The Ladies of Longbourn (29 page)

On a fine afternoon, with very little wind about and a cloudless sky overhead, Colin Elliott was glad of the shade afforded by the closed carriage in which he was riding. He felt some pity for a young man who passed him, riding furiously in the opposite direction, on the road between Netherfield and Longbourn. With only a battered hat for protection from the sun, he looked hot and tired, as though he had ridden a very long way.

Arriving at Longbourn, he slowed his horses down as they made their way up the road and into the drive, so as not to alarm or disturb the occupants of the house. Approaching the house, he was struck by the silence, as the old place basked in the afternoon sun. He recalled that he had arranged to meet Thomson at Tillyard's office later that day. Looking at his watch, he decided he had plenty of time to see Anne-Marie and obtain her answer.

Even though he felt reasonably confident of winning her affections, he could not avoid a feeling of uncertainty and trepidation that assailed him, as he alighted and walked to the entrance.

There was no one about. On such a soporific afternoon, even the servants were probably resting, he thought. He led the horses round to the side of the house, where he found the man who came regularly from Netherfield Park to help with the garden pruning a hedge. Gratefully surrendering the vehicle and horses into his care, Colin Elliott went around to the front door.

Anne-Marie had spent all morning trying to compose a letter to her aunt Emma Wilson. Ever since Sunday, when Mr Elliott had first declared his love for her, asked her to be his wife, and then raced off into the night because someone had kidnapped Lucy Sutton's children, her thoughts and feelings had been in turmoil. It was not that she had any doubts about the sincerity of his words or the strength of his feelings. It was her own diffidence that gave her concern.

She had wanted to confide in Anna, but it had not been possible to get away from Longbourn for any reasonable period of time. Though Mrs Collins was much recovered, there was the problem of Mrs Sutton and her missing children. If Anne-Marie had left her grandmother alone and Mrs Sutton arrived with bad news...there was no knowing what might happen.

Having struggled with a letter to her aunt and having written less than a paragraph, she determined that it would get done that very day. She needed to ask for some counsel and there was no other way. After Mrs Collins had retired to her room for her usual afternoon rest and Harriet had set off in the pony cart for Meryton, Anne-Marie had taken her writing materials, a rug and cushions and set off to sit in the shade of her favourite oak, on the far side of the house, out of sight of visitors.

It was there Colin Elliott found her, having drawn a blank at the house, in the kitchen garden and the shrubbery. She was deeply engrossed in her letter and did not hear him approach until a twig snapped underfoot and she looked up in some alarm. She was not expecting anyone; when she saw him, she could not believe her eyes.

"Mr Elliott! Why, you're back already...have they been found?" she cried, stumbling as she tried to get to her feet. Helping her up, he kept hold of her arm as he told her the news, grim and unsatisfactory though it was.

"I am sorry the news is not any better, Mrs Bradshaw," he said apologetically. "Unfortunately, it seems we raced off to London, believing the children had been removed from the neighbourhood, but they have not been seen with the two men, at all. We are now inclined to believe that they have been concealed here, possibly lodged with a person known to Mr Sutton. Perhaps he intends to return and take them away later, when the general alarm has died down."

Anne-Marie looked confused. Sensing her bewilderment, he took her hands in his, reassuring her, trying to convince her that they had not given up on finding the Sutton children. Then, before she could ask any more questions, he asked her if she had considered his proposal and did she have an answer for him. At first, it seemed to him that she was going to weep; her lovely face seemed to crumple under the wide-brimmed hat she wore to protect herself from the sun, and he was afraid she was going to refuse him. Indeed, he steeled himself for just such a response, determined to plead with her to reconsider.

At the very moment that he thought he had lost her, Colin Elliott knew how very dearly he loved her. But, she sat down again and indicated that he should sit beside her. He obeyed, sitting awkwardly in his travelling clothes and boots upon the rug she had thrown down on the grass. In his hands she placed the letter she had written to Emma Wilson, which lay beside all the torn and crumpled sheets of paper she had tossed away, testimony to the degree of difficulty she had encountered trying to express her feelings.

Colin Elliott looked at her, a little unsure. "Do you really want me to read this?" he asked, and she nodded. "Yes, please" she replied, indicating that was exactly what she wanted him to do. He unfolded the pages and began to read silently, and she watched him as he read. It was not an easy letter to read.

I had not expected to trouble you with this subject, not at any rate for many years. Marriage was not a matter in which I had an interest in anymore.

Dear Aunt, you, more than anyone except perhaps Papa, know why this is such a difficult thing for me to deal with. However, no one, not even Papa or Anna, kind and well-intentioned though they are, can advise me, for they, unlike you and I, have not known the utter humiliation of discovering that one has quite deliberately married the very last person on earth with whom one could hope to find happiness. It was because you had shared the same pitiful fate and understood clearly what I had been through, that you were able to help me recover my lost esteem and restore my faith in my fellow human beings.

Yet, dearest Aunt, I seem not to have been able to recover my belief in my own judgment and this time, I am so afraid of making another mistake, for if I do, I shall not merely destroy my own happiness, but I should be responsible for ruining the life of another as well; someone I hold very dear.

Indeed, having known the bleak indignity of a loveless marriage, I would not wish to risk the happiness of someone who has been a good friend and seems to mean more to me every day. Unless I could be utterly certain of my own feelings, I would not wish to take this step and put his happiness in jeopardy. I think, you will have guessed that I speak of Mr Elliott, who has asked me to be his wife. I know that you and Mr Wilson like and respect him, as does Papa. Indeed there is not a single person I know, who does not.

Even as he read her words, Colin Elliott glanced across at her, his eyes expressing both gratitude for her kind words and a plea for his case; but he said nothing and read on as she watched him in silence. Her words seemed to spill out across the paper, as if she had been unable to hold them back...her writing, usually neat and disciplined, seemed to be racing across the page trying to keep pace with her thoughts . . .

I want very much to say yes, because, if the truth were told, I have not met a better man, nor one for whom I have felt so much affection. And I know he is a good man, yet, I fear that if I make goodness alone my standard, I will be undone as I was before. You will recall that everyone agreed Mr Bradshaw was a good man! Of such appalling errors of judgment are barren marriages made, no matter how many children they may produce. Significantly, ours produced none.

My dearest Aunt, if you understand my predicament, please write me as soon as you are able and tell me just one thing: if I were to accept Mr Elliott, as I truly want to do, how ever shall I ensure that the ghost of Mr Bradshaw will not hang around us and draw us to the same desolate fate?

The letter was unfinished, the writer having been interrupted . . . Colin Elliott put it down and turned to Anne-Marie, who had watched him read the letter and seen his changing countenance, as he struggled to understand and absorb the meaning of her words. He wondered if by speaking out he would help or hinder his cause.
Anne-Marie was silent; she had given him the letter precisely because she had known that she could never tell him in so many words of the doubts that assailed her, even as she acknowledged her love. Not even with Anna, whom she adored, could she have spoken openly and frankly as she could with Emma Wilson. Shared sorrow and shame at having made the kind of error that had led Emma to marry her first husband, a domineering, cruel young man, and allowed Anne-Marie to be persuaded by her friend that a man of good reputation could also be a good husband even though she felt no love for him, had forged a strong bond between them.
Recognising her fears and unwilling to break the fragile thread of understanding that linked them, Colin Elliott held out his hands to her and when she, without hesitation, put her hands in his, he clasped them together. Silent, unwilling, almost unable to speak, lest spoken words shatter the finely spun web of mutual affection, they waited several minutes, until at last unable to hold them back any longer, she let the tears that had been stinging her eyes, course down her cheeks.
For Elliott, this was an unbearable moment; he could no longer let her suffer alone and throwing his customary caution to the winds, took her in his arms and comforted her, assuring her of his understanding and love. Then, encouraged by her compliance and driven by longing, he kissed her.
Thereafter, it took him very little time to tell her of his meetings with her father and Anna, to inform her that they had both given him their blessing while Anna had told him of her unhappy marriage and urged him to be sensitive to her concerns. He wanted, he said, above all to pledge his love and through it render void her fears.
"If we are both certain it is right," he said, gently, "how can it be wrong? I have no doubts at all, my dearest, because we, neither of us, are seeking to marry for any reason other than love. I am asking you to marry me not because I claim to be a clever man or a rich one or even a particularly good man, for I am no better than many other decent men, but because I love you with all my heart and believe my life will be enriched if you agree to share it. For my part, I promise that I will do everything in my power to ensure your happiness."
She listened intently and when she finally spoke, said only that she asked for nothing more and, indeed, she hoped he would take her on the same terms.
"For I do not believe I have anything more valuable to offer you than my heartfelt love. Mr Elliott, Colin, I am truly sorry if in expressing my reservations I have hurt you. That was never my intention; I wished only to avoid, for us both, the misery of an unhappy marriage, because I care too much for you to take such a risk," she said, with a degree of warmth that left him in no doubt at all of her feelings. With many protestations of affection, new promises made and others renewed, they pledged their love to one another and prepared to return to the house, where she would write to her father and her Aunt Emma.
"I shall have to write another letter to my Aunt; there is no longer a reason to send this one," she said with a smile, as he helped collect her writing materials.
After a last affectionate embrace in the shelter of the trees, for they were both careful not to outrage Mrs Collins by exciting gossip among the servants, they were walking together towards the house, when the sound of a horse being ridden at great speed reached them and, as they watched, a young man on horseback turned into the drive. It was the same young man that Elliott had seen earlier in the day. "I wonder what he is doing here," said Colin Elliott. "I believe he is the man I saw riding furiously towards Netherfield, when I was on my way here to see you." Anne-Marie knew her father often sent express letters delivered overnight by hand, rather than trust the post; it was possible this could be one of them.
"It might be a message from Papa," she said and then, as if a thought had struck her, she turned to him, saying, "it may be news of Lucy's children," before she hastened towards the house, where the rider, having alighted from his horse, stood waiting for them. As they approached, he reached into his satchel and took out a small packet of papers, which he handed to Anne-Marie.

Back at Pemberley, Mr Darcy had not been idle. Angered and troubled by the news that Jonathan had received from Hertfordshire, he had felt the need to do something to help. After dinner on the day that Jonathan had left for London, while Anna and the children had set out to return to Netherfield, the conversation had been all about the kidnapping of Mrs Sutton's girls. Neither the Darcys nor Mr and Mrs Bingley knew Mrs Sutton, but they had heard of her unhappy situation from Jonathan and Anna.

Everyone was concerned for the two young girls, taken so rudely from their mother's home, and Jane wondered whether there was not something someone could do to restore them to their mother. "I cannot imagine how she must feel, Lizzie. It must be the very worst thing." Elizabeth agreed and pointed out that at least the children were with their father, who was unlikely to harm them in any way, although this was no consolation at all for their poor mother!

Mr Darcy had said very little at the time, but after the Bingleys had retired to bed, he raised the subject with his wife. Darcy had many contacts in London, in the fields of law and business, and he wondered whether a journey to London might not be useful.

Elizabeth did not favour the idea and asked, "Dearest, why need you go to London? Jonathan is already there and so is Mr Elliott; need you go as well? Might it not be better to wait and see what information they are able to glean from their own contacts, first?"

She was becoming more protective of her husband and preferred that he remain at Pemberley with her, for while he was still fit and strong, she had noticed that he tired more easily and was occasionally irritable after a long day away from home.

Furthermore, Elizabeth was well aware that following up any information on the activities of the kidnappers of the Sutton children might require Darcy to wander the back streets of East London--home to the indigent and criminal elements of the city. He would be far from the salubrious environs of Portman Square or Grosvenor Street and with the increasing incidence of crime in the cities she would be very concerned for his safety. Darcy was a little surprised by her response.