“The fellows who told them had often been drunk or under the influence of ganja, a most potent local weed, which the native Indians could inhale with only a somewhat soporific effect, but when Englishmen indulged, it would drive them crazy,” he explained. “It was only a temporary condition, though, and there was not much harm done, except to a man’s dignity, of course. The Indians had no respect for you at all, if you had made a fool of yourself,” he said.
Simon Lucas pressed on, however, determined to know what particular horrors of the subcontinent had driven Mr Elliott back to England.
“Was it the natives during the Mutiny, then?” he asked and Anne-Marie knew he was moving onto sensitive ground. She was aware that Mr Elliott did not like to dwell upon the Mutiny and the dreadful deeds that were done by both sides of the conflict. She feared Mr Lucas might upset their guest with his questions. But she need not have worried, for Mr Elliott dealt with the matter very calmly, explaining that he had not been in India at all at the time of the Mutiny.
“No, Mr Lucas, to be quite honest, my objection was not to the Indian people, who mostly went about their own business. It was the poor administration and corrupt practices of the East India Company that decided me,” and as Simon Lucas opened his mouth in astonishment, he went on, “Their treatment of their employees, both native Indians and British was quite appalling, and their exploitative practices were abhorrent to me. They had made no effort to understand local feelings until the Mutiny erupted and, when it did, they could do no more than call for the troops, and the rest is history,” he said and, after this stirring little speech, it appeared that Simon Lucas had no more questions for a while.
The meal proceeded thereafter without further interruptions as everyone around the table appreciated the excellent food, thanked Mrs Collins, and sent their compliments to the cook.
This gave Colin Elliott an opportunity to address himself to a matter of crucial importance. With the advantage of an intimate dinner party, he had hoped that he would be able to discover whether a decision he had taken was the right one. Throughout the evening, Anne-Marie had been attentive and charming, quite the perfect hostess, in fact. When they moved to the drawing room, where a good fire provided a welcoming retreat, she was joined by Harriet Greene, who assisted with dispensing tea and coffee.
Mr Elliott noticed, with some satisfaction, that Anne-Marie had been exceedingly pleasant and even occasionally partial towards him. She had little to say to Simon Lucas, a fairly rough and ready sort of man; so it was really not surprising that she seemed to enjoy Mr Elliott’s company and turned to him for conversation. They had discovered, over the past weeks, many subjects that engaged their minds and appeared to require constant discussion between them.
After they had taken coffee, Lucy Sutton, an accomplished performer at the pianoforte, was easily persuaded to entertain them with some music. While she was at the instrument, Colin Elliott, who had been seated beside Anne-Marie, leaned over to ask in a low voice if he might have an opportunity to speak with her in private. Anne-Marie would wonder later why she had not been more surprised by his request. Perhaps, she thought, she should have been and yet, it was almost as if she had been expecting his approach. Having signalled her willingness, she waited for the conclusion of one piece of music, rose quietly, and moved to cross the hall and enter the library, where Mr Elliott followed her.
The room had been Mr Bennet’s favoured retreat; later Mary Bennet had made it her own with her piano in the alcove by the window. Since her death, Jonathan had had the piano moved out into the drawing room and refurbished the library, returning it to its original purpose. It was now an elegant, comfortable room, fitted out with some fine pieces of Regency furniture and holding many of the family’s favourite books.
Colin Elliott had not been in the library at Longbourn before, and this occasion afforded him a chance to make conversation, commenting upon the charming room and the fine view of the garden from its windows. Anne-Marie was happy to accommodate him and sought to point out some items of interest that had belonged to Mr Bennet. But, as if aware that they may not have much time, Mr Elliott having begged her pardon for what might appear to be an impertinence, revealed that he had written her father a letter.
“Mrs Bradshaw, I have for some time been contemplating the manner in which I should set about this matter. Each time I have reached the same conclusion, that I must approach your father first and obtain his permission to speak with you.”
Anne-Marie smiled. “Mr Elliott, why do you need my father’s permission to speak with me? I have long achieved my majority and have no need at all of Papa’s permission to speak with you or anyone else,” she said, gently poking fun at him for his gravity and decorum.
It took him a few seconds to realise that he was being teased and, responding in like manner, he smiled and said, “Pardon me, my dear Mrs Bradshaw, by that, I did not in any way mean to imply that you were still under your father’s guardianship. I am well aware that you are quite an independent woman and would not dream of suggesting otherwise. I was however, anxious to respect Mr Bingley’s position, too, not wanting to give any offence.”
Anne-Marie bowed slightly to indicate she had accepted his reason and then smiled to show she had not expected to be taken too seriously.
“And are you going to tell me the subject of your letter to Papa?” she asked in a quiet voice, “or must I wait patiently until he returns next week from Derbyshire?”
“No, indeed, that was my reason for asking to see you privately. I had hoped that this evening we would be the only members of Mrs Collins’s party and had prepared myself to ask you to take a turn in the garden with me before dinner,” he said, a little tentatively, and smiled before continuing. “Unhappily this was not to be, and I do not mean in any way to slight Mrs Sutton, but her presence here has introduced an obstacle I had not anticipated. I had, therefore, to take the liberty of requesting a private moment with you. I sincerely hope you will forgive my presumption,” he said, and her smile allowed him to believe that he was already forgiven.
Anne-Marie was seated upon a chaise longue to the left of the fireplace in front of which he had been standing. Now, he approached closer, regarding her with an expression of some intensity, and began to speak.
“Dear Mrs Bradshaw,” he said, “would you consider…may I have your permission…” he stopped, and then, suddenly, abandoning formality altogether, spoke in a headlong rush, quite uncharacteristic of his usual moderate manner.
“My dear Anne-Marie, I have discovered over the last few months that I love you deeply and cannot continue without knowing your true feelings. I have, therefore, written to your father to acquaint him with my intentions and seek his permission to ask you to marry me.”
This time, she was surprised, for while she had had a very good idea that his thoughts were moving in this direction, she had not anticipated the fervour with which he had spoken nor how swiftly he had decided to approach her and declare his feelings.
Clearly he was aware of this, too, and said, “I do not expect you to give me an immediate answer, but I do want you to know and understand how ardently I love and respect you and how proud and happy you would make me, if you consented to be my wife. Should you so honour me, dearest Anne-Marie, I promise I would do everything, absolutely everything in my power, to ensure your happiness.”
Anne-Marie was more than surprised; she was overwhelmed, not by the content but by the manner of his declaration. In an instant it had taken her mind back to the stilted little speech with which Mr Bradshaw had proposed marriage, offering her his hand and the security of his position and income. She recalled also, with some embarrassment, her own awkward response. Here in complete contrast was an unpretentious statement, an avowal of love, a promise not just of material security, but of all the happiness with which he had the power to endow her. It was spoken, too, with so much feeling, that she was genuinely moved.
Anne-Marie had never considered herself romanti
c, but she had longed to be told she was loved and found Colin Elliott’s simple, passionate declaration irresistible. It reached and touched her heart, which responded directly to his words. Thanking him most sincerely, she asked if she might have some time to reply, a request that was immediately agreed to. She promised that it would not be very long before he would have his answer. She spoke gently, unwilling to offend or hurt his feelings.
“Pray do not misunderstand me, Mr Elliott. It is not because I do not believe you love me, nor do I doubt my own feelings; but only because I need some little time to discover if what we feel is as strong and as enduring as it needs to be for us to marry and be assured of happiness.”
As she spoke, he had approached and was standing close beside her; his countenance reflecting the delight he felt at her words. When she stood up, he took her hands in his and, once more, Anne-Marie felt the stirring of emotions she had first experienced only the night before. She stood without moving away, letting him hold her. If they had been permitted a few more quiet moments together, it is entirely possible that he would have drawn her close and kissed her, as she had expected and in her heart, wanted him to do; but at that very moment, such a commotion erupted in the hall, as to cause them to rush out of the library in confusion and alarm.
They had heard a strange cry, followed by the sound of sobbing; in the hall were a couple of servants and Harriet Greene holding Rosie, who looking muddied and bedraggled, wept copiously. Stunned at her appearance and the fact she was here at all, Anne-Marie called out, “Rosie, Rosie, what on earth has happened? Why are you here?”
Simon Lucas and Mrs Sutton had both appeared in the hall, and the latter gave a sharp cry of horror as she rushed at the maid. “Rosie, what are you doing here? Where are my children?” she cried, in a voice filled with panic.
Anne-Marie felt fear grip her heart as never before. Rosie was incoherent; she stammered and stuttered and it was fully five agonising minutes before she could finally blurt out the terrible truth. The two Sutton children, Marigold and Lucinda, had been kidnapped, taken from their home by two men, one of whom was their own father.
“Oh, my God,” said Anne-Marie softly, in a voice heard only by Colin Elliot who was at her side, “what have I done?”
Concerned, he tried to discover the cause of her distress, but she was immediately involved in helping Lucy Sutton, who had fainted into the arms of Harriet Greene. Poor Mrs Collins, left alone in the drawing room, had struggled out into the hall to be confronted with what seemed like mayhem. By the time Anne-Marie had explained to her grandmother that Mrs Sutton’s daughters had been abducted by their father, Harriet Greene and the kitchen maid had carried Lucy Sutton to a couch in the parlour and were reviving her with smelling salts.
Rosie was still stumbling through her fearful tale of the two men who had forced their way into the house and, while she screamed and ranted, picked up the two girls and got back in their closed carriage. They had driven away, leaving her to walk a mile or more across the meadows to Longbourn to raise the alarm.
When Anne-Marie came out into the hall again, Colin Elliott approached her, but before he could offer to help, she spoke, her voice filled with the urgency of the moment. “Mr Elliott, I fear we have a most dreadful situation on our hands and with my father away, I have no one to ask but you, I am sorry…”
But he interrupted her, “Mrs Bradshaw, Anne-Marie, pray do not apologise. I am happy I was here, available to be of use. I shall gladly do whatever I can to help. However, we must first ascertain all the facts of the case. Your maid Rosie is still very shaken, but we must speak with her in private and discover the details of the incident.”
He followed her into the parlour where Rosie sat, still sobbing, so ashamed she would not even look them in the face. “Oh, ma’am,” she wailed as Anne-Marie approached, “I am so sorry, ma’am; I should have looked after the little ones better. I am sorry, I should not have opened the door when they knocked. I am sorry, ma’am; I have let you down, whatever will my mother say?”
It was Harriet Greene who took her in hand and comforted her with a cup of hot, sweet tea. When she had done with weeping, Rosie sat down and slowly, haltingly told the tale, while poor Lucy Sutton, who had recently been revived, broke down and wept again, as she learned how her children had been taken. They listened as Rosie told it…
Shortly before eight, after the children had finished their supper, there had been a knock on the door. When she called out, “Who is it?” a muffled reply had caused her to open it a mere crack to check who was calling. She had been pushed aside and two men had entered.
“They were both very big, ma’am, and I would not have known them at all, except that Miss Marigold and her sister called out to their father, “Papa, Papa,” and ran to him. They seemed happy to see him, ma’am.”
There was more weeping from Mrs Sutton and Harriet had to go to her again, as Rosie told how the children’s father had picked them up in his arms and, when his companion in crime had tried to bully Rosie, he had shouted at him to “leave her alone and come along.”
“Oh, ma’am, I am sorry I couldn’t do nothing to stop them; I was so frightened. Mr Sutton, he took the children out and when I went to the door, he slammed it in my face. Then he came back in with a bag and ordered me to go upstairs and pack some of their clothes and things. I was so afraid, ma’am, I did not know what to do. I had never been upstairs before. It took time to find their things and he was shouting for me to bring ’em down quick, or he’d come up and teach me a lesson…oh, ma’am,” and then she began to weep all over again.
Mrs Sutton, who had succeeded in sitting up, asked tearfully, “Did the children say anything at all?”
Rosie shook her head, “No, ma’am, I think they were struck dumb, like I was. Then as they were leaving I asked, where were they going and would they be back, and Mr Sutton just laughed. Oh, ma’am, I am so sorry…”
Rosie wept. She was feeling ashamed that she had not been able to stop them taking the girls away.
Anne-Marie put her arms around her. “Hush, Rosie, how could you have stopped them? It was not your fault.”
“It was my fault,” wailed Mrs Sutton from across the room. “I know I should never have left them alone to come here tonight. None of this would have happened if I had been home with them.”
At this everyone fell silent and the only sound was that of Rosie’s sobs. It was useless to contest the logic of her lament; Lucy Sutton was too deep in her grief to notice.
Amidst all this it was Anne-Marie who felt worst of all, knowing it was she who had invited Lucy Sutton to dinner and arranged to send Rosie to keep the children company.
“It’s my fault; I am to blame,” she whispered again to Colin Elliott, but when she had explained, he denied it firmly.
“You cannot take the blame, my dear Mrs Bradshaw, you could not have known what was about to happen. I believe they had it all planned and would have struck no matter who was at home with the children. Indeed, had Mrs Sutton been with them, what could she have done against two strong men? Had she tried to protect her children, it is more than likely, she would have been attacked and been injured herself. So please do not blame yourself, it will do no good,” he said, standing up and preparing as if to leave.
Before he did, he spoke more generally, “This is a very serious matter; Mr Sutton has no right to abduct his daughters from their mother’s custody. I shall have to inform the police and then I shall pay a visit to my friend Tillyard at the offices of the Herald.”
“The police?” cried Mrs Sutton in some alarm. “That will make Mr Sutton very angry.” There was abject fear in her voice.
Colin Elliott argued that her children may never be restored to her unless their abduction was reported to the police.
As he put on his coat and scarf, he said, “I shall have to hurry if I am to catch Tillyard.” Promising to return as soon as he had some news for them, he urged them not to lose hope.
“Remember S
utton is their father; he will not harm the children. We shall do everything we can to find them,” he said, and as Anne-Marie accompanied him into the hall, he kissed her hand, touched her cheek with great tenderness, and begged her once more not to blame herself for the calamity.
Then, he went out into the darkness and his waiting carriage.
Standing alone in the hall, Anne-Marie was moved by the calmness with which Elliott had taken the responsibility for dealing with the crisis. Not only had he comforted her and assured her of his willingness to help, he had also shown concern for Mrs Sutton and poor Rosie, who had both been desolated by what had occurred. It had been his idea to call on his friend Tillyard, whose investigative resources were much greater than any private citizen might command. She hoped with all her heart that they would be able to trace Mr Sutton and restore Lucy Sutton’s children to her, else she knew she would never escape the censure of their mother’s eyes.
“Oh, if only I had not persuaded her…if I had had the confidence to accept whatever that evening would bring, we would not now be facing possible disaster,” she thought, knowing that nothing anyone could say would change that perception of her own guilt.
None of the women at Longbourn could sleep that night, as they waited for Mr Elliott to return. Only he could bring them any news, good or bad. There was nothing they could do to improve the situation. Mrs Collins had been so upset by the news, she had begun to feel quite ill and when Harriet suggested that she may wish to retire to her room, she accepted gratefully and went upstairs.
Harriet returned later to keep Anne-Marie company and Rosie sat with them, still weeping intermittently, then drying her eyes and blowing her nose to relate some other detail she had recalled.
The women grasped at every bit of information and Harriet, methodical as usual, wrote it all down in a notebook. Rosie had been shivering from the cold when she arrived at Longbourn, having walked a mile or more across meadows in the dark. Yet at first, so afraid was she of being blamed for the children’s disappearance, she had forgotten why she had been so cold.
The Ladies of Longbourn Page 24