The Ladies of Longbourn (23 page)

At Pemberley, meanwhile, the families had gathered for the wedding of two favourite children.
Amy Fitzwilliam, whose early life had been blighted by the sudden death of a beloved brother and cousin and had suffered with her parents the almost intolerable grief that had swamped them, had retained a sweetness of disposition and a genuine goodness that endeared her to everyone. Intelligent and pretty, she was a favourite with Elizabeth Darcy, who had once hoped to see her wed her own son Julian, but it was not to be.
Unlike Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Mrs Darcy had not felt the need to trumpet her personal preference to all and sundry, which was why very few people except those in her closest circle ever knew of her disappointment when young Julian Darcy had married Josie Tate.
Now, Amy was marrying their nephew, Frank Grantley, and there was no one happier than Elizabeth, for Frank, like his mother Georgiana, had a most amiable disposition with a natural dignity and intelligence, which she greatly admired.
Watching them as they walked out into the sunshine from the chapel at Pemberley, Elizabeth felt for Amy, who had borne her own unhappiness without rancour and, turning to her sister Jane, said, "I am so pleased for Amy; she deserves a good husband and I know Frank is the best of men and loves her dearly."
Jane smiled that subtle little smile that her sister knew so well; it was usually the prelude to a perceptive observation and this time was no exception.
"Lizzie, I know how you wished for Julian to marry her. Do you still feel the same? Are you not able to convince yourself that Josie would make him a good wife?" she asked, as if she had read her mind.
Elizabeth was startled into a laugh that masked her embarrassment.
"Why Jane, you sly thing, you must have caught me off my guard during the wedding. I confess I did shed a tear or two; Amy is a particular favourite of mine and, while I am sure Josie makes Julian very happy, she does not appear to have any interest in Pemberley or the community of which we are a part. With Julian so engrossed in his scientific studies, unless his wife takes a role in the work we do here, they will lose touch with the people and that would be a tragedy for them and for Pemberley. Darcy, like his father and his grandfather before him, has his heart here. If both Julian and his wife lose interest in the estate and its people, they will be no better than absentee landlords," she said.
Jane, shocked by the sentiments she had expressed, reacted immediately, "Lizzie, you cannot be serious!"
"Indeed, I am, Jane. I know it sounds ridiculous, but over the years since they were wed, I have made every effort to engage young Josie in the community life at Pemberley and have failed every time. Whether it is in the music festival or the harvest fair, the library, the hospital, or the school, none of these seems to hold her interest for long. I know she has written one or two pieces for the
Matlock Review
, but that is usually the limit of her interest in the community. Now Amy, on the other hand, works at the library, helps at the school and, since they've been engaged, she and Frank have both worked hard with the children's choir," she said, and her sister knew from the tone of her voice, that Elizabeth's concern was no small matter.
Yet, Jane tried to sound hopeful.
"Do you not think, Lizzie, that they are still rather young, I mean Julian and Josie, and they may well become more involved as they grow older? Perhaps, when they have had a few more children, they will understand the importance of the role that they will play at Pemberley, one day in the future."
Her sister shrugged her shoulders, "You may be right, Jane, I hope with all my heart that you are, because if it were not so, it will break Darcy's heart. Pemberley is the very centre of his life as it is of mine. I'm afraid it is never going to be the same with Julian and Josie. They both have far more absorbing interests outside of this community."
A sudden burst of music from the marquee on the lawn heralded the arrival of the wedded couple; it was time for Elizabeth to join her husband and greet the assembled guests.
Dr Grantley, the father of the groom, a distinguished dean of the church, a theologian of repute, and Mr Darcy's lifelong friend, had married the couple and now stood together with his wife Georgiana, the Darcys, and the Fitzwilliams at the entrance to Pemberley House, welcoming their guests to the wedding banquet.
Watching Georgiana as she graciously accepted the congratulations on behalf of her family, Elizabeth could not help remembering the rather gauche, shy girl she had first met at Lambton all those years ago. Today, and for many years since her marriage to Francis Grantley, she had been transformed into a handsome, self-composed woman with a wide range of interests and an exceptional musical talent. Elizabeth looked at Darcy, who was also watching his sister. Plainly, he was very proud of her.
It was a memorable wedding. Members of the family and friends had come from many parts of England and across the channel.
The Continis had travelled from Italy, whither they had fled from the English Winter. The Wilsons were there from Kent and the Bingleys from Ashford Park and Hertfordshire, although Jonathan and Anna had apologised for the absence of Anne-Marie, who had forgone the pleasure in order to keep her grandmother, Mrs Collins, company. Elizabeth was sorry her friend Charlotte was not well enough to travel.
Mr Gardiner was also too weak to attend and seeing her beloved aunt, alone without her husband, saddened Elizabeth. It was known among their closest friends, that he had not very long to live, despite the best efforts of his doctors. His heart had been weakened considerably.
When all their guests had been accommodated, plied with food and drink, of which there was an ample sufficiency, Elizabeth and Jane sought out Anna Bingley, to ask for news of Anne-Marie. She accompanied them to a quiet sitting room, where they were joined by their niece Emma Wilson, who had come in from the terrace.
"I've left James and Jonathan arguing furiously with Colonel Fitzwilliam about the Prime Minister's failure to understand the mood of the people," she said, explaining that, "James believes there is a danger of unrest to come, because there is so much discontent among the artisans and other working folk who pay their tithes and taxes but are denied the vote. He blames Lord Palmerston for procrastinating about the reforms which were promised to the people at the last election." Anna Bingley agreed. "Jonathan says the country is heartily sick of the Prime Minister's foreign adventures; he says Lord Russell has promised Parliamentary reform and is committed to it, but Palmerston is not. Jonathan believes the Whigs will lose the next election on this account."
Even Elizabeth and Jane, who were not usually interested enough to become involved in matters of politics, knew from their own husbands and from Caroline Fitzwilliam that there was much dissatisfaction with the government of Lord Palmerston.
"I understand," said Elizabeth, "that it is not only the matter of the franchise. Fitzwilliam has told Darcy that in the factory towns and outlying areas, many of the people are suffering considerable privation, with poor wages and terrible working conditions, no proper schools or hospitals for their children. They resent the expenditure of money on the Prime Minister's forays into Europe and elsewhere."
The women, who were all involved in charity work, were keenly aware of the increasing demand for help from destitute families and even the working poor, and talked a while of the problems they faced. It was, however, a domestic matter, far closer to home that engaged their attention, when Emma Wilson spoke in unusually grave tones. She had with her a letter, which she took from her reticule.
"I have thought long and hard about this and I feel I need your advice on this matter, which has troubled me for many days now, since I received this letter from Emily," she said.
"Emily?" said Jane and Lizzie together. Emily Courtney was their cousin and dear friend. They were all aware that she was very close to Emma, too, with whom she corresponded regularly, but that any letter from her should cause Emma concern seemed most unusual.
"Do you mean Mrs Courtney?" asked Anna.
"I do," Emma replied and continued, "and my anxiety flows from what she reveals about her daughter Eliza Harwood and Anne-Marie."
"Eliza Harwood? What could she have to do with Anne-Marie?" asked Anna, bewildered by this turn of events, adding, "Why, I doubt they have spoken since Mr Bradshaw's funeral!"
"That is precisely the point of Emily's letter," said Emma, and she proceeded to read out a few paragraphs.
"After a few items of family news, she writes . . ."

Eliza, whose child is due within a month, fears that Anne-Marie, whom she once counted as her closest friend, will never see her again and her friendship is therefore lost to her forever. She is quite heartbroken believing she was responsible for persuading Anne-Marie to accept Mr Bradshaw's offer of marriage and now fears that she is blamed for all the unhappiness that followed.

Eliza judges herself very harshly in this matter and, while I have been with her this last fortnight since Mr Harwood is from home on business, I believe she has become seriously depressed. Indeed I am writing this because I honestly believe that she is so deeply melancholic, she may not survive this birth, if it turns out to be a very difficult one. Emma, I know Anne-Marie was very attached to Eliza and she loved her dearly. If there is anything you can do to help reconcile these two young women, you will be truly blessed.

From all I have heard on this subject, I do not believe that either Eliza or Anne-Marie knew very much about Mr Bradshaw, except that he was by reputation a good man and was a conscientious chaplain to the wounded men at the military hospital. Eliza has told me that Mr Harwood was a close friend of Mr Bradshaw and they served together in the war, yet even he claimed to know very little about him.

I do not doubt he was a good man, but Emma, I know as you do, that goodness alone does not suffice, where there is no love between partners in a marriage. Yet, where there is love, deeply felt, no suffering is too much to endure. When I lost my dear husband, Paul Antoine, and returned to live at Pemberley with Lizzie and Mr Darcy, who had themselves recently lost their son William, I was to learn from their example that only the strongest and most heartfelt emotions would endure through such an ordeal. It was the strength of their love that helped them survive and enabled them to help me cope with my own sorrow. This is why I understand that Anne-Marie may be bitter about her marriage to Mr Bradshaw. If there was no love between them, it would have been a mere charade and for a young woman like Anne-Marie, a most abhorrent one.

If she does still blame Eliza, it may help her to know that Eliza is sincerely sorry and wishes every day that she had never encouraged it. She claims it was only because she longed to see Anne-Marie securely settled, especially since the wretched business of her mother's death. She now realises that it was wrong to have persuaded her to marry Bradshaw, for no one can be happy in a marriage without genuine affection.

My dear Emma, I should not have troubled you, were I not certain of my daughter's remorse and her fervent wish to be reconciled with her friend.
If you can help in any way, I shall be most grateful.

At least two of the women listening had felt the need to reach for their handkerchiefs as she read, and when she concluded, even Anna, who had had very little knowledge of Eliza Harwood and whose loyalty and concern were entirely for Anne-Marie, had begun to feel some sympathy for the unfortunate young woman whose pain was so exposed.

Jane was the first to respond. "Poor dear Emily," she said, "it is a heartrending letter. She must be very unhappy."
"Poor Eliza Harwood, it must be desolating enough to lose a dear friend but then to have to suffer such humiliation...to expose one's misery so...I wonder at her being able to do it," said Lizzie, whose own sense of dignity would not have let her do likewise.
Emma agreed. "Indeed, Lizzie, Emily entreats us to find a means of reconciling them, but however worthy that might be, I wonder how it might be achieved?"
Then turning to Anna, she asked, "What is your opinion, Anna? She has been with you at Netherfield a while; do you believe Anne-Marie may be ready to see Eliza Harwood?"
Anna's reluctance to give them an answer without speaking with AnneMarie was entirely understandable. She was aware, even though they had never discussed the matter, that Anne-Marie was in a delicate state of transformation, moving slowly and with some trepidation, like a butterfly from the dark security of a chrysalis into the glare of sunlight. Anna had watched her as she flexed her wings and had begun to hope that a new, happier future may await her.
Recently, indeed in the last few weeks, she had seen signs of a deeper friendship developing between Anne-Marie and Colin Elliott. Anna had spoken of it to her husband, who, though he had not been very encouraging at first, had confessed that he would give anything to see his daughter happy again.
Yet, Anna did not feel she could reveal any of this to the others in her company; it belonged solely to Anne-Marie. If and when something came of it, they would be told by her father.
Her answer to Emma's question was, therefore, of necessity, ambivalent.
"I do not believe I can say for certain if she is sufficiently recovered from what was, for her, a totally demoralising experience. No woman can accept easily the fact that a man will marry her and expect all the privileges of a husband, without even a pretence of love. For a very young girl, as she was, this must have been a demeaning experience. Indeed, I know she felt used and suffered great humiliation, which added to her misery, even when it was all over. Anne-Marie, as you all know, is a deeply sincere person; she is very ashamed at what took place between herself and Mr Bradshaw, with her consent. Her refusal to see Eliza stems not from any blame she attaches to her, but from her own sense of personal mortification at ever having agreed to the marriage on such terms." Anna's voice shook with emotion.
Emma Wilson understood her reservations and both Lizzie and Jane admired her honesty and loyalty. Emma then asked, "Do you think, if I were to speak with her and let her see Emily's letter, it would help?"
"It may do, Anne-Marie is kind and soft-hearted. She will be moved, I am sure, by Emily's words. But I cannot be sure if she will want to proceed to meeting with Eliza," Anna replied.
"It can be very daunting to confront a person one has avoided for several months, especially if that person may have been responsible for causing some particular sorrow," said Elizabeth. "Even if Anne-Marie does not blame Eliza Harwood, there is no doubt that when she had to endure what must have been an intolerable marriage, Anne-Marie must have felt resentful of Eliza, who was quite content in hers."
Jane who had listened, often wiping tears from her eyes, spoke at last. "Poor Anne-Marie, I know she told no one, but Teresa told me how after Bradshaw's death, she would find her sister weeping, sobbing as though her heart was broken, and when young Tess, not realising the truth that lay behind her tears, tried to comfort her, she would burst out in a rage and beat her head against her pillow, weeping even more and crying out that she was not sorry, indeed she was glad he was dead! Tessie was very shocked," said Jane.
Emma knew of this, too. She had often held Anne-Marie in her arms during the weeks she had spent at Standish Park.
"No one knew then that it was her sense of shame and guilt that was destroying her mind. She was feeling guilty that she was glad Bradshaw was dead and she was free of a desolate marriage. Yet, in all those days, she never once blamed Eliza," she said.
"What is to be done?" asked Jane, whose gentle heart felt compassion for all the women involved and longed to help them. Before anyone could respond, there was the sound of laughter and cheering for the young couple, who had emerged from the house and were mingling with the guests in the rose garden. The ladies rose immediately and went downstairs to join them and help send the newlyweds off on their honeymoon.
After the guests had departed and the family had retired to their rooms for the night, Elizabeth told her husband of Emily's letter. Darcy was quite astonished to learn that the two young women had not written or spoken to one another since Bradshaw's death. "Do you mean, Lizzie, that Eliza Harwood has made no effort at all to communicate with her once dear friend in all this time?" he asked. Elizabeth replied that she believed this to be the case.
"Lizzie, my dear, I sometimes wonder at the timidity of our young people. Why would you, if you cared sufficiently about a friendship, let it degenerate and die, making no effort at all to keep it alive? Had you been placed in such a situation, would you not have written, even if you risked rejection by doing so?" he asked.
Elizabeth thought only for a moment, before acknowledging that she would have. "Would you?" she asked, then in an instant knew the answer, even before he spoke.
"Of course, and I did, as you well know, my love, when after my ill-judged and unpardonably presumptuous encounter with you at Hunsford parsonage, I contemplated the prospect of losing you altogether as a result of my arrogance. I was so utterly devastated by what I had brought upon myself that I resolved to write at once and explain my position. I did so, even though I risked your anger and rejection, because I had to; I could not let you continue to think ill of me.
"I had to try to correct the impression created by Wickham's lies and my own false pride and hope for your charity and understanding, if not your love."
Even after all these years, Elizabeth was moved by his recollection of the agony they had both endured as a result of Wickham's duplicity and Darcy's illfated, impetuous proposal. Yet, she replied lightly, "And indeed you did right, for you won both my forgiveness and my love," she said and when he smiled, remembering, she added, "But, I confess, my dear, I was never in my life more discomposed as I was by your letter. I doubted everything--Wickham's story, my own judgment--but not the truth of your words."
He was clearly pleased to hear her say what he had heard many times before. It had been a significant moment in their lives, when their future happiness had rested upon the soundness of their judgment.
"Do you then believe that Eliza Harwood should write to Anne-Marie?" she asked. Darcy, his countenance much softened, put his arms around her; they had sustained one another over many years with a love whose strength had helped overcome intolerable sorrow.
"Indeed I do, my dear; let Emily tell her daughter that a dear friend, like a dear wife, is worth some humility. She should write to her and be open with her as I was with you," he replied. Elizabeth promised to convey his advice.
It was ironic indeed that on this day, filled with the bright celebration of the marriage of Amy and Frank Grantley, they had ended with some sobering thoughts. It was not the first time Elizabeth and Darcy, whose love story had proceeded from an aggravating and hurtful beginning to a passionately happy conclusion, had been called upon to provide advice to younger members of the family. It was unlikely to be the last.
Elsewhere in the house, the Bingleys had retired to their rooms. Jane had decided not to trouble her husband with Emma's story, resolving to wait until they were back at Ashford Park. Anna was too troubled to keep it to herself. No sooner had they reached their bedroom than she had to tell her husband all about it.
Jonathan was at first sceptical about the prospect of reconciliation between Anne-Marie and Eliza Harwood.
"I cannot honestly say it is the right time to broach the subject of reconciliation between them," he said, "Anne-Marie has only recently recovered her spirits and is at present engrossed with the children's hospital; I would be most reluctant to distract her with reminders of a less than happy period in her past."
Anna could see that he was being protective of his daughter. "At least now, at Netherfield," he continued, "she knows she is needed and loved by us all; she has a place in the community, which she has earned for herself, not dependent upon a husband's status or position. Indeed, my dear Anna, I feel it would be a reckless thing to do, to rake up the past at this time."
"You do not agree with Emma then, that reconciliation would be in both their interests?" Anna asked quietly.
Jonathan was very firm in his response, "I certainly do, but only if it could be achieved without recriminations and disruption of her life."
"Would you object to letting Emma speak with her?"
"Of course not. Emma will have Anne-Marie's interest at heart as we have. But do you not see, my dearest, if we were to urge this reconciliation upon her, it may undo all the good work that has gone before."
Anna knew that there was no one better able to persuade him than his sister. "Why not let Emma tell her of Eliza's wish for reconciliation? Anne-Marie's own response would then reveal how she felt. You know Emma will be gentle and discreet. She will neither do nor say anything that will upset Anne-Marie. She loves her dearly."
Jonathan was moved by her appeal. "Your kindness does you credit, my love," he said. "Let me think on it a while. After all, we do not leave for Netherfield until the end of the week; there will be time enough, and I promise I will think seriously about it." Seeing her rather disappointed expression, he added, "I understand Emily's concern. Eliza is her daughter and, of course, she wants to ease her conscience, but I am responsible for Anne-Marie. She has already endured far too much pain and grievous humiliation for one so young. I cannot lightly agree to subject her to more strain, unless I am convinced she will not be further wounded by the exercise."
Anna knew how deeply he cared for his daughter and refrained from pressing the case any further, content that whatever decision he came to, Jonathan would do the right thing.
Meanwhile, Emma Wilson wrote to her cousin Emily Courtney.