“My dear Mrs Bradshaw, I do beg your pardon,” he said, trying desperately to correct his indiscretion. “I am certain, too, that neither Mr Bingley nor Mr Wilson, both distinguished Members of Parliament, could ever be so accused. Please believe me, I had not intended to cast any aspersions upon either of them. I was only speaking generally and did not make myself clear; forgive me.”
His contrition was so sincere and his manner so gentlemanlike, that she would have found it difficult not to pardon him, but it had let him see how deeply she felt and how swiftly she could be moved to defend those she loved. It did not, in any way, reduce her in his estimation. Quite the contrary.
For her part, Anne-Marie seemed to pay little attention to any other aspect of their association, except that which could be directed towards what was now their common goal, her precious children’s hospital.
They parted without rancour; he was too gentlemanly and she too kindhearted for that. They spoke amicably of meeting again in a fortnight when he returned to Hertfordshire at the recess, by which time, he expressed the strongest hope that they may have some good news.
“I shall do my very best, Mrs Bradshaw,” he promised, solemnly. “If need be, I shall speak with my father, I promise,” he said, as he kissed her hand before bidding the rest of the party goodnight.
As he went out into the night, the ladies of the party were all agreed that Mr Elliott was a very agreeable gentleman indeed.
They returned on the morrow to Netherfield, and Anna and Jonathan noticed that Anne-Marie seemed more than usually cheerful. She was clearly more confident now of achieving her goal and talked avidly of plans to be made and funds sought for the hospital.
“Has Mr Elliott spoken with his father yet, regarding his support for the hospital?” Jonathan asked.
“I do not know for sure, Papa, but I think he intends to. But does it really signify? He is the Member now, not Sir Paul. He surely does not require his father’s permission to lend his support to each and every project in the area?”
Her father smiled but said nothing, not wishing to disillusion her. Sir Paul Elliott was one of the most domineering Tories in the Parliament.
She shrugged her slight shoulders and said, “Ah well, we shall see if he has the fortitude to persevere, like Lord Shaftesbury and the little chimney sweeps.” She sounded very determined indeed, and Anna could not help feeling some sympathy for Mr Elliott. Anne-Marie was very single-minded. If he disappointed her, he would probably get short shrift, she thought.
Late that night, on her way to her own bedroom, she looked in on Anne-Marie. She had been tired when they returned and had begged to be excused from coming down to dinner, claiming she wanted no more than a bath and some tea, which Jenny had been requested to provide. When Anna opened the door of Anna-Marie’s room and looked in, she was fast asleep.
Finding her husband reading in bed, Anna leaned over and took his book out of his hand; she had urged him on many occasions not to ruin his eyesight by reading in poor light. He surrendered the book without complaint, but kept hold of her hand, making her sit beside him on the bed. They enjoyed a remarkable degree of intimate understanding. When she asked, “Do you think Colin Elliott is in some danger, dearest?” he understood her drift immediately.
“He may well be, I doubt that Anne-Marie is, though. She sounds and looks well in control of her feelings,” he replied and was about to draw her closer, when she resisted him gently, and said, “Are you sure? I do wonder sometimes, whether she is as controlled as we think she is or just a very good actress. At the moment, it seems that nothing will deflect her from her purpose, but it cannot be denied that Mr Elliott is far more personable than poor John Bradshaw was and, for all her wisdom, Anne-Marie is young and impressionable; she may well end up falling in love with him. Caroline has hinted to me that she thought he appears to be rather partial to her already.”
Despite her earnest tone, Jonathan was not inclined to take her concerns seriously tonight, teasing her with the warning that Caroline Fitzwilliam was herself an arch romantic and prone to such fantasies.
“Colin Elliott strikes me as a sensible fellow,” said Jonathan, trying to convince his wife there was no cause for concern. “Since I informed him, before they met, that Anne-Marie had been recently widowed, I have noticed that he is very respectful of her feelings.”
“But dearest, that is because he believes her to be grieving for her husband,” Anna interrupted, adding that her own observation, while it had confirmed her good opinion of him, had also noted signs of interest and a distinct partiality towards Anne-Marie.
“He is very particular not to take any liberties and is never familiar in any way, yet, I cannot help feeling that he is attracted to her and quite clearly admires her. When she is in the room, he hardly leaves her side.”
This time, her husband, pointed out that Anne-Marie was a beautiful young woman and it would be surprising if she did not attract some admiration; then clearly seeking to divert her, he said, “Trust me, my love, I am confident neither of them will do anything imprudent or foolish, not sufficient to warrant your anxiety anyway; whereas, your poor neglected husband would give his entire fortune to be the subject of your undivided attention at the moment.”
She had to laugh, but it was a strategy that never failed and she turned willingly into his arms.
The sudden departure of Charlotte Collins’s maid, Harriet Greene, for her home in Nottinghamshire threw the entire household at Longbourn into confusion. Well taught and remarkably well-spoken, Harriet, who had been with Charlotte for many years, was a most efficient and well-organised woman, who had assisted not only with the running of the household, but had also kept the accounts and handled the correspondence for the School of Fine Arts. Without her, it was unlikely that Mrs Collins would manage at all well. However, when the letter had come saying that Harriet’s mother was gravely ill, she had to go and no one suggested otherwise.
Anna drove over to Longbourn with Anne-Marie and Teresa to see what might be done to assist Charlotte. Offers of a maid from Netherfield to help out and Teresa to keep her company were appreciated, but Anne-Marie could see that her grandmother was apprehensive. She had come to depend a great deal upon Harriet, surrendering the running of the house to her and consulting her on many other matters.
“Anna, I do not believe my grandmother is going to cope,” Anne-Marie said on the way home. “I know Tessie will be company for her, but it is not very fair to her either; she is going to be very bored.”
Anna was inclined to agree, but pointed out that there was little they could do in the present circumstances. Jonathan, when he was told, agreed that it was not fair to Teresa to send her away to Longbourn on her own and wondered whether Cathy would like to join her sister, a plan that did not appeal at all to young Catherine. Nothing very satisfactory was suggested and a decision was postponed for the morrow, when Jonathan hoped to ride over to Longbourn himself. But on the morning after, they had hardly finished breakfast when an urgent message arrived from Longbourn.
The manservant who brought it said little, except that the doctor had been sent for and everyone assumed that Charlotte was ill. On opening the note, however, which was not in Charlotte’s hand, it was revealed that Teresa had been taken ill in the night. Within minutes, Anne-Marie had raced out of the room and upstairs to pack some clothes and a nursing kit, without which she went nowhere, while Anna asked for the small carriage to be brought round at once.
“I knew we should not have left her on her own; my grandmother is kind enough, but she is not the most cheerful company for a young girl, is she?” Anne-Marie said and Anna could not disagree. She was immensely grateful to Anne-Marie for her readiness to step in and assist. The note had suggested that Lucy Sutton could help, which did not meet with Anne-Marie’s approval at all.
“It would not be satisfactory at all to have Lucy Sutton in there,” she declared. “I do not think Papa would approve either; she’s a complete outsider and she
may gossip with the servants and once she settles in, who knows when she will depart?” she grumbled, and even Anna, who had not seen the danger of Mrs Sutton becoming a permanent resident at Longbourn, had to acknowledge it was a possibility.
“There is that,” she said, “and I do agree that your father would look askance at the prospect.”
“Indeed, which is why I think, Anna, that I should move to Longbourn at once and stay until Harriet returns,” said Anne-Marie, making it seem as if she had decided it all well in advance and nothing would shake her resolve.
“Anne-Marie, are you quite sure? I know you want to be with Tess, but once she is sufficiently recovered, would you not both wish to return home?” Anna asked.
“Of course I would wish it, but I must also see that Mrs Collins is comfortable and, above all, that she is not importuned and put upon by outsiders who may have other than the purest of motives,” she replied.
Even as she spoke, Anna frowned and asked what it was that had made her uneasy about the prospect of Lucy Sutton staying at Longbourn. Anne-Marie looked uncomfortable, reluctant to speak in the hearing of the driver, indicating in a whisper that she would tell her when they were at Longbourn, but not in her grandmother’s presence. Perplexed, Anna could hardly wait for the short journey to be over; she could not imagine why Anne-Marie would be so intensely suspicious of Mrs Sutton. Anna had found her quiet and obliging at all times and she knew Charlotte liked her very much. Indeed it was at her instigation that Mrs Sutton had been engaged to teach the younger pupils at the school.
When they arrived at Longbourn, however, they were both surprised that it was not Charlotte, but Lucy Sutton, who came out to greet them. Disconcerted, Anne-Marie barely acknowledged her, as she rushed indoors and upstairs to Teresa’s room, and Anna hoped that her obvious anxiety for her sister would excuse her brusque manner.
Mrs Sutton was all smiles and explained to Anna that she had come in that morning to prepare for her lessons with her three young pupils, who were expected later in the day, and on finding Teresa ill and Mrs Collins “in a state,” she had set aside her own business and got to work to ensure that the two ladies were attended to.
“I could have done more, but Mrs Collins would not permit it. She insisted that I write that note and send it forthwith to you,” she explained to Anna, who thanked her and assured her that she had done the right thing.
Later, having reassured Charlotte that Teresa would be well looked after, Anna went upstairs and, finding Anne-Marie sitting with her sister, who was asleep, insisted on being given the reason for her suspicions.
Anne-Marie shook her head and sighed, “Because, Anna, she is not who she says she is.”
Astonished, Anna asked, “Whatever do you mean?”
“She is not a widow. Her husband was a soldier; he lives in London.”
Aghast, Anna said, “How do you know this?”
“Because he has a brother at the hospital at Harwood Park and he used to visit him,” she said, “I knew him as John Sutton.”
As Anna listened, increasingly bewildered, she continued, “The brother, Joseph, had no family to go to; he’d get very depressed and Mr Bradshaw used to talk to him to comfort him. He discovered that John Sutton’s wife had deserted him, disappeared one day, taking their three children with her. They thought she’d gone to her mother, somewhere in the Midlands.”
“What if he discovers she is here in Meryton?” asked Anna.
Anne-Marie looked alarmed. “If he does, he will probably come straight down and take them away,” she said, adding, “He may not be able to force his will upon her, but he will certainly take the children. His brother believed he was very angry about losing them and spoke constantly of going off in search of them.”
“Good heavens!” Anna exclaimed, and asked, “How long have you known of this?” Anne-Marie looked a little uncertain and then replied, “I have known half the story for quite some time, well before Mr Bradshaw’s death; but, I did not know, until recently, that Lucy Sutton was the woman in question.
“I was visiting my grandmother one afternoon, and Mrs Sutton was just leaving after her lessons, when Harriet informed me that the poor woman had been widowed during the war in the Crimea. She said her husband, John Sutton, had been killed at Sebastopol. Poor Mrs Sutton had no family and no fortune, Harriet told me. She was very sympathetic. She saw Lucy Sutton as a victim of circumstances who was bravely struggling on, supplementing her meagre income with what she earned by teaching music at the school.”
“Was there anything in particular that made you suspicious?” Anna asked.
“When she told me the names of the children, especially the little girl, Marigold, I knew it was the same family. Lucy is John Sutton’s wife.”
“And you said nothing to anyone?” asked Anna.
“I did not, because I had no wish to become embroiled in her affairs. I had no knowledge of her motives; she may have had reasons I did not know. Perhaps he was a harsh man and ill-treated her or the children. I did make some enquiries though.”
“How?” Anna was curious to find out.
“I wrote to a friend, a nurse I knew well at the hospital, and asked her to verify some things, such as casualty lists at Sebastopol. Her information has confirmed my suspicions. John Sutton certainly did not die at Sebastopol. He served in the war and returned to England unscathed.”
“And what do you mean to do?” asked Anna.
Anne-Marie shrugged her shoulders, “Nothing; I have no desire to persecute Mrs Sutton or her children, but I shall not stand by and let her deceive and take advantage of my grandmother’s kind nature, nor will I permit her to become entangled with any other member of my family, while she pretends to be other than she is. She has taken us all in, Anna, and abused our hospitality,” she said, sounding decidedly more aggrieved than before.
“What do you mean entangled with members of your family?” asked Anna, now thoroughly perplexed.
“Ah well, I noticed her when my brother Charles was here. He met her when he visited Longbourn and then again, when we were walking to Meryton and back. He was pleasant and attentive to her, as he always is with women. But she, having discovered he was a physician, made every effort to engage his attention, especially as we walked to Meryton, when she all but ignored me and talked assiduously to my dear brother, drinking in every word that fell from his lips.”
At this, Anna could not contain her laughter. “Anne-Marie, my dear, surely you are exaggerating. I cannot believe that Charles would have been taken in by her; he is a man of the world, and he must have known other women who did the same.”
“Indeed, I did not suggest that he was taken in, but she was certainly trying her very best to draw him in. I had no doubt of that: her smiles, her deferential manner, her constant exclamations at everything he said, as if he were the Oracle; it was unmistakable, Anna. Which is why I am very wary of permitting her to become too familiar with Longbourn and my grandmother. I certainly would not approve of her coming to live here, for however short a period,” she declared, very firmly.
“Do you believe she has designs on your brother, then?” Anna asked and it was difficult for her to treat this as seriously as Anne-Marie did; there was an element of laughter in her voice.
But Anne-Marie was not going to be diverted from her outrage. “I most certainly do. However, it is not just Charles. I do not believe that he would become seriously involved with her; she is older than him for a start and there are the children, but Anna, just think, if he were to be inveigled into some liaison with her, without realising that she is still married and clearly in hiding from her husband, would it not be disastrous for his own reputation? Do you not see how such a scandal could ruin his career and damage Papa and all of us?”
Now, Anna did see and, realising how anxious she had been, asked,
“My dear Anne-Marie, why did you not tell me or your father? You could have trusted us to be discreet, surely?” Anne-Marie shook her head.
Teresa, roused from her sleep, sat up in bed and Anna was prevented from pursuing the subject. She went to call for the maid, who soon arrived with tea for the invalid, who claimed, to their great relief, that she was already feeling much better.
Later, when their father arrived, Anne-Marie convinced him that Tess should not be moved and she should stay at Longbourn to care for her.
Dr Faulkner had promised to call in again to see his patient and pronounce on her condition. Jonathan, though anxious about the health of his rather frail young daughter, who had a very special place in his affections, allowed himself to be persuaded.
Anne-Marie had decided and Anna was sure she would not be denied; that was clear.
“I shall thoroughly enjoy being busy again,” she said, urging her father and Anna not to suffer any anxiety on her account. “With Harriet away, I shall have plenty to do helping my aunt. Tessie, when she is stronger, can come downstairs and sit in the parlour and amuse us, while we carry on with our chores. So you must not worry. We shall all be quite agreeably occupied.”
Mrs Collins was moved almost to tears by her granddaughter’s solicitude and begged Jonathan to let them stay with her.
Returning to Netherfield with her husband, Anna was in an agony of uncertainty. Should she tell him about Lucy Sutton’s strange behaviour, she wondered. If she did not and later, some scandal befell the family, would he not blame her for her silence?
After much thought, she decided she could not speak, at least until she had consulted Anne-Marie. She hoped they would get an opportunity to speak privately soon.
Unfortunately, the weather began to close in a few days after their visit to Longbourn and Dr Faulkner, having seen his patient, came to Netherfield to declare that he was absolutely against any attempt to move Teresa.
The Ladies of Longbourn Page 9