Now, as you know, Emma, my father’s enthusiasm for these historic places is quite fanatical, and together with the verger he took us through every significant part of the old place, from the Norman tower to the site of the martyr’s tomb!
Both couples followed us through the ruins of the abbey and the great cathedral, but the contrast between them could not have been greater. While Frank was keenly interested and Amy listened eagerly to every description, there was no mistaking the fact that their chief fascination was with each other. Indeed, it was quite touching, and not a little amusing, to watch how much care he took to explain details of church architecture and practice to her and even console her, when she seemed distressed at the rather gruesome story of St Alban’s martyrdom, as told by the verger. Not only was their fondness for one another quite obvious, it was clear that neither wished to conceal it, although they behaved with decorum at all times.
With Mr Bradshaw and Anne-Marie, there was no such closeness. His interest was all upon the architecture and antiquity of St Alban’s Cathedral and the historic abbey. Indeed, he would be fixed upon the proportions of the tower or the nave or the detail of the carved oak doors, asking so many studious questions of the verger or my father, while she wandered away, seemingly disinterested, into the presbytery or the cloisters. A stranger might well have taken them to be indifferent acquaintances rather than husband and wife. It was quite remarkable, except none of us seemed to want to remark upon it.
Later, as we enjoyed a picnic in the adjacent meadow, Anne-Marie sat with Jonathan and myself and talked of the blueness of the sky or the beauty of the flowers, while Mr Bradshaw continued his interrogation of my father about St Alban’s. The other pair of lovers took advantage of the opportunity to walk in the woods and disappeared accordingly.
On the way home and afterwards, I could see no sign of the warmth and affection one expects of couples newly wed between Anne-Marie and Mr Bradshaw. Which is why I am truly unable to fathom the intensity of Anne-Marie’s grief. Can you help me, dear Emma? Is there something I have failed to see?
At this point, the writer appeared to have been interrupted, for the letter was broken off and was not resumed for, it appeared, quite a while.
As it turned out, it was several hours before Anna could take up her pen again. Unbeknownst to any of her family, it seemed she had faced a crisis, which had come upon her so swiftly and with so little warning, she’d had no time to call upon anyone for help, except young Jenny Dawkins.
Her description of the frightening episode quite bewildered Emma, as she read of Anna being interrupted in her sitting room by Jenny Dawkins, who had rushed in, wringing her hands and claiming that Anne-Marie had collapsed upon the floor of her room. Anna had rushed to her bedroom and found Anne-Marie slumped on the rug beside her bed. With Jenny’s help, she had been revived and helped into a reclining chair. As the colour returned to Anne-Marie’s face, which had been frighteningly pale, Anna had sent Jenny downstairs to bring up some tea and toast. Then, taking advantage of her maid’s absence, Anna had pleaded with Anne-Marie.
“My dear Anne-Marie, you can, if you wish, tell me to mind my business, but your father and I are worried and anxious about you. We love you and want to help you through this dreadful time, if you will only let us. I can see you are unhappy and grieving; will you not talk to me about it?”
At first, Anne-Marie had merely looked away, shaking her head, but as Anna persisted, “Are you sure, my dear? This is not like you. We have shared sad times before, and I know it must be very difficult, but I would like very much to help, if you wish it,” the tears had begun again, but this time the words came, too, and soon it had all poured out.
Haltingly, painfully, it was told, a strange tale of John Bradshaw’s approach to her some months after her mother’s death and Eliza Harwood’s active encouragement of it.
“She reminded me that he was a good, kind, Christian man, who could be trusted to look after me and would remain faithful to me.” But, when Anne-Marie, while acknowledging all this, had said she did not love Mr Bradshaw, Eliza had reassured her that one should not always look for love and romance, for as she had said, “Love is not everything, and Romance, well it is a fleeting, fanciful thing. Trust, loyalty, and goodness above all are far more important to a marriage,” she had said, adding that marriage to Mr Bradshaw would mean that “you will always be near me, my dear friend, for if Mr Harwood does as he plans and offers your Mr Bradshaw the living at Harwood Park when it falls vacant next year, you will want for nothing, for we shall be neighbours, forever!”
When Anna, who was already shocked by Anne-Marie’s revelations, asked, “And what did you say, Anne-Marie?” she replied, “I said most firmly, that I could not, however good Mr Bradshaw might be and even more because of it; I could not possibly agree to marry him, knowing I did not love him. But Eliza was very persuasive.”
Anne-Marie admitted that her friend’s kindness to her in the recent past had weighed upon her mind and she had not wanted to lose her friendship.
“I wondered also, what would become of me, were I to remain unwed.”
Anna was astounded. “My dear Anne-Marie, surely you did not imagine that your father would not have made the best possible provision for you? There was no need for you to feel under any obligation to the Harwoods, however hospitable they had been to you, not to the extent of taking Eliza Harwood’s advice on the man you marry!” she said, and to her great relief, Anne-Marie agreed.
“I know that now, but at the time I think I was so depressed by all that had happened with Mama, I felt I needed the security of her approval,” she confessed and added, “but there was also Mr Bradshaw to consider; he had waited patiently for my answer, for many months, as he promised he would. I began to feel guilty about refusing him after all that time. Besides, we worked very well together at the hospital.”
Anna shook her head, unable to comprehend the situation.
“And do you mean to tell me that you accepted him and later married him, knowing you did not love him? Did he know how you felt?”
At this, Anne-Marie began to sob again, and Anna had to hold her until she was quiet and able to speak coherently.
It appeared, from the story Anne-Marie told, that Eliza Harwood had agreed to acquaint Mr Bradshaw with her young friend’s answer and returned with the astonishing response that Mr Bradshaw accepted that she was not in love with him, but he so loved and admired her qualities, he had remained steadfast and had not changed his mind. By this time, it appeared Anne-Marie seemed to have allowed herself to be persuaded that this unselfish love was more to be valued than any romantic passion and accepted him, confident of the rightness of her choice.
Trying to explain the situation to Emma Wilson, Anna had returned to continue her letter, some hours later, her hand still unsteady from the shock.
Now, her conscience is stricken as she contemplates his sudden death, seeing it as some form of divine punishment upon her for having entered into a marriage without love. She believes she is being punished for having falsely vowed to love him, when she knew she did not.
Emma, she has told me that while she never denied her husband his rights, she felt no passion, no love, and no pleasure in the consummation of their marriage.
So depressed has she been, she claims, she has often wished from the bottom of her heart that she would catch some disease as she tended her patients in the hospital and die!
And yet, to us and to her friends at Harwood Park, she maintained a pretence of being a contented wife. Poor Anne-Marie, how wretched must she have felt, alone, unable to confide in anyone; dear Emma, one is almost persuaded that his death has been for her, at least, a merciful release from a nightmare. However, she blames herself, for she alone made her choice, and her contrition is all absorbing, making her grief excessively painful to bear.
There is also the added sorrow of the loss of trust in her friend Eliza, whom she will not blame but quite clearly does not trust anymore. Indee
d, I am inclined to believe that this is an even greater source of grief to Anne-Marie than the death of Mr Bradshaw.
I have done my best to console her, but she refuses to be comforted, believing she must suffer for having wronged her husband and deceived her family. She claims Charles, her brother, warned her she would be miserable with Bradshaw, but she had declared that she loved him, which was completely false. Now, she wonders how she is to face her brother with the truth. It will not be easy to persuade her that she is not entirely to blame. How shall we restore her trust?
Dearest Emma, I cannot still believe all I have seen and heard today. How am I to help her and how much of this must I tell Jonathan? He is her father and should know it all, but she will not let me speak to him of it, at least not just yet.
My dear sister, if it were not that I could trust you implicitly and tell you everything, I think I should have been quite ill myself with anxiety. Please do not speak of this to James, at any rate, not until I have Anne-Marie’s permission to tell Jonathan.
I must conclude now, for Jonathan will soon be returning from Longbourn.
Dear Emma, please write as soon as you can spare the time. I need your understanding and wise counsel.
Your loving sister-etc.
When she had read Anna’s letter through a second time, Emma Wilson knew exactly what she had to do. Her husband James was at Westminster; with the busy autumn session of the Parliament drawing to a close, he was not expected back at Standish Park until the end of the week. Her daughter Victoria, recently engaged, was with her Aunt Sophie and her husband, who were touring France. That left her two sons, Charles and Colin, who could surely be trusted to the care of their tutor and the rest of the staff at Standish Park.
Having decided upon a course of action, Emma wasted little time, despatching a man to send a message by electric telegraph to James, in which she explained that Anna and Jonathan needed her help and she was travelling to Netherfield Park with Stephanie, her maid Lucy, and a man-servant. She expected to return at the week’s end, she said, with her niece Anne-Marie and her maid.
She knew that James, reading between the lines, would understand that a crisis of some sort had developed and she was needed at Netherfield. He would make no objection, she was certain, but in case he arrived home earlier than she did, she left him Anna’s letter in a sealed cover with a note attached in her own hand, by way of explanation. So strong was her belief in his understanding, so sure her faith in his love, that she made her arrangements and left for Hertfordshire, having no qualms at all.
They would have to break journey en route, and she arranged to send an express to Anna, advising of their imminent arrival.
The news was greeted with great pleasure and even greater relief at Netherfield Park, for Anna knew that Emma Wilson was a favourite among Jonathan’s daughters and she was confident her arrival would help Anne-Marie as nothing else could. Anne-Marie adored her aunt and upheld her as an example to all women. Anna had no doubt that Emma must have a plan to invite her niece to return with her to Standish Park.
When she told Jonathan the news, he threw up his hands and sighed, as if a great burden had rolled off his shoulders.
“Thank God!” he said, taking her hand in his, needing the comfort of her touch. “Emma is one person who will be able to match Anne-Marie’s anguish. Even though it was many years ago, none of us has forgotten the pain and hurt she suffered and from which she has emerged without bitterness. If anyone can help Anne-Marie through this sorrow, she can.”
Anna was happy to have been the bearer of good news, but even as he spoke, without the benefit of the whole truth concerning his daughter’s marriage, believing only that she was still mourning the death of her husband, Anna wondered how he might respond, were he to discover all of the facts. She knew she would have to tell him one day soon, but for the moment, she was certain it should not even be attempted. She loved him dearly and wanted to ease his anxiety. It was sufficient for her to see the relief in his eyes, knowing that his sister would soon be here, confident that she would know, more than he would, how Anne-Marie might be comforted.
When the little party from Standish Park arrived the following day, they were received with so much warmth and affection that Emma knew she had been right to come at once. Her brother and Anna, both of whom looked drawn and tired, clasped her close and thanked her for coming. When she entered the saloon, there was Anne-Marie, still in deep mourning, but trying to smile, while tears still stained her pale cheeks.
Emma, whose love for her brother’s children was unqualified, took her niece in her arms, and as they stood together quietly, the rest of the family left the room and followed Mrs Perrot to the back parlour, where refreshments awaited the travellers after their long journey.
End of Prologue
THE LADIES OF LONGBOURN
Part One
1863
SPRING TOOK ITS TIME COMING to Hertfordshire that year.
January and February had been cold and wet, providing little encouragement for anyone to venture out, unless it was absolutely essential to do so. Teresa and Cathy had been invited to their grandparents’ home, Ashford Park in Leicestershire, and would not be back for some weeks. Anna Bingley went regularly, sometimes with her husband, to visit her parents at Haye Park and to Longbourn, to see her aunt, Charlotte Collins.
The Faulkners always welcomed their visits. In addition to the obvious pleasure of seeing their daughter and grandson, Dr Faulkner had found in his sonin-law a man after his own heart. Modest, amiable, and good humoured, with strong principles and a genuine desire to help those around him, be they his friends and relations or the men and women who lived and worked on his estates, Jonathan Bingley had pleased and surprised his father-in-law with the strength of his conviction that fairness was an essential ingredient of a civilised society.
As one who cared with equal solicitude for all his patients, rich and poor alike, Dr Faulkner was singularly impressed with a landowner who had been a parliamentarian and yet could put the interests of his tenants and labourers above profit, in an age that saw men grow greedier by the day. He was well satisfied that his daughter had married such a man as she could both love and respect.
As for Mrs Faulkner, so completely overwhelmed was she by the idea of her daughter being the mistress of both Netherfield Park and Longbourn, which Jonathan Bingley had inherited in its entirety after the death of his aunt Miss Mary Bennet, that she asked for little more than an occasional invitation to dine at Netherfield. With the arrival of their grandson Nicholas, her cup of joy was filled to overflowing.
Following the death of Mary Bennet, Charlotte Collins had continued to live at Longbourn, where on Anna’s initiative and with Jonathan Bingley’s encouragement, a School of Fine Arts for Young Ladies had been established. As the excellence of Anna Bingley’s teaching of Art and Music and her aunt’s reputation as a firm and scrupulous mistress in charge became more widely known, several new enrolments had resulted and there had been many more enquiries this year, from all over the district, as the daughters of the middle class sought artistic accomplishment. Mrs Collins believed they ought to consider taking on another teacher, in addition to Mrs Lucy Sutton, a widow who had moved to Meryton from London with her children, and was doing well teaching the younger pupils. Plans were afoot to resume after Easter for the new term, and Mrs Collins and her staff were busy making preparations to receive their new pupils.
Jonathan Bingley, having just returned from Longbourn, was divesting himself of his coat in the hall, when Anna came downstairs with their son Nicholas, who flung himself into his father’s arms with the excessive enthusiasm of most energetic two-year-olds. Stopping to hoist his son onto his shoulders, Jonathan joined his wife on the stairs and, as he did so, noticed the letter in her hand. Recognising immediately Anne-Marie’s handwriting and the notepaper from Standish Park, he asked “Does Anne-Marie write to say she is coming home?”
Anna nodded, smiling. She knew how m
uch he had missed his daughter, who had been away in Kent since before Christmas.
“Yes indeed, we are to expect them on Thursday. I believe, Emma, James, and their youngest boy will stay with us a week. Young Charles is back at school, and Victoria and Stephanie are in London, making preparations for the wedding,” she said, glancing at the letter, as she told him the news.
“That is excellent news, excellent,” said her husband, fairly beaming with pleasure, “and how does she write? Is she cheerful? Has she been well all Winter?” he asked and Anna laughed, “Oh, Jonathan, you know we would have been informed if she had been unwell. Of course she is well and what is even better, she seems well on the way to recovering her spirits, too. She writes of her determination to get back to work.”
Then seeing the look of alarm that crossed his face, she said quickly, “Not at the hospital at Harwood Park, no, but she has a plan in mind for a children’s hospital in Meryton. She says she has discussed it with Emma and James and is keen to get to work on her plans. I gather from her letter that she has accompanied Emma on some of her charity work in the back streets of London and has been moved by the plight of the children there. They get little medical attention and many die of neglect,” said Anna, adding grimly, “It really is a scandal, Jonathan.”
Her husband agreed that it was.
“Yes indeed, my dear, I am ashamed to admit that governments in England, and here I do not exempt my own party, have repeatedly shirked their responsibilities in this regard. Ever since 1848, decent people have demanded that the government take action to improve the health of ordinary folk, but despite the passage of the Public Health Act, very little progress has been made. Unfortunately, our governments prefer to leave it to the local boards of health and the religious charities to run health services. These bodies are usually far more concerned with other matters than the health of the poor. Both James and I have always believed the government must do more,” he declared.
The Ladies of Longbourn Page 3