Netherfield Park Revisited (33 page)

Jonathan could not help noticing that Anna was looking particularly well, in a long-sleeved gown of sapphire blue, which perfectly suited her dark colouring. He recalled telling her, on another occasion, how well the colour became her and speculated for a moment before dismissing the thought that she may have anticipated his motives for calling on her and dressed to please him.

Fires had been lit in both the parlour and the adjoining room where her piano and harp stood. She was impatient to try the new music he had brought.

It was a composition by the French composer Gounod, and, as she played, while he took tea with her mother, he was very tempted to go over to the instrument. But a combination of nervousness and courtesy to Mrs Faulkner restrained him, and it was only after Anna had finished playing that he rose and went over to her.

She declared the piece to be complex but beautiful and worth working on.

“I shall practice diligently, Mr Bingley, and in a week or two when I have it well learned, you shall hear it again.”

He was delighted and said he would look forward to the day. They were more at ease with one another now, after their initial nervousness.

Dr Faulkner was away in Watford, visiting a colleague, and Mrs Faulkner invited Jonathan to join them for an early dinner, which invitation he accepted with pleasure. Since there were many hours to dinner time, and it was such a beautiful day, Jonathan asked Anna if she would like to take a walk and enjoy the freshness of the morning.

“It feels almost like Spring,” he said, and Mrs Faulkner, who had been out in the garden earlier, agreed that it was a very good idea.

“Now, if you were intending to walk in the direction of Lucas Lodge, my dear, I have a note to send to your uncle,” she said tentatively. “It would save me sending a servant over, if you could call in and deliver it for me.”

Anna, who knew her mother well, guessed this was a scheme to encourage her to walk out with Mr Bingley, but having no objection to it herself, she agreed and went upstairs to change her shoes and put on a bonnet.

“I have noticed,” said Jonathan as they set out, “that the Spring flowers are out earliest in the meadows that lie to the south of Lucas Lodge. I think we may have the pleasure of seeing them first.”

As they walked towards the old house where her uncle, now retired from Naval duties, lived with his son, they talked lightly of many things.

The New Year just begun and the prospects thereof, how swiftly the last few months had flown, and what astonishing changes were taking place around them, what with Mr Charles Darwin's new theory on the Origin of the Species and Miss Florence Nightingale's bold suggestion that women should have the vote, and of course, the rumours that were all over London, that George Eliot, author of the popular novel
Adam Bede
was none other than Miss Mary Anne Evans—the essayist! They were all grist to the mill.

“So much has happened in so short a time, one feels the time has flown,” she said.

Jonathan remarked that his daughter Anne-Marie had told him being in London seemed to have sped up her life.

“She claims she is always rushing towards the next day or some goal she must reach, and though she says she loves her work at the hospital and is devoted to her patients, she misses the leisurely pace of country life.”

Anna was instantly sympathetic.

“I know just how she must feel; the day seems twice as long in the country,” she said, as they reached the old arched bridge halfway between Haye Park and Lucas Lodge. Anna peered at the water slipping noisily over the pebbles far below.

“When I was a little girl,” she said as she leaned over, making her companion rather nervous for her safety, “the days were long and unhurried. I would wake up in the morning, and there, stretching before me, was the day—hours and hours of it, to do whatever I pleased, until nightfall.” Her expression reflected the pleasures remembered, and Jonathan was reminded, too, of long warm Summer days at Ashford Park.

“I used to yearn for those long Summers all through Winter,” he said.

“I remember most of all just waiting for Autumn,” Anna declared. “‘Oh Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,' my most favourite time of the year; endless Autumn days in the country, with the woods ablaze with colour and the scent of ripening fruit everywhere; there can be few greater joys in life. I used to hate going to bed before it was dark, for fear that I might miss some small magic moment of the day.”

She turned around, leaning against the parapet of the bridge, laughing as the breeze pushed her bonnet back and freed her hair, which then fell around her shoulders. Jonathan gazed, fascinated, as though he were seeing her for the first time, freer, lovelier than he had ever seen her before.

He wanted very much to speak, to remark upon her beauty, to tell her he loved her, but he was afraid to break the spell.

A sudden gust of wind caused her to draw her wrap closely around her; the moment was gone as she remembered they had an errand to run for her mother and should be moving on. They walked on and as the road deteriorated, he offered her his arm. She thanked him, glad of the support.

She continued, telling him of the time she had spent in Europe, “The Armandes have this wonderful place in the country, not very far out of town, where time seemed to stop. There was no clock in the house; you could do what you wished, at the pace that you wished to do it, whether it was painting, cooking, walking in the woods, or picking mushrooms. For me, it was close to heaven,” she said softly.

“Could you not find that same feeling in England?” he asked.

Having paused to reflect, she replied, “I don't see why not. Not in London, though. I did enjoy the Summer school and the students, but I could not live my life in London. It is just too busy and I hate large crowds. You see,” she added, laughing, “I need space as well as time to be content.”

“And yet, you liked Paris,” he said, and she smiled, remembering.

“Indeed, I did like Paris. I loved it. It is full of bustle and excitement and yet, you could always stop and step out of the crowd and do something quite different if you wished. We used to sit in the sunshine beside the river and watch the passing parade, while we drank coffee or watched the artists working by the river. It was possible just to dream as the rest of the world rushed past. Paris lets one do that.”

“And does no part of England offer you similar pleasure?” he asked, a little sadly, at which she looked contrite.

“Now you are going to scold me for being disloyal to England, but truly, I do love England, there are parts of the country, mercifully still unspoiled, which are so beautiful, they move me to tears. But at home, much as I enjoy being here, with my father's profession, it has always been a rather busy place. I would give anything to have time and space to myself …”

“To dream?” he asked, and she laughed again.

“Perhaps, but in truth it is to think or maybe to draw as I used to, when I was a girl. My old sketch-books are full of drawings, some only half finished, of trees, birds, and houses, anything that caught my eye. Yet now, there is so little time for all of that. I would like, I would very much wish to have more time to reflect and perhaps to paint.”

They had reached the point in the road where it went down to Meryton, while a narrow lane turned away towards Lucas Lodge. Jonathan knew that if he did not speak now, he would not have another opportunity. Desperate to let her know how he felt and eager to discover her feelings, he broke in upon her musings.

“Anna, forgive me, but I must speak with you. Let us walk on along the road a little further and perhaps, we could deliver your mother's letter on the way back,” then, seeing her bewilderment, added quickly, “My dear Anna, if I do not speak now, I fear you may never know how I feel. Please, do me the honour of listening to what I have to say.”

Even though she had prepared herself for some approach from him, Anna was surprised at the suddenness and intensity of his declaration.

She indicated her readiness to do as he had suggested and took his arm. They walked further down the road, crossed a meadow where the first wild flowers of Spring were pushing up everywhere, and then passed through a patch of woodland.

He was silent at first, until they had passed a group of men gathering kindling, remarking only on the profusion of flowers.

Anna was quiet, waiting for him to speak.

Presently, he did, and it was a quiet, modest, almost diffident speech, from a man renowned for his eloquent powers of advocacy in the Parliament.

“Anna, forgive me if I do not do and say all the things I am traditionally supposed to do at this point, but please permit me to tell you how deeply I love you and how happy I should be, if you will agree to marry me.”

Jonathan had little experience of this type of situation. His proposal to Amelia-Jane, made as they sat in a box at the theatre, had been so speedily and happily accepted, he had never worried about rejection.

With Anna, it was different. He felt the need to explain, to tell her how he had reached this point and he wanted above all to urge her to remember how happy had been the times they had spent together on many occasions over the past few months.

As he spoke, they had reached the end of the path, where, in a small clearing overlooking the river valley below, they found an old stone seat.

Rather weary from walking, Anna sat down and he sat beside her, keeping hold of her hand. He was encouraged by the fact that she had not drawn away or discouraged him at all. Indeed, she had heard him out with great courtesy.

He was concluding his speech as they sat together.

“Should I have had the opportunity, I would have spoken sooner, for my feelings and my thoughts have been preoccupied with you for several weeks now. But as we both know only too well, we are not always masters of our time, and I have not been afforded an appropriate occasion on which to address you, alone. Now, at last, I have the time and I must speak; dearest Anna, I admire and love you very much, will you be my wife?”

Anna had heard him at first with surprise and then with increasing pleasure. She had known he enjoyed her company; to be told she was admired and loved was quite another matter. That she was pleased and gratified, she could not deny.

He was a man she had long admired, and more recently her esteem had increased, as she learned more about him. She had known he was clever as well as principled and kind. From his sister, his daughters, and her aunt Charlotte Collins, she had gained such information as would convince her that his character was beyond reproach.

When he entreated her response, she knew she had to speak with care. She had no desire to hurt him, nor by any sign of caprice or indifference drive him away. That her own affections were engaged, she did not doubt. She wanted only to know their strength before accepting his.

She was, therefore, eager to ensure by her expression, her general demeanour and tone of voice, that he understood his proposal was in no way repugnant to her. Anxious to reassure him, she began with gentleness and sensitivity, to explain why it would not be possible, nor wise, for her to give him an immediate answer.

“Much as I would wish to do so, if only to ensure that you will not think ill of me, as one who would cruelly torment you with unnecessary deferment and delay, I cannot. Jonathan, please understand, that now I know your feelings and wishes, I need time to discover my own.

“The question is not whether I can marry you, for that may be easily answered; indeed if eligibility were the only concern, I would marry you, gladly. But, I need to know whether we share more than just the transient tenderness that is born of mutual fondness and sympathy; whether these feelings, to which we both admit, mean genuine love of the deepest, most enduring kind.”

She continued, explaining in a most reasonable voice, “Because, dear Jonathan, if it is only the former, why then, there is no reason to marry, for we can remain good friends, who will always hold out a helping hand to one another, listen sympathetically, advise wisely, and enjoy each other's company. Why marry and risk this pleasant association for so little gain? For my part, I have no need to marry for mercenary reasons. Thanks to my dear generous grandfather Sir William Lucas and the prudent management of my parents, I am well provided for.

“I am certainly not wealthy, but should I remain unwed, I shall not be any less comfortable in the future than I am now. Indeed, should I choose to use such skills as I may have, as you have suggested, to teach Music or Art, I may well improve both my income and my satisfaction with life.”

She proceeded then to provide him with an example of the kind of marriage that held no attraction for her.

“I have recently spent two weeks with my sister Sarah at her husband's farm in Hampshire, and nothing I saw convinced me that poor Sarah is happier or more satisfied with her life now than when she was at home with the rest of us. Indeed, she appears less able to enjoy the things we shared as sisters, so bound up is she with the material concerns of the farm. I saw little pleasure and even less love in their home.

“Your sister, Emma, on the other hand, strikes me as a woman who enjoys every moment of her marriage. Oh, I know about her first tragic experience, my aunt has told me of it, but to see her now with James and her children is surely to be reassured of the power of love, is it not?”

As he listened with interest, wondering where this was leading, Jonathan had to agree that his sister and brother-in-law were indeed a singularly happy pair.

She went on in a quiet but determined voice.

“Well, unlike my sister Sarah, who has made what can only be deemed to be a dull and passionless union, with little hope of mutual happiness beyond the most ordinary, I have decided that I shall marry only were I to be convinced that life without the man I wed will be unendurable.”

At this point, convinced he could never match her ideal, he looked so crestfallen that she relented and, leaning forward, touched his face, gently, kindly, and said, “Dear Jonathan, please do not look so dejected; this is not a rejection of your proposal, which I was honoured to receive; I would not have you think otherwise. You have offered me your love and I am happy to confess my own feelings for you; I ask only that you allow me time to discover if we really love each other, so that if I marry you, you may be absolutely certain that I do so because the thought of living the rest of my life without you is unbearable. Now, need I say more?”