Becky knew Jonathan was expected; Catherine had told her so and asked her to join them for dinner on the following day. Having accepted the invitation, she had hurried home to await some indication of when Jonathan would call on her, as promised in his letter.
Even as she waited, she was filled with foreboding.
Certain now that Aldo Contini had gone out of her life forever, Becky became increasingly miserable, castigating herself for having carelessly squandered a possible chance for happiness that may never come her way again. If this were true, she would have no one to blame but herself, she concluded, and became even more dejected at the thought.
Then again, she would consider the question and reach another, contrary conclusion. After all, she would argue, Mr Contini had never given her an indication of any serious intention; certainly, he had been attentive, charming, and kind, but there had been no declaration of feelings, and no hint of a proposal of marriage.
Why then was she feeling so dismal? Why did the future suddenly look so bleak? What had happened to the bright optimism that she had experienced when she had spent the best part of ten days in his company?
To these and other vexing questions she could find no answers.
Becky Tate was in a quandary largely of her own making.
Some little while after three o'clock that afternoon, Jonathan Bingley called on Becky at Edgewater. A note delivered earlier had asked if it would suit, and she had replied that it would; indeed, she had said, she was looking forward to seeing him.
Becky dressed with care for Jonathan's visit, keen to present an appearance of self-assurance, which she certainly did not feel.
Aware that he had a partiality for sweets, she had ensured that a variety of delicious refreshments were made ready, and received him not in the parlour, as she might have done at that hour, but in the more private and spacious drawing room, where they would not be overheard.
They greeted one another with affection and, as refreshments were served, exchanged the usual pleasantries, biding their time until the servants, their duties done, withdrew.
Almost as soon as they did, Becky looked across at Jonathan, and he came over to where she was seated, beside the fireplace.
Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew two items, a sealed letter and a small rectangular package, which he handed to her. As Becky took them from him, her hand shook slightly—not enough for him to notice, but sufficient to warn her that she had not quite got control of her feelings and must be careful not to betray herself.
At first she thought to put them aside and proceed with dispensing more tea, but Jonathan had other ideas. Speaking quite casually, he said, "Of course, you wish to read your letter and open your package in private, Becky. I should very much like to take a look at some of the books in your library; I quite envy your fine collection of the work of Mr Dickens, so if you will permit me, I shall repair to the library now and will return in a little while."
Becky, astonished at his sensitivity, could say very little except, "Yes, of course, please feel free to look at anything you wish. I was fortunate to inherit most of my mother-in-law's excellent collection; Walter had little interest in it…"
Whereupon, he smiled and left the room, crossed the corridor, and entered the library. She heard the door shut behind him.
Left alone, Becky opened her letter.
She had expected it to be no more than a brief note, probably saying farewell, explaining that he had been urgently and unavoidably recalled to Italy and expressing his regrets at not seeing her again.
She had steeled herself for just such a message.
It was nothing of the sort.
Indeed, whatever her expectations may have been, they were overthrown completely as she opened up the sealed envelope and read the two pages of carefully penned writing contained therein.
She scanned them swiftly, reading eagerly and impatiently to the end, before returning to the beginning and reading it over again, more slowly and with greater attention to the sentiments expressed.
It was on perusing it a second time that the full import of the letter became apparent to her, which the rather old-fashioned courtliness of the writer's style had initially obscured.
Having made it clear that he was returning only temporarily to Italy and expected to be back in London quite soon, Mr Contini had proceeded to describe in some detail his current circumstances, his own family responsibilities—he had, he said, an aged mother who expected regular visits, and his business required travel back and forth from Europe some two or three times a year.
At first, all this information had Becky rather puzzled. But as she read on, it became clear that in the manner of some European gentlemen, Mr Contini was setting out his credentials as a suitor, placing before her the pros and cons of his case.
Becky could not suppress a smile, as she recalled the somewhat matter-offact manner in which Mr Tate had proposed to her. There had been no need to tell her of his circumstances or his family; these were well known in the Matlock district; indeed, Anthony Tate would surely have been regarded as the best "catch" in the county, and Becky had been universally considered a very fortunate young woman to have "caught" him.
Mr Contini, on the other hand, had no pretensions to great wealth or a family dynasty, although he did in his description of his family's estate in Italy reveal that he would one day inherit a share in a well-run business as well as a villa outside Florence, where his mother now lived.
His own financial circumstances were comfortable enough though modest, he said, but he considered them adequate to his needs.
Having provided her with all of these mundane details, he then proceeded to the main purpose of his letter.
I had hoped, dear Becky, to have an opportunity to call on you at your home in Kent and speak with you on this subject, but clearly your circumstances did not permit it at this time. You did explain that there were some domestic matters that required your attention, and I understood and accepted that.
Therefore, I have had to resort to writing to you in a manner that you might find awkward. If this is the case, I beg you to forgive any gaucheness on my part, as I am at a disadvantage expressing myself on a subject as delicate and important as this, not having the same felicitous ease of expression in the English language as I would have in my own.
…he wrote modestly. Becky could scarcely credit this in the light of his letter; there was certainly nothing gauche or awkward there. She read on; knowing her own heart, she sought eagerly for some evidence of his feelings for her. He continued:
Nevertheless, I ask you to believe that I have, for all of the last few weeks, thought only of how to convince you of the sincerity and depth of my feelings for you. These feelings had their origins some years ago, during a time, that I hope you will recall with the same degree of pleasure as I do. While I was not at liberty to express them then, in the circumstances of that time, which was why I sought to quench them, they were rekindled when we met again in London last month and spent so many delightful hours together. Consequently, I am convinced that my feelings are both true and strong. My hesitation to speak to you in London arose only from my uncertainty about your response. Ever since you left London to return to your home in Kent, I have thought unceasingly of you and, realising how much I missed you, have reached finally the inescapable conclusion that I love you too well to remain silent.
Dearest Becky, if, as I hope, you have similar feelings and are willing to consider my proposal, you will make me a very happy man, and I promise most solemnly to do all in my power to ensure your happiness. Please permit me to say that I would be deeply honoured if you would consent to be my wife.
I have no wish to rush you into a decision, but ask only that you send me word through my friend Mr Jonathan Bingley, in whom I have confided, if I may hope for a favourable answer or not. I am content to wait for your answer, and dependent upon it; I shall arrange to call on you at a time of your choosing and meet with your sister and brother-
in-law, Mr and Mrs Burnett. Afterwards, if you agree, I would like us to visit Signor and Signora Contini—my uncle and aunt in Richmond. They know of my feelings and have indicated to me that they would welcome you into our family with the warmest affection.
Should Mr Bingley bring me a negative reply—and I am not so presumptuous as to assume that this is unlikely—I shall accept your decision without rancour and endure my disappointment as best I can, wishing you every happiness in the future. But, I must confess, in such a case, my anguish will be great.
If you would be so kind as to say yes, dearest Becky, it will be the happiest day of my life so far. I only say so far because I hope in the future to enjoy much greater happiness with you as my beloved wife.
I await your answer,
Yours very sincerely,
Aldo Contini.
A brief postscript mentioned that he had enclosed also a keepsake, which he had made especially for her, in fulfillment of a promise given when they were in London, and expressed the hope that she would like it.
Becky folded the letter and placed it in its envelope, before reaching for the package, which lay on the tea table before her. When she tried to open it, her hands were still shaking, for she was as yet unable to assimilate completely the feelings his letter had aroused in her; so unexpected had it been, so open and direct in its appeal.
The package contained an object wrapped in several sheets of soft paper, which she parted impatiently to reveal in a simple silver frame a portrait of herself.
It took her only a few seconds to realise that it was his own work, a fine charcoal drawing of the type she had seen him make on occasions, deftly sketching objects and scenes that caught his eye. She had admired some of them then but had never believed he had made one of her, even though he had once suggested that he would.
This one, clearly drawn from memory, showed Becky in a pensive mood, her fine features highlighted by the simplicity of her gown and hair, both suggesting that she had been "captured" by the artist at home.
She was still gazing at it with some amazement when Jonathan returned to the room and, seeing it in her hand, remarked casually, "It is an excellent likeness, is it not?"
Becky was taken aback.
She was disconcerted because she did not know what Jonathan knew. Mr Contini had admitted to having confided in his friend, but Becky wondered how much he had told him.
To begin with, she was surprised that Jonathan had obviously seen the portrait. She responded to his comment, a little belatedly. "Do you think so?"
"Certainly," he said, "Contini does very good portraits; he has made excellent sketches of my daughters. You shall see them when you visit Netherfield and tell me if they are not remarkably like the girls."
Becky nodded politely and turned to pour out his tea.
Jonathan took his cup and seated himself across from her. It was for Becky a most awkward moment; "Surely," she thought, "he cannot expect that I could give him an answer for his friend now?" Her mind kept returning to the question of what Mr Contini had told him. Was it possible he knew of their previous association?
In order to make some ordinary conversation, she asked if he would like a slice of cake. Jonathan chose the fruit cake and as she handed him the plate, said very gently, "Becky, I want to assure you that while Mr Contini has confided in me and asked me to help him, I do not intend to make any effort to influence your decision one way or the other. He is a friend, a loyal and dear friend of mine, and while it would give me great satisfaction to see him happily married, I would not presume to persuade you to accept him."
When she looked at him in some confusion, he continued, "I have made that clear to him, before I agreed to act as an intermediary on this occasion. I did so because he was so desperately unhappy that he had not taken the opportunity to speak with you whilst you were in London. He had not anticipated being recalled to Italy over an urgent family matter and had hoped to see you here at Edgewater in more propitious circumstances. Sadly, that did not eventuate, and when he did not hear from you, I believe he feared he had missed his chance with you. He spoke with me an hour before his departure, and I will say that I have rarely seen a man more deeply in love and more distraught."
Becky was too distressed to say more than, "It was my fault; I should have kept my word and written him as I said I would; but I became confused… when I was back here, I did not feel as certain of him or my own feelings as I had been in London."
Jonathan was puzzled. "Why?"
"I cannot explain it, Jonathan; I have been busy and there was a lot to do here with the business of Alice Grey, and yet I know I should have written and I do feel guilty at not having done so and probably distressed him unduly."
Her voice was low and she seemed so harrowed, Jonathan rose and went to sit beside her. "Come now, Becky, you must not blame yourself; there is no real harm done. Aldo Contini has loved you for a very long time—it is almost two years since he first confided in me. He knew then there was no future in it, and now he has renewed hope. When you did not write, he was disappointed of course, but he has not gone off in a huff; indeed, he was reluctant to write for fear of offending you—it was my idea that he should."
Becky was astonished. "Offending me? Why?" she asked.
Jonathan explained patiently, "Because, my dear Becky, he feared that you were unprepared for his declaration or that you may have felt he was presuming upon your friendship on too short an acquaintance. He is not an arrogant man; it is likely that he thought you did not know him well enough to make such a commitment."
"Too short an acquaintance? Why, Jonathan, he knows me better than I know myself… in those dismal days after Josie's death, when I was so much alone in London… were it not for him I might well have…" She stopped abruptly, a hand to her mouth as if to hold back the words that had already escaped.
Jonathan, looking at her directly, spoke quietly, "I know."
"You do?" she looked up at his face, disbelieving.
"Yes, I have known for some time," he said. "He confided in me at a time when he sincerely believed there was no hope at all. Mr Tate was still living, albeit in the United States, and you had returned to your place in Matlock.
"He knew how deeply you had been hurt, both by Josie's death and your husband's abrupt departure for America; indeed, he was most unhappy that he could do so very little to comfort you."
"Did he tell you then, that he loved me?" she asked, incredulous.
Jonathan nodded, "Indeed he did, and he appealed to me for help, but what could I do? I had no way to influence your circumstances; I could only advise him to return to Italy for a while."
Becky met his eyes as she spoke.
"But, Jonathan, he did comfort me, at a time when I had no one but my maid Nelly to turn to. I was very grateful for his presence… I had felt so alone and friendless. He was kind and understanding; I have thought of it often… a lesser man may well have taken advantage of my vulnerable state of mind, but he was both compassionate and honorable in every way."
Jonathan was silent, letting her speak, guessing she had not confided in anyone else and had long concealed the intensity of her feelings, "At the time, it seemed to me that he was the only person who understood how I felt; everyone else, especially members of Julian's family, appeared to blame me. I was grateful for his generosity, but I had no idea how much his kindness had meant to me until we met again in London last month. Then, I discovered how easy it was to be happy in his company, how much I could learn from him about coping with life's misfortunes."
Jonathan nodded, "He has admitted to very similar feelings; he is not a stranger to the sorrow of bereavement, his family lost a beloved daughter, too— Aldo's youngest sister, Rosetta, died of tuberculosis at the age of fourteen. I am not at all surprised that he could offer you the understanding and sympathy you needed at the time. It must have been a grievous time for both of you. And yet, he recalls only the pleasure of being with you and none of the pain, and hopes that th
e affinity you have shared will sustain you both. He loves you, Becky; he swears he has never cared as well for any other woman, and I know him to be a man of his word."
"And you do not condemn me?" she asked.
Her question surprised him. "Condemn you? For what offence? For reaching out for comfort when you were left to grieve alone after the death of a beloved child? For accepting some affection when your husband had virtually deserted you? Would that not make me a hard man and a hypocrite to boot?"
Becky was confused.
She would never have called him a hard man; Jonathan was renowned for his gentleness and consideration of others.
"Why a hypocrite?"
"Why indeed? When Amelia-Jane died in that dreadful accident, I too felt alone and distraught, I sought comfort, and when Anna reached out to me, I took her hand with gratitude. It was simple kindness on her part. I enjoyed her company, her delightful nature, and sweet disposition, believing it to be part of an innocent friendship. But later, I realised that I had fallen in love with Anna, even before the death of my wife," he said.
Woman of Influence (Pemberley Chronicles) Page 27