Anne-Marie warmed towards him, noting how much effort he put into detailing stories of people, places, and events for her grandmother, answering her questions without a trace of impatience. It confirmed her judgment that he was a genuinely kind man, who unlike many young men of today, appeared to be in no great hurry to finish his conversation. His attention to her grandmother who, she had to admit, could be quite pernickety at times, gained for him rather more than mere approval, almost her affection, she thought.
In the last week or two, which she had spent mostly at Longbourn, Anne-Marie had found herself thinking more and more of Mr Elliott. Not only as she had first done, as a useful ally, whose position and influence she had appreciated in her quest to gain approval for the children’s hospital, but to a far greater extent, as a valued friend. She had even caught herself, when alone, contemplating her own feelings for him. She could no longer deny, even to herself, that her attitude to him had changed since they had first met.
Anne-Marie was conscious of his interest in her, in everything she did and said. He solicited her opinion on several subjects, would pay special attention to her wishes, listened attentively to her views, and appeared to take them seriously. Frequently, he would discuss an issue and indicate later that he had changed his mind as a consequence of their discussion. Unfailingly, he was agreeable and appreciative of their time together. He told her so often, and Anne-Marie could not fail to respond to such appreciation.
There had been other occasions; when they had both dined at Pemberley, she had twice glanced across the table and found him looking at her with an expression that could only signify a keener interest. Though they had been separated by too many people to converse, she had been conscious of his eyes upon her.
Anne-Marie was not vain enough to believe he was in love with her and had certainly not, as yet, permitted herself to imagine what it might feel like to be in love with him. Not until reading Emily Brontë’s stirring tale of passion and tragedy, Wuthering Heights, some months ago, had she thought seriously about being in love with any man. She had never pretended to be in love with Mr Bradshaw and, while she enjoyed his company very much and appreciated his friendliness towards her, she told herself she was definitely not in love with Mr Elliott either, certainly not in the manner of Heathcliff and Catherine. Their passion excited her, but she had never known its like.
Anne-Marie knew women could feel deeply and love passionately, too. She believed that it must feel very special and was not unaware of examples in their own circle. There had always been stories told of the great love affair of her Aunt Lizzie and Mr Darcy, of course, and seeing daily the love that sustained her father and Anna, and having experienced at Standish Park the strength and felicity of the Wilsons’ marriage, she had wondered if such happiness would ever come her way. Following her experience with Mr Bradshaw, who had dispensed with the need for love in marriage, she’d had little hope.
She did not see Colin Elliott in that light, but could not deny, when she came to think about him, that she was probably finding more genuine pleasure in his company than that of any other man she had known.
His own behaviour had appeared to indicate that the feeling was mutual. So absorbed was she in her thoughts that she did not notice he had stood up when Mrs Collins’s maid came to take her mistress out for her usual walk, and was in fact standing in front of her.
Startled, she apologised, thinking he was preparing to leave, but he was only offering her his arm, so they may follow Mrs Collins into the garden.
“Would you like to take a turn in the garden, too, Mrs Bradshaw?” he asked. “I noticed a very fine laurel as I drove into the park; it appears to be still in bloom, which is unusual at this time of year,” he said and Anne-Marie, who had by now found her voice, explained,
“Oh yes indeed, the daphne; it was put in by my grandmother when she first came to Longbourn. She is very proud of it and tends it herself. Do you know much about gardens?” she asked, intrigued by his interest.
“I have always been interested in the art of landscaping and enhancing the natural environment. My mother was an enthusiast and the garden at Hoxton Park is mostly her work,” he replied, adding, “But, I must confess, I found the grounds at Pemberley quite splendid. I have never seen any place as beautiful before.”
Anne-Marie smiled. “I think that is a very understandable response. My father says he knows of no one who can resist the grace and beauty of Pemberley; it is the work of several generations, but my Aunt Lizzie tells me that Mr Darcy’s mother, Lady Anne Darcy, was chiefly responsible for the present design of the park,” she said, as she took his arm and went out into the garden, which was bathed in the light of the setting sun.
They talked as they walked, because he had plenty of news from Westminster and Standish Park, all of which she was very keen to hear. It was the last piece of information, he was keenest to impart.
“Mrs Bradshaw, I have been thinking very deeply these past few months about my future.” His words alerted her to the possibility that he was on the verge of some declaration and she sought desperately to forestall it. She was not ready for this!
“Indeed? And is it to do with your work in the Parliament?” she asked quickly and was astonished to hear him say, “Yes it is and how very perceptive of you to have reached that conclusion. I had not thought it was that obvious. Have you been listening to my constant grumbling about the Tories?” he asked, “Did you realise I was growing increasingly impatient with them?”
So relieved was she that he had not brought her out into the garden to propose, she immediately confessed to having noticed just such a trend in his conversation of late and added, “I do believe my father has mentioned it, too, Mr Elliott. He thinks you are wasted on the Tories.”
Colin Elliott laughed, appearing pleased at this information and declared firmly that he had been engaged all year in a process of self-examination to ascertain once and for all if he could credibly continue as a member of the Tory Party.
“As each day and each week passes, I see more of the pernicious influence of the forces of indifference and exploitation, which dominate the Tory Party, and no place for me amongst them,” he said.
Anne-Marie responded with a question, “And in all this, has there been one issue or a particular matter of importance, which has brought you to this conclusion?”
He replied with a degree of earnestness that surprised her and left no doubt of his sincerity. “Indeed there has been just such an issue, Mrs Bradshaw,” he said, “one on which I am confident of your support.” Seeing her puzzled expression, he explained, “You will see that my disillusionment is not the consequence of some idle whim, when I tell you that the chief matter of contention has been the issue of the climbing boys. Are you familiar with the matter of the little chimney sweeps?” he asked.
When she agreed it was an important issue, he continued, “You will be aware, I am sure, that Lord Ashley, the Earl of Shaftesbury, has for years struggled in the Parliament to put a stop to this vile exploitation of young children. Each time he convinces the Commons, the bill gets sent to the Lords, where it is cut about and rendered useless. It seems impossible to make some of these men understand the need for a country that claims to be a leader of the civilised world to protect innocent children from abuse.”
Anne-Marie moved towards a seat beside the fragrant bush of daphne. “I know you are not alone in your concern, Mr Elliott; my aunt, Mrs Wilson, has told me of Mr Wilson’s determination to support Lord Ashley, even if he has to cross the floor to do so. It is a matter of conscience for him, she says.”
Elliott was delighted to discover that she was herself well informed on the subject, but he added more fuel to the fire of her concern with a detailed report of the intransigent resistance to reform of those who saw no reason to legislate to protect the children. They had remained unmoved by the fact, that the practice of sending children as young as four or six years old up narrow chimneys to clean them, and even to extinguish
fires, had resulted in several deaths by suffocation. “I could not believe that Shaftesbury’s bill, which raised the age of employment to sixteen and which he had fought so hard to get passed, was being undermined by recalcitrant judges, magistrates, and even the police, whose job it is to uphold the law!”
Anne-Marie seemed stunned. “It seems incredible. Do they not have children of their own?” she asked.
“Oh they do, but their little poppets are safely ensconced in nurseries with nurses and governesses to care for them; a far cry from the little chimney sweeps, who are mostly got from among the orphans in the poor houses and apprenticed at four or six years old to master sweeps who will then abuse them in this dastardly way.”
By this time, his companion was quite overcome and tears had begun to well in her eyes, as she considered the fate of the little “climbing boys.” When he saw how she was affected, Colin Elliott stopped abruptly.
“My dear Mrs Bradshaw, I have upset you. I am sorry…I did not intend that you should be so grieved; please forgive me,” but Anne-Marie shook her head, reassuring him.
“Please do not apologise, Mr Elliott; I have heard of the suffering of these children before, from my Aunt, but I was reminded again, by your most eloquent words, of the dreadful brutality of our society. I cannot believe that we, who insist upon the right of grown men and women to be free and safe from persecution, do not extend the same right to defenceless children…”
As her voice trailed off and she caught her breath, he proffered a large handkerchief, which she accepted and used gratefully. “Your uncle, Mr Wilson, has declared his intention to cross the floor to pass stronger laws, which Shaftesbury has promised to introduce, and I have given him my word that I shall do likewise,” he said.
“Do you believe it will pass?” she asked and he sounded confident as he replied, “Once we have lobbied the Members and spoken both within and outside the Parliament, only men with hearts of stone will be able to oppose the measure.”
“And should you help pass the bill, do you suppose you will be in trouble with your party?” she asked, quietly.
He looked at her as he spoke and she caught the glint of rebellion in his eyes as he said, “What if I am? Am I not to be permitted to have a conscience? I no longer regard it as my party, anyway. It sides consistently with the forces of reaction, the same men who are opposed to giving working people the vote, who voted against the Factory Act which afforded protection to women and children in workplaces, and would have us support the slave owners in the Southern United States! How can I remain part of such a group?”
Anne-Marie could not fail to hear the outrage in his voice, nor could she underestimate the courage required to take the next step.
“Are you determined then to sit on the cross benches,” she asked and he nodded gravely as he answered, “I am and I shall support the Reformists whenever I see fit.”
“Would the Tories not place obstacles in your way?” she asked, anxious that he may be putting in jeopardy a promising political career.
“They almost certainly will,” he replied, “but I should feel I have at least done as my conscience demands, not just followed the dictates of the Tory Party.”
Anne-Marie turned to him and said, in a voice which implied both admiration and sincerity, “You are to be congratulated on your stand, Mr Elliott; there are not too many who will do as you have done. My uncle, Mr Wilson, is one, of course, but he has less to lose, being almost at the end of his term, while you are just at the beginning of your career and may find your path blocked by those who resent your intervention. But you have made an honourable and completely justifiable choice; the opposite position is, in my opinion, indefensible.”
Delighted by her response, he moved on impulse to take her hand as it lay in her lap and kissed it, saying, “God bless you, Mrs Bradshaw, I thank you. I am overjoyed to hear you say that. It is of no use to me to continue as a Member of Parliament, or even of a government, unless I was achieving some improvement to the lives of those who have no voice in Parliament.”
Anne-Marie, surprised and touched as much by his gesture as his words, gave him praise in full measure. “I believe you can be proud of what you are doing, Mr Elliott; the voiceless have in you a most eloquent spokesman,” she said and then rose, as if to indicate that it was probably time to return to the house. Her grandmother had gone indoors a while ago.
As they walked, he asked lightly, almost in jest, “And if I were to seek a change, in which direction do you suppose I might move? Would you care to hazard a guess?”
She smiled, relieved that their conversation had proceeded so well, despite her earlier anxiety about his intentions. “Well, Papa says you are almost a Liberal and certainly a Reformist,” she said, in an almost playful fashion, smiling as she spoke.
If by speaking lightly, she had meant to discourage him, her smile had the very opposite effect. So delighted was Elliott that he almost broke his resolution and declared his feelings there and then. But, he restrained himself and held back, determined to wait until he had spoken with her father. This he felt he could not do until he had first resolved the question of his political loyalties. Colin Elliott did not want Mr Bingley, a dedicated Reformist, to think he was courting his political approval in order to more easily obtain permission to marry his daughter.
Consequently, their conversation proceeded upon a more relaxed and lighthearted path, as they discussed matters of mutual interest, of which they were discovering more each time they met. After they returned to the house, Mrs Collins thanked Mr Elliott and then invited him to dine with them on the following day—Sunday, an invitation that was accepted with obvious pleasure.
That night, Anne-Marie was surprised and not a little annoyed with herself, when she found that she was experiencing a distinct feeling of disappointment, on account of the fact that in spite of walking together and talking quite intimately for over half an hour, Mr Elliott had not said anything that she might construe as a hint of his feelings for her.
While she had been very relieved that he had not made a declaration of love, she had wondered whether he might have shown some warmth of feeling towards her.
She was sure she had detected some degree of affection and concern in his manner and attitude, yet he had said nothing. She was not, of course, to know that Colin Elliott had struggled valiantly to restrain his ardour and suppress his desire to speak of his affection for her. He had determined not to do so, until he had her father’s permission.
For her part, Anne-Marie was becoming increasingly less certain of her own ability to comprehend her feelings for him. She had, for instance, felt a great surge of pleasure when he had complimented her upon looking so well; he was seeing her after a month or more and he professed that he had never seen her looking better. He had asked, with a smile, whether it was the very fine spell of Spring weather that had suited her so well, or was there perhaps another reason?
Anne-Marie surprised and suddenly rather shy, had mumbled something about the freshness of the air and thanked him for his compliment, but she could not hide her obvious pleasure. For a singularly beautiful young woman, she was unaccustomed to flattery and admiration, never having sought it and, indeed, for many years having actively shunned the company of those who indulged in it. That Mr Elliott’s thoughts, charmingly expressed, had pleased her was in itself quite extraordinary.
Then, there was the matter of his decision to leave the Tory Party and perhaps support the Reform Group. His espousal of principles of compassion and fairness had delighted her and she had made no attempt to conceal her joy, even as she urged him to consider the matter carefully, in his own interest. She knew too, that her father, Mr Wilson, and her Aunt Emma would be overjoyed, a fact that increased her own pleasure immensely. That he had chosen to confide in her, declaring his intention to abandon the party his family had supported for generations, had made her feel some pride and satisfaction, knowing that not many men would choose to speak of such weighty matters
to a woman, often not even if that woman were a wife.
Lastly, there was the moment he was preparing to leave, having accepted Mrs Collins’s invitation to dinner on the Sunday with such alacrity, that Anne-Marie had to believe that he was looking forward to being in her company again. As they parted, having stood a while at the entrance, while he thanked her and recounted his pleasure in her company, he had kissed her hand and said how much he would be looking forward to seeing her again.
Anne-Marie had had her hand kissed by other men, yet she had felt, on this occasion, such a sensation of excitement like never before. For a moment, she had wished, foolishly, that he would not let go of her hand, but would hold it as they stood together by the door. Foolishly, because that would have been quite uncharacteristic of him and unlikely too for she knew him to be a proper, gentlemanly sort of man, who strove always to do the right thing.
And yet she, who had always regarded herself as proper, even prim, had wished, almost hoped, that he would forget decorum, abandon his gentlemanly behaviour, and hold her hand in his, just long enough for her to experience again the tumult of feelings that had swept over her like an unexpected wave, leaving her breathless.
Nothing in her marriage to Mr Bradshaw had aroused in her anything remotely resembling the bliss of first love. It was unlikely, therefore, that she would instantly recognise the emotion. But Anne-Marie was very much aware that she had felt the first stirrings of something completely new in her young life.
At Pemberley, meanwhile, the families had gathered for the wedding of two favourite children.
Amy Fitzwilliam, whose early life had been blighted by the sudden death of a beloved brother and cousin and had suffered with her parents the almost intolerable grief that had swamped them, had retained a sweetness of disposition and a genuine goodness that endeared her to everyone. Intelligent and pretty, she was a favourite with Elizabeth Darcy, who had once hoped to see her wed her own son Julian, but it was not to be.
The Ladies of Longbourn Page 21