“The consequences for thousands of our troops and their families were absolutely appalling,” he declared, supporting Jonathan’s contention that, in the circumstances, no criticism could have been fairly levelled at Miss Faulkner for turning down Captain Lockhart’s proposal of marriage.
Staying longer than he had at first intended, Jonathan learned that Anna, since the death of young Captain Lockhart, had been unwilling to enter into any new engagement, though it was known she had had other offers.
“She seems apprehensive and disinterested,” said Kitty, “and since she has little interest in gossip and flirtation, finds herself left out of most invitations to picnics, parties, and such gatherings, making it even less likely that she would meet an eligible partner.”
Jonathan felt and expressed some sympathy for Miss Faulkner, who had struck him as a charming and intelligent young woman.
Although he said nothing more, he could not help contemplating the difference between her and some of the young women he had met in London and among his wife’s circle in Kent. Art or Music would have been the very last thing to engage their minds, which were filled with such fluff as to be quite impenetrable.
Some time later, on a visit to Longbourn, he was to learn from Miss Faulkner’s aunt, Charlotte Collins, that Anna had suffered deep remorse at the death of her captain, but had not let it blight her life.
“She busied herself with study and hard work, improving her mind and skills, increasing her knowledge of Literature and History,” said Mrs Collins, who had soft feelings for her niece, “and on my recommendation, her parents sent her to Europe to the Armandes in Brussels, where she proceeded to excel in Music and Art. Monsieur Armande is full of praise for her work. She seems a good deal happier now.”
All this, however, was to be revealed much later.
For the moment, Jonathan returned to Ashford Park, where he was not surprised to find that his wife’s headache was much worse and necessitated the postponement of their journey to Kent.
Casually mentioning his meeting with the Faulkners, he received two completely contradictory responses from his mother and his wife.
In the first instance, Mrs Jane Bingley readily agreed with his account of the family, speaking well of the good sense of Dr Faulkner and Maria, and recalling that her daughter Sophie had met Anna Faulkner in Paris and been quite impressed with her.
“I believe she paints, draws, and plays both the harp and the pianoforte,” said Jane, “and is a charming young person, as well.”
Amelia-Jane’s reaction was quite the opposite; she claimed she had never been able to have any kind of conversation with her cousin Anna, and dubbed her “dull and boring, though perhaps not quite as boring as her parents!”
Jane noticed the uncharacteristic sharpness in Jonathan’s voice as he retorted, “That a young lady should be called dull and boring merely because she has made the effort to improve her mind and cultivate some artistic skills is more than unfair, it is downright uncharitable!”
Adding her support, Jane spoke gently of the great value she and Mr Bingley had placed on education for their daughters. She would not have it put down, she said.
Amelia-Jane, unaccustomed to being contradicted in any way, decided that she would go upstairs and lie down, in the hope that her headache would go away. It was her way of declaring the subject closed.
***
Some days later, the Darcys were engaged to dine with the Bingleys, and inevitably, the subject of Miss Anna Faulkner reappeared in the conversation between the two sisters.
Elizabeth, wondering whether Jane had met the Faulkners recently, and hearing that they had indeed been staying in London only last month, within walking distance of each other, remarked that it was most refreshing to meet a young woman who seemed far more interested in pursuing her study of Art and Literature than in pursuing—or, indeed, being pursued by—young men.
“Would you not say that was a pleasing change, Jane?” she quipped.
Jane agreed, “Indeed, Lizzie, remembering the unhappy and often un-dignified scenes we have seen in times past, with our Lydia and even poor Mama, I would say that Miss Faulkner and her parents appear to be blessed with a good deal more common sense than most.”
As her sister smiled, Jane went on, “Lizzie, you will not be surprised to hear that Jonathan, on returning from Pemberley last week, was of the same opinion. He remarked that Miss Faulkner was surely very fortunate to have such sensible parents as well as the means to remain single, if that was her choice. He did, however, hasten to add that he did not mean to imply that Anna was destined to remain unwed, for, he declared, ‘Miss Faulkner is young enough and, certainly, handsome enough to marry and may yet do so.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Jonathan has certainly mastered the gentle art of composing a compliment to a lady, even if it is in her absence,” she said, adding, “But Jane, he is not wrong. As Mr Darcy pointed out after they had left Pemberley, the Faulkners can be proud of their daughter. Anna’s accomplishments and undoubted intelligence should make her a most desirable partner for a man of culture and good sense, but, were she never to marry, she would still be one of the most charming and well-informed women one could hope to meet.”
Jane agreed, and Elizabeth observed that Jonathan, on hearing Darcy’s words, had remarked, “It is surely better that young men and women should have the capacity and the courage to remain unmarried, unless and until their hearts and minds were both equally and deeply engaged.”
Elizabeth added, “I was just about to tease him about being so philosophical after the event, when I could not help noticing the grave, almost sad expression on his face as he spoke, and I confess, I remained silent.”
Jane said nothing, and Elizabeth continued recalling that Darcy had agreed with Jonathan. “He said he had seen too many unhappy unions in which rash, hasty, or worse, merely mercenary decisions had brought couples together, who would within a year or two discover the misery of incompatibility.”
“Oh indeed, Lizzie,” said Jane, “there can be nothing worse than a loveless marriage.”
Both Elizabeth and Jane, who had been singularly blessed in their marriages, could recall familiar examples of the type Mr Darcy had referred to, but though Jane had on one or two occasions expressed some anxiety about her son’s happiness, she had no knowledge of any particular problem in his marriage.
Elizabeth, on the other hand, had long been feeling some disquiet about Amelia-Jane and had sensed that Jonathan and she were no longer as content together as they had been. It was difficult not to notice the growing coolness between them, and she was concerned, lest it be a symptom of a deeper malaise.
However, despite her anxiety, she was reluctant, so soon after two weddings that had been celebrated with great hope of future felicity for their children, to rake up what possibly were the dying embers of Jonathan Bingley’s marriage.
Netherfield Park Revisited
Part One
1859
If Jonathan Bingley had not previously recognised that there was developing a serious problem that threatened his happiness and the stability of his marriage, he was certainly made aware of it as they returned to Rosings Park.
Throughout the journey, Amelia-Jane remained seated on the opposite side of the carriage to her husband, rather pointedly placing their youngest daughter Cathy, who was nine, and her lady’s maid between them. She also insisted that the blinds be drawn down on her side of the vehicle, so as to preserve her, she claimed, from suffering another severe headache on account of the glare.
Their two eldest children, Charles and Anne-Marie, had already returned to their respective educational establishments on the previous day. Jonathan knew that they, like him, were uneasy about their mother’s changing moods and uneven temper, for indeed, of late, she had changed greatly from the vivacious, light-hearted girl he had married and the easy-going, com
pliant mother they had known.
Jonathan was very troubled indeed; troubled and grieved. He had, at first, attributed the change to the loss of their two little boys, Francis and Thomas, born two years apart, both of whom had not survived longer than a year after birth. The terrible trauma of their deaths had affected all of them, but it had affected his wife more deeply and for a longer period because, with her elder children away from home and his own work keeping him busy, she seemed to find no solace at all.
Understanding the weight of the blow she had suffered, Jonathan had tried to reach and console her, but had failed repeatedly. Each time he tried to comfort her, she seemed to retreat even further into her own grief or break into heart-wrenching sobs. She was reluctant to talk of the children to anyone and, if pressed, would take ill and retire to bed.
Jonathan was too loyal a husband to breathe a word of this to his mother, who knew only that Amelia was still deeply distressed following the death of their sons.
The problem, however, continued to plague them and had recently worsened. Though devoted to his wife and family, Jonathan found it increasingly difficult to keep it to himself and finally sought his sister Emma’s advice.
The opportunity to do so presented itself quite fortuitously, when some weeks later, his brother-in-law James Wilson, a long-standing and dedicated member of the Reform Group in Parliament, wrote inviting Jonathan to dine with him at his club in London. He had, he wrote, an interesting political proposition to put to him.
Jonathan, who had spent some twelve years in Parliament representing a constituency in the Midlands, had left the House of Commons some seven years ago, tired and bored with the bickering and dissension that had, in his opinion, opened the way for the Tories and set back Parliamentary Reform for a decade.
Thanks to the recommendation of Mr Darcy, he had been appointed by Lady Catherine de Bourgh to take over the management of her vast estate and business affairs—a prestigious position which included a very pleasant house in Rosings Park.
Others may have felt that the task of reporting regularly to Lady Catherine and being on hand whenever she felt the need for congenial company was too high a price to pay for the modest remuneration offered, but Jonathan, being an amiable and easy-going young man, had not been unduly troubled by Her Ladyship’s demands upon his time.
The move to Kent had meant that Amelia-Jane, who had felt very isolated in Derbyshire, had found herself drawn into a new social circle, in which she seemed to find some enjoyment. There was also the very great advantage of being settled near Hunsford, the parsonage where her sister Mrs Catherine Harrison lived. Catherine provided invaluable support to Amelia-Jane when she needed help with the children, and, more than her mother or her husband, it was to Catherine that Amelia-Jane had turned for comfort following the loss of her sons.
Practical and mature, Catherine had been better able to cope with her younger sister’s demands. Jonathan had seen clearly the advantage of their situation.
More recently though, he had begun to feel restless; irritated by the superficiality of the social round at Rosings Park, he had begun to miss the involvement in politics and the brisk jostling of ideas in the public arena of Parliament. Which was why he had accepted James Wilson’s invitation; there had been a promise of something interesting to do.
James, an active member of the Reformists, had insisted that Jonathan should maintain his membership and interest in the party.
“You are far too young to give up on politics, Jonathan,” he had said. “We may yet have you back in the Commons, one day.” And when Jonathan had modestly pointed out that it might not be easy to get back in, James had laughed and assured him that “room could always be found for a good man.”
Jonathan was eager to discover the reason for the invitation, wondering what his brother-in-law had in mind. James Wilson had married Jonathan’s sister Emma after the death of her first husband, David, whose abuse and mistreatment she had borne secretly for years. James, who had given her a new lease of life, was a man of absolute integrity, and Jonathan felt sure he could trust him.
When they met, James was as good as his word. He was hoping to involve Jonathan in the negotiations following the elections, which had given the opposition parties a majority, but ironically, it seemed their disunity would deliver government to Derby, again.
James pointed out that some skilful negotiations were needed if the Conservatives were to be defeated in the house and, by participating in them, Jonathan could perform an invaluable service for his party and the nation.
“Just think, Jonathan, if Russell and Palmerston were back in government, reform would be back on the agenda. Is it not what you have always wanted?” he asked.
“It certainly is,” Jonathan replied, “but how could I or any other ordinary party member have much influence on the negotiations? Is it not for the elected members to realise they owe the nation a duty?”
“You are too modest, Jonathan.” James’ words were almost a reproof. “You do not know your own ability. You above all, with your commitment to reform, your eloquent powers of advocacy, should be involved in lobbying members and winning them to the cause. You would be best placed to persuade recalcitrant Liberals that it is better to have Palmerston in office concentrating his mind on Italy, while Russell brings down a new Reform Bill, than to have Lord Derby back again, kept in power by our disunity alone.”
James argued passionately and Jonathan assured his brother-in-law that his commitment to reform had never waned and, together with the excitement of a new government and the prospect of an active role in the party, the offer was very tempting indeed.
He asked for time to consider it, a request that was gladly granted with an attached invitation to Standish Park.
“Emma and I would love to have you to stay. Amelia-Jane and the girls too, of course,” said Wilson. “Stephanie and Victoria seem to be very fond of your Teresa. I believe they became good friends at Louisa’s wedding.”
Jonathan agreed that they had and promised to convey the invitation, pointing out that they would probably appreciate a change of scene.
For his part, he preferred by far the comfortable elegance of the Wilsons’ family home to the rather more ostentatious grandeur of Rosings Park.
The two men parted after a most satisfying evening, Jonathan promising to visit Standish Park very soon and have an answer for James. He left for the Bingleys’ town house in Grosvenor Street, where he stayed overnight, returning on the morrow to their home at Rosings Park. He was excited and pleased with the news he had to impart to his family. He anticipated a whole new career opening up before him.
But, if he hoped that James Wilson’s proposition for him to play a more active role in politics would be welcomed by his wife, Jonathan was due for profound disappointment.
After dinner on Sunday, at which they had exchanged little more than a few morsels of information of the kind that may pass between husband and wife at table, Jonathan accompanied Amelia-Jane upstairs, intending to tell her of Wilson’s proposal and his inclination to accept it.
Amelia-Jane had appeared to have recovered somewhat from the headaches and dizzy spells that had assailed her during most of the previous month. Indeed, he had been glad to see that she had taken to driving out in fine weather around the park and sometimes to her sister’s at the parsonage at Hunsford.
Jonathan had hoped that with this obvious improvement, she would be more receptive to James Wilson’s proposition.
But it was not to be.
In fact, it was the very opposite. Even the mention of a return to politics seemed anathema to her and she cried out as if physically hurt by his words.
“You surely do not mean to go back into the Commons! Oh, Jonathan! I could not bear it, if you did. I certainly have no wish to return to London and attend all those dreary charity fairs and boring garden parties again. It would kill me!” sh
e protested, tears filling her eyes.
Nothing he could say, no amount of reassurance that he was not intending to re-enter the Commons, that he had no offers of a seat, and anyway, the election was over—none of this seemed to penetrate her remorseless opposition.
As for the invitation to Standish Park, she viewed it with great suspicion as part of a conspiracy by the Wilsons to lure him back to Westminster. In vain did he try to point out that his role would not be as arduous nor would it keep him as busy as being an MP. She was unconvinced.
“I do not trust the Wilsons; Emma supports everything James proposes. I cannot believe that they would let you go once they have you back at Westminster. It will be exactly as it was before. I can see it, and do not tell me that you will refuse them, because I know how dedicated you are to the party. You will put the party before us, to be sure,” she complained, plaintively.
“Amelia, dearest, that is not fair. I have always put you and the children first; it was the reason I agreed to leave the Midlands and move to Kent. You know that to be true,” he protested.
“I know nothing of the sort!” she cried. “I recall very clearly that whenever there were debates and votes in the House, you thought nothing of rushing back after dinner, night after night, or staying overnight at Grosvenor Street, while we returned home.”
It was a litany of complaint and it soon became abundantly clear to him that it was of no use to pursue the matter any further. He would have to make his own decision and travel to Standish Park alone, for clearly, Amelia-Jane would not accompany him.
Later that week, their son Charles, who was diligently pursuing his medical studies, came to inform his parents that, having consulted Dr Richard Gardiner, for whom he had great respect and affection, he had applied to enrol at Edinburgh in the new Academic year.
“It does not sound as grand as Paris, I grant you, Father, but Dr Gardiner assures me it is the right thing to do.”
Netherfield Park Revisited Page 2