When Miss Thurber asked in an eager voice for people to speak up, one or two young women, who appeared to be wearing more jewellery than one would expect to see at a ball, seemed to think they would have no trouble finding the money, while an older man claimed that he would be happy to sell some of his shares in the railway to pay his portion.
Julian prayed that Josie would not commit herself and indeed when she was asked directly, she did exactly as he had hoped and declared that she needed to think about it and talk to her father.
Miss Thurber, who knew exactly who Josie’s father was, did not look very pleased, saying in a rather false, bright voice, “But Josie dear, thirty pounds would be no more than pin money to you.”
That was absolutely the wrong thing to say, and, seeing Josie’s expression harden, Julian knew he need worry no more.
They left soon afterwards, and when they were back at her Aunt Beatrice’s house, he told her the editors of The New Radical had liked her work and what was more, they wanted to see more of it.
“I know it is not The Times, Josie, but it is a serious journal, and your work will at least be read with interest,” Julian explained.
Josie could hardly believe her ears. Exasperated that he had not told her earlier, she pretended to throw a tantrum, but only briefly, before she turned to Julian and thanked him most sincerely. She was delighted.
As the Summer of 1858 waned into Autumn, the political situation in Europe began once more to concern the people of Britain. While the movements for the unification of Italy and Germany gathered pace, the lack of confidence in the government of Lord Derby created considerable nervousness. This was exacerbated by the signing of a remarkable pact between Count Cavour and Napoleon III at Plombieres, which made them allies and sought to link dynastically the kingdom of Piedmont with France.
Initially, it seemed the strategy had failed when the young Princess Clotilde of Piedmont stubbornly refused to cooperate. But when, in September, she decided that Napoleon’s cousin, Jerome was “not so repulsive after all” and she would marry him, the nervousness turned to paranoia as British distrust of its former ally increased considerably. Dissatisfaction with the government and a desire for stronger leadership had led to efforts to bring together a united opposition party that could contest the next election.
Dining with the Wilsons at their town house in Grosvenor Street, Julian and Josie met Jonathan Bingley, who was in London for a meeting of what he called “a new force in British politics”—the Liberals. Both James Wilson and Jonathan were convinced that the only way to defeat Derby and the Tories was for all liberal-minded men to unite. They were certain that Palmerston would join them.
“Britain needs a leader who is strong on foreign affairs, at this time. Considering the chaotic situation in Europe, with a dynastic alliance between Victor Emmanuel and Napoleon III, we cannot afford to have a nobody leading the British government,” declared Jonathan, who, despite retiring from Parliament, had been persuaded by his colleagues to retain membership of the party.
“He remains an active campaigner for reform, even though his wife seems to have surrendered to the attractions of Rosings, where the word reform does not appear in the lexicon,” wrote Josie to her parents.
James Wilson was equally certain that the country needed a stronger leader and a better-directed foreign policy. “Ever since the resignation of Palmerston, we have had no clear direction in foreign affairs. It is essential that we rid ourselves of the deadwood and get some sound policy in place. Palmerston had a personal rapport with many European leaders—Derby does not. As a consequence, he flounders and so does Britain,” he said in his usual, logical way.
“Do you think there will be war?” Josie asked nervously.
James was reassuring. “In Europe, perhaps, but I cannot see Britain becoming involved. Though there is no knowing what perils we may stumble into with the type of weak leadership we have.”
Listening to their conversation, Julian felt a strong desire to return to Pemberley. Josie was staying with the Wilsons that night, and he was returning to Portman Square. He had completed and submitted his dissertation; there was a possibility he would be recalled to the college in Spring to continue his research. His plans, at the moment, were quite open. He was anxious, however, about Josie. He realised that she, for all her common sense and intelligence, was still young and impressionable. He had felt her deep sense of disillusion with Miss Thurber and her friends, who had sought to exploit her youth and enthusiasm.
The following day, he returned and found her still deeply ashamed at being deceived by the two women. “How could I have been so stupid as to believe them?” she cried, but Julian was unwilling to let her indulge in fruitless outrage and recrimination, which would only serve to increase her depression.
“How would you like to go home, Josie?” he asked. “Your brother will be back from College, and it is almost time for harvest home.”
Half expecting her to protest, to be disappointed at the prospect of leaving London, he was unprepared for her response. Rising from her chair, she walked over to the window and looked out at the trees across the street. Their leaves were brown and the wind was stripping them away, already. Josie turned and said brightly, “Oh, yes, I would like it very much, indeed. Let us go home, please. I think I have had enough of London for this year. Perhaps in the Spring I may wish to return, but now, yes, Julian, I believe I would like nothing better than to return to Derbyshire.”
***
Elizabeth awoke, hearing the sound of rain. She almost turned over and went to sleep again. It was too depressing to contemplate. Darcy had already risen, and she forced herself to get out of bed and, pulling on a robe, went over to the window and looked out at the grounds, sodden with almost a week of unceasing rain. With the Festival of Music only a few days away, she was desperate.
“Oh please, please let it stop,” she said, in the forlorn hope that someone would hear. Someone must have heard, or else there was no more water left in the skies above the peaks and moorlands, because by midday the rain had begun to ease and a pale sun had pushed its face out of the dreary grey clouds.
Downstairs and around the grounds preparations continued apace. This year they had called in a professional team to organise the occasion. Darcy had insisted that it was too much for Elizabeth and Emily to handle on their own. “I cannot have you falling ill, Lizzie,” he had said firmly, “and Emily has not been in the best of health, either. Besides, if we are to invite our distinguished neighbours, we may as well impress them.”
It was left to her to arrange the program, which was something she enjoyed immensely. Together with Emily and Caroline, she had worked out the order of the items and arranged for the performers to be accommodated so they could practice before the festival.
“I am glad the choir is back from Bristol,” said Emily. “I was afraid we weren’t going to hear them at all this year. They’ve been so busy.”
Caroline agreed that they would have missed the choir, which now performed at several venues and frequently won prizes in competitions. Occasionally, Elizabeth would have to remind herself that this was the choir that had started with a few children from the estate singing carols for her very first Christmas at Pemberley. Caroline, whose children were all very talented performers, remembered, too, and the cousins smiled as they recalled memories of those happy days. How much had happened in all their lives since then.
The centrepiece of the festival program was a recital by a group of singers from Coventry who had won national acclaim; but for the family, the highlight would be the performances of the two Courtney children, William and Elizabeth, and the young Matlock chamber music group. William was to play Chopin, for whose work he seemed to have a special gift, while Elizabeth, accompanied by her brother, would sing an aria from The Marriage of Figaro.
Mr Darcy came to remind them that Julian and Josie, who had arrived
from London and stayed overnight with the Tates, were expected any time now.
Elizabeth smiled and reassured her husband, who seemed unusually anxious. “I had not forgotten, my dear,” she said, as they went downstairs. “I am very pleased that they are going to be here for the festival. I think it will help Josie understand what Pemberley really means to all of us.”
Darcy agreed, but he was less concerned than his wife was about young Josie Tate, knowing that Julian’s own attachment to Pemberley would be the means of drawing her into its circle. “I am confident she will soon discover it, if she has not done so already,” he said, recalling how easily Elizabeth had moved into her role as the Mistress of Pemberley, triumphing over those, like his aunt Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who had doubted that she would be worthy of the position.
The sound of a carriage drawing up at the front of the house heralded the arrival of the travellers, who were warmly received. Julian’s pleasure in bringing his prospective bride home to Pemberley was plain to all, and Josie was especially delighted with the warmth of her welcome. Everything had been done to make her comfortable in what was to be her future home.
The day of the festival was fine but pleasantly cool, as early Autumn days are in Derbyshire, where the leaves turn to glowing gold and rust as the north wind begins to probe the woodlands and parks. Many of the performers had arrived and were accommodated in the nursery wing.
Elizabeth, having spent all morning downstairs attending to a myriad of things that simply had to be done, was feeling tired and, coming upstairs, rested awhile upon a couch in the sitting room, which overlooked her favourite corner of the park. She could see the servants bustling around making preparations for the evening, and Mr Darcy with Julian and Josie walking down to inspect the big marquee on the west lawn, where refreshments were to be served for everyone from the Pemberley estate before the performance.
She remembered how eagerly she had run to inspect all the arrangements, when they had first begun to hold the music festivals at Pemberley. How she had wanted everything to be just perfect. They had been very proud of her achievement. Musing upon those early days, she fell asleep.
She did not know how long she had been asleep, but she was awakened by the sound of the piano in the music room. She listened and realised that someone was playing the Mozart sonata that William had played on that Autumn day so many years ago. As the haunting andante cantabile flowed through the house, Elizabeth could not believe she was hearing it; she knew of no one who had played it since. Rising from her couch, she hurried down the corridor to the music room and, eager to discover the identity of the pianist, gently opened the door.
William Courtney leapt up from his seat at the pianoforte, “Aunt Lizzie, did I disturb you? I am sorry. I had no idea you were upstairs.” He was most apologetic.
Elizabeth realised that William had come over to practice for the evening’s performance, as he did quite often before a recital. The Courtneys did not have an instrument as fine as the one at Pemberley, and William had a permanent invitation to come in and play on it. Both Elizabeth and Darcy welcomed it.
She sought to reassure him. “Oh, no William, there is no need to apologise, not at all. I heard the music and I didn’t know it was you. I was tired … I must have dozed off and on awakening, I was surprised because I could not think who would be playing the Mozart …”
She seemed puzzled, and he explained, “It is not part of my program for this evening. I had almost finished practising when I saw it lying on the music stand, and thought to try it out. It’s beautiful, but maybe too difficult for me just yet.”
She smiled, wondering how the music had come to be on the stand—she could not remember seeing it there for years. “Would you like to play it … I mean, as a concert piece?” she asked.
“Very much; it has a most haunting theme. But I shall have to practice long and hard. Look, let me show you how complex the andante is,” he said as he sat down and played through a part of the second movement.
As he played Elizabeth recalled, more calmly this time, the enchanting slow movement that her William had played with a tenderness that was almost too much to bear. William Courtney was dark and taller than her son had been.
He finished the movement and came over to her. “Did you like it? I’m afraid I cannot do it justice without much more practice.”
He was very modest, but she smiled and said, “You did very well, William. But if you wish to master it, please do come back and practice some more. You know you are always welcome.”
The door opened and Darcy entered with William’s sister, Elizabeth. “Ah, there you are, Lizzie. We have been looking everywhere for you. Elizabeth is here to practice for this evening.”
“William has been playing for me,” she said. “We shall leave you two to practice together.
“I am looking forward so much to this evening,” she said as they went out.
Darcy guessed she had been moved deeply by William’s playing. He could not avoid seeing the irony in their situation. “Are you all right, my dear?” he asked, solicitous as ever, but she reassured him she was perfectly well. Darcy had heard a part of the music William Courtney had been playing and recalled it vividly himself. It always stirred deep memories.
Elizabeth realised that he had heard it, too. “I was startled to hear it at first, but William said he had seen it lying on the music stand and wanted to try it. He plays it well.” She did not say, “But not as well as our William.” She did not need to. He knew exactly how she felt and was grateful she was no longer distressed by the music.
“Josie and Julian have gone up to the gallery,” Darcy explained. “I understand Josie wanted to see your collection of miniatures.”
Elizabeth was pleased. She had hoped Josie would take an interest in Pemberley and its treasures. Julian had hinted that Josie, eager to continue her career as a writer, was in no hurry to be married. Elizabeth was somewhat concerned, and though she did not wish to exaggerate her disquiet, she could not help voicing it. “Do you believe their feelings are deeply engaged? Are they strong and enduring enough to weather all that life will throw at them?” she asked anxiously. “I should be content if they were to settle upon a date. I can see they are in love, but I am concerned there is a lack of serious intention. Do you believe there is?”
Darcy’s voice was quiet. “I certainly hope there is, with all my heart, but I cannot really tell. I am no judge of the inclinations of youth,” he said.
Elizabeth challenged him, her voice teasing, “But surely, dearest, you are a good judge of feelings; can you not tell?”
Now he knew she was teasing him again. “No, truly I am not, Lizzie, and you know it. I never even knew how well I loved you and when I did discover it, the manner of my approach to you was so reprehensible that I was certain I had made you hate me. No, I am quite hopeless at making such judgements,” he confessed ruefully.
This time, she laughed out loud and took his hand. “I do recall something to that effect; though in these matters, my memory is, fortunately, far from reliable! But, surely, you can have no doubts on that score now?” she asked as they went out into the garden.
“No, indeed, and I doubt there is cause for anxiety regarding Julian and Josie either,” he replied with a smile that transformed his serious face.
Everything was in readiness. The weather had cleared to a perfect evening, and Pemberley looked spectacular in the late afternoon sun. Soon, it would be time to dress for the performance.
Julian and Josie came out of the house and walked towards them. They met at the foot of the stone steps leading to the rose garden and Julian said very quickly, “Mama, we have something to tell you and Papa. Josie and I have decided that we would like to be married in the Spring.”
Elizabeth was delighted. As they kissed and embraced one another, of their happiness there could be no doubt at all.
There w
ere dozens of questions Elizabeth wanted to ask, but she well knew that this was not the moment; there would be many days and weeks ahead and plenty of time for all that. For the moment, there was little need for words, except to express their heartfelt joy. She had been anxious that Josie’s reluctance to be married sooner rather than later represented a lack of seriousness; the news just received and the happiness of the young lovers had set her heart at rest on that score.
As they walked through the rose garden towards the house, the delightful sounds of the young chamber music group practising for the evening’s performance drifted out through the open French windows and across the lawns. Julian and Josie went indoors; Elizabeth took her husband’s arm, and they walked around to the front of the house.
“There, Lizzie, are you content now?” Darcy asked gently.
Elizabeth smiled. “Yes,” she said, “perfectly content.”
The weddings are over. There are rose petals everywhere. Jane and Elizabeth have seen their two youngest children married on a fine Spring morning in the year 1859: Louisa Bingley to Dr Matthew Ward, the scientist in charge of the research laboratory at the new Matlock hospital, and Julian Darcy to Josie, the only daughter of Anthony Tate and his wife Rebecca.
Emma Wilson’s two daughters, Victoria and Stephanie, are bridesmaids and, like most bridesmaids, seem to attract even more comment than the brides.
The two sisters, Jane and Elizabeth, are almost inseparable these days, and together with their husbands, who continue to be close friends as well as business partners, enjoy an intimate and affectionate relationship. As they stood together on the terrace at Pemberley, watching the large party of friends and relations greet the newly wedded couples, they were joined by Charlotte Collins, Josie’s grandmother and Elizabeth’s closest friend. The weddings had brought them together again, reviving memories of the way they had been in Hertfordshire, many years ago.
The Women of Pemberley Page 33