Mercifully, no one, not even Mrs Sutton, who was most aggrieved, had had the heart to blame Rosie.
Suddenly, she remembered and spoke up, “I remember now,” she said, “that’s why I was so cold—he took my shawl to wrap around the little one. I was standing in the doorway calling out to them, asking where they were going, and I said, “Mind you don’t go letting them catch cold. And the man, not Mr Sutton, the other one, he came back and ripped my shawl off me and put it around her. I didn’t mind; poor little thing, I could see she was cold.”
Harriet immediately asked for details of the shawl and wrote it all down. “The police will need to know about the shawl; it may help identify the children, if they had stopped at an inn for the night,” she said.
Anne-Marie was very grateful for Harriet’s calm, sensible presence. Poor Mrs Sutton began to weep again and Anne-Marie felt her head starting to throb; if only her father and Anna were home, she thought. Yet she knew they were not expected back until the end of the week, and even if she could send a message to Pemberley, they were two days’ journey from Netherfield.
It was in the small hours of the morning they heard a vehicle returning, the horses racing along the road before turning into the drive leading to the house. Anne-Marie and Harriet were at the door as the carriage drew up and Mr Elliott alighted and was admitted to the hall.
As Anne-Marie went to him, Mrs Sutton ran towards them, pleading for news of her children. Colin Elliott did not present a picture of great optimism, but he did have some good news for them. He had been to the police and they had revealed that they had been warned of the presence in Meryton of a notorious villain.
“He comes from London and had been seen in the area for a week or more, with another man, whose identity was a mystery to the police. Obviously it was Mr Sutton; so they now have names and descriptions for both kidnappers and they are going to be looking for them,” he said.
“Where will they look?” asked Anne-Marie.
“All possible places between Meryton and London,” he replied.
“What about Mr Tillyard? Was he able to help?” she asked. Colin Elliott looked very pleased.
“Indeed he was, though I must confess I was unsure at first, but, as usual, Tillyard has come up trumps. He was very eager to help track down the men, because his reporters had received information about one of them. It would seem he is quite a blackguard, responsible for extortion and assaults all over the country. There is a reward out for his capture and two of Tillyard’s men have been on his track, hoping to get some of the money themselves. When I explained what had happened with Mrs Sutton’s children, Tillyard sent for them at once and ordered them to find the men. What they need is some information about Mr Sutton, his full name, last known address, a likeness if you have one, and anything else that may help identify him and the children.”
Turning to Mrs Sutton, he spoke gently, conscious of her grief. “Mrs Sutton, may I make a suggestion? If you would take my carriage and go over to your house, perhaps with one of the ladies, and get some of this information together, I could take it to Tillyard in the morning.”
Bravely, Lucy Sutton agreed to go, with Harriet Greene, who had volunteered to accompany her. “Thank you. Mr Elliott, I do hope you can find my little girls,” she said, as they made ready to leave.
“I shall be trying my best, Mrs Sutton, and you may rest assured the police and Tillyard’s men will all be working very hard,” he said.
While they were away, Anne-Marie stayed with Mr Elliott in the parlour, and in spite of the lateness of the hour, they set to work to compose a letter to her father, which Colin Elliott promised to take with him and despatch by express on the morrow. Sitting beside her as she wrote, he advised that she should tell Mr Bingley only sufficient detail to convince him of the seriousness of the situation and urge him to return.
“We do not wish to alarm or upset them, seeing they have a long journey before them,” he said. “Besides, there is very little they can do until they get here.” Then hesitating a moment, he added, “But wait, maybe there is a better way. Ask your father to go direct to his house in London; I will travel to town tomorrow myself and meet him there. Clearly Sutton and his partner plan to return to London with the children; they are unlikely to linger around these parts. It will be far better to concentrate our efforts in town,” he said and she agreed.
She was sure he was right. She was immensely grateful for his help; his presence was a comfort to her in many ways. She had not the time to contemplate how it had happened but, in the midst of catastrophe, Anne-Marie had discovered love. Without her knowing it, it seemed to have crept up on her and settled quietly in her heart. Later she would recall that whenever she thought of it, she was filled with delight, even in the midst of fearful anxiety and dread. She had, as yet, told no one of her feelings and longed to tell the man who had inspired them, but decided that this was not the time to do so.
Mrs Sutton and Harriet Greene returned with various items that might help identify the children and their father, including a very clear likeness of Sutton in a sketch of the family by an itinerant artist at Brighton. That put Anne-Marie in mind of a drawing Anna had made of the two girls, which stood on the mantelpiece in her grandmother’s room. It was a more recent likeness of the children and Mr Elliott assured them that it would all be very useful together with Harriet’s notes. His hopeful demeanour went some way to allay their fears.
When he was ready to leave, Anne-Marie went to the door with him. She was, by now, quite exhausted and seeing her standing in the hall, apprehensive and vulnerable, he embraced her with a warmth that quite literally took her breath away. “I give you my word, Anne-Marie, they will be found. You must believe that,” he said, and holding her close reminded her that he loved her dearly.
She was too overcome with confusion to say very much, except to thank him and beg him to take great care on his journey to London. Promising to send her word of any new developments, he went, leaving her struggling to understand an entirely new and quite bewildering array of feelings, such as she had never experienced before.
Harriet Greene came down to find Anne-Marie sitting alone at the foot of the stairs, “Mrs Bradshaw, you’ll catch your death of cold,” she said and urged her to get some sleep. Anne-Marie smiled and agreed that it was time for bed, but as for being cold, why, she thought, she had never felt warmer in her life. There was, however, no reason at all to tell Harriet, she decided as she went upstairs, clasping her happiness to her heart.
When Colin Elliott set off for London very early on the morrow, he had already arranged to send a man on ahead with an urgent letter from Tillyard to his two reporters, containing more information about their quarry.
He intended also to despatch the express letter to Jonathan Bingley at Pemberley and another to a friend at the Home Office, calling in a favour. Since the names of the two men involved in the abduction were known to him, he hoped to discover, by covert means if necessary, whether either of them had been before the police magistrates recently.
When he broke journey at an inn in the village of Barnet for refreshment, he thought seriously of writing to Anne-Marie, to tell her again that she must not worry, but realised it was more important to get to London as soon as possible. But, he could not bring himself to depart, without sending word to her; she had filled his thoughts as he travelled. He could still see her standing in the hall, pale and worried, though never weakening for a moment. In the end he sent her a private note, which was for her eyes alone, despatched his letters and went on his way.
At Pemberley, meanwhile, the weather had deteriorated and an expedition to the Peaks had been cancelled. It seemed they would have to entertain themselves indoors, which in a house full of beautiful treasures and a well-stocked library presented no problem to most members of the party. Anna whose love of Art overwhelmed her every other interest, had decided to spend the morning in the long gallery, making sketches of some of Mr Darcy’s fine works of art, whil
e her husband and his host were engrossed in a game of chess. They were being observed by Bingley, who found it all too difficult and kept looking out at the leaden skies, hoping the sun would come out again, so he could ride out to the horse stud at Rushmore Farm. He had noticed a fine young colt during a visit last Summer and was keen to renew the acquaintance. Perhaps, he told Darcy and Jonathan, he might indulge in some speculation and buy it as a racing prospect.
“Bingley,” said his friend censoriously, “you absolutely astonish me. Here you are, with little or no experience in trading in horseflesh, wanting to throw your money away on an untried colt. You are truly incorrigible.”
Jonathan sagely advised his father to leave the colt at Rushmore at least until next Spring. “He’d be two years old then and you would have a much better notion of his worth,” he said.
Elizabeth and Jane had retreated upstairs to their favourite room, overlooking the park, which was clothed in the fresh green of Spring. Engaged in the lightest of pastimes, they talked of their children, their grandchildren, and cousins. Jane, blessed with three beautiful daughters all content and happy, was looking forward to being a grandmother again when Sophie was brought to bed in the Autumn. Elizabeth admitted to being a little envious; her daughter-in-law Josie did not appear to want more children. “She claims she has her hands full with young Anthony,” she said, in a voice in which Jane detected some deep disappointment.
“I cannot believe that. Lizzie; are you sure she is quite well?” asked Jane. “It may be that she is feeling poorly and cannot cope with another child, just yet. She and Julian are both very young; surely, there is no hurry.”
“No, indeed, there is not. You are quite right,” Elizabeth agreed as she moved to the window. “Besides, I am told that Julian is always very busy and often late coming home from his interminable scientific seminars and college meetings. I do have some concerns, however, about which I wish to talk with…” but Jane was never to discover what those concerns were, for Elizabeth had stopped speaking and peering out of the window, reached for her glasses.
“Now who could that be?” she asked and, as Jane came to join her at the window, “It’s a man on…I recognise neither the man nor the horse…I wonder who he is…he’s just coming over the bridge and up towards the house. Jane, look there’s Bingley going to meet him. Does he know him?”
As they watched, they saw Bingley walk towards the entrance to meet the rider who dismounted and appeared to ask a question.
“Who can it be and what does he want?” said Elizabeth and, as she was about to suggest going downstairs, they saw Jonathan come out. Clearly he had seen the exchange between his father and the stranger and, whereas they had heard nothing, Jonathan was probably better informed, she thought.
They saw the man hand Jonathan a letter, which he opened as he ran up the steps, and when his mother and aunt came downstairs, they saw him standing in the hall reading it, with Mr Bingley beside him. “Good God!” they heard him exclaim, as he turned over the page, “I cannot believe this!” He had turned quite pale and both Jane and Elizabeth went to him at once.
“Jonathan, what is it, what has happened?” they asked almost together, fearful of the news he had received. “Who was that man and what news has he brought?”
Jonathan Bingley had always been a very steady character, calm and unruffled by crises, domestic or political. But there was no mistaking his demeanour on this occasion. He looked stunned. When he spoke, his voice was calm but his words struck fear into the hearts of the two women.
“Mrs Sutton’s children have been kidnapped.”
“What? When? By whom?” These questions were all flung at him simultaneously and Darcy, hearing the commotion in the hall, walked out to find them in turmoil, trying to make sense of the letter.
It took Jonathan some time to read again Anne-Marie’s letter, to which Colin Elliott had attached a note written from Barnet, apprising him of the latest news and looking forward to their meeting in London.
“It looks as if the children’s father is involved. He has made threats before, but I did not believe he would be so rash as to carry them out while they were housed on the estate,” Jonathan explained, reading to the end of Anne-Marie’s letter.
“Poor Anne-Marie, she must be at her wit’s end,” said Elizabeth.
“I must go directly to London,” said Jonathan as he put the letters away.
Mr Darcy, realising the gravity of the situation, offered immediately to put a carriage and driver at his disposal. “It will mean Anna and the children can return to Hertfordshire immediately, where I have no doubt Anne-Marie would welcome her back,” he said. “It must be dreadful for her, being on her own at such a time as this.”
Jonathan agreed and went at once to find his wife. When she heard the news and had read Anne-Marie’s letter, as well as the note from Colin Elliott, Anna Bingley was so shocked she had to sit down for several minutes before she felt sufficiently recovered to ask some pertinent questions about the condition of Anne-Marie and Mrs Sutton. Jonathan, armed only with the scant information in his daughter’s letter, could not give her all the answers, but did provide sufficient facts to convince her she needed to return to Netherfield at once.
“Anne-Marie must be seriously worried and very short of comfort. If you and the children go directly to Hertfordshire, you may be able to afford her some consolation and support. I think, my dear, we must make arrangements to leave at once,” he urged.
Anna agreed, “Oh yes, certainly, but what will you do in London? Do you intend to stay long at Grosvenor Street?”
“In view of Elliott’s note, he is best placed to inform me of the situation. I shall probably stay in town for a few days, at least until the culprits are apprehended and the girls found,” he said. “From what I have gathered, it seems Elliott has already done a great deal. As the local MP, he has called in the police, given them the evidence, and obtained the assistance of Tillyard at the Herald. I am amazed at how much he has accomplished in so short a time. He is now on his way to London.”
Jonathan was genuinely grateful to Colin Elliott.
“It must have been a great relief to Anne-Marie that he was present,” said Anna, as she gave instructions for the children to be made ready for the journey. She was sorry to miss the picnic to Dovedale, planned for a sunnier day, but she felt deeply for Anne-Marie and Mrs Sutton. Her husband was right; they had to return to Hertfordshire right away.
When they came downstairs, the carriage was waiting for them. They left with much sadness and promises that they would write. Having lovingly embraced his wife and children and settled them into Darcy’s carriage, Jonathan bade farewell to his parents and Mr and Mrs Darcy, before setting off for London in his own vehicle.
Once clear of the Pemberley Estate, Jonathan took out a second letter he had received from Colin Elliott. It had reached him two days ago, but not having had time to fully consider its contents, he had said nothing of it to his wife. Now, he read it through once more; Mr Elliott specifically addressed him as Anne-Marie’s father and asked permission to propose marriage to his daughter.
Jonathan was surprised by the request and the directness of Elliott’s approach. Though he had, on a few occasions, noticed an apparent closeness between them and the ease with which they drew together in company, he had attributed this to their mutual interest in the children’s hospital and other community matters. While he would not have been surprised that any man should show an interest in Anne-Marie, whose simplicity of dress and aversion to adornment could not hide her beauty, he was far less certain that she would encourage such an interest.
Yet Colin Elliott, being a man of some intelligence and dignity, would surely be unlikely to apply to him for permission to court her, unless he had received some encouragement. No doubt, he thought, it was a matter they would speak of when they met in London.
Anne-Marie had begun to keep a diary while staying with the Wilsons at Standish Park following Mr Bradshaw’s d
eath. A rather solitary and private young person, she had found it useful to record her thoughts and feelings at what was a very trying and painful time in her life. Emma Wilson had encouraged it, explaining how through her own years of unhappiness, she had found some consolation in being able to express her feelings in private and urging Anne-Marie to use it to relieve herself of all the fears and anger which had accumulated over a year and a half of an unhappy, debilitating marriage. This she had done to good effect and, while she did not write every day, she had continued the practice after her return to Netherfield, even though there was now no reason to feel hurt or angry.
Indeed, the recent entries were less pessimistic, though no less introspective and thoughtful, expressing her hopes for the future. Much of it concerned her work with the hospital at Bell’s Field, including an expression of her pleasure at being asked by Mr Elliott to manage the hospital when it was complete. She had been honoured to have him put her name up to the board and delighted when they agreed.
Her father and Anna had encouraged her to accept.
In the early hours of the following morning, unable to remain in bed, having been awake well before dawn, Anne-Marie rose and by candlelight, wrote in her diary…
How shall I recount this day just gone? I have not the words to describe fully the strange conjunction of events that have taken place, nor am I able easily to express my own feelings about them.
All I know is that I cannot recall another such day, not since Mama’s death in the accident on the road at Maidenhead. I remember then suffering shock, guilt, and profound grief for my family and especially for Papa. Today, it has been the same, trying to comprehend how this awful thing has come about.
Poor Lucy Sutton, I know she must blame me, why would she not? I blame myself. Had I not persuaded her to come to dinner, leaving her children with Rosie for the evening, had I not been so selfish, thinking only of my own feelings, this dreadful abduction may never have taken place. Mr Elliott does not agree with me; he believes that Sutton would have done exactly the same, possibly attacking and injuring Lucy if she had stood in his way. I do not know what to think; I only know I feel deeply sorry for Lucy and pray that her girls may be found and restored to her soon else I shall never forgive myself.
The Ladies of Longbourn Page 25