Netherfield Park Revisited

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  There was nothing to do but plod on, wet, cold, and miserable as the wind drove the rain in and swamped the pony carriage. To make matters worse, broken boughs from trees snagged the roof and cluttered the path of the vehicle, and Anna was terrified lest the poor animal should stumble and throw her or overturn the light vehicle. By the time the rain eased, Anna, her pony and the carriage were all soaked through.

  As they emerged from the copse below the park and made their way slowly up the lane leading to the gate, Anne-Marie saw them first from her bedroom window, and calling out to her father, she ran downstairs and raced to the front door. Jonathan was beside her immediately and as he flung open the door and went to help her, Anna alighted and almost collapsed into his arms.

  Anne-Marie and Mrs Perrot together took her drenched body from him; with the weight of her sodden garments, she almost needed to be carried up the stairs. The maids had already run upstairs to prepare a hot bath and Jonathan worried about her catching a severe cold or a chill.

  He remembered that the Faulkners had lost a daughter, Kitty, from pneumonia in similar circumstances, and was very afraid for Anna. He took comfort from the fact that she was older and stronger than her sister had been at the time.

  Mrs Perrot and her helpers removed her wet and muddied clothes, bathed and dried her, washed her hair, rubbed her down with warm herbal oils, and finally wrapped her in a thick blue dressing gown, several sizes too large for her, and tucked her into a comfortable chair in the upstairs sitting room, where a lively fire burned in the grate.

  After what seemed like an interminable wait, but was in fact not much more than an hour, Anne-Marie came downstairs to tell her father that Anna could see him.

  Jonathan Bingley must have reached the top of the stairs in seconds and the sitting room in not much more. Seeing her there, pale, anxious, and quite unlike her usual confident self, Jonathan, appalled by the fearful prospect of what might have been, went directly to her and before she knew it, had gathered her into his arms.

  It seemed all his pent-up feelings had rushed to the surface and would be denied no more. Smiling, Anne-Marie left them alone and even Mrs Perrot was persuaded to wait a while before returning with a hot toddy, guaranteed to keep the chills away.

  Having been assured that Anna was surprisingly well, though still a little shaken by her experience, Jonathan declared with a passion that surprised her that this charade must end. They must announce their engagement at once, he said, so he could assert his right to look after her properly.

  “I cannot have you wandering around the country in a fragile little pony trap. Just think, Anna, what might have happened if the poor creature had stumbled or bolted. I was sick with worry. For two dread-filled hours, my darling, I thought we had lost both you and Mrs Collins.”

  Anna was deeply touched and confessed she had been very frightened indeed. It was an experience she would not want to repeat.

  “I realised soon enough that I had done something very silly, driving into the storm, but I did so want to reach you. I did not stop to consider the danger. I am very sorry to have caused everyone and especially you, my dear Jonathan, all this worry.”

  He held her close, reassuring her and while there were some tears, mostly there were loving, comforting words.

  Not surprisingly, they found they agreed completely on what their future should be. It was settled that their engagement would be announced at once.

  Indeed, moments later, Mrs Perrot, arrived and was greeted with the news.

  “You are the first to be told,” said Anna happily, and she was very honoured and wished them every happiness.

  Together with many of the staff at Netherfield, Mrs Perrot had been hoping for just such an announcement. There had been far too much talk about the master and his lady, below stairs and in the neighbourhood, for her comfort. She was glad it was out in the open and very happy for both of them.

  Anne-Marie was the next to know. She hugged and kissed them both, and more tears were shed, but this time they were unashamedly tears of joy. Teresa and Cathy joined them, and the news was told and retold until everyone in the household had been informed and had expressed their pleasure. Jonathan and Anna basked happily in their general approval; the knowledge that their love could bring so much satisfaction to others added considerably to their own happiness.

  Jonathan’s countenance had undergone such a remarkable change since afternoon as to be barely recognisable, so content did he seem in the fulfilment of his dearest wish.

  As for Anna, it seemed that no amount of repetition would suffice to confirm her happiness. Now, they were impatient to tell their friends and family of their mutual felicity, all the more for having kept it from them for several months.

  When, after an hour or so, Mrs Perrot suggested that perhaps Anna might need some rest, there was outrage.

  “Oh no, not yet,” said the girls, who wanted more time, and Anna, insisting she was well enough, remembered that messages had to be sent to her aunt and her parents to reassure them that she was safe and well.

  “My aunt Collins will be most anxious,” she said and asked for pen and paper.

  These were soon fetched, and two notes were immediately written and despatched. Both stated in the clearest way that she had been stranded at Netherfield by the storm, but was quite safe. To her aunt, she sent many thanks and told her of her engagement, urging her to announce it to anyone who cared to enquire.

  “Indeed, dear Aunt, I must be the happiest woman in the world, at least for today. I am totally indifferent to anything anyone might say and give you authority to proclaim my happiness to the county, if need be!” she wrote, to Anne-Marie’s great amusement.

  Her parents were informed that her engagement to Jonathan Bingley could be announced without delay. Turning to more mundane though equally essential matters, a postscript was added requesting that some suitable clothes and shoes be sent for her, as her own had been so muddied in the storm, they were beyond repair.

  The responses of Charlotte Collins and Dr and Mrs Faulkner were quite predictable; they were delighted.

  Anne-Marie, meanwhile, had begged for a wedding date to be set.

  “I must know before I return to Harwood House,” she pleaded. “Everyone will ask me and I shall feel foolish to admit that I did not know.”

  Her father assured her that it would be soon.

  “Probably before the end of Summer,” said Jonathan, urging patience and promising she would be the first to know.

  The storm blew itself out overnight and the dawn brought a fine day, washed clean by the rain. Everything seemed clearer and brighter, like the joy that had suddenly enveloped the household at Netherfield.

  “It’s the kind of day a painter dreams of,” said Anna, as she stood in the saloon with Jonathan and Anne-Marie, looking out at the park.

  It was, certainly, a day that had materially changed their lives.

  For Anna and Jonathan, it had brought freedom to express their love and enjoy each other’s company without concealment.

  For Anne-Marie and her sisters, it had ended a year or more of enduring their father’s sorrow. Now they could share his hopes for happiness.

  Anna had not realised how much had depended upon her decision. The night before, after her compliant acceptance of his determination that it was time to declare their intentions to friends and family, she had apologised for what she saw as her selfishness.

  “I am sorry, Jonathan,” she had said. “I know now I should not have acted as I did. I insisted on having my way in this matter, never stopping to think of you or my family. I thought only of my own inclinations, it was unforgivable self indulgence on my part. I never realised that you may well have been damaged by gossip and rumour.”

  She was deeply contrite. But, as is often the case with newly acknowledged lovers, he sought to absolve her of any blame, declaring that
he was culpable, because he had not been more persuasive, nor had he tried to explain more cogently the reasons for announcing their engagement and setting a wedding date.

  In any event, he pointed out firmly, it was her privilege to name the date for their wedding and it was no one else’s business.

  When they had confessed their love once more, recounted with regret their transgressions—imagined or real—and granted each other remission of their sins, they were able to return to the more ordinary task of making plans for their wedding.

  Once again, Anne-Marie was consulted, as she would be often in the future. Though not yet twenty-one, she was an intelligent young woman, with a strong affection for her father and the woman he was going to marry. Such a happy circumstance came but rarely and was not to be squandered.

  Anna, who had no younger sisters or cousins, asked Anne-Marie if she would be her bridesmaid, an honour she accepted with pleasure.

  The day chosen by the couple was the last Saturday of Summer, when the leaves of the oak would be turning to gold, while the birches in the park still shimmered silver and Netherfield would look its best for its new Mistress.

  “I think that would be just the most perfect time,” said Anne-Marie, before she went away to write to her friend Eliza and give her the happy news.

  Jonathan and Anna drove first to Haye Park to receive the blessing of her parents and then to Longbourn, where they found Charlotte Collins and Mary Bennet so excited, they completely forgot to order tea.

  Only when their guests rose to leave did Charlotte remember, to her chagrin, that they had been offered no refreshment! Neither of the ladies had forgotten, however, to tell the pair how pleased they were about their engagement and wish them every happiness.

  Anna was deeply touched.

  “If I had known that one little decision of mine could bring so much pleasure to so many people, I would not have dreamed of putting it off,” she said as they returned to Netherfield. “I expected to face censure and severe criticism.”

  Jonathan assured her that he had known all along that she would not be condemned.

  “If any one was to face censure for not waiting long enough, it was I, not you, Anna. I am pleased that you have seen it for yourself. No one has so much as hinted that we were wrong to have sought happiness together. Why would they? We have injured no one and indeed we may claim to have greatly increased the joy of many among our family and friends who wish us well. Anna, my dear, everyone who matters to us is happy for us,” he said.

  It was a statement that she had no reason to doubt.

  All that day and for most of the next, plans were made and letters written by both Jonathan and Anna.

  For Jonathan, his first thought was to inform his parents and the Darcys, all of whom were by now at Woodlands. A letter was written and promptly despatched, assuring them that all was now settled between himself and Anna, with Dr and Mrs Faulkner giving them their blessing and announcing their engagement in the Times.

  “Dear Mama,” he wrote, “you can rest assured that my heart, for which you have expressed so much concern recently, is now in very good hands.”

  There were other letters to write, including to his dear aunt Elizabeth and Mr Darcy, reminding them that he owed a good deal of his present happiness to them, for it was at Pemberley that he had met Anna Faulkner again—grown up, handsome, and recently returned from Europe. He promised they would soon see them all at Woodlands.

  Anna, too, had letters to write before she could turn her mind to anything else.

  Her letter to Emma Wilson was as loving and intimate as a sister’s could be.

  If only I could tell you, my dear Emma, how much happiness this decision has brought, not just to both of us, who have longed for it, but to all our friends and family. Jonathan and I are both deeply indebted to you for the time we spent with you at Standish Park, in Spring, for it was there, in your gracious home and amidst your beautiful grounds, that we first understood, and indeed acknowledged to one another, the depth of our love.

  It had been growing slowly over several months, and we might never have recognised it for what it was, except for those lovely days together in Kent. Since then, it seems to have come on so fast that, speaking for myself, it has virtually taken over my life to the extent that it is almost an ache in me, unbearable, yet sublime.

  I know you, above all, will understand how I feel.

  Thank you, Emma, and to James too, please convey our heartfelt thanks.

  We hope to see you when Anne-Marie returns to Harwood House, next week.

  Your loving sister

  Anna Faulkner.

  To her dear friends, the Armandes, she wrote somewhat differently, but with no less affection, of the joy this love had brought her. She thanked them for their kindness to her.

  I know in my heart, dearest Marie and Emile, that much of the pleasure Jonathan and I share, the appreciation of Music, the love of Fine Art, I owe to you. What talent and skills I possess, and which he delights in, were nurtured by you.

  They would have been poor indeed, without your enlightened guidance.

  You have meant as much to me as my dear parents, and it is indeed possible that you have done more to make me who I am than they have.

  The years I spent with you so enriched my life that I was able to contemplate the future with calmness, even before I knew I loved Jonathan. Now I look forward to it with excitement and serenity. We have often spoken of the days we spent with you in London and then again, when you were at Netherfield last Winter. They were such happy times, and though we were not even aware of it at the time, I have no doubt that we grew to love each other then. There is no other explanation for the happy way things have turned out.

  Jonathan sends his best regards and please let me thank you with all my heart for your kindness. We both owe you so much.

  We look forward to seeing you at our wedding, at Netherfield.

  Your loving friend,

  Anna.

  The delight that both letters provoked in their respective recipients was quite remarkable, for though both Emma Wilson and Madame Armande had known in their hearts that Anna and Jonathan should marry, they had both been afraid that what was obvious to all the world, may not necessarily be as clear to the people most intimately concerned. As Mary Bennet, with her great love of aphorisms, was wont to say, “There’s many a slip …” But this time, everything had worked out right.

  James Wilson had been far more optimistic than his wife.

  When she told him the news and read Anna’s letter to him, he had smiled and said with the merest trace of smugness, “I did tell you, did I not my love, that Jonathan Bingley was far too sensible a fellow to let such an excellent young woman get away?”

  “Indeed you did,” said his wife, “but it seemed to take so long that I had become fearful it might all come to naught, as happens often when these matters are delayed.”

  “Your brother made a mistake once, when he was young and impressionable, and it cost him dearly. He is a very different man today, and I was confident he would make the right decision,” said James, adding, “I am happy for them and indeed for you, Emma, for I know how dearly you have wanted this for your brother.”

  Emma smiled. She neither could nor wished to hide her satisfaction, both in her dear brother’s happiness and in the fact that Anna, whom she loved and admired, would soon be her sister.

  There had developed such a warm and affectionate friendship between the two women as is given to very few. For her brother, Emma prayed this marriage would bring the kind of satisfying, passionate contentment that she had found within her own.

  They had both made hasty and unsuitable marriages in their youth, which was why Emma was not critical of the time Anna had taken to reach a decision. Clearly, she had wanted to be certain of her feelings and his.

  As for Jonathan, E
mma, who had never understood how a man of his education and intelligence had become so bewitched by Amelia-Jane, was sure that this time, his judgment was right.

  The intelligence and sensitivity of Miss Faulkner had attracted her attention well before she had become aware of her brother’s interest in the lady. Since then, every meeting between them had served only to confirm her approval. They were undoubtedly right for each other.

  It was a sentiment with which their general acquaintance clearly agreed.

  At a grand dinner party given by the Darcys at Pemberley, in honour of the couple, friends and family and several of Jonathan’s political colleagues gathered to celebrate. Apart from all the sound reasons that presaged a successful union, he looked so delighted with her and she was so obviously proud of him, that their happiness appeared to be guaranteed.

  Indeed, a young wag from Westminster was heard to remark that the couple seemed to be “almost indecently happy,” to which Colonel Fitzwilliam retorted that the only indecent thing about their happiness was that “it was so damned public.”

  “They are in love and don’t give a damn who knows it,” he declared in mock indignation, recalling, no doubt, the enforced concealment of his own love for Caroline Gardiner, for several months before he could apply to her parents for permission to court her.

  With less than three months to the wedding, Anna’s parents were keen to make preparations for their daughter’s big day. But both Anna and Jonathan pleaded to be allowed to have a quiet, private ceremony, with only their dearest friends and family present. It was a request the Faulkners found hard to refuse, being themselves uneasy with much pomp and circumstance.

  ***

  Seldom had Jane Bingley been happier than on the morning when her son married Anna Faulkner.

  For both Jane and her husband, whose union had been unvaryingly happy, the grief of seeing their son’s marriage crumble and end in tragedy had despoiled their chief source of joy—the happiness of their children.