The Ladies of Longbourn

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  Mr Elliott, God bless him, has gone to London to try to discover where the children may have been taken and lodged. As a Member of Parliament, he has contacts at the Home Office and in the Police, which he means to use to obtain more information. He has been exceedingly kind to all of us and, even as I write this, I am compelled to stop and review my thoughts about him, when I think what his intervention in our lives may mean.

  Before tonight, Mr Elliott’s association with me seemed to be concerned chiefly with the accomplishment of certain aims, which we both shared. While I cannot deny that I had become aware of a degree of interest and even partiality on his part, I did not anticipate the depth of feeling revealed in his words and actions tonight, when he, in the most ardent and yet gentlemanly way, declared his love and asked me to marry him.

  I have not yet found the right words to tell him of my own feelings, but in this more intimate encounter, I have no doubt that he would have been able to draw some conclusions from my general demeanour. What could I do? I had once or twice thought it may come to this, but had not expected it would come so soon.

  I felt no embarrassment or inhibitions…no sense of impropriety, even though I had permitted him a degree of closeness, which I had not thought I could ever have countenanced with any man.

  What was it that let me, without any sense of outrage or immodesty, admit and if I may be totally honest, even welcome such intimacy? I do not know. I cannot explain it, except in terms of my own feelings, which I have yet to fully comprehend. Nor, in the light of his tender but totally honourable conduct throughout, have I any regrets that I did. Indeed, were I to be absolutely honest, I shall have to confess here, that never before in my life and certainly not in all the long months of marriage to Mr Bradshaw, have my innermost feelings been so deeply engaged, nor my thoughts so occupied by one person.

  He has said he loves me and I believe him. I think I love him, too, but to accept his offer and marry him, I shall need to discover whether the feelings, that overwhelmed me last night, are only a passing passion or the awakening of true love, without which, marriage would be a cruel charade, and that is a game in which I want no part.

  Anne-Marie locked away her diary and, noting there was now more light in the sky, completed her toilet, dressed, and went downstairs. She found herself alone at breakfast; Harriet had finished hers much earlier and Mrs Collins and Lucy Sutton had not yet left their rooms.

  While she felt no hunger, Anne-Marie forced herself to eat. Her training as a nurse had taught her that an empty stomach was no preparation for a difficult day ahead. She was halfway through her tea, when the doorbell summoned the maid, who returned with a note for her. Recognising the handwriting—it was Mr Elliott’s—Anne-Marie left the table and went into the parlour, which was empty. There, standing by the open window, she read it. Despatched from Barnet, where he had stopped for a meal, Colin Elliott had written two brief paragraphs, the first expressing with great tenderness his sadness at having to leave her so soon after he had first spoken of his love for her, with so little time to demonstrate the depth of his feelings. The second, begging her to take good care of herself and place her trust in him, promising he would not rest until Mrs Sutton’s children were found and their kidnappers brought to book.

  When he returned, he hoped she would have an answer for him, one that would increase his present happiness a hundredfold. It concluded with a most affectionate salutation, which caused her eyes to fill with tears and she had to rush upstairs to her room, where, having shut the door, she lay on her bed and read again the first love letter she had ever received.

  Her face buried in her pillow, her eyes closed, Anne-Marie surrendered to the delight that filled her, as she contemplated the source of her joy. She knew she admired him and approved of his principles, his compassion and strength. She esteemed his sincere, upright character and enjoyed his sense of humour. Now, if he could, by a simple declaration of love for her, arouse such feelings as these, she thought, she must surely be in love with Colin Elliott. There could be no other explanation for this tumult of emotions. She wondered if her father had received Mr Elliott’s letter and thought how he may respond. She hoped he would think as she did. She prayed he would not be set against them.

  Mr Elliott, on arriving in London, had gone directly to his apartment and immediately despatched a message to his friend at the Home Office. While awaiting a reply, he was visited by Thomson, one of Tillyard’s men, bringing news that the fugitives had been seen at an inn quite close to London; there had, however, been only the two men, one recognisably Mr Sutton, with his ruddy face and beard, but no children with them.

  “I think, Mr Elliott, sir, we’re on to them, but I would not want them to find out until we have discovered the children,” he said and Elliott was very puzzled.

  “Where on earth could they be hiding them?” he asked. “It cannot be easy to hide two little girls, if you are travelling; they get hungry and need to be fed, for a start…”

  “Indeed, sir,” said Thomson, “and when they’re tired and sleepy, they get crotchety, too. You couldn’t keep them quiet. We are still making discreet inquiries, sir,” he said and having accepted a quick drink, left assuring Elliott that they would soon find them. “We’ve got better sources than the police,” he volunteered and Elliott hoped he was right. He was deeply concerned that the children had not been sighted, knowing how much it would mean to Anne-Marie and Mrs Sutton.

  A note from Masters, his friend at the Home Office, arrived about an hour later, arranging a meeting at his club. Colin Elliott changed and dressed for dinner and went out to meet him. When Masters arrived, Elliott laid his cards on the table, giving him all the available facts including the latest from Thomson. He asked for information on both Sutton and his partner in crime; anything that would help track them down. Shocked by the story of the abduction of the children, Masters agreed to make inquiries and find out whatever he could.

  “If you cannot find me at my apartment, try Mr Bingley’s house at Grosvenor Street,” Colin Elliott said.

  Masters was curious. “Does Bingley have an interest in this matter?” he asked.

  Colin Elliott was immediately alert; he had no right to give any information concerning Mr Bingley. “No, not directly, but his daughter does,” he said. “Mrs Sutton, who is separated from her husband, is a friend of hers. Indeed, she was dining with Mrs Bradshaw at Longbourn when the children were abducted,” he explained and urged Masters to be assiduous and discreet in his quest for information.

  “If we are to restore these children to their mother, who is quite distracted with grief at the moment, we need to know where they have lodged them,” he declared as they went to dinner.

  Meanwhile, Jonathan Bingley had reached London. Weary and sore from travelling with very little time to rest, yet knowing there was no time to lose, he sent a servant with a note round to Colin Elliott’s apartment, inviting him over to Grosvenor Street. It was late, but Mr Elliott, who had only just got in, went at once. The two men greeted each other cordially and, despite the fact that they both knew there were important matters to be settled between them, they took time to enquire after each other’s health and exchange the usual pleasantries.

  Over the time they had known one another, Jonathan had come to respect and value Elliott as a principled and hardworking MP and a fellow Reformist, despite his Tory antecedents. They shared many concerns and hopes for their nation’s future and the improvement of their community. He had been particularly impressed with the expeditious way in which Colin Elliott had handled the negotiations with the Council and now, in this present peril, he appeared to have done everything that needed to be done with commendable speed. Jonathan was quick to commend him.

  “I must say, Elliott, you have been exceedingly prompt in all the things you have done; it must have been a dreadful shock,” he said, and Mr Elliott agreed. “It certainly was, sir; I was appalled, but it was the ladies who were most affected. Both Mrs Sutton and Mrs Brads
haw were absolutely distraught and I believe Mrs Collins was taken ill and had to be helped upstairs. I was very glad to be there and able to offer some assistance at once. I called in the police, who have been very thorough,” he explained.

  “What are they doing?” asked Jonathan.

  “They were able to identify the men with some help from the maid’s descriptions and, since then, they have been trying to track them down,” he explained and Jonathan thought he sounded hopeful.

  “Are they close to finding the children, do you think?”

  “Unfortunately no, Mr Bingley.” Colin Elliott sounded almost apologetic. “While the two men have been sighted on the road to London, the two children have not,” he explained.

  “What? How can that be? I thought Sutton wanted to take the children.”

  “That is what we deduced, sir, but while he may want them, he may not want to travel around with two young girls…”

  “Why?” asked Jonathan, puzzled at this conundrum, but, this time a thought appeared to have struck Elliott, who did not answer him at once, taking time to do some thinking. “I wonder…” he said, and then added quickly, “By God, I should have thought of that, Mr Bingley. It is quite probable, in fact more than likely, that the children are still in the neighbourhood, or at least somewhere in Hertfordshire, concealed, left with some family he knows. The last thing he would want to do would be to drag them along to London. Where would he hide them? How would he explain their presence? It would present a mighty problem.”

  “You are probably quite right, Elliott; indeed, I am sure you are. But how shall we be certain?” asked Jonathan.

  “There is but one way, sir. We must find Sutton or his henchman and confront them. Abduction is a crime; they could be hanged or transported if they are caught and charged,” he said and Jonathan thought it was not a very practical scheme, even though Elliott did sound very determined.

  “That could be dangerous,” he warned. “Had you not better leave it to the police? They are better able to handle these men.”

  Colin Elliott agreed that it could indeed be a hazardous undertaking, but explained that the police, who were busy solving murders and robberies in London and its environs, were unlikely to spend much time and effort on what they would probably regard as a domestic matter, a squabble between estranged parents. They may well believe that Sutton has the right to take his children. “I have asked a friend in the Home Office to provide me with some information,” he explained. “Depending on what he says, I shall decide whether to pursue the matter myself or leave it to the police.”

  Jonathan Bingley was very impressed with the decisive manner in which Elliott had acted. He had always had a problem with such situations, being loathe to become involved in confrontation himself. He envied Colin Elliott his sense of confidence and self-reliance. As Elliott prepared to leave, Jonathan said, “On another matter, Mr Elliott,” and Colin Elliott swung around at once. “I have had your letter; you say you love Anne-Marie and wish to marry her?”

  “With all my heart, sir,” Elliott said earnestly.

  “And have you any inkling of her feelings?”

  “An inkling, yes, based chiefly upon my hopes, I think, but I am yet to know her mind, sir. I was hoping to discover how she would respond, but this terrible business has intervened. I expect I will know her feelings when I see her again,” he replied.

  “You have spoken with her, then?” asked Jonathan.

  Colin Elliott smiled and looked a little sheepish. “I have, sir. I do apologise; I know I should have waited for your reply.”

  Jonathan shook his head and interrupted, “My dear fellow, you have no need to apologise. You are perfectly entitled to propose to my daughter. She is almost twenty-four years old and as you would know, a very independent young lady, with her own income. I made certain that she would not be dependent upon me, so I can hardly expect her to wait upon my approval, to decide if she is to accept or refuse you.”

  He was smiling and Colin Elliott indicated that while he was aware that Mrs Bradshaw was at liberty to marry whomever she chose, he had wanted to ensure that her father was made aware of his interest.

  “I understand what you are saying, Mr Bingley, but it would give me very great pleasure, and I am sure Anne-Marie feels exactly the same, if you would give us your blessing,” he said softly.

  Jonathan was moved by his obvious sincerity.

  “Of course you would have my blessing, if she accepts you. It is to your credit that you have sought my permission, but in truth you do not need it. May I ask, have you discussed your intentions with anyone else in the family?” he asked.

  Mr Elliott was a little puzzled by the question.

  “No, certainly not, sir,” he assured him, but Jonathan continued, “Good, now, may I advise you to speak with my wife Anna first, yes, before you return to Anne-Marie for her response. Mr Elliott, Anne-Marie is my eldest daughter and, since her mother’s death, she has been a source of comfort and support to her two young sisters and occasionally to me. She is very precious to us. But as you are aware, she was married for a very brief period. It was not, I regret to have to tell you, a happy experience for her. Indeed, it was quite the reverse.”

  Colin Elliott seemed troubled by his words and said quickly, “I am very sorry to hear that, sir. I had no idea. I learned only that she was widowed a year or so ago.”

  “She has not spoken of it to you?” Jonathan asked and Mr Elliott looked quite disconcerted. “No indeed, sir, I must protest; we have not discussed the subject of her marriage at all. Mrs Bradshaw has never intimated to me, by any means, that she was unhappy with her late husband,” he declared, with so much fervour that Jonathan smiled, pleased to hear him leap to Anne-Marie’s defence.

  “That certainly bodes well,” he thought, and said, “Well, in that case, I would advise that you see my wife and tell her what you have told me. Anne-Marie was seriously ill after Bradshaw’s death and it was not because she was mourning his demise; my sister Mrs Wilson and Anna helped her through those dark days. I think you will learn something about her, which you may otherwise never know, by speaking with Mrs Bingley,” he said gravely.

  Colin Elliott, still somewhat perplexed, agreed to do as he asked.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, holding out his hand, “I shall call on Mrs Bingley at Netherfield as soon as I return to Hertfordshire. Meanwhile, do I have your consent to my proposal?” he asked, still somewhat anxious.

  Jonathan took his hand. “I see no reason at all to refuse my consent; so long as you do not expect me to campaign for the Tories at the next election,” he quipped and Colin Elliott laughed out loud.

  “You may rest assured that will not be necessary, Mr Bingley. I have already written to my party, or should I say my former party, informing them of my intention in the next session of Parliament, to move to the cross benches, from where I will support the Reform Group in their efforts to bring about the important changes we need to make.”

  “Have you now? That is excellent news.” Jonathan was jubilant and shook his hand once more. “No doubt you have also informed my brother-in-law, Mr Wilson?” he asked and Elliott smiled broadly, as he replied, “I certainly have, sir. And I might say he was exceedingly pleased.” He went out into the night, where a thin drizzle of rain was making puddles in the street, but did nothing to dampen Elliott’s mood.

  On returning to his apartment in Knightsbridge, he found a message from Masters, who asked to meet him at the White Hart, which was around the corner. Fortified against the cold and wet with a drink, Masters confirmed that Sutton’s partner in crime was a returned convict, who was even now being hunted by the police. If he was caught, he would certainly be transported or worse, he said, and warned Elliott not to confront him.

  “He’s a thug and a bully, with a very bad reputation for battering his victims. Do watch your step and try not to cross him. If I were you, I’d let the police deal with him.”

  Elliott thanked his friend f
or the information and the warning, before they shook hands and parted.

  Outside his apartment, Thomson was waiting for him, huddled in the doorway, trying to keep out of the rain, which was heavier now. Elliott took him indoors and, once he was gratefully installed in front of a good blaze with a drink in his hand, he revealed that Sutton’s partner in crime had been arrested by the police for disorderly behaviour in a public house. Thomson had discovered that he was Baines, a convict in trouble again with the law, thereby confirming Masters’s story.

  “From what I hear, he’s a nasty piece of work, sir, without much mercy for his victims. I’m told he has been evading the police for several months. Now, he’s back in custody.”

  While this development may bode well for the general populace, since it took one dangerous villain out of society, it rather threw their own plans into disarray, since being inside, Baines could no longer lead them to Sutton and the children.

  Elliott revealed to Thomson, his own belief that Sutton had probably not brought the children to London at all, but had lodged them with someone in Hertfordshire, intending to lie low for a while, before going back to get them. Thomson agreed. This would surely account for the fact that while there had been two sightings of the men, no one had seen two children with them, he said. “I’m afraid, sir, we seem to have travelled to London on a fool’s errand; looks like it’s going to be back to Hertfordshire and a bit more digging around Meryton and its environs.”

  Mr Elliott nodded; he was very tired and in need of sleep.