By this time, young Nicholas had become bored and impatient. He had hoped his father would play with him, but since that was not forthcoming, he demanded to be set down, so he could climb the stairs alone and demonstrate his independence. Conversation had to be suspended while his parents indulged him and praised his efforts. He was a lively child and was not often refused attention when he sought it.
Later, after his nurse had taken Nicholas away to the nursery, Jonathan returned to his daughter’s letter. He wanted to know what more she had written and what impression Anna had formed of her state of mind.
He was still desperately anxious for her.
In the long Winter months during which Anne-Marie had remained with her Aunt Emma Wilson at Standish Park, Anna had had the unhappy task of acquainting her husband with the whole truth about his daughter’s marriage and the reasons for her anguish, which had been kept from him.
At first, he had been stunned by the enormity of it all. He could not believe that the Harwoods, who had been her special friends, had thought it right to persuade her into such a marriage. It seemed to him a heartless and unconscionable thing to have done. He was angry, too, that he had never been consulted.
“What right did they have to take upon themselves the duty of advising her upon such an intimate and important matter? Surely, if any one had responsibility, it was I? Anne-Marie should have been encouraged to confide in us before accepting Bradshaw. I cannot concede that the Harwoods had any greater claim to advise her on such matters. I should, at least, have tried to make her see that it was a decision fraught with danger for both of them. To make a mistake in love and acknowledge it is one thing; but to coldly agree to enter into a marriage without love is quite another matter. I am not surprised she has suffered terribly; she is too sensitive, too softhearted to accept such an arrangement and feel no remorse,” he said and, hearing the anguish in his voice, Anna knew his resentment would not abate easily.
Shortly after Christmas, Jonathan had received a letter from his mother, Mrs Jane Bingley, which set him thinking. Jane had reported, that in the opinion of her sister Elizabeth and Mr Darcy, the Harwoods had probably been motivated by the thought of securing a suitable wife for their good friend Mr Bradshaw and saw Anne-Marie, with her dedication to the sick and suffering, as the ideal person.
Jane had written,
Your Aunt Lizzie believes that this intention was probably behind their promotion of the match, by which they hoped to advantage their friend and, at the same time, ensure that Anne-Marie was settled near them. I do know that Eliza Harwood has always been very attached to Anne-Marie. I think it likely that the Harwoods, perhaps with the best of intentions, attempted to secure the interests of both their friends, for I cannot believe that Eliza would knowingly encourage Anne-Marie to do something that was detrimental to her own happiness. It must also be admitted that seen from a purely practical point of view, Mr Bradshaw was a respectable man, of good character and with a good living; though we could, of course, argue that he was not good enough for our Anne-Marie.
Mrs Harwood’s mother, Emily Courtney, has told Aunt Lizzie that Eliza is desolated, not only by the death of Mr Bradshaw, but also by the inevitable separation from her very dear friend and cousin that has resulted from this tragedy. Eliza does not make friends easily, Emily says, and Anne-Marie’s friendship was very precious to her.
Jane Bingley, still inclined to seek the most favourable motivation for any action, was clearly unaware of the more harrowing details of the situation in which Anne-Marie had found herself after her marriage to Bradshaw and the extent to which her friends had influenced her decision.
Despite his mother’s rather charitable explanation, Jonathan was yet to be convinced that there had not been some devious plan by the Harwoods to contrive a good match for their friend Mr Bradshaw, who appeared to have little or no fortune apart from his living at Harwood Park, which would secure his future in the church. The Harwoods, well aware of Anne-Marie’s circumstances and those of her family, may well have seen an advantage to their friend in her connections, especially with the Darcys at Pemberley, and acted to bring about the match, despite Anne-Marie’s reservations. He knew little of Eliza Harwood and even less of her husband John, except that they had been his daughter’s dear friends. Now, he was not so sure.
Set beside Anna’s revelations of the anguish his daughter had clearly suffered, Jonathan found it hard to credit the Harwoods with noble intentions.
Anna, aware of his feelings of outrage, had spent many hours encouraging him to believe that Anne-Marie would not be permanently scarred by what had happened. Emma Wilson’s letters had helped convince her that there was hope, but her husband was less easily persuaded that his daughter would fully recover her spirits.
Now she was coming home, he was delighted and yet apprehensive.
“Do you suppose, my dear, that she has come to terms with the experience, or has she perhaps tried merely to thrust it out of her mind, hoping to stifle it?” he asked his wife, as he returned to the subject.
Anna was unsure, but promised that during the week the Wilsons were to spend at Netherfield, she would, in her conversations with Emma, attempt to discover the truth. She knew well the source of his anxiety and hoped, with his sister’s help, to ease his mind.
“I intend to ask Emma; I know she will advise us how best to deal with any future problems,” she promised and then, as if to distract him from gloomier reflections, changed the subject to a matter that had concerned her Aunt Charlotte for some time.
Mrs Collins had asked if it would be possible to have some alterations made to the back parlour at Longbourn, to accommodate a waiting room for mothers who accompanied their young children and had to wait until their lessons were done.
“It would be a place where they could read, knit, or embroider without feeling they were in the way,” Charlotte had said.
“Do you suppose, my dear, that such an alteration may be made without destroying the character and proportions of the house?” asked Anna.
“It would be very useful, if it could be done. I thought it might be possible to extend the back parlour into the area of the old kitchen garden, without altering the lines of the house at all. Any extension would be well concealed by the shrubbery,” Anna suggested.
Seeing Jonathan’s eyes light up with interest, she hoped her plan to distract him had succeeded. Anna was determined that her husband should not become mired in melancholy recriminations about Anne-Marie’s unfortunate marriage. Her own experience had taught her that misfortune is frequently compounded by prolonged contemplation of the circumstances surrounding it and the apportionment of guilt. It was not in her husband’s nature to be vengeful; it was an indication of the depth of his grief that the subject continued to occupy his mind.
Mention of possible alterations at Longbourn had certainly helped redirect his thoughts. She noted with satisfaction that he had paid careful attention to her suggestion; indeed, he rose instantly and walked about the room, talking animatedly of improvements he had planned to make at Longbourn, sometime in the future. He had intended to speak to Charlotte Collins about extending the pantry, he revealed, and had thought about adding extra storage behind the scullery. There were the servants’ rooms, too, which he had long felt were in need of refurbishment. If they were to make alterations to the back parlour, why not have it all done at once? he argued reasonably.
After some discussion, he decided they would hire an architect; Mr Wilson would recommend one he was sure. They’d had some excellent work done at Standish Park, he recalled and turning to his wife, said, “Anna, my love, I think your aunt’s request has provided us with an excellent scheme. We know how much pleasure we had redecorating this place; if you could involve Anne-Marie in planning the changes at Longbourn and I consulted James about an architect, we could have the whole thing going within the month and Anne-Marie will surely have no time to mope and become depressed again.”
Anna thought it
was a good idea, but before they could resolve the question, Nicholas had returned to say goodnight and all was mayhem again. There was no denying the delight that his young son had brought into Jonathan’s life. Anna was particularly diverted by his father’s willingness to let the child demand his attention at will. Not that Nicholas was spoilt; they would never allow that, but he was loved to distraction by both his parents and knew it.
Two days later, on a fine Spring morning, they had the pleasure of receiving the Wilsons, James and Emma, who arrived with their younger son Colin and Anne-Marie.
Seeing her again, so remarkably changed from the wretched young woman who had gone away some four months ago, both Jonathan and Anna were quite astonished. She was thinner and yet seemed healthier. Her complexion was brighter; she smiled as she alighted from the carriage; and her entire demeanour was wholly changed. She looked her age again, for one thing. Soberly dressed, not in dreadful black bombazine, but in a silk gown of deep blue, her blue bonnet trimmed with lilac ribbons, she seemed transformed.
Anna hardly knew what to say as she greeted and embraced her, while her father was completely speechless, except to say over and over again how glad he was that she was home at last. Anna could have sworn he was very close to tears. Fortunately, young Nicholas came to the rescue and, hurling himself into Anne-Marie’s arms, kissed her face with great enthusiasm, to the laughter of the entire household and the obvious delight of his victim, who seemed quite pleased with his greeting.
She picked him up in her arms and then feigned immediate fatigue. “Nicholas, how you are grown in just a few months! You are almost too heavy for me now,” she protested and they could all see how pleased she was that the child had lavished so much affection upon her. When she set him down, he took hold of her hand and playfully dragged her towards the entrance, just as a cool breeze blew in from the park and the little group at the foot of the steps pulled their capes closer around them.
Anna said, “Shall we go in? I think Mrs Perrot has tea waiting,” which was the cue for everyone to move indoors and into the saloon, where a good fire and refreshments would occupy them for a while.
Jonathan and Anna could hardly believe their eyes. Anne-Marie was not merely looking better; she was talking quite normally, even cheerfully. There was scarcely a trace of the mournful young widow, except for the simple sobriety of her gown and the quiet tones of her voice. Nicholas, unwilling to part from his beloved sister, had seated himself on the floor beside her chair and the two appeared to be engaged in the sort of childish conversation that most adults cannot comprehend.
Anne-Marie appeared perfectly at ease, as he prattled away and, when his nurse arrived to take him upstairs, she protested that there was no need, insisting they were getting on very well together.
“I promise I will not keep him very long from his bath, Nurse. I shall bring him upstairs myself,” she declared, and returned to entertaining her young companion, with obvious pleasure.
And then, she greeted Mrs Perrot when she returned to replenish the tea table, even remembering to ask after her ailing sister; Anna was completely bemused by this amazing alteration in Anne-Marie’s mood and manner. Noting that her husband and Mr Wilson were engaged in a discussion, Anna met her sister-in-law’s eye and with a glance indicated her wish to see her alone.
Emma soon detached herself from the group and they went upstairs together. As they reached the privacy of her sitting room, Anna could contain herself no longer.
“My dear Emma, by what miraculous means have you wrought this transformation? I can barely recognise the young woman who left Netherfield last Autumn, in such a state that we despaired of her ever recovering from her melancholy,” she said, and Emma nodded, recalling the bleak desolation of those early days.
“It has not been easy, Anna; it was no miraculous transformation either, I assure you, more the consequence of much soul searching and long hours of talking, listening, and trying to understand how Anne-Marie might free herself from the burden of guilt and misery that she carried.
“I have spent many hours listening to her and, Anna, it was such a bleak, unhappy tale, it made me feel that what I had been through in my own life, with my first husband, paled into insignificance by comparison.”
Anna, who knew well what unhappiness Emma had suffered in almost ten years of marriage to an uncaring, arrogant husband, suffering that had ended only with his death, could not accept this to be true. “I cannot believe that, Emma; you were married to David for ten long years!”
“Yes, but at least I married him believing in my heart that we loved each other passionately, and for the first few years, I kept believing that he loved me and would change. It was my fervent hope, because, Anna, I did love him, else I would never have accepted him. I was young and made a serious error of judgment, but then, very soon, I had my two dear daughters and I think I would have put up with anything for the blessing of having them,” she explained.
“With Anne-Marie, it was quite different. She was miserable because she chose deliberately to enter into a marriage with a man she did not love for reasons that do not make sense to her anymore and she has nothing to show for it. With her husband gone, she has no children, no loving family, no home of her own, and worst of all, no happy memories of him. All she had was a nightmare of a marriage made for all the wrong reasons, and while there are many men and women whose hearts are stern enough to countenance such a cold, hard arrangement, Anne-Marie is not one of them.”
“But why did she agree, Emma?” asked Anna, “She had so much to look forward to, I cannot understand it, nor can her father.”
“She claims that at first she had believed, with some persuasion from Eliza Harwood, that the obvious goodness and decency of Mr Bradshaw was sufficient. She believed she would come to love him, but when this did not follow, she tried to deceive herself and pretend that though she did not love him, she knew him to be a good man and that would help her overcome her abhorrence of the whole situation, but it did not. Each day and every night made matters worse between them.”
Anna had listened as her sister-in-law told the story, silenced by the appalling truth and her own feelings of revulsion.
“Emma, was he ever…did he ever…?” She struggled to find words to ask an obvious question. Emma shook her head.
“Abuse her or mistreat her? No, she says he was always patient and gentle with her; even when she reviled him for having inveigled her into the marriage, when she had told him honestly and openly, that she did not love him and indeed, it seems to compound her feelings of guilt that she could not accuse him of anything more than keeping scrupulously to his side of the bargain and asking no more of her than she had agreed to give. But to Anne-Marie, it became a nightmare.”
Anna was aghast. Her own marriage, deeply happy and satisfying as it was, made it almost impossible for her to contemplate such a travesty as Emma had described.
“Oh, Emma, what a wretched plight to be in. Poor Anne-Marie, I do not know how she bore it; and Mr Bradshaw, having agreed to it in the first instance, what an insupportable situation did he create for himself?”
When Emma replied, the serious tone of her voice was unmistakable. “There is no way of knowing how much longer she would have borne it, Anna. From all I have heard from her own lips, I think we must be thankful that Mr Bradshaw’s death came when it did, by natural causes for which no one can be blamed, and so released his unhappy and reluctant wife from a truly impossible marriage, which brought neither party any joy. Had it continued much longer, we may well have had a tragedy on our hands for I do believe Anne-Marie would either have become dangerously ill or she would have been driven in her desperation to take her own life!”
Anna gasped in disbelief. “No, Emma, never that!” she cried. “Nothing could be so bad as to make her do such a terrible thing.” But Emma was adamant; she had spoken with Anne-Marie for many hours, and through all their earlier conversations had run a thread of despair so dark, as to make it plain
what the end might have been. She was certain that it was certainly not out of the question.
“Believe me, it was not far from her thoughts on many occasions. Anna, I would prefer that we did not speak to Jonathan of this, not just yet at any rate, until Anne-Marie has settled in at Netherfield. I do not mean that you should keep secrets from him, but it would be best for both of them that this dreadful fear does not come between them at this time. I know this to be Anne-Marie’s wish, too.”
Anna agreed at once, seeing the sense of her sister-in-law’s words. “Anne-Marie needs to return to her place in her family, with you and Jonathan and the girls, and I can see that Nicholas is going to be a great help,” Emma said, and smiling, rose to embrace her young sister-in-law, whose eyes had filled with tears. She was grateful for the knowledge; it would help her care for Anne-Marie and she appreciated, above all, Emma’s wisdom and humanity.
As Anna dried her eyes, Emma said, ‘‘I think we should go downstairs. They will wonder what is keeping us.” She led the way and Anna, following her downstairs, wondered how she was ever going to tell her husband how close they had come to tragedy.
When they reached the hall, they found that Anne-Marie had persuaded Jonathan to let her take Colin and Nicholas around the park in the little pony cart. The rest of the party, watching from the windows of the saloon, were amazed at her energy as she drove them, cheerfully joining in their laughter.
Turning to his sister, Jonathan spoke from the heart, “Emma, I have no words to thank you. You have performed a miracle, bringing her back to us so changed and restored to health. What can I say except thank you and God bless you?”
The Ladies of Longbourn Page 4