Emma Wilson smiled and took her brother’s arm as they stood together. There was between them a close and affectionate understanding.
“I have done what I could,” she said quietly, “but Jonathan, she is not completely healed. There remains some hurt and guilt, which will break out from time to time, so do be patient with her. She has suffered a great deal for such a young woman. But I am quite sure you and Anna will take good care of her. She loves you both dearly; indeed her greatest regret was that she had caused you so much distress. As you can see, she adores young Nicholas, so that is a very good start.”
She spoke seriously and, as they were alone, frankly.
“I have explained to Anna that we tried to help Anne-Marie come to terms with what happened in her marriage and I think, when you have had time to hear it all, you will also understand how to help her.
“But, my own opinion is, she is now quite determined to heal herself and will make every effort to do so. She knows she has made a mistake by letting herself be persuaded into a loveless marriage, against her better judgment. Her attempts at deception only compounded the error and she has endured much pain as a consequence. But now, she has understanding and wants to make amends. We must pray that she will have the strength to go on as she has started and make a complete recovery.”
The return indoors of Anne-Marie and the children with James Wilson, who had been out on the lawn watching them make a circuit of the park, ended their conversation, but not before they noted the glow on her cheeks and the brightness of her eyes, reflecting the pleasure and excitement of the children.
Soon afterwards, the visitors were shown upstairs to their rooms to rest a while, before dressing for dinner. Anna, accompanying Anne-Marie to her room, was a little apprehensive; recalling the last time they were together and the repercussions of that scene, she was uneasy, wondering whether Anne-Marie would remember, too, and how she would respond. The room had been cleaned and aired for her return, with fresh linen, flowers, and a new framed sketch of Hatfield House over the fireplace. To her surprise, Anne-Marie noticed it almost at once and, going over to the picture, exclaimed at the fine work before recognising the artist’s signature and turning to Anna to congratulate her. Anna was delighted at her response.
“It was your father’s choice; he thought you would welcome a change from the old Dutch harbour that used to hang there,” said Anna, and Anne-Marie smiled, “He was quite right. That was such a dull picture, I could never see anything in it. This is beautiful; what fine work you do, Anna. I wish I had your talent,” she said, with such warmth and sincerity that Anna felt tears sting her eyes.
“My dear Anne-Marie, you have a great deal of talent and skill, far more than I would ever claim,” she said, taking her hands in hers.
“What is more, you have used your skills to do so much good, caring for those wounded men, helping to heal them; I could never have done that, and I have always admired and valued those who could. Your father knows of your desire to campaign for a children’s hospital here in Meryton; it is a goal with which he is totally in sympathy. We will both help you in every way we can.”
Anne-Marie’s eyes shone, with excitement.
“Will you?” she asked.
“Indeed we will. We agree with you that it is sorely needed; indeed your father believes it to be long overdue,” said Anna.
“That is wonderful news, Anna. I must tell my Aunt Emma and Mr Wilson; they have been advising me on the best way to secure the support of the community and the local council. With Papa’s help, it would be far easier,” she said, and Anna could see how much it meant to her.
When her maid Jenny arrived to help her mistress bathe and dress for dinner, Anna left to go to her room, feeling a good deal more confident than she had been before. She looked forward to acquainting her husband with the situation.
At dinner that night, the subject of the hospital was raised again, when Anna introduced it. No sooner had she mentioned it, than Anne-Marie began eagerly to speak of her hopes and the ways and means of winning the support of community leaders and councillors. She sounded eager and her voice was keen as she pressed her argument.
Even the Wilsons were surprised at the passion in her voice. Her father, forewarned by Anna, was delighted by her keenness and a welcome lightness in her tone, which he had sorely missed.
“Papa,” she said, as they waited for the table to be cleared, “I was remarking to Aunt Emma, how much simpler it would have been if you had stood for reelection to the Commons; you might have pressed our case for the children’s hospital,” and Jonathan, taken aback by her lighthearted, almost teasing tone, was tongue-tied for a moment.
When he did respond, however, it was with his usual modesty. “Anne-Marie, your optimism presupposes that I would have won the seat in Hertfordshire, which has always returned Conservative members to Parliament. The incumbent, Sir Paul Elliott, owns vast tracts of land in the county and is a very influential Tory. It is unlikely that, had I stood against him, I would have succeeded. I think your Uncle James will agree with me,” he said.
As Anne-Marie turned to her uncle for his opinion, James Wilson smiled and addressed his brother-in-law’s argument. “I agree that Sir Paul has been invincible in Hertfordshire, but you would have stood a much better chance against his younger son, Mr Colin Elliott, recently returned from the colonies and set to replace his father in the Commons. He has little knowledge of the county and, having been away in the colonies working for the East India Company for several years, I would wager he has far less knowledge of the issues that concern the people here. You would have had a definite advantage, Jonathan. However, that is all in the past and Anne-Marie, if you want your children’s hospital, young Mr Elliott is the man you must convince.”
“And it will not be easy; remember, he is a Tory,” said Emma, “and they have rarely agreed to spend public money on schools or hospitals.”
Anne-Marie shrugged her shoulders, apparently untroubled by this intelligence. “He may be a Tory, but surely he is also a human being. He cannot fail to understand that a hospital in the area will mean fewer children will die of curable diseases,” she said simply and Anna, catching Jonathan’s eye, smiled. They had both heard the genuine excitement and energy in her voice; it sounded very much like the Anne-Marie they used to know, before her marriage to Bradshaw.
James Wilson encouraged her, ‘‘You are quite right, Anne-Marie; Mr Elliott may be far more receptive to new ideas than his father was and, indeed, if the Tories ever want to get back into government, they would have to be. The people demand it.”
“Then you think, we have a chance of persuading him of the value of a children’s hospital?” Anne-Marie asked, keen to be reassured that this was the case.
James smiled, “You may well do; I have not had the pleasure of meeting Mr Colin Elliott, myself, he is new to Westminster; but I have colleagues in the Parliament who have, and they have found him to be a pleasant enough fellow; young for the job, mind you, he is not much more than thirty-two or thereabouts, but then, that may be an advantage; you may find he is easier to convince than his father used to be.”
Then he laughed and added, “He is better educated, too, being a Cambridge man.” Jonathan joined in the laughter, lightening considerably the atmosphere around the table.
“Sir Paul Elliott never once voted to extend the voting rights or reduce the working hours of the ordinary man,” James Wilson reminded them, “but, it is quite possible his son may be less of a Tory and more of a Liberal. I note that Mr Gladstone is making liberalism fashionable these days.” Then turning to his niece, he spoke more seriously, “In matters such as these, my dear Anne-Marie, if you succeed in getting the support of the local member, you have won a significant battle. When you have also convinced the council and the Church, you can claim to have won the war.”
As the ladies rose and withdrew to the drawing room, Anne-Marie continued speaking eagerly of her hopes and plans. “Tomorrow, I think, I sh
all visit the Rector at the church and tell him about our scheme,” she said, with a level of determination that convinced Anna she was well on her way to recovery.
That night, as they retired to their room, Anna saw that her husband seemed free of anxiety for the first time in many weeks.
Jonathan Bingley’s strong sense of responsibility, no less than his love of his daughter, had cost him several sleepless nights. Even the enormous confidence he reposed in his sister Emma had not allowed him to relax when Anne-Marie was away at Standish Park, and he worried constantly about her. Since her departure for Kent, each day had been spent in waiting for letters with news of some improvement in her condition, and while Emma was a good correspondent, keeping them well informed, any delay would cause renewed anxiety and concern. Jonathan had blamed himself for some part of Anne-Marie’s predicament, and while Anna had spent many hours persuading him that the contrary was true, he had been difficult to convince.
On this day, however, for the first time, he felt there had been a significant change for the better.
Anna sensed the relief in him and as they went to bed, she asked, “Am I right in thinking that you are happier tonight, my love?” and he turned to her, grateful for her sensitivity and held her close, not as he had done often in the weeks past, for reassurance and comfort, but in a long and contented embrace, reminding her of how it had been before. “Indeed I am, dearest,” he said. “Even though I know it is but a small step on a very long and painful road, I am delighted to see her take it. She seems to have regained a sense of purpose and energy, as she had when she at seventeen, inspired by Miss Nightingale, decided she wanted to work in the hospitals and train as a nurse. Her mother was against it and warned her of dire consequences, but she would not be swayed.
“Abandoning all the comforts and fine clothes she enjoyed at Rosings, she went to work at the hospital in Harwood Park. We were astonished at her dedication and capacity for hard work. It was terrible work, but she loved it. She never found the time to pursue any other interests, whether in the Arts or some other field,” he explained, a little sadly, as Anna listened, understanding more clearly how deeply he had been concerned. “I have often regretted that she had denied herself what most other young women in her situation would have taken for granted. She attended few parties or balls; there was no time to spare for Art or Music lessons, and certainly no grand tours to Europe, not because she did not have the means, because I stood ready to afford her every opportunity, but she had neither the time nor the interest, so single-minded was she about her wounded soldiers.”
Seeing the deepening frown on his wife’s brow as she listened, he was suddenly apologetic, “I should not burden you with all this, my dear; you have borne enough of my anxiety already, and given me much comfort, but it has been such a relief to me tonight to see Anne-Marie so much improved. I am sorry if I have seemed preoccupied.”
Anna interrupted him gently, seeking to reassure her husband. “Hush, Jonathan, you have nothing to regret. Every one of us knows how deeply you have cared for Anne-Marie and as for myself, I would consider it a poor return for my love if you thought you could not speak to me of your anxieties regarding any matter, and particularly if it concerned the children. I share your relief today, as I have shared your anguish these past weeks and months; but dearest, we must not celebrate too early. Emma warns that there is still a long journey ahead.” He was grateful for her understanding and her excellent good sense.
“How right you are, my love, I know there is still much to be done,” he said, as he snuffed out the candle, “but of one thing, at least, we can be certain, she will not have much time to mope or become depressed again; my fears on that score were, I am happy to say, quite groundless.”
The following morning, breakfast had not long been over when Anne-Marie announced that she was ready to walk down to the church in the village to see the Rector and invited anyone who wished for some exercise to accompany her. She was dressed for walking and Anna, exchanging glances with her sister-in-law, realised that she should avail herself of the opportunity for private conversation that the walk would allow. Rising hastily from the table, she said, “If you will wait but a few minutes, Anne-Marie, I should be happy to join you. I need only to fetch my hat and some sheets of music, which I have been copying for the choir.”
As they walked towards the village, Anna wondered whether her young companion recalled, that as a new rector at Netherfield, Mr Griffin had been somewhat smitten when Anne-Marie had been home for Christmas some years ago. He had been very persistent in his pursuit of her, hoping to involve her in his choir and other church activities. Then, out of the kindness of her heart, Anne-Marie had been happy to help with some things, especially in the charitable services to the poor and aged, while carefully avoiding any intimacy. But now, Anna wondered how, after her disastrous marriage to one clergyman, Anne-Marie would cope with the obvious devotion of another.
Mr Griffin’s ardour may have been dampened by her marriage to Mr Bradshaw, but Anna was sure that it could quite easily be fanned to flame again, with the slightest encouragement. But Anne-Marie seemed untroubled, speaking of the Rector in practical, sensible terms.
“I understand,” she said, as they walked towards the village, “that it is very important to have the local council and the church officials on one’s side in these matters. My uncle, James Wilson, assures me that such support is even more essential than the pleas of the people themselves, who of course, have no vote and so no power. I know little of the council; I shall need Papa to help me there, but I do not anticipate any problems with the Rector, Mr Griffin. He seems a devout Christian and a charitable man; I am sure he will understand the need for a children’s hospital,” she declared, with a new confidence that quite surprised her companion.
Anna did try, tactfully, to introduce the topic of Mr Griffin’s previous interest in her. “Do you recall how keen he was to have you sing in his choir?” she asked, with a tinge of humour in her voice.
To her astonishment, Anne-Marie laughed and said lightly, “Of course I do, and I said no, because then I had neither the time nor the inclination, Anna, but if he will lend his support to our campaign for the hospital, I shall be quite happy to sing in his choir.”
“You will?” Anna was puzzled.
“Certainly. I know I have never had my voice trained, like Aunt Emma has, but, if you will help me, Anna, I am sure I could join in a few of the hymns and psalms. Do you not think so?” she asked, and Anna, even though she was totally amazed, had the presence of mind to agree.
“Oh yes, of course you could. I can certainly teach you; they are quite simple and not difficult to learn,” she said reassuringly.
“That will suit me well. I did try at Harwood Park, just to please Mr Bradshaw, but it was of no use at all. He insisted on choosing some very difficult anthems in four parts and I was absolutely hopeless. It was another disaster. Poor Mr Bradshaw, he must have thought I was a failure at absolutely everything,” she said sadly.
Anna froze.
It was the first time Anne-Marie had mentioned her late husband since her return to Netherfield Park. Anna did not know what would follow. Tears perhaps? She reached out instinctively and took her hand.
“My dear Anne-Marie, you must never think that. You are not in any sense a failure. No one, least of all Mr Bradshaw, who saw all the good work you did at the Harwood Park hospital, could have thought it. You made an error of judgment and you have had the courage to acknowledge it. You will feel depressed and downhearted from time to time, my dear, but you are not a failure, never.”
Anne-Marie said nothing for a few minutes, but she pressed Anna’s hand as she held it in hers. Then suddenly, stopping to face her she said, “Thank you, my dear Anna. I shall never forget your kindness to me on so many occasions. I know I must fight the desire to wallow in guilt. Aunt Emma told me it was a form of self-indulgence, just as destructive as self-pity.” Then, as if to explain, she added, “I believe h
er, because I know she has suffered, too, far more than I have. She told me about her first husband, David, and how she had to struggle to retain her sanity for the sake of her children. She must have been so brave.”
Then, turning to face Anna again, she said, “But Anna, when I see how you have helped Papa recover from his own unhappiness, I am so grateful. Once, before you were engaged, I asked him about his feelings for you and he told me you were the most enlightened woman he had ever met,” and smiling, she teased Anna, “He confessed that he loved you deeply, but was unsure if it was returned. I can see now that it is, in full measure, and you are both blessed with enviable felicity. I know I am doubly fortunate to have both you and Papa as well as my dear Aunt Emma to help me at this time.”
Both women were moved to tears as they embraced, standing in the shade of a grove of trees beside the road to the village.
Looking across to the woods that lay to the right of them, forming the outer boundary of Netherfield Park, they had noticed a figure trudging towards them along a path that crossed the fields. It was only when he stood before them, hatless, bowing, and smiling as he mopped his brow, that they realised it was Mr Griffin. In one hand he held his hat, while the other clutched a parcel tied up with string; though its shape was indeterminate, the aroma that emanated from it suggested that it was a cheese of some sort, probably a gift from a generous parishioner. If he was at all embarrassed, Mr Griffin did not show it.
“Ah, my dear Mrs Bingley and Mrs Bradshaw, how fortunate I am to meet you,” he said after both ladies had acknowledged his greetings. “Are you, by some chance, on your way to church?” he enquired, hopefully, to which Anna muttered something about music for the choir, but Anne-Marie, smiling amiably, said, “Indeed we are, Mr Griffin, however, it was not to pray for ourselves but to seek your support for a good cause.” A big, happy smile lit up his usually doleful face and he seemed ready, Anna thought, to leap in the air for joy, as Anne-Marie went on, “We must not stand idly here, keeping you from your duties; shall we walk on?”
The Ladies of Longbourn Page 5