Netherfield Park Revisited

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  Emma, who set great store by the mature judgment of her husband, the man to whom she owed her present happiness and the well-being of her two daughters, agreed that he was probably right.

  She was even more certain he was right when, on the following day, an express was received for Jonathan from Charlotte Collins.

  It brought news that his mother-in-law, having received her daughter Catherine’s letter, was making arrangements to travel to London by coach and asked to be met at the inn, from where she proposed to set out with Jonathan for Rosings Park.

  Clearly, Mrs Collins had no idea of Amelia-Jane’s latest actions; she had assumed they would find her daughter in residence at the Dower House in Kent. Jonathan did not look forward to telling her otherwise.

  That evening, despite a threatening storm, the Armandes and Miss Faulkner arrived at the appointed time. Simply but charmingly dressed in a silk gown, Anna Faulkner was the cynosure of all eyes.

  Throughout the evening, Emma was intrigued by the effect that the visitors—and in particular, Miss Faulkner—seemed to have upon her brother.

  Gone was the gloomy countenance, replaced by an amiable manner which was both welcoming and attentive to their guests.

  Since they were only a small party at dinner, there was little formality in the arrangements at table, and Emma saw how naturally and easily Jonathan and Miss Faulkner entered the dining room together and were seated next to each other at the dinner table, leaving the Armandes to occupy the places next to James and herself.

  Not that this presented any difficulty, for Madame Armande was most loquacious and spoke well, despite her protestations of inadequate English, while Monsieur, whose English, though accented, was excellent, had no difficulty communicating with their hosts at all, and there was much to talk about.

  Their conversation was of Art and Music and the glories of Paris and Florence, which the Wilsons had visited on their recent tour of Europe. The Armandes hoped also to visit some famous English galleries and expressed great admiration for the work of Turner.

  Then, there was the Art School and exhibition, to be held in the Autumn. They had been busy planning for it, Monsieur said, “and Miss Faulkner is helping me; she is so good, I could not do it without her.”

  Madame Armande agreed enthusiastically, reminding her husband that “Monsieur Du Pont has declared that Mademoiselle Faulkner was magnifique!”

  Hearing her name spoken, Anna paid some attention and said, “Pray do not believe all that they say of me, Mrs Wilson; Madame Armande is too generous with her praise.”

  But Emma protested that she was quite ready to believe everything she had heard.

  “Indeed, Miss Faulkner, I cannot believe that any amount of praise is too much for one as dedicated to the Arts as you are.”

  To which Jonathan added with an unusual degree of enthusiasm, “You are absolutely right, Emma. You see, Miss Faulkner, as I have told you, my sister is always right about such matters.”

  With much protestation and even more laughter, complementing the good food and excellent wines, the conversation was lively and entertaining.

  After the meal, they withdrew to the larger drawing room, which boasted some elegant Regency furniture and a fine Italian forté-piano. Emma was happy to demonstrate the sweetness of its tone to her guests, but having completed a couple of short compositions, she turned to Anna and said, “Miss Faulkner, now we must hear you, please. My brother has told me how well you play.”

  It encouraged the Armandes to urge their star pupil and beloved friend to sing and play, a request earnestly seconded by Jonathan, who was seated beside the lady and rose at once to escort her to the instrument. With her usual lack of fuss, Anna obliged, playing first a favourite Chopin and then proceeding to sing a pretty French song.

  The Armandes were in near ecstasy, but in truth, her performance was so fine that even James abandoned his usual reticence and applauded, demanding an encore! Jonathan, who had not heard her sing before, was enchanted not just by the quality of her performance, but by the unpretentious simplicity of her manner.

  Totally charmed, he forgot the task he had been entrusted with and had to be gently prompted to turn the pages by the performer herself. It was a rebuke he seemed almost to enjoy, so readily did he apologise and make amends with greater attention.

  Looking on, Emma wondered whether her brother realised that he was in grave danger of falling in love with Miss Faulkner.

  Admittedly, he behaved with great decorum and propriety at all times, but everything about him, his attentive stance, his obvious appreciation and delighted expression, all revealed how deeply impressed he was with their guest. Surprisingly, Miss Faulkner gave no indication of being affected by all this admiration; if she was, she did not show it.

  Emma guessed that she might well have been pleased, as any young woman might have been, but she certainly did nothing to encourage it.

  As she remarked to her husband, she could not recall when she had last seen her brother in such good spirits.

  When their guests prepared to leave after thanking them for a wonderful evening, Jonathan was heard making arrangements to call on them the following day. The Armandes asked him to take coffee with them, and while Anna smiled and looked pleased, the only word to describe Jonathan’s expression was “blissful.” Not long afterwards, refusing more port and still looking unusually pleased with himself, he retired upstairs.

  Later that night, Emma wrote to her dear friend Emily Courtney.

  I cannot tell you how grateful I am for the presence in London, at Belgrave Square—no more than a brisk walk from us—of the charming Monsieur and Madame Armande. They are here to conduct an Art School and Jonathan has become very attached to them, which is such a blessing, since it distracts him from our present vexing problems.

  Staying with them for the Summer is Anna Faulkner. You will recall she is Maria Lucas’ youngest girl, who is recently home from Europe. Handsome and very accomplished in the European manner, she is much admired by everyone, including Jonathan. There is no trace of manipulation on her part, no deliberate encouragement or archness of manner. She is absolutely exemplary in her conduct and so, to all intents and purposes, is my dear brother.

  But if you saw them together, Emily, only a fool or a blind man would fail to read the signs.

  I wondered whether I should warn Jonathan. Here he is a married man with a wife who is threatening to destroy all they have built up as a family, and yet clearly he is in danger of losing his heart to a lovely young woman, who is probably unaware of the problems their friendship could cause.

  Should there be some gossip, should Amelia-Jane or the vile Arabella Watkins hear of it, the consequences for all of them will be catastrophic. The reputations of both my brother and Miss Faulkner may well be sullied.

  And yet, my dear Emily, recalling his previous misery and seeing his unusual happiness this evening, I had not the heart to spoil it all. Perhaps I was being too indulgent with my brother, but who can tell what lies ahead for him? This was a moment of innocent pleasure, and who was I to take it from him?

  ***

  Charlotte Collins had been deeply distressed by her eldest daughter Catherine’s letter. She had brought it with her, reading it often on her journey from Longbourn, and when Jonathan met her at the coaching inn, she got it out and demanded to know how he had permitted things to get to such a pass.

  With some difficulty, Jonathan persuaded her that the parlour of the inn was not the best place to discuss the matter and urged her into his carriage, which then set off for the Wilsons’ apartment.

  Mrs Collins expressed some surprise. “Jonathan, where are we going? Are we not going directly to Rosings Park?” she asked.

  Jonathan informed her that they were expected at his sister’s apartment in Grosvenor Street, where she could take some refreshment after her overnight journey from Longbo
urn. Charlotte was anxious to see her daughter and her grandchildren and was keen to ask about arrangements for travelling on to Rosings, when he started to explain the reason for the change of plan.

  As he spoke, in his usual quiet, restrained way, Charlotte reacted at first with shocked silence, and then, as it became clear to her that Amelia-Jane was proposing to leave her husband and family, she could not hold back the tears.

  To see his mother-in-law, for whom he had a great deal of affection and respect, a woman who had maintained her quiet dignity under exceedingly difficult circumstances while being married to one of the silliest men in Christendom, and to watch her weep, moved Jonathan deeply.

  It was of no use to try to offer comfort; he was just as miserable as she was about the situation in which they found themselves. Indeed, he could not trust himself to say much more and was very grateful when they arrived at the Wilsons’ and found Emma waiting for them.

  Though she tried with tea and refreshments to calm her anxiety, Charlotte would not be put off. She was determined to go to her daughter as soon as possible.

  “I must see her and speak with her, Jonathan. She cannot know what she is doing, she has no understanding of the consequences for herself, her children, and all her family of this behaviour. I must see her and make her understand,” she insisted and they all knew it was useless to argue.

  Fearing confrontation, Emma offered to accompany them.

  It was unlikely, she thought, that Amelia-Jane would remain recalcitrant in the face of her mother’s appeal, but if the Watkins woman was present, she thought it might help Charlotte to have an ally with her.

  When they reached the house, once again they were told that Amelia-Jane was out, but there to greet them in the sitting room, for all the world like the lady of the house, was Mrs Arabella Watkins.

  With an insolence that was quite breathtaking, she introduced herself, welcomed them into Jonathan’s own house as if he were a casual visitor, and offered them tea and cakes!

  Charlotte, refusing both the refreshments and the chair that was offered, demanded to know where her daughter was.

  “Mrs Watkins, I am here, having travelled overnight from Hertfordshire, to see my daughter. Where is she?”

  At this, Mrs Watkins, became rather officious and, affecting an air of specious self-importance, declared in an irritating, high voice, “Mrs Collins, Amelia-Jane is a very dear friend and I could not possibly betray a confidence. I can only say to you, she is out about her own business and …”

  Impatient, Emma spoke up. “Mrs Watkins, are you suggesting that my brother has no right to know where his wife is? I would remind you that this is his house.”

  The Watkins woman was clearly stung, and, being rather florid in the face, she looked very angry indeed.

  “My dear Mrs Wilson, I would not consider it the act of a friend to inform a lady’s husband of her whereabouts, if she were anxious not to have it known to him.” Turning to Charlotte, she continued, “And while I am deeply sorry for you, ma’am, and appreciate your concern, I fear I am not in a position …”

  Aggravated beyond bearing, Charlotte Collins interrupted her. “Oh, do stop talking such arrant nonsense, Mrs Watkins! Whatever claims you may make for your friendship with my daughter, my claim as her mother and Mr Bingley’s as her husband are far superior to yours. We are concerned for her safety, the interests of her children, and the good name of her family. I must speak with her and I demand to be told where she is, if she is not here in this house.”

  Though initially shaken by Charlotte’s attack, Mrs Watkins appeared to harden her resolve. Clearly determined not to oblige them, she changed her tactics.

  Softening her voice and speaking in a less pompous manner, indeed becoming almost obsequious, she offered to pass on a message to Amelia-Jane and urge her to see her mother.

  “Far be it from me, Mrs Collins, to try to come between you and your daughter, who is become such a dear friend to me in so short a time. I give you my word, ma’am, I will convey your message the very moment she returns and beg her to see you on the morrow.”

  Charlotte’s anger was obvious, but she was careful to control herself. “Can you not, at least, tell me when you expect her to return?” she asked.

  Mrs Watkins was even less helpful. “Alas, I have not that information. Indeed, the only person who knows is Mr Alexander and the driver of the hansom cab, who conveyed them to their destination,” she intoned somewhat dolefully.

  At the mention of Alexander, Jonathan walked out of the room. He felt himself quite unable to cope with the information that his wife had gone out in a hansom cab, to an undisclosed destination, in the company of a Mr Alexander, of whom he knew nothing at all!

  Emma asked, “And who is this Mr Alexander?”

  Arabella Watkins smiled, a simpering, coy smile, and said in an arch voice, which left no one in any doubt of her relationship with the gentleman, “Mr Alexander is a gentleman of my acquaintance, who is assisting my friend Mrs Bingley with some of her problems.”

  “Assisting her? In what way and with what problems?” asked Charlotte, sharply, astonished by this new revelation.

  Mrs Watkins immediately resumed her role of confidante. “I cannot say exactly … I mean, I have no knowledge of the details. Mr Alexander is an attorney and he is very clever, indeed,” she declared.

  It was with the greatest difficulty that Charlotte restrained herself, and Emma said afterwards that she felt as if she would explode with pent-up fury at the sheer stubbornness of Mrs Watkins.

  With a final withering remark about the possible consequences of her behaviour, Charlotte Collins and Emma Wilson left the house, vowing to return the following day.

  They found Jonathan standing on the pavement, his face a study in abhorrence. So dejected did he seem that when they related the rest of their conversation with Mrs Watkins, he appeared not to react at first, almost as if he had lost all hope.

  Emma had felt her own expectations disappear as she realised that nothing they said would have any effect upon the obstinate woman with whom they had been confronted.

  Only Mrs Collins remained hopeful. “I intend to get my daughter out of the clutches of that woman even if it is the last thing I do,” she said with the kind of determination that had characterised most decisions in her life. In many instances, they had been very successful—like the occasion, after the death of Mr Collins, on which she had turned down Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s offer to employ her as a companion, deciding instead to open her own school for young ladies.

  This time, however, while there was no lack of determination on her part, the result would depend largely upon circumstances beyond her control.

  Emma, feeling unhappy and frustrated, continued her letter to Emily:

  Dear Emily, I do wish you were here, for we are all so wretched, we can do nothing to improve each others’ spirits. James is indeed fortunate to be away all day at the Commons, for we would not be good company at all.

  Jonathan and Mrs Collins are too miserable on their own to be any comfort to each other, and I do not know how I can do anything to help. It is too horrible to contemplate that Amelia-Jane will remove herself and the two girls, Cathy and Tess, to Bath, where she will continue to be under the influence of this appalling woman!

  Who would have expected such conduct from Amelia-Jane? Jonathan, I think, has had some inkling of this, but poor Mrs Collins is utterly distraught.

  I wonder, Emily, at the coincidence. Can it be possible that both Jonathan and I were so naïve in our judgment, that we both misread utterly the characters of the persons we married? I know we were young, but we were surely not both so foolish?

  I paid for my mistake for many years, as you know, and it is only thanks to my dear James that I retained my sanity. It seems that poor Jonathan is only just starting his purgatory …

  The appearance of
her brother at the door of her sitting room caused Emma to stop writing.

  He had only looked in to advise her that he was expected at the Armandes’ that afternoon and was just leaving.

  “I have promised to give Monsieur Armande my opinion on a few of the items he hopes to include in the display they will have at the Art School next month. I expect to be back in time for dinner,” he said, and Emma could not help wondering how Jonathan’s opinion was likely to assist someone like M. Armande, who was himself a teacher of Art! However, she said nothing, glad that he could find something to occupy himself at this anxious time.

  Continuing her letter to Emily, she said as much:

  I confess I cannot find it in my heart to begrudge him the obvious and, up to now, innocent pleasure he seems to get from his visits to the Armandes and Miss Faulkner.

  While we await whatever developments tomorrow may bring …

  She was interrupted here by the doorbell and the sound of voices in the hall. On going downstairs, she found Mrs Giles with one of the servants from the Bingleys’ place.

  An hour or so later, her brother returned, in the teeth of a gale which was stripping the leaves from the trees in the street and driving every traveller indoors. A sudden squall had whipped up the worst weather they had seen this Summer, and Jonathan, entering quickly to get out of the biting wind, found the house in uproar.

  A message had been received only an hour ago, relating that Mrs Bingley, Mrs Watkins, and her “friend” Mr Alexander had left London for Bath, leaving the two girls, Teresa and Cathy, in the care of the maid and housekeeper at Grosvenor Street.

  Mrs Giles, who was an old trusted housekeeper, had been very distressed and, having waited until the coast was clear, she had written a note to Mrs Collins.

  It had given very little other information, except to express her hope that “Mr Bingley or Mrs Collins or someone would pay attention to the needs of the two children, who have had no governess for over a week and are very lonely with only the maids for company—poor dears! It is not right that they should see neither their mother nor their father, ma’am, and they have not set foot outside the house since arriving in London. It is cruel indeed, for they are not to blame for all the goings on.” She concluded with a request that Mr Bingley should do something at once, for the sake of the children.