The Ladies of Longbourn (21 page)

"I cannot think of any other person better suited by qualification, experience and temperament to perform this important duty to our community, not to speak of her enthusiasm for the task."

"Trained as she is in the best traditions of nursing care, should she accept, it will enhance the credentials of the children's hospital and curtail quite considerably the Council's capacity to criticise."

"Now that is an excellent recommendation from the local Member of Parliament, even if he is a Tory!" said Jonathan, and Anne-Marie had to agree. Still blushing, she said, "Mr Elliott has been very generous with his praise, Papa."

"He speaks only the truth, my dear. You are well qualified for the position," said her father. She smiled and embraced him, then said, "Papa, Mr Elliott is not such a diehard Tory, is he?" and Jonathan, realising the point of her question, said in a reassuring voice, "Indeed no, in fact I am beginning to believe he is almost a Liberal."

At this, they both looked at each other and broke into laughter, becoming engrossed in the recollection of a variety of matters upon which Mr Elliott's views and actions would surely have him marked out as a Reformist at least!

So wholly occupied were they with this fascinating exercise, they failed to notice that an express had just been delivered to the door.
Mrs Perrot collected it and brought it in. She looked excited as she said, "It's from Mrs Bingley, sir," and she lingered as Jonathan opened it up, and Anne-Marie peered over his shoulder to read.
Glancing over it very quickly, he said, "Thank God, she's coming home tomorrow. Mrs Perrot, would you tell Mr Bowles we shall need the carriage to meet Mrs Bingley at Meryton tomorrow around midday."
"Certainly, sir," said Mrs Perrot, glad to have her mistress home, "and I think we might have a celebratory dinner to welcome her back?"
"Most definitely, Mrs Perrot," he replied.

Anna Bingley was so happy to be home, she wept as they turned into the lane leading to Netherfield Park. With Jonathan, Anne-Marie, the baby and his nurse, they were quite a crowd. Anna could not wait for the journey to end. Her visit to Hampshire had left her physically and mentally exhausted. Never had she been happier to see the welcoming facade of Netherfield House, looming as it was through the rain; it could well have been a beacon signalling that she was home at last.

Mrs Perrot and the staff welcomed her and did their best to make a celebration of it. Anna did her best, too. Bathed and rested, she dressed slowly for dinner, savouring every moment of her homecoming to a comfortable, orderly, and loving household, the very opposite of the Martyn's chaotic farm. So utterly tired was she, Jonathan urged her to retire early, but she was reluctant to disappoint the staff and especially the cook, who had prepared all her favourite dishes to welcome her back. But in the end, having thanked them all, she excused herself and went upstairs to bed. When her husband followed her an hour or so later, he expected to find her sound asleep and was alarmed to hear her sobbing. At her side immediately, he was anxious and concerned.

"Anna, my dearest, what is wrong? Are you unwell?" he asked, attempting to discover the cause of her distress, but she shook her head and hid her face in her pillow, weeping as he had never seen her do before, inconsolably. He felt helpless and unhappy, unable to do anything to ease her anguish.

Anne-Marie, on her way to bed, looked in to say goodnight as she often did, but her father waved her away, indicating that something was amiss. Seeing her worried expression, he went later to reassure her that Anna was not ill, only tired and distressed.

She had given him no further explanation and, after an hour or more, Anna fell asleep. Clearly, something had caused her grief and it had to have happened while she was in Hampshire with her sister Sarah.

Jonathan slept only fitfully, troubled by the vision of his wife's tears, his own anxiety exacerbated by the fact that he had not been able to comfort her or share her pain. Ignorance of its cause angered and grieved him.

Towards dawn, he awoke with a start and found her gone from their bed. A light in his dressing room attracted his eye and he went over to the door and there, on the couch, was Anna. She looked up as he entered, and he went to her at once and held her close. This time, she did not weep and he was able to take her back into the bedroom, where it was warmer, and sit her down.

"Now, Anna, I think I am owed an explanation. What has distressed you, my darling? You must tell me. Has someone said or done something to cause this pain? Did anything untoward happen in Hampshire? Your sister is not recovered from her illness? Is someone in trouble? One of the children is ill? No?" She was shaking her head; it was none of those things.

"What is it then, Anna? I must know; I cannot bear to see you so miserable," he pleaded.
Then, as if a dam had broken inside her, she began to speak. It was an unhappy story, one whose truth she had suspected for many years, yet she had colluded with her sister to hide it, never openly questioning the accepted version, that Sarah was happily married to her farmer and enjoyed having five or six boisterous children, from whose clutches she rarely, if ever, escaped.
As Jonathan listened, in astonishment and disbelief, she told him, "Sarah is desperately unhappy; in spite of having five children by Mr Martyn, she hardly knows him, she fears him, and at times she hates him. He is often so engrossed in the welfare of his farm animals that he fails to take any notice of her existence for most of the day, until he sits down to a meal or climbs into bed," she said bitterly. "Poor Sarah, she used to long to be married and she thought, when Mr Martyn asked permission to propose to her, that he must have loved her dearly; well, she knows now that he loves all of his cows and sheep more."
As Jonathan stared, uncomprehending, she added, "If one of them were to fall sick, he would spend all night with the creature, but when Sarah was ill, he claimed her coughing was disturbing him and went downstairs to sleep. Jonathan, it is pathetic; she is alone and so deeply unhappy, I felt guilty leaving her, even though I hated every day I had to spend in that house. He has no sympathy for her, does not even see the need to make an effort to understand her feelings. This time, he simply handed her over to me and went."
"Went? Went where?" asked Jonathan in bewilderment.
"To the Spring markets with the pigs. He said, quite rudely, that if they did not sell their produce, they would have no money and, when I asked if one of his men could not go in his stead, he snapped that he would not trust them with his pigs or his money."
Jonathan shook his head. "Oh, my dear, I can see why you seemed so relieved to be home and yet you were so exhausted; it must have been hell," he said, and she nodded, "Yes, and for poor Sarah, it is hell; Jonathan, a loveless marriage to a selfish, unfeeling man, with no escape--for what will she do with five young children? It's quite hopeless."
Jonathan had very little knowledge of Sarah's husband. Martyn, whom he had met twice since their wedding, had seemed a good-natured oaf, with a hearty laugh and a big appetite. The family used to make jokes about how much food he could eat and still put his hand up for more. He had no illusions about Martyn's pretensions to being a gentleman, despite the broad acres he owned in a very fertile and salubrious part of Hampshire, yet nothing had prepared him for revelations such as these. If it were not Anna who was detailing them, he would have found it difficult to believe, but as she was so sensible and not given to alarmist talk, he did not doubt her word.
When she went on, she told how the children were for the most part undisciplined and the house, as a consequence of their depredations and Sarah's general malaise, reduced to an untidy mess.
"The cook, who is the only servant who has stayed with them above a year, spends all her waking hours attending to the master's pernickety demands for food at any hour of the day when he returns from the farm, and the chambermaid is so exhausted fetching and carrying she has no time to change the sheets on the children's beds. It's too terrible for words and I am so depressed because I can see no way out for her or for any of them."
"And Sarah, was this the cause of her illness?" he asked, and she nodded.
"I am sure it was, though her husband believed it was lack of exercise. She is grown fat and he tells her she eats too much and should exercise more. But Sarah is sick not just in her body, but deep in her mind. Poor Sarah, I do not think I could have lived a day longer in that house, which is why I sent you an express and left before I began to lose my own mind. Oh, Jonathan, whatever is to become of them?"
He had no immediate answers for her. Unfortunately, the type of desolate union that Sarah and her farmer had was not uncommon. Anna, whose life had been singularly blessed when she had married Jonathan Bingley, was feeling deep pangs of guilt as she confronted the truth of her sister's marriage.
"I am very shocked and saddened to hear this, my dear. I understand completely how difficult it must have been for you to leave your sister in such a situation," he said and, promising to think of some way to help Sarah, he consoled her and persuaded her to stay a while longer in bed. "You will not be expected downstairs early today, my love. Mrs Perrot will be told that you are tired from your journey and do not wish to be disturbed," he said as he tucked the bedclothes in around her.

It was close to midday when, with a gentle knock on the door, Anne-Marie came in to see her. She looked very anxious and concerned that Anna had not eaten any breakfast. The nurse in her was quite censorious, "You must have some breakfast, Anna. I've brought you something, just a bit of porridge and fruit; it will do you good," she said and began to bustle around the room. "Mrs Perrot will bring you some tea in a minute."

Anna did not have the heart to refuse her and ate a morsel or two. When the tea arrived, she was more eager, knowing it would help clear her head, which ached from lack of sleep and too much weeping. After the maid had removed the breakfast tray, Anna rose and Anne-Marie asked, "Would you like me to go?"

Anne-Marie told her everything, excitedly retelling her meetings with the Tates, the Darcys, their daughter Cassy, and Dr Gardiner, her husband.
"Mr Elliott was there, with the Tates. He seemed to get on exceedingly well with Mr and Mrs Darcy and Dr Gardiner. Papa thinks he is not really a Tory at all, more a Liberal or at least a Reformist, he says."
She could not keep the excitement out of her voice and Anna, looking across at her, said, "Anne-Marie, I think we are going to have a talk about Mr Elliott fairly soon, are we not?" at which, she gave a shy smile and remembered that she had some very urgent business with Mrs Perrot and was gone, leaving Anna smiling to herself for the first time in many days.
Anne-Marie and Colin Elliott, she wondered at the possibility. He was at least in his midthirties, possibly ten years older than Anne-Marie. She was intrigued by the fact that there had been no trace of it a month ago and yet suddenly, out of Derbyshire, had come this new shyness . . .
Anna determined she would talk to Anne-Marie, but before that she would see Jonathan and discover what he knew of this business. Of one thing she was certain, she would not let Anne-Marie make another barren marriage like her last. Her visit to her sister had only served to strengthen her resolve in this regard.
Jonathan returned from Longbourn, where he had found Charlotte Collins unwell with what looked and sounded like a bad bout of quinsy.
Her throat was swollen and she had almost lost her voice. Having ascertained that Dr Faulkner had been called, he had left urging her to call on him if they needed help.
"I shall send Mr Bowles round this afternoon, Mrs Collins; please instruct him if there is anything you need," he had said, as he left.
Returning to Netherfield, he went upstairs and was delighted to discover that his wife had successfully overcome her depression and was, together with Anne-Marie, looking over the children's clothes closets for garments that may be donated to charity. Jonathan told them of Charlotte's illness, revealing his concern that Mrs Collins ought to rest; he thought she was more likely to struggle on, putting her health in greater danger through neglect.
"I believe she needs someone with her to ensure that she takes her medicine and rests when she should. Harriet Greene is good, but she is also very busy with the school and, though she may be a good companion, she is not a nurse," he said.
"I am," said Anne-Marie. "I could go over and look after Mrs Collins. Anna is too exhausted after nursing Mrs Martyn."
She would brook no argument. In less than an hour Anne-Marie was packed and ready, complete with a medicine kit, waiting for Mr Bowles to have the carriage brought round. At Anna's suggestion, her maid Jenny Dawkins went with her.
Left on their own, Jonathan and his wife went upstairs to spend a few hours together. Their warm and loving relationship had sustained them and brought them great happiness. While they enjoyed the company of their friends and family and dearly loved their children, they were never happier than when they were alone together. Each had brought the other truer, deeper happiness than they had known before.
Later, they talked of the matters that had troubled them yesterday.
Jonathan had had an idea. "Anna, my dear, I have had what I think is a rather useful idea, that may help get your sister out of her prison in Hampshire, albeit only for a short time. But, it would be better than nothing and may help improve her spirits." Anna rolled over and looked up at him, instantly interested, wondering what he was about to suggest.
Jonathan explained, "We know your Aunt Collins is in need of some care and company. You are in no fit state to go to her and I need you here anyway. Anne-Marie cannot stay forever and your mother has been unwell, so who do we appeal to?"
Anna looked disbelieving. "Surely not Sarah?"
"Why not? She is not ill, physically, and a change of scene would do her a great deal of good. She could take the coach; we might even send Bowles to meet her and, if she wanted to bring one of the children, it could be arranged...do you not think this is a good idea, my love?" Though not entirely convinced, Anna appreciated the possibilities and, turning to her husband, embraced him warmly.
"Oh, Jonathan, I think that would be a great relief to her; I know Sarah would love to come; she hardly ever gets out of the house only because Mr Martyn will not move. I know, also, that there is the little matter of my aunt's will; Sarah has often wondered if Aunt Collins will leave her anything."
Jonathan laughed. "Well, this may be a way to ensure she is not overlooked," he said, "Mrs Collins is unlikely to forget her niece if she comes all the way from Hampshire to attend on her."
Anna agreed that it was a very good idea and was enthusiastic about having found some way to free poor Sarah from her self-imposed life sentence of service to Mr Martyn and his farm. She promised to write to her sister straightaway. It made her feel a little less guilty about leaving her miserable sister and returning to Netherfield to enjoy the pleasures of her own marriage.
In the quiet hours that followed, they made love again and talked, inevitably, of Anne-Marie. Their own love rendered them more keenly sensitive to the sorrow of others. It was typical that the closer they drew to one another and the deeper their own happiness, the more likely they were to seek the means of alleviating another's distress. Furthermore, Anna wanted her husband to pay attention to a matter that had begun to concern her, in recent times.
"Dearest, I have a strong premonition that you will soon be hearing from Mr Elliott," she said. He looked at her quizzically for a moment, before asking, "Elliott? Why? Does he want me to bother the Council about the hospital again?" Anna shook her head and smiled. "I doubt it is the Council he wishes to talk about," she said.
"What then? Things appear to be going along well at Bell's Field; in fact I have already written him to say that Anne-Marie is happy to manage the place when it is completed. It was all his idea and she was agreeable, so I daresay he will be pleased."
Anna sat up and looked at him. "I am certain he will be very pleased indeed, especially since he seems to be on the verge of proposing to her."
At her words, Jonathan sat bolt upright and stared, "Whatever gave you that idea?" Anna could not contain her laughter.
"Do you really mean you are the last to know? I have had a letter from Caroline Fitzwilliam and she writes as if all of Derbyshire knows. Apparently, at the same time that Anne-Marie was staying with them at the farm, Colin Elliott had been invited to stay with the Tates at Matlock and, of course, they kept meeting at dinner parties and soirees and then, they were all asked to Pemberley, and on each occasion, Caroline says, it became increasingly obvious to her and a few others in the party that Mr Elliott was in love with Anne-Marie. Caroline claims that she was quite sure he would declare himself at Pemberley, but she admits to being disappointed that he did not appear to have done so."
Jonathan looked bewildered. His wife, surprised he had not even suspected it, asked, "Did you not think there may have been some partiality on his part?"
"No, not at all. Well, I admit I had noticed that the fellow is extraordinarily gracious and pays her some attention, but I had not thought to take it seriously, because it was clear to me that Anne-Marie was quite averse to even considering marriage after her experience with Bradshaw and, since I know her too well to believe she would trifle with a man's feelings, I did not think she would give him any encouragement. Do you believe she has?" he asked.
"I cannot tell with any certainty, but did you not notice how easily she colours when he is mentioned?" Anna replied.
"Oh, yes indeed, but that is the way of most young women. Tell me, my love, seriously, what do you think of the possibility?"
Anna was unwilling to speculate, unaware of Anne-Marie's inclinations. She did say, however, that she prayed their decision would be based only upon their own deepest feelings for each other.
"Anne-Marie has suffered far too much already. If she ever decides to wed again, it must only be because she loves him. It is too great a sacrifice to give one's life to another without the warmth and comfort of his love." Her voice was softer as she went on. "Indeed, despite all that marriage may bring in the way of social advantage, wealth, and security, there is nothing in it for a woman, unless she is also loved," she said, prompting him to ask, "And if she is loved?"
She knew the answer he wanted and gave it to him gladly, knowing how well it would please him.
"Why then," she said, "she has everything she needs in the world."