Becky dabbed at her eyes.
"He does, but do I deserve it, Cathy?" she cried, and it took all of her sister's powers of persuasion to restore her spirits and convince her that her present chance of happiness was not undeserved.
Catherine was quite firm.
"Becky, I cannot understand how you, who have helped so many people over the years, why even so recently as last week, with the Rickmans for whom you have done so much, how can you believe that you alone do not deserve happiness? Do not judge your past actions too harshly, my dear; you were very young and had no one to counsel you. I know that you respected and liked Mr Tate; it was not as if you had married him for money or position. You cannot carry all the blame for what went wrong; others too were culpable, and though I have no wish to speak ill of your late husband, his conduct after Josie's death was selfish and reprehensible. I said so at the time to Mother and she agreed with me."
As Becky listened to her increasingly passionate words, Catherine went on, "You have a future now, Becky, and the past is no longer important. If you and Mr Contini love one another, and it is clear to me that you do, then you both deserve the happiness it can bring you. There, that is all I am going to say on the matter.
"Now, promise me that you are going to let him make you as happy as I am with Frank, for that is the best I can wish for you."
Becky was deeply grateful for her sister's gentle kindness and sound common sense. She assured her she intended to enjoy the happiness that Mr Contini had brought into her life, because, as she explained, "I love him dearly, Cathy, and I have never known such joy as I feel when I am with him."
When the sisters went downstairs, the gentlemen were engrossed in a discussion of Frank Burnett's work at Rosings, and arrangements had been made to show Mr Contini around the Rosings Estate on the morrow.
He was particularly interested in some of the treasures that had been rescued from the fire, and Frank Burnett was eager to have his opinion of some of the fine old paintings that had been recently restored.
Becky's greatest satisfaction came from seeing the man she loved welcomed so readily into the circle of her sister's family. With her mother gone, there was only Catherine, and had she expressed some reservations about Mr Contini, it would have hurt Becky deeply. With the Tates, despite her mother-in-law's kindness, she had always felt an outsider, just as Josie had been at Pemberley. This time it was quite the opposite.
The week that Mr Contini had planned to spend in Kent was soon deemed to be far too short a time, and he required little persuasion to extend his stay by a further week, during which time, they made their plans and wrote many letters to friends and family. There was time, too, to explore and enjoy the depth of their love in an environment of quiet tranquility.
Over many hours spent together not only did they discover the many matters on which they were in complete agreement, but were able also to resolve without rancour other subjects on which they were not.
For Becky there were but a few simple questions, little niggling worries about which she quizzed him.
"Do you suppose your family in Italy will approve of me?" she asked, to be met with laughter.
"Approve of you? My love, they will adore you," he had declared with great conviction, and when she followed it with another tentative enquiry, "And will they not expect us to make our home in Italy?" he had looked serious and responded confidently, "Becky my love, I have lived most of my adult life in France and England, fleeing our political enemies; now I know this is where I am happiest and where I wish to live with you. My family will not expect me to do otherwise."
Content with his responses, Becky was then faced with a question from Mr Contini; one she had long dreaded even as she knew that one day, it would be asked and she would have to give him an answer.
It reached right back into the Summer of 1866, when after months of great anguish following Josie's death, Mr Tate announced without warning that he was leaving England to travel to America on business. Alone in London, Becky had found in Aldo Contini a friend and confidante, whose generosity and kindness had opened up for her a Summer of warm friendship, filled with happy companionship and many innocent pleasures. It had helped staunch her grieving and heal her wounds, and Becky, enjoying the delights it brought, had not recognized the peril they were in, until the day they had stumbled into an intensely passionate intimacy, during which they had both admitted to being in love. Becky had never known such a transforming moment before. Yet, soon afterwards, riven with guilt, she had ended the association and fled.
Ever since they had met again at the opera in London and at the Bingleys' house, she had wondered when he would broach the subject with her.
When he had not done so, she had been at first surprised, then puzzled, and finally relieved, hoping he had decided to put the episode out of his mind.
Which is why she was startled when, on a tranquil afternoon at Edgewater, as they sat together beside the lake, he threw a pebble into the water and asked quietly, directly, and with no preamble, "My love, I have not asked this before, and if you do not wish to answer, I will not ask again, but I wish very much to know why it was that at the very moment we knew how dearly we loved each other, how much we needed each other, you chose to abandon everything we had and run away from me without a word of explanation?"
He was holding her hand when he asked, and Becky was so discomposed, she almost withdrew it, but he held on to it and drew her towards him as if to reassure her that his question was not meant to wound.
Sensing her distress, he added quickly, "You need not answer, if it is too painful. Perhaps I should not have asked…"
But Becky, seeing the bewilderment in his eyes, said firmly, "No, you have every right to ask; you had been my friend and confidante all Summer, you had helped me bear what was an unbearable sorrow; of course, you are entitled to ask why I behaved as I did. And I will answer you honestly."
Stopping to let him kiss her gently, she continued, in a quiet steady voice.
"I left London then, because I felt guilty, not because we loved each other—I felt no guilt at all on that score—but because I thought if I stayed and went on seeing you, as I longed to do, people would inevitably find out and gossip about us and blame me, and I was afraid my guilt would taint and destroy what was the most beautiful experience of my life. I was terrified that it would be exposed and talked of and ruined for us forever. Better, I thought, to hold on to the memory than allow that."
She looked at him and continued, "That was why I left London and you. I know it seemed cruel, and perhaps I should have tried to explain, but I did not have the courage to face you. I was afraid you would persuade me to stay. I have suffered much, thinking of what I did, and more recently, I have learnt from Jonathan how deeply I had hurt you, but please believe me, it was not because I did not care…" and as her tears fell, he took her in his arms and comforted her, promising that the question would never be asked again.
"I asked only because I wondered if you had doubted the sincerity of my feelings…" And on this she was quick to reassure him that she had never doubted his feelings, and her only motive had been to hold fast and protect the memory of their love.
There was, however, one more question she needed to ask.
"When you wrote and asked to meet me in London, what were your feelings? Were you not resentful or angry at me?"
He was adamant, "No, Becky, never angry—puzzled and sad perhaps, but Jonathan had explained that it was a hopeless situation; your husband was living in the United States, your family would not have welcomed my attentions— they may have used it to discredit you; it made a lot of grief for me, but I was not angry with you."
"Then you did not blame me?" she asked.
"Blame you? No, certainly not. I was confused until Jonathan helped me
understand how impossible your situation was. He was determined to protect you and ensure that you should not be persecuted by gossip and further criticism by the Darcy family. I un
derstood then, and all I wanted was to hear from your lips the reason why you had left me."
Becky was genuinely contrite.
"I am very sorry, if it had been at all possible I should have stayed—"
But this time, he interrupted her gently.
"I know that now, but let us not waste time on the past, my love; we are together, and there is so much happiness to look forward to."
With reassurances given and warmly received, restoring them to their previous state of mutual tenderness and trust, they had reached once more a complete convergence of their expectations of felicity.
So plain was this, that when they returned to the house, Nelly, who had been Becky's only confidante for many years and had seen her mistress suffer much anguish in the past, was content that her future happiness was assured.
By the time Mr Contini was ready to leave, they had also, in consultation with Catherine and Mr Jamison, reached general agreement on the arrangements for their wedding.
For Becky it was a period of exceptional pleasure, for while she had hoped, she had never quite believed that she would ever find the kind of love that they shared. Based as it was upon understanding, deep affection, and trust, their love was in her experience unique. Her tender feelings were engaged as never before, and she looked forward to their marriage with the deepest conviction of happiness.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Arrangements for a quiet family wedding sometime after Christmas, followed by travel to Italy in the New Year, proceeded apace, and Becky suggested to Catherine that she would teach Annabel Rickman to keep the books and assist at the school while she was away in Europe with Mr Contini.
"It will do her a great deal of good to work at something worthwhile; she is educated and intelligent and should do well," Becky had said, and Catherine, though a little surprised, was not averse to the plan. Always of a practical inclination, she could see its value both to the school and the girl.
Annabel, needless to say, was overjoyed. At long last she could see a way to improve her own situation and use those skills she had almost forgotten over the years of privation. Her gratitude and loyalty to Becky and her sister were incalculable.
Catherine had taken the opportunity provided by Mr Burnett's absence in town to visit her sister. They were in the middle of compiling a list of the possible wedding guests when Becky mentioned her intention to offer the Rickmans accommodation in a vacant cottage on her property.
"It has lain empty for almost a year and needs some repairs, but I am sure William will be able to get it ready for them to move into in the New Year," she said, and Catherine agreed that it would provide a convenient solution for the young couple.
"If Annabel is to work at the school and her husband continues at Rosings, it should suit them very well," she said and was about to continue when Nelly brought in the post.
There were several letters, and Becky was of a mind to set them aside for later, when one caught her eye.
"Oh look, this is from Jessica; no doubt she writes to thank me for the gift I sent her daughter on her christening," she said, opening it at once.
Of all Emily Courtney's children, Jessica was Becky's favourite, possibly because of her resemblance to her mother in both appearance and disposition, and though they did not correspond as often as Becky and Emily used to do, her letters, full of news and good humour, were always welcome.
However, as she began to read it, Becky was struck by the urgency of Jessica's tone and language. There was but a cursory mention of Becky's gift and little news of her daughter, which was puzzling indeed.
The second paragraph revealed the reason for this seemingly inexplicable omission. Jessica's mother, Emily, was ill and wished to see Becky urgently. Jessica, who seemed convinced of the seriousness of her mother's illness, was writing to ask if Becky could possibly travel to Derbyshire at once.
She wrote:
We are all very anxious about my dear mama. Although she insists she is "perfectly well able to manage," my uncle Dr Gardiner does not agree. As you know, I have been at Pemberley since my little girl was born, chiefly because Mrs Darcy insists upon it.
She believes it is more convenient and comfortable for the baby, and of course, it affords her easier access to her little granddaughter, whom she loves dearly. Nevertheless, Julian and I intend to move to Oakleigh if Mama's condition does not improve.
Mama wishes most particularly to see you before Christmas, if that is at all possible. She has asked me to say that you are welcome to stay at Oakleigh.
Mr Mancini's granddaughter Teresa comes in daily to help Mama and my brother Jude, who does most of the work around the farm; it will, therefore, be no inconvenience at all to have you stay with her, especially if your maid Nelly can help out, too.
If I may add my voice to hers, dear Becky, to persuade you, I shall have
to say that Mama is far sicker than she will admit, and I beg you to come if you possibly can, if only because it will be a source of great comfort and encouragement to her.
I do know also that she is very attached to you and speaks often of the days when you lived at Matlock and she would see you two or three times a week, when together, you ran several of the charities in the area. Sadly, Mama is now too weak to go out to do the work she loves and wishes very much that you were here to help her…
As she read the letter out loud, Becky could not restrain her tears.
Clearly, Jessica's appeal was couched in words that would touch her heart, and she must have had hopes that Becky would come, since she and Emily were both unaware of Becky's own plans. She had not, as yet, revealed her intended marriage to Mr Contini to any person outside of her immediate family. She had assumed that Mr Contini would acquaint his friend Jonathan Bingley with the news, and of his discretion she was equally certain. Jonathan would not reveal the information to anyone other than his wife.
Emily was a very dear friend, and Becky was eager to go to her, but with Christmas and her own wedding approaching and a cold Winter in prospect, she wondered how such a journey might be accomplished.
Her sister had some sage advice, recommending that Becky should travel by train rather than by road. "Frank assures me the trains are far safer in Winter than coaches on icy roads and they are faster," she explained, and Becky decided she would await the return of Mr Contini from London before responding to Jessica's letter. She would not have long to wait; he was due back on the morrow.
Catherine was curious to discover if Emily's elder children had visited their sick mother recently. "Does Jessica mention Elizabeth or William Courtney?" she asked.
Becky looked again at the letter and shook her head. "No, and I cannot pretend that I am surprised, Cathy; it is not something I would ever say to Emily—she does so dote upon her children—but it is a sad fact that both Elizabeth and William have shown little concern for their parents' welfare. Not when their father was alive, nor when they attended his funeral did they seem at all perturbed by the prospect of their mother being left to manage on her own
with only young Jude and the servants for company," she replied.
Catherine was shocked. "I do recall you saying that both of them seemed in a great hurry to leave Oakleigh after the funeral and get back to their busy lives," she said. "It seems hard to believe, when Emily has devoted so much of her life to her family."
"And spent every spare penny of the money her father Mr Gardiner left her on William and Elizabeth, when they needed her help," said Becky. "It is not generally known, but she used most of her savings setting William up when he went to live in Oxford with the Grantleys in order to study music seriously. Mr Darcy paid for his education, it is true, and the Grantleys invited him to stay, but all his sundry expenses came out of Emily's inheritance. She wished to ensure that he would want for nothing when he decided to pursue a musical career. Cathy, I believe I must be the only person who knew. Emily certainly did not reveal any of this to Mrs Darcy or Caroline, nor did she trouble Reverend Court
ney with it. He was often too engrossed in his parish work to ask.
"Yet, there appears to be little gratitude from them, and were it not for Jude, she would be entirely alone at Oakleigh. I do wish I could go to her, Cathy—Jessica is unlikely to have written in such urgent terms if Emily were not seriously ill."
Catherine understood her sister's feelings but felt the need to ask a practical question, "If you do go now, what about arrangements for the wedding?"
Becky shrugged her shoulders.
"I don't think I should be very happy making wedding plans while Emily was lying sick, possibly dying in Derbyshire," she said, and Catherine was truly shaken.
"Come now, my dear, you cannot think that? It is not possible that we would not have heard from Lizzie if things were so bad. She and Mr Darcy take a very special interest in Emily's situation. Perhaps you should write to Jessica and say that you will come after the wedding…"
Woman of Influence (Pemberley Chronicles) Page 31