Jane Bingley and her eldest daughter Emma answered her plea, and as they sat together drawing up the inevitable lists of things to be done and people who might be called upon to do them, Emma happened to ask if there had been any recent news from Emily.
A gentle, compassionate young woman herself, Emma Bingley had been deeply moved by Emily's actions. Elizabeth, in answer to her query, handed her Emily's letter and said, “Well, I must admit, I had not expected it; but there has been only good news ever since they have been settled in Italy. It is almost as though Emily and Paul have been determined to defy the disease and the generally accepted notion that he had but a few short weeks to live.”
Emma could not restrain her tears as she read the letter and looking up at her mother and aunt, said quietly, “I have not heard or seen such selfless devotion before. Emily is such a strong, determined person, she seems to be able to will him to recover. I shall pray that she will succeed.”
Unwilling to let young Emma, whose strength of character belied her own tender years, labour under a misapprehension, Elizabeth spoke quickly, “Richard warns us, however, that this dreadful infection can hide for months at a time, permitting the patient to appear close to recovery, then return to strike them down. I have no doubt he has cautioned his sister too, so she will not be too optimistic, but Emily is unwilling to accept these gloomy prognostications.”
Jane, whose tender heart had been strained to breaking point by Emily's wedding and departure for Italy, was already in tears.
“Oh Lizzie, how cruel it is that such things should happen to the best and the kindest of people. If only Emily had been married before Richard returned from France, she, her parents, and all of us would surely have been spared this agony.”
Emma, though not usually quick to contradict her mother, could not remain silent, “Mama, one cannot be sure of that. Marriage is not always a haven in which a woman may find happiness or refuge from life's sorrows. I believe Mrs Collins may testify to that.”
Elizabeth agreed entirely and intervened with a light remark about marriage to the late Mr Collins being hardly a haven of happiness for their friend Charlotte, and even Jane, who had often in the past reprimanded her sister for poking fun at the reverend gentleman, had to laugh.
“Oh Lizzie, you are cruel. Poor Mr Collins….”
“Poor Charlotte,” interrupted Elizabeth and proceeded to regale her niece with stories of the pompous Mr Collins and his pretentious patron Lady Catherine de Bourgh, which lifted their spirits considerably.
“There is no doubt that my friend Charlotte is far better off without her odious husband and his impossible sense of obligation to Lady Catherine. Indeed, I would go so far as to say that there was a marriage which could not possibly have been made in heaven, so ill-matched were the pair, so undeserving the man of such a generous-hearted and sensible wife.”
“Are Mrs Collins and the girls invited to the Pemberley Ball?” asked Emma, and Elizabeth replied, “Indeed, they are, and I do believe two of them are coming. Rebecca and Amelia-Jane will attend, but Lady Catherine has taken young Catherine Collins under her wing since the demise of her father, and it seems they are otherwise engaged. Sadly, we shall not have an opportunity to see what difference there is, if there be any, between the young lady from Rosings and the two girls who are free of Her Ladyship's influence.”
“No doubt Lady Catherine is particularly attached to Miss Collins, since she was named for her,” said Jane, and Emma thought Mr Collins may have wished it so. At which Elizabeth and Jane broke into laughter and, abandoning their lists, proceeded to tell Emma of Mr Collins's obsequious allegiance to his patron and his determination that their eldest child should be called Catherine.
“She is also named Eliza, but there is no question which her father preferred,” declared Elizabeth.
The arrival of their cousin Caroline Fitzwilliam did nothing to deter their fun, which continued through the afternoon as they made arrangements for the Harvest Fair. While the entire community looked forward to the occasion, three young women were at the centre of most of the excitement.
Emma Bingley, Cassy Darcy, and Rebecca Collins were all seventeen that year. The ball given by Mr Darcy was in their honour. As Caroline said to her husband that night, it was going to be a very special event.
OCTOBER BROUGHT GOOD WEATHER, a bountiful harvest, and more encouraging news from Italy.
Richard had had word from a colleague who, while in Europe, had called on Paul and Emily and reported that Monsieur Antoine seemed to have regained some weight and a good deal of his colour and energy. Best of all, he and his wife were both in good spirits and enjoying the company of their cheerful, friendly Italian neighbours.
It was exactly what Caroline wanted to hear. She had spent some time trying to decide how she would write to Emily and enquire after her husband's health, yet afraid of what she might hear, she had postponed writing until her brother returned from London. The news he brought cheered them all up considerably.
Caroline had other concerns too, closer to home. Fitzwilliam was becoming impatient because he had received no guarantees from his political allies that the reforms he had advocated and they had promised—extending the franchise to ratepayers in local government elections—would be introduced in the near future.
“It is not as though they had not given their word to the people,” he complained to his brother-in-law. “I am ashamed that I campaigned for them but can give no assurance to the people who supported us, decent citizens who ask only for a say in their local councils, that their rights will be protected.”
Caroline was keen to pursue the question of Paul's health and wanted to ask her brother's opinion on the possibility of a complete recovery.
Richard shook his head. “I must admit I have not heard of a single such case; it is a most intractable disease for which medical science has found no cure yet.”
“But surely,” argued Fitzwilliam, “with the kind of devoted care that Emily provides and good medication, there must be a chance?”
Richard looked very solemn.
“I am sorry to disillusion you, Colonel Fitzwilliam, but while the good work my sister undertakes is certainly improving the quality of Paul's life and there is no doubting its value, such treatment, however estimable, is not known to have affected the final outcome; delayed it perhaps, but never averted it.”
At this rather gloomy prediction, Caroline, moved to tears, silently left the room. She was about to go upstairs when she heard the sound of a vehicle being driven at some speed along the road from Matlock. Going out to investigate, she saw it turn into the drive and as it approached the house, she could tell it was the Tates' carriage and wondered what could have brought them here at this hour.
It was almost sunset and the half light of an Autumn evening glinted upon the windows of the vehicle and obscured her vision of its occupants until it came to a standstill, when Anthony Tate leapt out and ran up the steps to the entrance. He seemed agitated, not his usual urbane self at all.
Greeting her only perfunctorily, he asked, “Is Fitzwilliam at home?”
Excited and out of breath, he marched into the hall and entered the parlour, without waiting for an answer. Bewildered, Caroline indicated that her husband and her brother were both within and, curious to discover the reason for this sudden intrusion, she followed him into the room. She knew Anthony Tate was a supporter of her husband's reform group and assumed his visit must have something to do with the cause to which they were both committed. Perhaps he had some urgent news.
Seeing their visitor, Fitzwilliam rose and came forward to greet him.
Anthony Tate had barely shaken his hand, when he said hurriedly, “I cannot stay, Colonel Fitzwilliam, I must get back to the Review. We are to print a special edition with the news—I assumed you would not have heard it and clearly I was right—the Houses of Parliament are burning!”
“What?” all three of his listeners exclaimed as one and Fitzwilliam, overw
helmed with astonishment, cried, “Look here, Tate, is this some rotten joke?”
“It certainly is not; I have the news from two of my men who are absolutely reliable. The Palace of Westminster is in flames—a fire began in one of the lower rooms during the afternoon and has since engulfed most of the old wooden buildings. The flames are spreading and can be seen for miles around; thousands of people are watching the inferno from across the Thames.”
“Could nothing have been done to stop it?” asked Caroline, aghast at the news.
“Apparently not, the fire must have taken hold well before it was noticed and the old buildings burned quickly.” Anthony Tate prepared to leave, politely declining any refreshment, eager to get back to his newspaper.
“I had to come, I was certain you would not have heard,” he said and left, promising to send them more news of the disaster as it came to hand.
Colonel Fitzwilliam was appalled. The shock was so great he could not speak for several minutes. He sat in his chair and stared out of the window and then at the fireplace, where the small friendly flames seemed suddenly to take on quite a menacing aspect.
Richard stayed awhile, anxious for his brother-in-law, who looked pale, shaken, and drained of energy.
Trying to cheer him up, Richard said, “Those old buildings were probably long overdue for replacement anyway—we can look forward to a grand new Parliament in the future,” but to no avail.
To Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had come late to both love and politics, the Palace of Westminster had a special relevance. It had been the stage for the historic struggle for constitutional and social reform, in which he too had recently participated with so much enthusiasm. Its destruction would remove from the landscape of London an important link with the most significant part of his public life.
He was devastated.
Caroline could see he was deeply shocked. When Richard finally left, she went to her husband and put her arms around him and was astonished to feel his body shake as she held him.
“I cannot believe it, Caroline. The great forum, where men of the calibre of Walpole, Fox, Wilberforce, and Burke have debated, where the battles for the abolition of slavery and our great Reform bill raged over many days and nights— reduced to ashes. How could it have happened? Who would do such a thing?”
There was no immediate news of the cause of the fire, and Fitzwilliam presumed that it was the work of arsonists, angered by some of the work of the Parliamentarians.
In fact, it was no such thing; it was an accidental fire—the result of an act of stupidity—but he was not to know that. He felt only a sense of violation and outrage at the destruction of an historic site.
At dinner that night, he said very little and when they went upstairs to bed, Caroline tried again to speak of the possible advantages of a new, larger Parliament, one more suited to the modern age in which they lived, but he would not be comforted.
“If I were to tell you what it means in terms of our life here, Caroline,” he said, “it would be as if someone had burned down our home, with all our precious memories. No new edifice, no matter how grand, could replace it and a part of our lives would be lost with it.”
And, loving him as she did, Caroline knew exactly how he felt.
In the weeks that followed, despite the shock of the conflagration in Westminster, life at Pemberley revolved mainly around the organisation of the Harvest Fair and the ball that was planned for the day after.
Elizabeth, ably assisted by her housekeeper Mrs Reynolds and her maid Jenny, had put in place all the arrangements for the ball, which would be carried out by the efficient, well-trained staff at Pemberley. Meanwhile, Caroline and Kitty, together with Richard, Cassandra, and Mr Darcy's steward, had worked to ensure that all was in readiness for the fair.
No one, certainly not Elizabeth, had fully realised the extent of interest in the community, and they were at first unprepared for the rush of eager participants. Tenants and their wives, craftsmen and women, farm labourers from both the Camden and Pemberley estates as well as many others from further afield—Bakewell, Lambton, and Ripley—seemed eager to bring their wares and skills to the Pemberley Fair.
Stalls, tents, and trestle tables had to be set up in the lower meadow and a myriad of local products, arts, crafts, embroidery, and farm produce were on sale.
On the morning of the fair, when the weather, which had been mild all week, improved to produce one last burst of Summer, Elizabeth was afraid that everything was going too well. Caroline, the much-loved wife of the local member, was there to open the fair, after which, the crowds poured in. The buying and selling was brisk and clearly profitable, as was evidenced by the fast emptying baskets and stalls and the general air of satisfaction.
Mr Darcy, who had encouraged his wife when she had first suggested a Harvest Fair, could not recall such a day; not since he, as a little boy, had accompanied his mother to a market fair in Staffordshire. There he remembered seeing booths and barrows on the common, containing everything from bolts of woolen cloth, silk scarves, and pottery to cheeses, soap, and candles. He had a vivid memory of a blue silk scarf his mother had purchased and a painted wooden toy he had acquired with the tuppence she had given him; it had remained a treasured possession for many years, reminding him of her. Around them had been hundreds of people: housewives, merchants, and traders buying and selling everything you could possibly imagine.
At Pemberley, there were not the merchants and itinerant tradesmen; rather, it was the working men and women of the district who filled the lower meadow with their wares. Mr Darcy was impressed. “Lizzie, there is no doubt your idea has been exceedingly popular. I had never imagined we would have so many people here,” he said, as they stood together, observing the hive of activity in the meadow below.
Elizabeth was pleased to have his approval.
“I am so happy you think so; I was afraid you may object to all these strangers tramping around the grounds.”
Darcy turned to her with a look of surprise. “I do not regard them as strangers, my dear, they are the people of this community. Most of them have lived and worked the land, either in their own right, as tenants, or as labourers on the estate; I am perfectly happy to have some part of the grounds used for such a good cause as this is. In fact, Sir Thomas Camden thinks it is such an excellent idea, he is looking to host a similar event at Camden Park next year. So you see, my love, your Harvest Fair has been a great success,” he said, drawing her close in a gesture of warm affection that brought her even greater pleasure than his words.
Towards sundown, as the stall holders packed their carts high with their baskets and boxes and took their weary children home, the families gathered on the lawn to watch energetic young men and women engage in country dancing accompanied by lively local musicians.
Caroline, feeling rather tired and looking for a place to rest, wandered into a small sitting room overlooking the west lawn, meaning to take advantage of a conveniently placed sofa by the fire. Her feet hurt and she had lost interest in the dancing.
On pushing open the door, however, she glimpsed a couple who appeared to be in what could only be termed—in words popular with writers of romantic novellas—"a fond embrace.”
There were no lamps or candles in the room; only the last rays of the setting sun filtered through the curtains illuminated the darkness, and the couple, intimately engaged as they were, did not immediately realise that someone had intruded upon them. Engrossed in each other, they failed to notice her until Caroline, who had immediately recognised her brother Richard and Cassy Darcy, deliberately pushed over a footstool to alert them to her presence.
On becoming aware they were no longer alone, they moved apart and left by the doors opening onto the lawn. Neither had glanced at her, as she stood in the shadows; clearly, they did not know who it was had entered the room and invaded their privacy.
Even as they went out into the twilight, their arms still entwined, their warm, affectionate manner leaving her in no
doubt of their closeness, Caroline smiled to herself. She had recently observed that Richard was spending a good deal of time at Pemberley. That Cassandra Darcy was the chief reason for this, she had suspected, but had not known, until that moment, how far the association had progressed nor how deep and tender were their feelings for one another. The encounter set her thinking.
While Caroline's romantic heart rejoiced for the lovers she had accidentally disturbed, her mind had begun to run along quite different lines. Her brother was not only a man of learning and skill, he was also a person of absolute integrity. It was impossible, therefore, to imagine even for a moment that what she had seen was some flirtatious episode, in which he, like many other young men about town, was indulging himself without paying heed to the consequences of his actions for the young lady involved. By the same token, she had then to assume that Richard had formed a serious attachment and intended to propose marriage to Cassy Darcy.
It was at this point that Caroline began to wonder whether Mr Darcy, who she knew to be exceedingly protective of his daughter, would consider a country physician, son of a commercial businessman, the right sort of suitor for Cassandra. While she had no doubt of the esteem and affection that the Darcys and her parents had for each other, and she knew her cousin Elizabeth spoke very highly of Richard, she could not be certain that the prospect of a marriage between Cassy and Richard would be welcomed equally by both parties.
My Cousin Caroline: The acclaimed Pride and Prejudice sequel series The Pemberley Chronicles Book 6 Page 15