Jonathan was exceedingly pleased. Anne-Marie, knowing he placed a great deal of value on Mr Darcy’s opinion, realised that this would help fix his resolve. No one else said anything more on the subject.
Mr Bingley, who was in the happy position of agreeing with both his son and his brother-in-law, decided it was time to change the topic.
“Jonathan, do you intend to keep all the farm land at Netherfield together, or do you expect to lease some of the fields?” he asked, which was surely the beginning of a discussion from which the ladies could politely withdraw to the drawing room to talk of other matters.
Elizabeth was keen to discover Anne-Marie’s opinion of her father’s decision and to find out how she was coping with her work at the hospital. They had not met since her mother’s funeral. She had lived for many years in the shadow of a beautiful if rather empty-headed mother; now she was on her own, and a very independent young woman had emerged.
“Anne-Marie, I know that you must work very hard at the hospital; tell me, are they looking after you well at Harwood House?”
“Oh, Aunt Lizzie, they certainly are. Eliza is very kind and I want for nothing. I do pay my board, of course, but they will accept nothing for my lodging. Mr Harwood is such a generous man, you cannot believe how good he is. Why, shortly before I left to come to Ashford Park, we were collecting donations for the hospital’s Christmas dinner,” she explained. “There are many men who are either too ill or too badly disabled or disfigured to return home, and we intended to get them each a little gift. Well, we were short of about twelve pounds in all and, would you believe, when Eliza happened to mention it over breakfast, Mr Harwood took twenty pounds out of his wallet and gave it to her; it was his donation to the men’s Christmas dinner. We could not believe it, but Eliza says, although he is a business man and cares about money, he is also very generous and gives it away to charities all the time. Well, now the men at the hospital will have their Christmas dinner and there will be plenty of money for presents.”
Judging from her excitement as she told the tale, Elizabeth realised that Anne-Marie had very different enthusiasms and values to those of her unfortunate mother.
“And do you intend to continue your work at the hospital?” she asked.
“I certainly do, Aunt Lizzie. It is most rewarding work. Besides, we have heard that Miss Nightingale is soon to start a training school for nurses. I should love to train with her.”
Cassandra, who had heard a great deal about Miss Florence Nightingale and her amazing organisation of medical services during and after the war in the Crimea, added her voice in praise of the woman who had become the heroine of the Crimean War, leaving no one in any doubt of the validity of Anne-Marie’s claims.
“I do believe she has been invited to visit the Queen, who has expressed great admiration for her work,” she said.
“Oh, I do not doubt it, she is regarded as a heroine by the soldiers, who worship her. Many know they owe their lives to her work and the fight she put up to improve their conditions in the Crimea and afterwards in many hospitals in England. She is an inspiration to us all,” Anne-Marie declared, her eyes bright with enthusiasm.
“And will you spend Christmas at Netherfield?” asked Cassy.
“Oh yes,” she replied, “it is good to get away from London occasionally, and I am very happy to be spending Christmas with Papa and the girls.”
Jane remarked that Jonathan had told her of the changes he’d had made at Netherfield since moving there.
“I believe Miss Anna Faulkner and her friends from Europe have been very helpful with their advice on colours for drapes and furnishings and things; Jonathan tells me the changes have greatly improved the appearance of the old place. I cannot wait to see it at Easter.”
Anne-Marie was warm in her praise.
“Indeed, Miss Faulkner is very artistic. Papa speaks very highly of her work. He has seen it at the Art School in London and at Haye Park, her parents’ home.”
“Anna Faulkner is a very talented young woman,” said Elizabeth.
“She certainly is,” said Anne-Marie, “and kind. She was like a sister to me when Mama died and we had to break the news to Cathy and Tess, and everyone was feeling so dreadful. Poor Papa had so many things to do and Mrs Collins was unable to leave her room. There was only Aunt Emma. Anna was wonderful. Being Mama’s cousin, she understood how we felt. She was so patient and strong, I could talk to her about anything at all,” she said, and there were tears in her eyes.
Jane and Elizabeth looked at one another. They had not realised how deeply Miss Faulkner had become involved in the lives of Jonathan Bingley and his daughters.
The gentlemen rejoined them, and at first there was much talk of the readings given by the celebrated Mr Dickens, who having completed his novel about the French revolution, A Tale of Two Cities, was touring the country again.
A visit to the Midlands had afforded Richard and Cassy the opportunity to hear him read his own work, and as usual, everyone agreed that there was no writer in England today as good as Charles Dickens.
The usual request for music followed. This brought yet another favourable mention of Miss Faulkner when Anne-Marie, having played for them, rose and closed the instrument saying, “I wish I could play and sing as Miss Faulkner does. She has the softest touch on the keyboard. She has studied in Europe, of course, and has the advantage of it.”
This lavish praise of Anna Faulkner did not go unnoticed by Elizabeth.
Before retiring for the night, she mentioned it to her husband, who was less surprised than she had expected him to be, pointing out quite reasonably that Anne-Marie and Miss Faulkner had a lot in common.
“I would have thought they would be ideal companions for one another, Lizzie,” he said. “It will be good for Anne-Marie to get away from that dreadful hospital of hers and cultivate an interest in the Arts. She is an earnest and sincere young woman and needs to broaden her mind, else she will fall into the error of living a narrow, confined existence. She may well be dedicated, but not every woman can be a Florence Nightingale.”
His wife agreed.
“I think you mean she needs to widen her horizons and take an interest in things other than nursing?”
“Exactly, and Miss Faulkner, who is clearly a woman of taste and good sense, is probably the right person to encourage her in that endeavour. She will benefit from the association in the same way that my sister Georgiana was advantaged by her friendship with you, my dear Lizzie.”
Touched by his tribute, she sat down beside him and asked, “So you see a long association between them, do you?”
“Indeed, I do,” he replied with some enthusiasm. “They share similar backgrounds and values already. They are both intelligent young women with remarkable skills. One is involved in the care of the sick and wounded, while the other is an accomplished student of the Arts. Now Lizzie, surely they can only benefit one another. Their association is to be encouraged. I can see no dis-advantage in it.”
Elizabeth was wide eyed with surprise.
“Now that is praise indeed—from you.”
“Do you not agree, Lizzie? On what grounds do you disapprove?” he asked, teasing her, and Elizabeth threw up her hands in mock surrender.
“Oh no, I do not disapprove! Indeed, I have no arguments to bring against your proposition. I am only intrigued at its coming on so quickly,” she replied. “A year ago, they had barely a nodding acquaintance, yet now here is young Anne-Marie quite unable to stop singing the praises of Miss Faulkner on every occasion.”
Darcy laughed, a rather light-hearted laugh and said, “I see, so it’s the mystery of this sudden attachment that intrigues you. Well, my dearest, there are moments in our lives when we are particularly miserable and grateful for the kindness of someone we may fortuitously meet and make the focus of our warmest appreciation. If you recall what Emily came to mea
n to us, you and I, when we lost William, I think you will better understand how Jonathan and his daughters regard Miss Faulkner with such affection.”
Elizabeth knew exactly what he meant and fell silent, recalling sadly the days and nights of unremitting sorrow, during which her cousin, Emily Gardiner, had come to mean a lot to them, starting a friendship that continued to this day.
Having contemplated her deepest memories, she turned to him and said, “You are quite right, my love, I can see why Anne-Marie, reeling from the shock of her mother’s death, must have found comfort in Anna Faulkner. She is kind, and sensible as well; she must have been a Godsend at such a dreadful time. I know Charlotte was close to collapse. Poor Jonathan, Emma wrote to say, he bore it all with heroic fortitude. Emma did speak very highly of Anna in her letter, too.”
Then, in a quieter voice, in which changed inflection he detected the direction of her thoughts, she asked, “But do you entirely discount the possibility that some part of Anne-Marie’s enthusiasm for Miss Faulkner may stem from her father’s attitude? Do you not detect in Jonathan some degree of partiality to Anna Faulkner?”
Darcy smiled, amused that he had, at last, flushed out the question at the heart of their discussion and though, in the dim light of the room, she could not see his face very clearly, the laughter in his voice betrayed him.
“No, Lizzie my dear, I do not discount it, and yes, there may well be some attraction there. Indeed, if he is so inclined, then surely, the good opinion of his daughter must be a decided advantage,” he said, and she realised that he had probably known all along the true purpose of her questions, but clearly was unwilling to speculate any further on Jonathan’s private life.
Meanwhile, unaware of these discussions, or even of the interest his affairs were arousing among members of his family, Jonathan Bingley went to bed well pleased with Mr Darcy’s remarks on the matter of his decision not to stand for election to the House of Commons.
At least, he thought, he had one strong ally.
Just moments before he fell asleep, he wondered what Anna’s response might be and decided he would speak of the matter to her when they next met, which he hoped would be soon.
It was a meeting to which he was looking forward, very much.
***
When they set off from Ashford Park, after a week that had been restful and restorative to both body and mind, there were but a few days to Christmas. Travelling via London, where they spent the night at Grosvenor Street, and ensuring that their thoughtfully chosen Christmas gifts were stored with care in the carriage, they left to make the last twenty-five miles to Netherfield Park.
The weather in the south of England remained fine and in Hertfordshire they were even favoured with some hours of Winter sunshine.
By the time they approached Netherfield Park, however, at the end of a tiring day, it was almost dark and lights glowed in all the windows to welcome the travellers home. Passengers, coachmen, and horses were all weary, and the three young ladies asked for no more than hot baths and warm beds. But there was much more, for the staff at Netherfield House were determined that the Master’s daughters would receive a warm welcome to their new home.
As they drew up before the house with its wide, impressive flight of steps leading to the front doors, the housekeeper Mrs Perrot and the butler came out to greet them. When they were shown their rooms, there were genuine gasps of pleasure, even from Teresa and Cathy, who had become accustomed to the relative luxury of Ashford Park.
As for Anne-Marie, as the young Mistress of the house, she had the privilege of having a beautifully appointed Regency suite all to herself, with fine linen, fresh flowers, and a superb view of the park and the woods beyond. When her father entered the room some time afterwards, to say “Welcome home,” she turned to thank him with tears in her eyes.
For the first time in many years, she really felt she had a home.
No one was surprised when all the young ladies slept late the following morning. Mrs Perrot had given orders that they were not to be disturbed. Jonathan alone had risen early and left for his usual ride around the park. Returning later, and finding the girls still upstairs, he changed his clothes, partook of a light breakfast, and went out again, this time in the carriage, for he was visiting Longbourn, some three miles away.
Once at Longbourn, to call on Miss Bennet and Mrs Collins and offer them the use of his carriage to transport them to church on Christmas day, he was impatient to be on his way again.
At Haye Park, he called on the Faulkners, expecting to see Anna. However, disappointment awaited him when he arrived, for while Dr and Mrs Faulkner were delighted to see him, Anna was not at home.
“Anna is gone to her sister in Hampshire,” said Mrs Faulkner, urging him to stay and take tea with them, it being around eleven o’clock.
His disappointment was so great that he almost refused, but then realising that it was his only means of obtaining any information about Anna, he thanked her and stayed. Presently, tea was ordered, and Mrs Faulkner proceeded to give him the news.
“It was not two days after you had all left for London, we had a desperate letter from our son-in-law, Mr Martyn,—he farms in Hampshire,” she added by way of explanation, “begging us to send Anna to them as soon as possible. You see, my elder daughter Sarah, who is married to Mr Martyn, had been taken ill suddenly with a severe respiratory condition and could hardly breathe, he said. They have three children and my son-in-law was finding it impossible to manage. They do not keep many servants,” she explained and added, “as soon as Anna read the letter, she was eager to be gone to her sister. She was packed and ready within the hour, and Dr Faulkner took her to meet the coach at Meryton.”
Jonathan expressed some concern.
“Have you heard from her since her arrival in Hampshire? I do hope your daughter Sarah’s condition is improving,” he said, hoping desperately for a favourable answer, but none was forthcoming.
Maria Faulkner was not hopeful. She was a pleasant enough woman, but she had never been a very practical person. She knew little or nothing of what she referred to as “serious matters,” by which she generally meant politics, health, or money—all of which she considered to be strictly the province of her husband.
She could give him no information at all, except to reveal that they had received a short note from Anna, hastily penned between attending to her sister and getting the younger children to eat their dinner.
She said Sarah had been very happy to see her and begged her to stay as long as possible. Anna thought her sister was improving, with proper care and better food, but could not say when she would be well enough to be left on her own. Anna feared Mr Martyn was not very good attending upon his sick wife and organising his several children.
“He is a farmer, a very good one by all reports, but a farmer none the less,” said Mrs Faulkner, as if that explained everything.
Jonathan could not comprehend why a man who was a good farmer could not care for his sick wife or organise his young children, but tactfully said nothing. There were only four days to Christmas and Anna had been gone just above a week.
“Do you expect her home for Christmas?” he asked, a little anxiously.
“Oh dear, I do hope so,” replied her mother, but added as an afterthought, “I wonder how the Martyns will cope when she leaves.”
Jonathan was beginning to lose patience with the Martyns, a family he had never met but continually heard of, chiefly on account of their inability to do anything for themselves.
Anna had previously told him how her father was called upon to travel to Hampshire each time one of the children fell ill, to reassure them the child would recover.
Rising to leave, he thanked Mrs Faulkner for the tea and invited them to Netherfield House after church on Christmas morning, so they could meet his daughters. Mrs Faulkner was very appreciative and promised to convey the invit
ation to Dr Faulkner and Anna, when she had returned from Hampshire, assuring him they were all looking forward to meeting his daughters.
Sadly, that was all the consolation Jonathan had from her that day.
Returning to Netherfield, finding it difficult to conceal his disappointment, Jonathan found his daughters in a state of high excitement and was glad of the distraction. A party of carollers had turned up at the house to ask if they might come around and sing on Christmas Eve.
There was a new, rather strict young rector at the village church, they explained, who had insisted that they must not go round to people’s homes uninvited.
Cathy was determined that they must be welcomed at Netherfield.
She had never encountered the traditional carollers before.
“Papa, please can we tell them they may come round and sing for us?” she asked and, having consulted Mrs Perrot, who promised to have some food and drink ready for the party, Jonathan gave his permission. The three sisters then set off to tell the carol singers, who were practising at the church hall, the good news.
Jonathan watched them go, all eager and laughing together; only Anne-Marie continued to wear the traditional dark mourning gowns. Her young sisters had been dressed in shades of blue and lavender since leaving Ashford Park. His mother had pointed out that it was past six months since their mother’s death and surely the children could put aside their mourning clothes. Jonathan had agreed and had suggested to Anne-Marie that she should also get herself some lighter gowns while they were in London, but she had replied quietly that she would “wear these out until Christmas.”
Netherfield Park Revisited Page 23