even greater outbreak of bliss.

  After which, despite his reluctance to part from her, she insisted she had to go upstairs, or she would not be in a fit state for the early start they were to make on the morrow. Unwilling to let her go, but with that well-known capacity for endurance only those wholly consumed by love may boast of, he agreed to let her out of his sight until the following morning.

  When he returned to the parlour and sought to pour himself a drink, he found the decanter of port empty, but no matter, Jonathan needed no wine to lift his spirits.

  His brother-in-law and Dr Faulkner were still engaged in political debate, which he found easy to ignore. Tonight, very little mattered except the knowledge that Anna had agreed to be his wife. He would sleep well.

  Anna, on the other hand, could not sleep at first, for worrying about not having told her parents what she had known for weeks. She determined to tell them as early as possible; as soon as she could get them alone on the morrow.

  That she loved Jonathan Bingley she had known; indeed, in the course of the last few months, she had become aware that her feelings for him had undergone a remarkable change. She had moved from regarding him as an engaging and intelligent companion, whose interest in her was flattering and enjoyable, to discovering that he meant a good deal more to her. She had found herself thinking of him whenever they were apart and wishing for his return.

  That she could not imagine life without him had dawned upon her gradually, and that evening, as they stood in the hallway and she saw the anxiety on his face, the thought that she could be the cause of his grief had become intolerable.

  ***

  The following day brought a typical Spring morning in Kent and, after an early breakfast, they prepared to se
t off for Standish Park.

  Anna had already been to her parents’ room, for their journey to Ramsgate was not due to start for an hour at least. She had explained first to her father and then more carefully to her mother, who had not been privy to their earlier discussions, that she had accepted Jonathan Bingley’s proposal, but, because it was as yet not twelve months since Amelia-Jane’s death, they would not announce their engagement immediately.

  Her father was pleased and, having congratulated his daughter, went down to find Jonathan, whom he sought out in the breakfast room.

  “I respect your desire to wait a while before announcing it,” he said and added, “but I do know you will both be very happy together. You have my blessing, of course.”

  Mrs Faulkner, however, was so overcome with joy that she could not get dressed fast enough and only just succeeded in getting to the hall to wish her prospective son-in-law every happiness before the party left for Standish Park.

  Wishing them God-speed and waiting only till the carriage was clear of the drive, she rushed up to her room to pen a note to her sister Mrs Collins, to give her the good news. Only Dr Faulkner’s timely intervention, reminding her that the engagement was supposed to remain secret, prevented her from rushing to have it despatched to the post!

  For years to come, Mrs Faulkner would believe that her daughter’s decision had been made in a few hours at the Bell. It took her husband a long time to convince her that it was only one chapter of a story which had started many months ago and that their daughter had given considerable thought to her choice.

  The journey to Standish Park took them across the North Downs, traversing some of the prettiest country in England.

  Spring had arrived rather early and the day was neither as windy nor as cold as it might have been. The Wilsons’ property, a substantial one by any measure, had been in their family for over a hundred years.

  It was early afternoon when they reached Standish Park, and Anna saw the house at its best, its russet brick glowing in the sun, the handsome building standing out against the gold and green of the new Spring foliage in the park.

  Emma Wilson came out to greet them as they alighted from the carriage and took Anna, whom she embraced warmly, into the house.

  Seeing the place for the first time, Anna was enchanted.

  “This is such a beautiful house, Emma, I can see why you do not wish to leave it often. It is elegant, yet so warm and welcoming,” she said as they entered the saloon, where refreshments awaited them.

  Some time later, after she had been shown to her room and her maid Sally had been suitably accommodated, Anna had time to bathe and change. Coming downstairs, she was directed to the handsome drawing room, where Emma’s piano stood open. It was a beautiful instrument, and Anna was tempted to try it, to the delight of Emma’s two little boys, Charles and Colin, who had followed her downstairs and waited, a little shyly, to hear her play.

  When Jonathan joined her and invited her to walk out into the garden, Anna could scarcely restrain her delight.

  “I know, now, why your sister insisted that I bring along my paints; everywhere I look, there is some thing, a tree, a balustrade, or a vista, I want to sketch or paint. How wonderful it is to be surrounded by such beauty.”

  In the days that followed, she would spend a great deal of time, just as Emma had predicted, sketching swiftly an object or a scene that caught her eye and then filling in the colours, working until she was satisfied or, occasionally, casting it aside because it did not please her.

  On her first evening, after she had retired to her bedroom, Emma came to see if she was comfortable. Anna knew that Jonathan had told his sister of their engagement, for she came to her and embraced her.

  “Dearest Anna, you must know already, but let me tell you how happy I am that you and Jonathan are engaged. It has been my dearest wish, ever since I discovered how he felt. I know you will make each other happy. He loves you dearly and, Anna, he is without doubt one of the best men alive. I know he is my brother and you will expect me to say this, but believe me, had he been a stranger and you my sister, I would tell you no different, for I know him well and he is a good man.”

  “Indeed he is and, God willing, we shall be sisters, Emma,” said Anna. “Much as I love your brother, I cannot deny how important you have been to my decision,” for Emma was in her eyes one of the best women she had ever met.

  The week that followed was almost idyllic. The lovers, having acknowledged their feelings to one another and confided in the Wilsons, were completely at ease now, enjoying the hospitality of their hosts, who afforded them all the privacy they could desire.

  Amidst the elegant surroundings of the house and the rich natural beauty of its environs, they enjoyed each other’s company, unhindered by curious neighbours or concerned friends, falling even more in love than before and free to express their feelings as they chose.

  When Anna was not with Jonathan, she was claimed by Emma, who would drive her around the park in a little open carriage or wander down with her to the village, which lay across the river at the lower end of the valley.

  “I could live out the rest of my days in a place as lovely as this,” Anna declared. “You must love it dearly.”

  Emma admitted that she did, but then asked, “Tomorrow, I intend to visit the cottages which lie on the other side of the home farm. Would you like to accompany me?”

  As Anna looked interested, she went on.

  “They are some of the families who lost their homes and livelihoods when their landlords enclosed the farms and the commons, leaving them with nowhere to live or work.”

  Anna, who knew little of what had gone on at the height of the enclosure movement, said, “That must have been an awfully cruel thing to do. How did they live?”

  “It was certainly cruel, but many did it at the time; it was the way to increase production and make more profit. They had no thought for the poor families who had been so deprived. James’ father, who inherited this property, was a good man and a very dutiful landlord. When he realised what was happening, he took some of these people in and gave them the lower meadow, beside the river. It is not the best land and it floods from time to time, but it was better than nothing at all and they were very grateful. When he died, he left an instruction in his will that they were to be protected tenants, who could not be deprived of their living ever again.”

  Anna was amazed.

  “And they are still here?” she asked.

  “Indeed, they are. James has allowed them the use of the pastures in the valley for their sheep, and they have access to the river, so they are quite a thriving little community now,” said Emma. “I shall be going over tomorrow, since it is almost Easter and we take gifts for the children at Easter. If you wish to come, I shall be happy to take you along.”

  Anna indicated that she would love to accompany her, and on the following day, they set off for the small village that was little more than a cluster of cottages and market gardens in the river valley below the home farm.

  James Wilson and Jonathan, meanwhile, had several matters on their minds, matters which were as important as they were intractable.

  The previous week had been spent with members of the Reform Group who were becoming increasingly impatient with the government of Palmerston.

  The Prime Minister’s obsession with Italy and his total concentration upon foreign affairs to the exclusion of any part of the Reform agenda upon which the original agreements had stood, were creating many problems within the government, as well as outside of it.

  “It seems impossible to get through to him that the people of Britain are less likely to be concerned with the fortunes of Garibaldi in Sicily, than with the state of our own society,” James complained, as he detailed the causes he had tried vainly to pursue in the last year.

  “I know Lord Russell is keen on extending the franchise a
nd Bright is impatient to see it done, but Palmerston shows no interest at all.”

  “There is the question of public education, too,” said Jonathan, who was aware that Prince Albert himself had tried to interest the government in the idea. “With the recalcitrant churchmen being implacably opposed, it seems like a hopeless cause, does it not?”

  James agreed. “Even less hopeful than that of the little chimney sweeps—though, on this I am determined I shall support Shaftesbury’s Bill when it comes before the Commons. He plans to have the age lifted to ten or twelve, if the Lords can be persuaded to let it through.”

  “You will need to watch your back, James, there will be many among the Whigs who will resent your support for a Tory Bill,” Jonathan warned.

  “Indeed they will, but there are matters of conscience which go to the heart of my beliefs in our duties as representatives of the people. I cannot turn a blind eye to such appalling conditions as these children suffer.”

  James made his own dedication to the cause very clear.

  “Jonathan, we legislated to stop the enslavement of adults when we banned the Slave Trade; how can we permit the enslavement of children here in England? Emma and I both feel very strongly about it.”

  Remembering Charles and Colin, his two young nephews, Jonathan could well understand the strength of James Wilson’s commitment. That his sister Emma supported her husband totally was no surprise.

  Their conversation was interrupted by a servant, who brought in an express that had just been delivered. It was addressed to Jonathan and came from Eliza Harwood.

  Jonathan could not imagine why she would be writing to him, unless—and as he tore the letter open the only possible reason occurred to him—unless it had to do with Anne-Marie!

  He was right; Mrs Harwood wrote:

  Dear Mr Bingley,

  I hope this finds you well and still at Standish Park. I had gathered from Anne-Marie that you were to spend a few weeks in Kent with the Wilsons.