The Ladies of Longbourn

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  The talk around the table ranged from the American Civil War to the urgent need for reform of rural councils.

  “Most of them are dominated by large landholders and the country gentry, who have no time for democracy,” said Charles, and Elliott agreed; his own father kept a pretty tight rein on the local councils in Hertfordshire, where he had the largest land holdings of all. He was well aware that rural councils in England were still in need of reform.

  Happily, they discovered they were all in agreement about the American Civil War. President Lincoln had to be supported in his struggle to free the slaves and preserve the Union.

  When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, Anna was making tea while Anne-Marie poured out the coffee. She had had early hopes of discovering the extent of Sir Paul Elliott’s support for their hospital, but the matter had not come up at all during dinner, and she had not been sitting near enough to Mr Elliott to introduce the subject, without drawing too much attention to it. She was impatient to know, however, and had decided to approach Colin Elliott at some time during the evening.

  There was another matter, too, that she was very keen to mention. An opportunity presented itself when he came to her with his empty coffee cup, which she refilled. When he thanked her, she moved away from the table with him and said quickly,

  “Mr Elliott, I do apologise; I hope I did not offend you. My remark about surgery on the heart was meant in jest. I was not intending to suggest that you were deficient in compassion or sensibility,” she said and was relieved to see him smile.

  “I knew you were not, Mrs Bradshaw, and I took no offence, I assure you. But, I would not wish you to misunderstand my situation; while I am a member of the party, I am often unable to support some of the extreme views of my fellow Tories in Parliament. My father knew this when he asked me to stand for election to his seat. I made it quite clear that there were some issues on which I would not follow the party line.”

  She nodded and went on, “And may I ask, what was his response to the proposal to establish a children’s hospital?”

  She expected some evasive answer, for it was clear to her that he had no good news to impart, else he would have spoken earlier. But to her surprise, he made no such attempt, saying frankly, “Mrs Bradshaw, I have to confess that in this enterprise, I have had no success at all. My father is completely uninterested in such matters; he regards the health of the poor as a concern for charitable organisations, which should be left entirely to the local council or the church.”

  Even though she had expected it, the answer was deeply disappointing, “I am amazed,” she said. “Is he not a man of humanity? Has he no compassion? What arguments did you use with him?”

  Colin Elliott looked decidedly downcast. “All of the usual arguments about responsibility and compassion, social conscience and the rest; regrettably none of these has any resonance with my father. Indeed, Mrs Bradshaw, I was mortified; I mean if I cannot secure support for such a noble cause as a children’s hospital, what use am I to my constituency? I said as much to my father and left the house having declared that I was seriously considering resignation from the Commons.”

  Anne-Marie was aghast. “Mr Elliott, you will do no such thing!” she said, and he saw her eyes flash with anger as she spoke. “Why, that would be such a waste; there is much to be done and much you can accomplish for your constituents, with their support. It is not the consent of your father you need; it is the support of the people you represent and they will support you, if you convince them of the value of our project for their community,” she explained, speaking with a degree of warmth and zeal that he had not seen in her before.

  “And how do you think this may be accomplished?” he asked.

  “In the same way that my cousin Caroline Fitzwilliam and her friends won support for a school and a hospital in their part of Derbyshire,” she replied. “We shall apply to the council, of course, but we shall also take the matter to the people directly. If you help us do this, help us explain to the ordinary people how important it is for them to have a hospital here for their children, I am certain we will succeed. It is the only way.”

  Colin Elliott was transfixed by her passionate advocacy and offered his help whenever she needed it.

  “Of course I will help you in any way I can. What do you propose to do?” he asked.

  “Well, I think, tomorrow, I shall call on the man who produces our local newspaper, the Herald. He is a Mr Tillyard; do you know him?”

  Colin Elliott said yes, he knew Stephen Tillyard very well.

  “We were at school and Cambridge together. There is a family connection, too; our mothers were cousins.”

  Anne-Marie was delighted. “Well, there you are then; we shall take my brother Charles along, and you can both persuade him to support our campaign in his paper.”

  Mr Elliott was impressed by her energy and her grasp of the issues involved in their scheme. He had a few questions, though.

  “What about funds?” he asked, “We shall probably need several hundred pounds, maybe more, if we get no help from the council.”

  Anne-Marie seemed untroubled. “Once we have approval, we shall find the money. We must get over the first hurdle,” she declared and, seeing her brother approaching, she drew him towards them and left the two men together to discuss the matter, while she went to help Anna with their guests.

  Anna noticed the change in her. Despite her earlier disappointment, Anne-Marie was smiling as if all her hopes had been fulfilled.

  Their visit, on the following afternoon, to Mr Stephen Tillyard at his office proved more successful than any of them had expected.

  All three men seemed to get on very well together, Mr Tillyard being especially helpful and supportive of their scheme. However, while pledging support for the children’s hospital, he declared that what his paper needed was a good story.

  “Now, if we had something that would grip the attention of our good citizens and get them talking and worrying about the health of their children, demanding a hospital in the area, your battle would be easily won. Councils are becoming sensitive to the demands of their electors. A good story would stir them to action.”

  Charles Bingley laughed and said, “Do you mean, like a good epidemic of whooping cough or influenza?”

  “Exactly, but not with too many deaths, please. We cannot have them getting too depressed or they’ll forget about the hospital and sink into a slough of despondency!” he quipped.

  Charles stopped laughing. “Seriously, Tillyard, if what I saw in London last Winter is any indication, you may well have your story before long. Influenza is everywhere, the lack of sanitation, the overcrowding, poor public health services, it’s a certainty that many people will suffer from completely preventable diseases and the children are always the first to die,” he said and his tone did not admit of any levity.

  Anne-Marie, seeing that Tillyard was moved, intervened with a plea, “Mr Tillyard, could we not persuade you to write one little article, perhaps warning of the flu in London and its possible danger to our community? It would help to mention the fact that we have no public hospital in the district.”

  Tillyard, obviously convinced by the weight of the facts Charles had produced, as well as the appeal of his sister’s lovely dark eyes, seemed to consider the matter for only a few moments, before agreeing to include a few paragraphs in next week’s issue.

  They left soon afterwards, promising to provide him with all the information he needed, but as he reminded them, “It’s not more information I need, Colin; it’s a really good story!”

  A few days later, Anne-Marie was persuaded by her father to visit one of the improved cottages on the estate.

  “Mr Fairfax and the builders have worked very hard; I would like very much to have your opinion on the quality of the work,” he had said.

  Taking young Marigold Sutton with her for company, Anne-Marie set out to visit the Martins. They were a family well known to her; both husband
and son had worked up at the house and, according to Anna, their youngest daughter, Elsie, had shown a remarkable talent for drawing everything from farm animals to wild birds and woodland creatures. Anna had a small collection of her pictures pinned up on a screen in the upstairs sitting room.

  On approaching the cottage, Marigold remarked on how neat and tidy it looked, and Anne-Marie assured her that was exactly how they were.

  “All the Martins are perfectionists, from their grandfather down to little Elsie. They work hard and try to do everything right,” she said, as they reached the house.

  Expecting to hear sounds of a happy family gathered inside their newly improved dwelling, they were surprised to hear instead, the incessant crying of a sick child and on entering, saw the family gathered around a little girl’s bed, looking very anxious indeed. Little Elsie lay on her bed, her eyes red and her face hot with fever, while Mrs Martin tried unsuccessfully to hide her tears, as she tried to soothe the child, who was clearly in pain.

  Recalling all the lessons of her excellent training, Anne-Marie took young Marigold outside at once and said, “Marigold, I cannot be certain, but little Elsie appears to be very sick with a fever and it may be catching, so you must not go in there. Wait here for me.”

  Going back in, she looked again at the child and was soon convinced she needed urgent medical attention. She asked a few questions and when the answers confirmed her fears, she stepped outside and asked Marigold to return as quickly as she could to Netherfield House and find Dr Bingley. “Tell him he must come at once; Elsie is very sick. Now, do not go back to your house; you must stay away from your sister Lucinda until you have changed and bathed, and your clothes must be washed in boiling water and carbolic soap. We do not want little Lucy falling ill, do we? Now hurry, Marigold; it’s very urgent.”

  The girl raced away across the field and towards the road leading to Netherfield House. As she hurried along, she was overtaken by Mr Elliott, proceeding in the same direction. He was on his way to call on the Bingleys. He stopped and, recognising her as Mrs Sutton’s daughter, asked if anything was the matter. When she explained her errand, he picked her up and sat her down in his curricle.

  “You’ll be there much sooner this way. It is very important that you find Dr Bingley as soon as possible,” he said as they drove on.

  Charles Bingley was reading in the parlour when they entered and broke the grave news.

  “Did you see the child?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” Marigold replied, “Mrs Bradshaw said I was to wait outside; she thought it might be catching.”

  Charles shook his head. “Good Lord, I hope it is not scarlet fever.” He gave the girl instructions for her safety and that of her younger sister, called for his carriage to be brought round, and raced upstairs for his bag.

  When Colin Elliott offered to accompany him, he said, “No, you would just be in the way and probably get the wretched contagion yourself; I may have to remove the child from the house.”

  “Where would you put her?” asked Elliott.

  “Good God, I don’t know. We shall have to think of something. She cannot be left with the others, especially the infants,” he replied.

  Anna Bingley, coming in from the garden and seeing their troubled faces, asked what was wrong.

  “Oh, everything,” said Charles in an aggravated voice. “We may well have an epidemic of influenza or even scarlet fever on our hands! Anne-Marie has sent word from the Martins’ place that one of the children is very ill. We will probably need to isolate the child, but where?”

  Anna groaned, “Oh, if only we had a hospital,” and at her words, Colin Elliott leapt up as if he had been bitten. “That’s it! Stephen Tillyard wanted a good story, one that would get the people talking and demanding a hospital; well, he has it now! Charles, while you proceed to the Martins, I shall go on to Tillyard’s office and tell him what has occurred; if he can run the story, it may be just what we need to get the council’s support.”

  He was gone in a moment, driving briskly towards Meryton, while Charles Bingley climbed into his carriage and drove down to the Martins. He took somewhat longer because he had to take the road around the fields, but when he got there, he did not take long to agree with his sister. Little Elsie Martin was very ill indeed and, while it was not immediately possible to tell, he feared very much it was influenza.

  He had seen too many similar cases in the city. His first instinct was to isolate the child. Where? That was the problem. All of the improved cottages were occupied and even the barns were full after a good harvest. He was certain there would be more cases soon. It was Anne-Marie who suggested the church hall.

  “It is far enough away from the main village and yet near enough for the mothers to come in and look after their children. It is secure and we need have no fears of infecting anyone, if Mr Griffin can be persuaded to stay away.”

  Charles agreed and, while he gave instructions to Mrs Martin and the rest of the children about some simple precautions they could take to avoid the contagion, Anne-Marie set out on foot across the fields to reach the church, which was almost a mile away. She arrived in time to find Mr Griffin about to leave to visit a parishioner. He was plainly delighted to see her. “Mrs Bradshaw,” he began, “it is so good to see you,” but she had no time for niceties, pouring out the story of little Elsie Martin, knowing full well, he would take pity on them. The Martins were exemplary members of his “flock” as he liked to call them and Mr Griffin would not turn his back upon them.

  “I know I am asking a great deal of you, Mr Griffin, but we badly need a safe place where the children may be isolated and cared for, without infecting the others in the village.”

  At first, he seemed taken aback. The very idea of having several sick children in the church hall alarmed him. Then he heard her say that she and her brother Charles would be there for most of the time and he seemed to change his mind.

  Whether he sensed her desperation and felt some compassion for her and the sick children or whether he was attracted by the thought that she, whom he admired so much, would be there for much of the time, will never be known. Whatever it was that moved him, he did agree and with more eagerness than reluctance, it must be said.

  “If you are sure it will be all right, Mrs Bradshaw, and your father Mr Bingley will have no objection?”

  Anne-Marie assured him it would indeed be all right. “My father will have no objection at all, Mr Griffin. I promise you will have no trouble on that score,” she said and when he intoned some words about caring for his flock, she said, with genuine feeling, “God bless you, Mr Griffin,” and was soon hurrying back to the Martins.

  There she found her brother and Mrs Martin ready to move Elsie, who was by now complaining of a headache. Within the next hour, all their preparations were made.

  Mr Griffin had opened up the church hall and a few of the men from the village had come around to help with moving in some bedding and lighting a fire, while Mr Griffin himself brought round a couple of chairs and a table from the Rectory.

  Charles, having provided what medication and advice he had to hand, hoping to ease the child’s discomfort, left to consult Anna’s father, Dr Faulkner, whose experience was invaluable.

  Meanwhile, Colin Elliot had reached the office of Mr Tillyard and, finding him struggling to put together the next issue of his newspaper with nothing more exciting than the visit of the bishop for his front page, Elliot called out, “Tillyard, hold the front page, you have your story,” and proceeded to relate the story of little Elsie Martin and the very real fear of an epidemic of influenza in the village.

  “Now, if we had had a proper hospital, with a place to isolate infectious patients and treat them away from their siblings and friends, it would have been possible to prevent it spreading through the community,” he declared and seeing that Tillyard was interested, Colin Elliot provided him with a lurid account of what Charles Bingley had had to deal with in East London in the Winter.

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bsp; “It could quite easily happen here, if nothing is done. How many more children are to be infected? How many must die?” he asked dramatically and he had no doubt at all that Tillyard was impressed. He promised to give the story prominence in the paper.

  When he returned to Netherfield to inquire after Elsie Martin, Anna met him and told him that two more children, neighbours of the Martins, had been taken ill. “Anne-Marie is at her wits end, collecting old linen and blankets, because they will all have to be burned, of course, once this is over. I think she and Charles intend to spend the night at the church hall. Cook is busy preparing some food to be sent over later,” she explained, as she asked to be excused because she had a great many things to do. He immediately offered to help.

  “I could take things across to the church hall in my carriage,” he said and as he spoke, Anne-Marie coming down the stairs, her arms full of linen and pillows, heard him.

  “Thank you, Mr Elliott, I think we could do with another pair of hands, especially clean ones; so if you would step into the scullery please and scrub your hands and come over here, you can help me take these over to the church hall,” she said.

  As they worked that night, he could not but marvel at her energy and fearlessness. It was only when the three children had all been bedded down and given their last potions for the night that she sat down to rest.

  He remarked that she must be tired, but she only laughed and reminded him that she was a trained nurse who had tended hundreds of sick and wounded soldiers returning from the war.

  He wanted very much to say how much he admired her for the work she had done. He had heard, he said, from her brother that she had worked at the military hospital at Harwood Park for some years.

  When he saw her bite her lip at the mention of Harwood Park, he thought he had upset her, by reminding her of the wounded men. He stopped abruptly and apologised, even though he was unsure what he had said to distress her.