Becky could see clearly the strain upon his face as he spoke.
"As you would know, Becky, your sister and I had some unresolved problems at that time. We had lost two little boys in infancy, I was bored with working for Lady Catherine, Amelia-Jane was impatient with my political interests and had no desire to move to Netherfield; it had not been the happiest period of our marriage.
"I had met Anna at Pemberley after many years, and she, quite unwittingly, had let me see how easy it was to love someone with her warmth and generosity of spirit. We are all only human and respond to acts of kindness when we are hurt. Of course, I did not seek it—perhaps I was not even aware it was happening—but I was very shocked when I discovered the truth about my feelings for her, although I did not admit them even to myself until well after my wife's death. So, tell me, how then should I condemn you, Becky?"
She had listened, stunned by his admission, amazed that he had chosen to reveal it to her. He continued gravely, "I have disclosed this to no one but yourself, and I have done it only to reassure you that I am no hypocrite. When I learned from Aldo Contini that some intimacy of feeling had developed between you, I made no judgment. I knew that as an honourable man he would wish to take it to its proper conclusion. Indeed, he asked me if Mr Tate could be persuaded to divorce you, so he could ask you to marry him. He loved you very much, Becky, I have no doubt of that."
Seeing the effect of this on Becky's countenance, he said very quickly, "At the time, it did not seem likely, and I told him so. I knew also that your situation in the family was such; you would suffer intolerable damage if such a proposition were even contemplated. He understood and, though he was deeply dejected, accepted that nothing would come of it in the circumstances that existed at the time. You may ask why I acted as I did. It was chiefly to protect you from criticism by my family and others. Reluctantly, Contini returned to Italy, where he appeared to recover some of his spirits, becoming involved in work over there, and when we met again last year, he enquired after you but seemed resigned to his fate. However, as you can see, that is all in the past—the circumstances of your life have changed; he still loves you and the future is now yours to grasp."
Becky had one more question.
"Jonathan, forgive me, but I must ask you, does Anna know?"
He smiled.
"That Aldo Contini loves you? She must know. One would have to be blind not to see it. Whilst you were with us in London, he was the life and soul of every occasion. Since you left to return to Kent, he has been impossible to please, speaking of you often with much pleasure, clearly missing you and growing melancholy because you were not there. I doubt that Anna could have avoided drawing the obvious conclusion."
Becky persisted.
"I meant, does Anna know of our previous friendship… while Mr Tate was in America and I was in London following Josie's death?"
She was very anxious, and he, understanding her anxiety, moved swiftly to reassure her.
"She does not, nor will she hear of it from me. On that subject, Becky, I can give you my solemn word. Your secret is safe with me."
"Thank you," said Becky, and her face showed the relief she clearly felt.
Anna Bingley was her cousin, and it would have been mortifying to discover that she had known of her previous association with Mr Contini and perhaps talked of it with others in the family, who might not be as sanguine or understanding as Jonathan had been. But, he reassured her, "It was a confidence, and I should never breach a trust and reveal such matters, Becky, not even to my wife. It is not a matter of concern to her, nor to anyone else other than Mr Contini and yourself," he said, and she believed him implicitly. She was immensely grateful and said so again.
It was almost dark outside, and the servants entered to light the lamps.
Jonathan rose and, waiting until they had left the room, took her hand.
"Think carefully before you send him your answer, Becky; he is a good man and loves you dearly. That is all I will say."
Taking his leave of her, Jonathan left, and as Becky turned to go upstairs, she heard his footsteps striding down the gravel drive.
***
On reaching her room, Becky lay on the couch, exhausted but strangely elated, too. Her mind was filled with a plethora of competing thoughts, all swirling around demanding attention.
She could not help wondering at the irony of her circumstances.
Jonathan Bingley, whom she had loved hopelessly as a young girl and lost first to her younger sister Amelia-Jane and then to her cousin Anna, was he to be the one who would show her how she might find the happiness that had eluded her for so long?
It was a circumstance she never could have imagined.
Then, there was Mr Contini's appeal that she send him an answer—if not an immediate acceptance of his proposal, at least one that offered him hope of future success.
How was this request to be fulfilled? How was she to respond with the kind of honesty that he had shown in his letter to her?
She longed to do so, yet held back from such an open acknowledgement of her feelings. Becky found herself in a state of such perplexity as she had never experienced before. She knew exactly what she wanted to say. She had consulted her heart; her feelings were strong and consistent.
But how to say it?
She was not unaware of the incongruity of her situation; that she, a writer, who could weave together evocative words to express thoughts and ideas, should struggle to convey what was nearest to her heart.
She tried writing in her diary:
How shall I tell him that I have waited to hear such sentiments all my life and feared that I would perhaps never have such pleasure?
What reason shall I give if I were to refuse him? How shall I explain it? Not just to him, but to myself?
And if I do, will I then forever wonder if I had done the right thing, or shall I live to rue the day I made such a stupid decision?
Who shall I please by such a decision? Not myself, surely, for if I were to think only of my own affections, of which I am now so certain, I should not lose a minute before sending my answer. Yet I must not be precipitate as I have been before. I cannot afford another mistake. How shall I know that I am doing what is right for both of us?
An hour later, Nelly came to ask if Becky would change for dinner. She found her asleep, with her diary fallen from her hands. She picked it up and put it away before leaving the room.
Nelly seemed to know intuitively that her mistress would not be dining downstairs that night.
Chapter Twenty-One
As the time approached to prepare for the dinner party at the Dower House, Becky began to feel increasingly nervous. The confidence and savoir-faire she had cultivated over several years of dealing with many people in high places had all but disappeared.
She knew Jonathan Bingley was leaving Rosings Park on the following morning, which meant he had to have her response to Mr Contini's letter that night. Becky had spent most of the morning scribbling numerous brief notes, then tearing them up. When Nelly enquired if she wished to have her gown pressed in readiness for the evening, she had been so distracted, she could not decide which gown to wear.
Shortly after noon, a note had arrived from Catherine advising that the weather appeared to be turning for the worse and inviting Becky to stay overnight at the Dower House to avoid a hazardous journey home.
Becky was touched by her concern. "My dear sister, she thinks of everything," she said and instructed Nelly to pack a bag for their overnight stay.
Although that may have solved one problem of a purely practical nature, it did not make it any easier for her to compose her reply to Mr Contini.
She had tried a number of responses—one adopted a collected and calm approach, another appreciative but cautious; she even tried a dignified and noncommittal tone, but none of them seemed right.
There was an impression of contrivance about the words, which she abhorred, and her present feelings were such that she
had no wish to torment him with more uncertainty.
In the end, she wrote with simple sincerity that she hoped would convey both her appreciation of his sentiments and the need she felt for some discretion in her answer and hoped he would understand.
Having thanked him for his letter and expressed her gratitude for his kind words, she asked for some little time to consider his proposal.
I would like to think about it for a while before I give you my response, she wrote:
…not because I am unappreciative of your feelings or wary of them, but only to give myself time to reflect upon my own. I do not for one moment doubt your intentions, but wish to be entirely confident of mine.
Then, as if prompted by a tug upon her heart strings, she added:
When you are returned from Italy, I should be very happy for you to visit me at Edgewater and shall look forward to seeing you here.
It was brief, but it was done, and she signed it:
Yours very sincerely, Becky Tate.
At dinner that night, they were six.
Lilian and John Adams had also been invited, for which Becky was grateful because both young people had a great deal to say, having been recently in France, visiting Mr Adams's family.
Lilian, no more the shy young girl Becky had known before her marriage, had many interesting stories to tell of the rustic charm of the French countryside, while Mr Adams regaled them with his accounts of the battle raging between the artists of the new Impressionist movement and the old school of realisme in art.
Jonathan Bingley, whose wife Anna was herself an artist of some talent, was acquainted with the subject and listened with interest, but Becky, whose knowledge of art was somewhat perfunctory, found her mind wandering to other more pressing matters.
She knew she had to tell her sister of Mr Contini's proposal; she would not be forgiven if she neglected to do so. Yet she had already decided that she was not going to reveal anything of her previous relationship with him.
"If Jonathan has not felt the need to tell his wife about it, why need I tell my sister?" she argued quite reasonably and reached the conveniently logical conclusion that she need not, because it was of little significance now. Through dinner, she had pondered the question of how much she was going to tell Catherine.
The opportunity afforded by the invitation to stay overnight at the Dower House was worth seizing, she decided. When they retired upstairs, she would tell her sister of his proposal, though she could not predict what Catherine's response might be.
After dinner, when the ladies left the table and withdrew to the drawing room, Lilian, who was feeling tired, went to rest awhile on a sofa in the library, until the gentlemen were ready to join them. Becky saw her chance and whispered to Catherine that she had some important news for her, eliciting an immediate demand to be told what it was. But Becky was able to persuade her sister that there was not sufficient time to tell her, and besides, if the gentlemen arrived in the middle of her narration, it would all be spoilt.
Catherine was a little puzzled at the secrecy, but she agreed, countering with her own little mystery.
"Well, I have some news for you too—I have only just heard and have been planning to tell you tonight. So I shall come to your room after the others have gone home. It will be like old times, when we were little girls and would tell each other secrets! You can tell me everything!"
Becky nodded, thinking to herself, "Not quite everything, Cathy, but that does not signify, for you shall know the essential truth of the matter."
Presently, the gentlemen entered the drawing room, and while Catherine went to get Lilian, Jonathan approached Becky. She knew he would come and had her letter ready for him, which he put away in his pocket. Discreet and proper as usual, he asked nothing about its contents, and Becky said nothing, except to thank him once more for his kindness. "It is very kind of you, Jonathan, and I thank you for it and for your understanding," she said, only to be assured that it was an errand he undertook with pleasure.
His hope, he said, was that he could in this way help two people, for whom he had a great deal of affection, to find the happiness they both deserved.
Becky reddened at his words and smiled but said nothing more. She did not believe it was expected that she would reveal any part of her answer.
No doubt, she assumed, Mr Contini, on receiving her letter, would enlighten him. Theirs was clearly an intimate friendship.
***
Later that evening, after Jonathan had left, followed by Lilian and Mr Adams, Becky retired to the spare room. She had changed into her nightgown and despatched her maid, when there was a light knock on her door and Catherine entered.
"Now, Becky," she said, seating herself on the bed, "what is this piece of important news you have for me? I am all excited; I must know everything."
"Will you not tell me yours first?" Becky asked, and Catherine obliged.
It was just as Becky had suspected. Lilian was expecting a child.
She had noticed that her niece was looking pale and had complained of tiredness after dinner.
"The doctor thinks the baby will probably be born in the late Spring," said Catherine, and Becky embraced and congratulated her sister.
"You will enjoy having a grandson or daughter to spoil, will you not?" she said, and Catherine agreed she would, saying with some sadness, "I suppose it will make up for the fact that I may never see the others, if their father continues his work in India. Oh Becky, I had no idea they would be away so long; the children will hardly know me."
She was speaking of the children of her elder daughter, who had married the chaplain to a regiment stationed in India. They had been away almost five years, and there had been no sign of their returning soon.
Becky was sympathetic; she had grown accustomed to missing her own grandson, Josie's child—Anthony Darcy. He lived with Cassy and Richard Gardiner, being educated and trained to be the future Master of Pemberley. Sadly, Becky saw very little of Anthony, a fine young boy, who was growing up very much under the influence of his grandfather Mr Darcy and his aunt Cassandra Gardiner.
Becky regretted the circumstances of their separation, but, as things had turned out, she could do nothing to alter them.
But this was no time for melancholy, and Catherine claimed she would soon have her hands full preparing for the arrival of Lilian's child.
Turning eagerly to her sister, she said, "Now, Becky, you've heard my news, I must hear yours."
Becky had brought along Mr Contini's letter, which she now placed in her sister's hands.
Catherine read it carefully, taking in everything and occasionally going back to re-read some part of the text. She made no comment until the end, when she said in the most matter-of-fact tone, "Becky, this is a proposal of marriage."
When Becky nodded, Catherine pointed to a line in the letter, which referred to times past when, Mr Contini claimed, his affection for her had been first aroused.
"There, I knew it; you did flirt with him then? Oh Becky, you naughty thing, whatever would Mama have said or Cousin Lizzie?" she teased her sister, pretending to be shocked and laughing at her supposed discomfiture.
In truth, however, Catherine's mock outrage suited Becky well, allowing her to let her sister believe that she and Mr Contini had indulged in a minor flirtation in the past, which had turned serious when they had met again, more recently in London after the death of Mr Tate.
It also helped confirm Becky in her determination not to reveal any more details about her previous association with him. Catherine, she decided, need never know of the brief but impassioned encounter that had created such turmoil in her life that she, unable to contain her feelings, had fled London and returned to Matlock, where the emotions that had been awakened continued to smoulder for many unhappy months, when she had swung between moods of euphoric recollection and guilt.
Catherine's voice broke in upon her thoughts.
"Do you mean to accept him?"
"I don't know y
et," she replied. "I would like to, but I have to be sure it is right this time. I must not make another mistake, Cathy; I must know that this time it is the right decision, or I would rather remain single to the end of my days."
"Of course you must, but surely, Becky, there cannot be any doubt. He loves you and says so very clearly. Do you not love him?"
"I believe I do," said Becky, "but, Cathy, I am determined to be quite certain that what I feel is love, not fondness or friendliness or regard. I have known all these before, and they are good, honourable feelings, but love is quite a different matter, and I must be sure that I love him as deeply and as passionately as he claims he loves me. Else we might as well remain good friends, as we are now, and neither of us will be hurt. Do you not understand my feelings, Cathy?"
Woman of Influence (Pemberley Chronicles) Page 28