"I do not think we need speeches, my love," he had said when they had talked of their plans. "Politicians make speeches, not lovers. In Italy, they drink wine and sing love songs at the wedding feast; I do not understand this desire for speeches. It is not a political occasion; is it not sufficient that we promise to love and care for one another for the rest of our lives?"
Becky agreed wholeheartedly, saying she could not recall a single wedding at which anyone had made a speech she cared to remember.
"You are quite right; what need is there for speeches? I would much prefer that someone sang love songs at our wedding breakfast; sadly, I know of no one who could be persuaded to oblige," she had said, and he had promised there would be love songs sung at their wedding feast in Italy.
***
On a cold, bright morning, a few days after Christmas, with their chosen friends and family around them, Becky and Mr Contini were married in the church at Hunsford, where as a child, she had sat with her mother and sisters in the front pew on the left of the aisle, below the pulpit, while her father, Reverend Collins, had preached dreary sermons to his captive audience of parishioners, under the stern, judgmental gaze of the formidable Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Their mother, Charlotte, had ensured that none of her daughters fidgeted or yawned, for fear of bringing down the wrath of Her Ladyship upon them.
On this special day, there was no intimidating presence and no boring homily. Mr Jamison concentrated with peculiar earnestness upon the hymns and readings they had chosen, while the small congregation of family, friends, and staff gathered to wish them happiness.
Jonathan and Anna had arrived at Rosings on Boxing Day together, with James and Emma Wilson representing the Pemberley families. At the wedding breakfast, there were no tiresome speeches, but Jonathan Bingley did rise to propose a toast to the couple.
"They are very dear friends of mine, and I have known them both for most of my life. It is my greatest pleasure to ask you to join me in wishing them every happiness in the future," he said, and Becky could not have been more pleased.
***
Some days later, the newly wed Mr and Mrs Contini travelled to Italy, where they attended a ceremony at an ancient village church, situated above the villa that his family had owned for several generations.
There, a rotund and jovial priest, who remembered Aldo Contini's First Communion, blessed their marriage according to the Catholic rite.
After a traditional wedding feast, at which Becky was welcomed with all the warmth and enthusiasm for which Italian families are renowned, Mr Contini's mother had given them her own special blessing. That she had included a prayer to the Blessed Virgin, asking that they be blessed with many children, was clearly a tribute to Becky's youthful appearance.
Becky concealed her amusement well but made a mental note to tell her sister about it when they met. Then, three fine-looking young men sang traditional Italian love songs, as Mr Contini had promised they would, moving her to tears.
They had hired a vehicle to take them on their wedding journey to a place in the hills above the town, and the winding road required careful negotiation. Becky's heart was too full to let her make casual conversation, and she was glad her husband was kept busy giving the driver instructions on the route.
Her thoughts were all about him; how in so short a time, her life had become inextricably entwined with his and, by that means, transformed from one of cold anxiety to a life of passionate feeling and vigour.
Becky had no doubt about the rightness of her decision to marry him. In the days following their wedding, when they had returned to spend some time at Edgewater, each hour of every day had brought confirmation of her hopes for happiness as they explored with increasing delight their love for one another.
It was during this time that Becky had begun to contemplate how very alike she and her daughter Josie had been.
They had both wanted more than the dreariness of ordinary life in a country village. Becky had experienced at first hand the humdrum routines of her mother's life at Hunsford parsonage, and later she had seen the privation of her dear friend Emily's household at Kympton; no matter that neither her mother, Charlotte, nor Emily had ever complained, indeed Emily and her husband had seemed to rejoice in their poverty while spending their meagre savings on charity. Becky had determined that she would never be trapped in such a situation.
With youth, energy, and a talent for persuasive speech and writing, she had grasped the chance when Mrs Therese Tate had offered her work on the Matlock Review. Young Josie too had hoped that her writing would open doors for her to a new and more exhilarating world, when she had married Julian Darcy and moved to Cambridge. But, eager to succeed, though without the strength to last the course, she had lost her way and destroyed both her marriage and her life.
Becky knew she had married Anthony Tate, not loving him but determined nevertheless to make a success of their marriage, contributing all her skill and enthusiasm to his causes, until his final betrayal following Josie's death had left her bereft and empty of all feeling except pain.
All this passed through her mind in a kaleidoscopic array of images and feelings, as the carter instructed by her husband took their vehicle up the winding road into the hills, leaving the clatter and colour of the town behind. It was much cooler than it had been all afternoon, and as the vehicle stopped and a stiff breeze blew in, her silk shawl provided little protection, and Becky shivered.
Mr Contini leapt out and came round to help her alight and, as he lifted her out, exclaimed, "My love, you are so cold; here let me," he said, taking off his warm coat and placing it over her shoulders, before turning to settle with the carter.
Two servants, a man and a woman, appeared and, having greeted them, carried their luggage indoors. Becky turned to look at the house where they would spend the next few weeks together and, as she did so, heard her husband ask, "Do you like it, Becky?"
She turned to answer him and felt his arms encircle her, keeping her warm.
"It used to belong to my family once; it was a hunting lodge; now, it is a sort of pensione for travelers and those like us, who wish to get away out of the bustle of the town. This Winter, we shall have it to ourselves, and we can come and go as we please. Would you like that, my love?"
"I love it already; it's perfect," she replied, looking up at the house set into the hillside, with the forest rising above it. Becky found it completely seductive. "I cannot think of any place I should prefer to be at this moment."
He took her indoors then, assuring her that it would be both warm and comfortable, and the caretaker and his family who would look after them were excellent cooks.
Becky laughed. "Indeed, what more could one want?" She believed, as they went up the stairs, that perhaps she had finally atoned for the mistakes of her past and would be given the chance of a more fulfilling and passionate life with a man who had proved, long before they were lovers, that he could give her the tenderness and comfort that would be at the core of their marriage. It was what Becky had longed for all her life.
***
Some three weeks later, Catherine received a letter from her sister, which puzzled her just a little. She had expected to find in it descriptions of the sights they had seen—the beauty of the countryside, the wonders of the art and architecture of an ancient city. Catherine knew Becky was deeply aware and appreciative of all these things, and Mr Contini would surely wish to show her more of the rich heritage of his native country.
They had talked together often of the many treasures of Florence—the Palazzo Vecchio, the Uffizi, and the chapel of the Medici—all of which Catherine had visited on her own wedding journey, and Becky had appeared enthusiastic about the prospect of seeing them herself.
However, astonishingly, Catherine noted there was no mention of any of it, save for a brief reference to the ancient village church, with its monastery dating back to the middle ages, where their marriage had been blessed.
For the rest, Becky wrote chie
fly of her husband, of their love and the delight of being together. She wrote:
It is, my dearest Cathy, as though I have sloughed off every vestige of my old, unhappy self and learned in these few weeks to begin a new life, seeing and understanding new things, discovering and enjoying new feelings, and, above all, learning that nothing in my life has been worth more than the love we share.
I know that you, above all others, will understand how I feel, because you have been so close to me in recent times and know how my life has been.
Catherine smiled as she read these words. In her heart, she understood exactly how her sister must feel.
Becky had found, in her middle years, the kind of love she had foregone when, as a young woman, she had married for practical reasons a man she could not love with the same ardour. In accepting Anthony Tate, her youthful yearnings for affection had been exchanged for influence, status, and financial independence.
Catherine could not know for certain if her sister had regretted altogether her earlier marriage; what she knew with absolute conviction was that this time, her chances of happiness were far greater, for there had been no compromise on love.
She was about to put the letter away when her husband entered the room.
"A letter at last, from Becky," she said and handed it to him with a smile.
Frank Burnett read it carefully through and, as he returned it to his wife, said gently, "It seems to me, my love, that your sister is a fortunate woman indeed. She has learned, in the happiest possible way, the important difference between a loving marriage and a shared bed."
Postscript
They returned to England in the Spring, and the countryside was at its best, when Becky and her husband arrived at Edgewater. The house, which had looked its age in the dark of Winter, had taken on a new lightness with the trees in bloom and daffodils pushing up all over the park.
Across the lake, the poplars in the spinney wore new subtle green scarves, which moved lightly in the breeze, and everywhere birdcalls resounded in the soft air. Nelly came out ahead of Mrs Bates to greet them, and so excited was she at seeing her mistress return home, she quite forgot the little speech she had prepared, and simply grasped Becky's hands and said, with tears in her eyes, "Welcome home, ma'am."
Catherine and Mr Burnett had come over from the Dower House to welcome them home, and the two sisters had so much to say to one another, they disappeared upstairs for a while. Catherine did not need to ask, nor her sister to say in so many words, what they both knew well.
Clearly, Becky's happiness was complete.
Catherine had more good news for her sister, which she was impatient to impart.
During the weeks after the wedding, while Becky and her husband had been in Italy, Catherine had been visited by Annabel Rickman, who had brought with her a letter she had received from Mrs Bancroft. It had contained an invitation to Annabel, her husband, and son to visit Blessington Manor, with the permission of her present employer, of course.
In the absence of her mistress, the young woman had pleaded with Catherine for permission to accept the invitation.
"I decided to let her go; I did not think you would have any objection. They were away for a week, and, Becky dear, what do you think? When they returned, we heard that Mrs Bancroft had also invited Annabel's mother, who is now, sadly, a widow. Annabel was so happy to have seen her mother again; I do hope, Becky, that you agree I did right?"
"Of course you did right, Cathy; I am truly pleased that Annabel and her mother are reconciled. The poor girl has suffered enough. It seems such a pity that her father remained intransigent to the end," Becky replied and added, "Doubtless, Mrs Grey must have enjoyed seeing her grandson, too. I think, Cathy, that Mrs Bancroft is a genuinely good woman. I must write to thank her for her kindness to both Annabel and her mother."
Catherine concurred, then referring lightly to Becky's letter, she asked in a teasing tone of voice if they had not found time to visit any of the great attractions of Florence.
Becky laughed and admitted that indeed they had.
"On two or three afternoons, when most of the population of the town was taking its siesta and there were not too many visitors around."
She did, however, explain.
"But I did not wish to fill my letters to you with descriptions of statues, palaces, and fountains; I knew you had seen them too, and they would have meant little to me had I not been with someone who had so completely transformed my life. I wanted you to understand that. Oh Cathy, I am happier than I have ever been, more than I had ever hoped to be," Becky said softly.
"Of course you are," Catherine replied, taking her hand, "and you deserve to be, for I know no one more generous or more compassionate than you. Yet, life has been hard for you; you have had so few rewards, Becky. It seems so unfair—it has troubled me often."
Seeing the sadness on her sister's face, Becky leaned forward and placed her finger on Catherine's lips.
"Let it trouble you no longer, my dear, for I am so well rewarded now, so completely content, unused as I am to happiness, I can scarcely believe it myself." Catherine was smiling, but there were tears in her eyes.
***
When they came downstairs, a table had been laid in the garden in the dappled shade of a flowering peach tree. Soon, tea was served and the conversation flowed easily, being mainly about Italy and their mutual enjoyment of its treasures and, conversely, the pleasure of returning home to England.
Later, the gentlemen elected to take a tour of the grounds, and they walked out towards the lake, delighting both sisters, who noted how well they seemed to get on together, auguring well for their future as brothers-in-law and good neighbours.
Nelly brought out a basket of letters, which had arrived during their absence in Italy, placing it upon a stool beside the tea table.
Becky reached for a few and began to open them.
"Oh look, this one's from Cassy," she said.
It contained a brief but sincere message.
Cassandra and Richard Gardiner apologised for not attending the wedding. Their young daughter, Laura-Ann, always a delicate child, had been ill with bronchitis again, Cassy explained, preventing their attendance, but they wished Becky and her husband every happiness and invited them to stay at Camden Park, when they were next in Derbyshire.
There was a note from Anna Bingley inviting the couple to visit Netherfield in June, and yet another from Emma Wilson reminding Becky that she and her husband would always be welcome at Standish Park.
Becky seemed surprised by the many offers of hospitality from members of the family.
"It is very kind of them to invite us," said Becky. "I shall write to thank them all, of course, but I do not believe we shall do much more travelling until midsummer, unless it is to Netherfield; I have already accepted an invitation to visit." Then turning over a letter, which carried no indication of the writer's identity, she said, "Now who could this be? I do not know the writing at all, and, it must be said, it is a very poor hand."
When she opened it, Becky exclaimed, "Good heavens! It's from Lydia Wickham! Why ever would she be writing to me?" she asked as she handed the letter to Catherine.
Catherine read it through, with some difficulty, for the handwriting within was even worse than that of the direction outside and deteriorated as the writer rambled on.
"What does she say?" asked Becky.
"Well, she congratulates you on your second marriage—she underlines 'second'—and proceeds to grumble that she has not been able to find anyone suitable to marry her only daughter."
"That does not surprise me at all, for who would want Lydia Wickham for a mother-in-law?" asked Becky.
"Who indeed?" said Catherine, before continuing.
"She complains also that she was offended at not receiving an invitation to your wedding. Oh poor Lydia, she is such a silly woman—Mama used to say that she has changed not at all since she was fifteen and eloped with Mr Wickham, to the chagrin of poor Jane a
nd Lizzie. She believes you have deliberately slighted her."
Becky was astonished; what could she possibly say in reply? Inviting Lydia had never even been contemplated. They had not met in years until she had turned up at Mrs Collins' funeral in full formal mourning!
"Must I respond?" she asked, a little bewildered by this unexpected intrusion of Lydia Wickham into their lives.
"Not unless you wish to, since she does not actually ask anything of you. I suppose she merely wished to grumble about not being invited to the wedding," said Catherine, and Becky made an instant decision.
"Well then, since nothing I can say is likely to satisfy any of Lydia's concerns, and as I have no suggestions for a suitor for her daughter, I had best ignore it," she said, putting the letter back in the basket.
Woman of Influence (Pemberley Chronicles) Page 35