Turning to his wife, he said quietly, “My dear, we have no choice but to protect Mrs Sutton and her daughters from whatever danger threatens them. We must convey them to Netherfield. They cannot stay here; should Sutton discover them, he will surely arrive and harass Mrs Collins and the rest of the household. It would be a most unsatisfactory situation. At least, at Netherfield, they will be out of his reach.”
Having first cautioned Harriet, that she must on no account reveal their whereabouts, he asked her to go upstairs and get the girls and their mother ready to depart for Netherfield. “Tell them they need have no concerns about their things; we can send someone round to the cottage to collect them tomorrow,” he said and added, “You can assure them they will be quite safe at Netherfield.”
Addressing his daughter, he said, “Anne-Marie, you can tell Mrs Sutton that I shall send for my solicitor tomorrow and he will advise what can be done to afford them some legal protection.”
Meanwhile, Anna went to reassure her Aunt Charlotte, who was, by now, distressed and eager to discover what was going to happen.
“I had no idea at all, Anna, none at all,” she protested, “Lucy Sutton told me she was a widow and I believed her. I am truly shocked. I thought she was a good, quiet woman.”
Anna tried to reassure her, “My dear aunt, please do not concern yourself; I am sure she still remains a good woman. If what she has told Harriet is true, she has run away from a drunken, cruel husband to protect her children. She probably pretended to be a widow in order to avoid too many questions; you know what village gossip is like.”
This explanation seemed to put a whole new complexion on the matter, for Charlotte. She could feel sympathy for any woman who found her children threatened. “Poor Mrs Sutton, what will she do?” she asked, and Anna explained that they were being conveyed to Netherfield. Mrs Collins was clearly relieved. “Oh good, I know they will be safe with you,” she said.
Minutes later, Harriet returned with Lucy Sutton, who looked shamefaced and unhappy, while her two girls seemed cowed and afraid as if memories of their father’s violent temper had come flooding back.
Anne-Marie could bear it no longer; she went to them and embraced them, assuring them that they would all be perfectly safe at Netherfield.
Jonathan sent them on their way with Anna and decided to wait with Anne-Marie for the return of their carriage.
He had let Anna go with them to Netherfield so she could help them settle in after their ordeal. On the morrow, he hoped a magistrate might be found to afford them protection.
Before Harriet took Mrs Collins upstairs, Jonathan reassured them, “I shall send Mr Bowles round to you tomorrow; should Sutton or anyone else arrive, he will deal with them. You will not be harassed.”
As they waited for the carriage to return, it grew late, and Jonathan could see that Anne-Marie was very tired. On the way home, she began, suddenly, to weep.
“Papa, I feel so terrible,” she said, through her tears, and he, believing she was distressed by what had transpired in the hours before, tried to comfort her, but she wept even more. “You don’t understand, Papa; I knew all the time. I had seen her husband, John Sutton, at the hospital last year and when I met her and heard she had claimed to be a widow, I thought she was lying because she was guilty of something terrible and I condemned her. Papa, I just condemned her; I feel so dreadful now.”
Astonished at this recital, Jonathan said nothing, as she continued, “I feel I have behaved so badly, I who should feel sympathy and concern for a woman who is unhappily married, I who knew what it was to have to pretend to be what one is not, how could I have been so presumptuous as to condemn her without ever asking to hear her side of the story? Papa, how could I have been so wicked?” she asked, still weeping, plainly unable to control her anguish.
Jonathan let her weep, knowing she needed to relieve her pent-up feelings of guilt, but then spoke gently though firmly, “My dear Anne-Marie, you are the last person who could be wicked to anyone. I know you well; you are tenderhearted, even with complete strangers, caring for them as if they were your own. Pray, my dear, do not judge yourself so harshly. No doubt, you misunderstood Mrs Sutton’s motives only because you were ignorant of her circumstances. But, you did no real harm and now you have an opportunity to do some good. When they are at Netherfield, you can help them, especially the two children; they must surely be in great need of comfort and reassurance,” he said.
She looked up at him, confident of his understanding and affection.
“Thank you, Papa, I shall try, but what will they do? How are they to be protected?” she asked.
“When Mr Hart, my solicitor, has spoken with Mrs Sutton and ascertained the whole of her situation, he will advise the best course of action. Meanwhile, she and her daughters will remain at Netherfield under my protection. Should Sutton turn up on my property, I can have him arrested for trespass and brought before the magistrate.”
Certain her father would do everything in his power, Anne-Marie was content to wait until they were back at Netherfield, where they found Mrs Sutton and her daughters had been shown their rooms and were, even now, safely ensconced therein. One of the maids had been sent to assist them, and tea had been taken up to them.
When Anna came downstairs she reported that their guests were a sad, fearful little group, who had pleaded to be excused from coming down to join the family at dinner.
“They are very tired and the girls have frightening memories of a violent father. Poor Mrs Sutton can hardly think, so terrified is she of losing them to him. I’ve asked Mrs Perrot to have their dinner served upstairs. I do hope they will feel better tomorrow,” she said.
On hearing this, Anne-Marie went directly upstairs and found them all huddled together in the large bed in Mrs Sutton’s room. They looked so apprehensive and pathetic, she went to them and put her arms around them and as they hid their faces in her gown, Marigold and Lucinda began to weep, while their mother stood by, looking totally helpless and wretched.
Anne-Marie had to fight back her tears. In her own heart, she was so miserable that the tears she shed were partly for her own relief. She had been badly shaken on discovering how utterly wrong she had been about Lucy Sutton. Not only had she misjudged the woman on very little evidence, she had also deliberately spoken ill of her, voicing what had turned out to be unfounded suspicions, ascribing the basest of motives to a helpless woman who had only been trying to protect her children.
Realising the gravity of her mistake, she was deeply sorry and her contrition was both genuine and painful.
She tried to make amends, “Mrs Sutton, Lucy, please do not be afraid; you are perfectly safe here, and my father has assured me that tomorrow he will summon his solicitor, who will advise on some resolution to your problem.”
Lucy Sutton, clearly grateful, clung to her hand and, still tearful, revealed that she had feared that her husband would return and remove her children. She had been traced to Meryton by a hired private detective, she said, and then the letters had begun to arrive, threatening her, ordering her to return to London with the girls or else…
“I could not go back, Mrs Bradshaw, not with my two girls. They have been happy and safe here; I could not let them go back to that squalor and fear, with no schooling, no money, and no hope of a decent life. It would be a sin; I would rather die than do it,” she declared.
Anne-Marie was alarmed. “Hush, Lucy, there is no need for that. You will only put more fear in their hearts,” she said and, having sat with them a while until they were quieter, she left them as the servants brought in their dinner. As she went downstairs to join the others, she wondered at the extent of Mrs Sutton’s suffering and thought bitterly, “And how could I have condemned her so? I, who should have been understanding and helpful to such a woman?”
Later that night, she talked long and seriously with Anna, who had come to her room before retiring. Jonathan had told her of Anne-Marie’s outburst of guilt in the carriage. Anna under
stood her distress yet urged her not to dwell upon her sense of shame.
“But, Anna, how could I have been so blinded by prejudice as not to even question my own judgment?” she asked and Anna replied,
“You were mistaken. I know you must feel unhappy, but think, Anne-Marie, it is far better now to turn your mind to helping them deal with this nightmare, especially the two girls. Think how much you can do to help them; that is far more important than pursuing your own guilt.”
She was still not content. “But how was I so utterly unfair? I am not normally overbearing and censorious.”
“Of course, you are not. I know that,” said Anna.
“Yet, there was I, prepared to expose and condemn her, with no evidence of wrongdoing. Oh, I shall never live this down.”
Anna smiled. “Not in your own estimation, perhaps, but in truth, the damage has not been great. I am sure when you have set out to help them, you will cease to be as severe upon yourself as you are now.”
Summoned by an express sent by Mr Bingley, the solicitor, Mr Hart, arrived at Netherfield, together with his clerk, a learned young man, very thin, and bespectacled but with a great many volumes of law books in his case. Mr Hart was a man well versed in the law and its applications, and Jonathan Bingley was sure he would give Mrs Sutton sound advice.
For over two hours, he was closeted in the library with Mrs Sutton, her elder daughter, Marigold, and Anna, before Jonathan was called in to hear what he had proposed. Mr Hart laid the facts out in painful detail.
“Marriages,” he declared in a grave voice, “be they happy or miserable, are very difficult to dissolve.” He described, for their benefit, “the three routes available, under the Act of 1857, to a party who may wish to divorce or be separated from a partner.”
In appropriately solemn tones, he went on, “There is a vinculo matrimonii, which allows for an annulment in the appropriate circumstances, which does not apply in this case; then there is divorce a mensa et a thoro, under which, in cases of adultery, extreme cruelty, or gross physical violence, a separation may be permitted. However,” he warned, in a most severe voice, “if that is chosen, there can be no remarriage. The third route involves an application to Parliament. This is a real divorce and the partners may then remarry, but I must warn, it is an extremely expensive and dilatory route to take.”
Mrs Sutton could scarcely wait for him to finish, to point out that she had no wish at all to marry again and wished only to be allowed to live separately and bring up her children in peace, free from abuse and harassment.
“In which case, ma’am,” Mr Hart intoned sombrely, “I should recommend the second course, which is also the least expensive. However, you will need reliable witnesses to the acts of cruelty.”
To Anna’s surprise, Marigold Sutton, not quite eleven years old, having sat through the ordeal holding her mother’s hand, spoke up and declared that she had frequently witnessed the violence visited upon her mother and brother by their father, and promised she would swear to it before a magistrate if need be.
When Anna, who had been deeply shocked, later told her husband of this, her eyes filled with tears again at the memory.
“To hear a child, for that is what Marigold is, say with so much feeling that she would give sworn testimony against her father was so appalling, I could not believe I was hearing right,” she said. Jonathan comforted her and told her that it was certain proof that the children were better for being separated from their violent father. He told her also that Mr Hart, before departing, had hinted that there appeared to be sufficient evidence to obtain a separation order on the grounds of cruelty and physical violence.
“It is certainly fortunate that she is not seeking to remarry, since that would have been a good deal more difficult and expensive,” said he.
Anna commented that any woman who had suffered as Mrs Sutton had done, in one marriage, was unlikely to be eager and willing to rush into another.
When Anne-Marie was told of Mr Hart’s advice to Lucy Sutton, she expressed her satisfaction but asked what was to be done in the meanwhile to secure the safety of Mrs Sutton and her children. Anna, who had already discussed the matter with her husband, replied, “They would have to remain under your father’s protection, if only to spare them the indignity of harassment, until the separation is granted. I have suggested that they should be allowed the use of the vacant cottage at Abbotsford, which lies within the estate and is close enough to afford her and her girls some security, since it is situated in close proximity to the home of Mr Bowles,” she explained, adding, “Mr Bowles has been over to Longbourn today and there has been no sign of Mr Sutton or the private detective, which is good news.”
Anne-Marie was pleased. She had some good news of her own to add: “I have been talking with young Marigold; she is very interested in the children’s hospital and wishes to help. She says when she is older she would very much wish to train as a nurse!”
Anna was delighted. “That is excellent news; it will mean that the girl will have something to occupy her and, if she is to help you, Mrs Sutton will not have to worry about her at all,” she said and Anne-Marie agreed. “She is hardworking and sensible, too, which is a great start. Both girls have offered to help me make posters for our campaign.”
It was clear that Anne-Marie had taken Anna’s advice seriously and was throwing herself enthusiastically into the task of helping the two girls recover from the shock and fear of the past week. Mrs Sutton would be most grateful, too. It meant she could continue to teach at Longbourn, knowing her girls were safely occupied.
Anna felt deeply for her; being happily married herself, it was most depressing to encounter the pain and bitterness of broken marriage that afflicted Lucy Sutton and her children. She felt a deep sense of gratitude to her own husband, as well a strong desire to help those less fortunate who had been hurt. The knowledge that her husband shared this sense of responsibility gave her great satisfaction.
The removal of the Suttons from Netherfield House to the cottage at Abbotsford coincided with the return of Charles Bingley and Colin Elliot to the district. The two men had met several times in London and appeared to have become firm friends, despite the fact that their political loyalties were to opposite sides of the house. They were dining at Netherfield House when this was commented upon and Charles laughed heartily, declaring that he had hopes “by one means or another, of making a Reformist of Elliott, even if I have to perform some surgical operation upon him!”
Amidst much laughter, his friend retorted that he hoped this operation would not be too painful. “It would need to be performed upon the heart, would it not?” asked Anne-Marie, obviously intending her remark to be taken lightly. But Anna noted that Mr Elliott glanced at her quickly and looked surprised, even hurt, by the taunt.
She spoke quickly, hoping to assuage his distress. “Come now, that is unfair. I do not think there is anything lacking in the quality of Mr Elliott’s heart, which I know is not only compassionate, but is well disposed towards Reform already,” she said, to which Elliott replied gratefully, “Indeed, ma’am, I thank you for your kind defence of my heart. Should you care to ask any of my colleagues in the Tory Party, or indeed my own father, you will learn that most of them believe I lean too far towards the Liberals.”
“Indeed?” said Jonathan Bingley, sensing the need to steer the conversation into safer waters, “On what particular matters?”
“Well, sir, I suppose it would be mainly on matters relating to Parliamentary reform. I support the principles that Mr Bright and Mr Gladstone wish to enshrine in a new Reform Bill; I am astonished to hear it will be defeated by the Whigs who will vote it down.”
“Those infernal Adullamites,” said Jonathan, clearly irritated. “Mr Elliott, there are men in our party of whom I sometimes despair.”
“If it were introduced, would you vote to pass it?” asked Anna.
“Certainly, Mrs Bingley,” Elliott replied.
“Even if it meant crossing
the floor?” interjected Anne-Marie, who had remained silent since her unhappy remark.
“Even so, Mrs Bradshaw. I know it will do my political career no good at all, but it is a matter of principle; I could not vote in the Commons to deny ordinary working men the right to vote for their Member of Parliament.”
In a gentler tone, Anne-Marie asked, “Then surely, you would not oppose giving women the vote?”
Elliott, though taken aback somewhat, answered her directly, “No indeed, I would not, though I confess I am unaware of any such proposition in the Parliament at this time.”
“I meant as a matter of principle, Mr Elliott,” she persisted, a subtle inflection in her voice, leaving no doubt as to her meaning.
“Absolutely not, Mrs Bradshaw; it is my strong conviction that all adult citizens should have the right to vote; I can find no argument to justify denying it to one section of our community, solely on the grounds that they are not men!” he said, and everyone laughed including Anne-Marie. Charles rubbed it in, teasing his friend, pointing out that it was easy to support a proposition when there was no possibility of it being introduced into the Parliament in the foreseeable future.
But this time, to Elliott’s surprise, Anne-Marie came to his defence, “If Mr Elliott says he will support it in the future, we must believe him, Charles. Indeed that makes him a good deal more of a Reformist than many of the Whigs sitting in the Parliament today, does it not, Papa?”
Jonathan smiled and agreed, adding that he was not at all surprised to hear Mr Elliott’s views. “In my conversations with him, I have found him to be far more enlightened in his opinions than most Tories I have known. Indeed, I have wondered what Sir Paul Elliott may have to say when he hears his speeches in the Commons.”
As the company broke into laughter and the port was placed upon the table, the ladies rose and withdrew.
The Ladies of Longbourn Page 12