I sincerely wish you and James the very best of health and look forward to seeing you in the New Year.
God bless you all
He was about to put his pen down and fold up the letter when, hearing a sound in the corridor, he went to the door and opened it.
Standing there, wrapped in her coverlet, was young Cathy.
“Why Cathy, my dear, what’s wrong?” he asked.
She looked up at him and said softly, “I wish Mama was here too, Papa. I miss her.” Sensing her sorrow, Jonathan scooped her up in his arms and carried her to her room, where Anne-Marie, awakened by the sounds, came swiftly to his aid and took her young sister to bed, comforting her and staying with her until she fell asleep.
Some days later, she wrote to her friend Eliza Harwood:
My dear Eliza,
If you had told me a month ago that I would be writing to you from Netherfield, at Christmas, in a mood that is for the most part happy and content, I would probably have declared you to be a cruel, unfeeling creature, even though I know you to have a heart of gold!
Yet, here am I, a few days after Christmas with Papa and my two young sisters, and hardly a care in the world. I am being rather selfish, I confess, for I have at Netherfield not only a lovely home, but, for the moment at least, I am the lady of the house and may give whatever orders I please and entertain who I choose.
Not that we are doing much in the way of entertaining this year.
On Christmas Day, we had some friends and relations over after church and then on Boxing Day, there was the party for the children of the tenants and servants of the estate. This was a very jolly occasion organised by Mrs Perrot—our wonderfully capable housekeeper and Papa’s steward. A very good time was had by all.
That night, we dined with the Faulkners at Haye Park and after an excellent meal, we were treated to a feast of music. Miss Faulkner plays the pianoforte and the harp. I must admit to being completely fascinated by Anna Faulkner’s harp. It is a beautiful, statuesque instrument, and she plays it with such ease and sweetness, we were just spell bound.
She sings too and while I lay no claim to being a judge of these things, Papa has lived in London and travelled often to Europe, yet he says he has not heard so fine a voice as hers. I do hope you will come to Netherfield one day soon and hear her sing and play. It is a pleasure I can promise you with confidence.
My sisters and I have enjoyed our stay at Netherfield and Papa seems very happy too. In fact, his spirits have lifted considerably since he moved here and I am hopeful he has begun to recover from the dreadful depression he has suffered from since last Summer.
Meanwhile, my sisters will have me help them with a curious undertaking—a pantomime. Our local church hall is the venue and Miss Faulkner and the Rector, Mr Griffin (of whom you shall hear more when we meet!) are to direct the performance.
Our Teresa is to play the Sleeping Beauty, and since she discovered that the princess does more than sleep, indeed, she sings and dances, she has begun to worry about playing the part. Fortunately, Miss Faulkner, who is marvellous with all the children, has promised to help her. I am to be general factotum and help Papa with the stage business, while Cathy is to be Prince Charming’s helper!! Prince Charming himself is a girl!—our steward’s daughter, Alison.
Papa is very pleased to see us all involved.
I trust you and Mr Harwood had a happy and blessed Christmas, dear Eliza, and look forward to seeing you soon. I hope to return to you and my work at the hospital in the second week of January, if that is convenient
God bless you,
Anne-Marie Bingley.
***
When the pantomime was over, and it was generally agreed to be a success, Teresa Bingley, who had just made her debut in amateur theatricals, had to write to her grandmother.
She was very excited about her role in the pantomime:
I was the sleeping princess, but when I discovered I had to sing and dance as well as sleep on stage, I was rather anxious about doing the part, but Papa said I would be all right and Miss Faulkner taught me the songs and it was really fun after all. She has been very kind to all of us.
Papa says she is going to teach us to sing and play the piano as well as draw and paint in the new year. Cathy and I both think it will be good fun.
Grandmama, we have had a good Christmas. No one has quarrelled or wept as we did last year, when Mama was away in London and we were at Hunsford. Everyone is trying to be really good for Papa’s sake and cheerful.
Anne-Marie believes that we will all be happier, now we are at Netherfield. She is certainly right about Papa, for we have not seen him so pleased in many months. He smiles more.
She concluded her letter with affectionate greetings to her grandparents and expressed a desire to see them soon.
It is far too long to wait until Easter. Could you not come to us sooner? I am longing to show you my room, for which Miss Faulkner chose the colours. She is very artistic and it is beautiful. Grandmama, I am sure you will like it too …
… and so on for a page or more.
When Jane Bingley received the letter, she did not know quite what to think. While they were only the words of a young girl, some of what Teresa wrote appeared to confirm her own impressions. It was clear the girls and their father shared the same opinion of Anna Faulkner.
On New Year’s Eve, they were all expected at Pemberley for the customary end of year celebrations.
The Bingleys arrived well before nightfall and, as soon as Jane found a moment when her sister was free, she took her aside and showed her Teresa’s letter.
“Lizzie, I want you to tell me, what do you make of this letter?” she asked.
Elizabeth, who had received a letter from Charlotte Collins covering most of the same ground, seemed unsurprised by the contents. This was due in part to her recent conversation with Mr Darcy on the same subject. She did not wish her sister to know that they had been discussing her son’s private life and in order not to make too much of the hints in Teresa’s innocent little note, she said casually, “I am very glad to see that it confirms what I have gathered from Charlotte’s letters—the girls are clearly settling in well at Netherfield. Jonathan must be pleased.”
Jane looked at her sister as if she had not heard a word she had said.
“Lizzie, of course he must be pleased. So am I. What I want to know is, does he intend to marry Anna Faulkner?”
With the question so bluntly put, Elizabeth had no hope of avoiding it.
“Jane! How have you reached this conclusion?” she asked, quite astonished by her sister’s words.
“I have not,” Jane protested. “But if you read Tessie’s letter, you will have to agree that something is afoot.”
“All she has said is that her father seems very happy and Miss Faulkner has been very good and helpful to them. There is nothing untoward in that, is there?” asked Elizabeth.
“No, but I am sure his happiness is not simply the result of a move to Netherfield and the success of the children’s pantomime,” replied Jane.
“You clearly believe it has more to do with the presence of Anna Faulkner?”
“I certainly do, Lizzie. Do you not think so?”
Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders.
“If it were, would you mind? Jonathan is a grown man, a widower with three young daughters. It is hardly surprising that he may consider marrying again,” she said, reasonably.
“Of course he may, I have no quarrel with that idea. But, Lizzie, I do hope and pray that for his own sake and that of the girls, he will take longer to consider his decision this time around.”
Elizabeth was surprised at the vehemence of her sister’s words, but understood her concern. Jane had seen the marriages of her two eldest children break down, having been made in haste. Emma, after a miserable decade, was now settled happil
y, while Jonathan’s whirlwind courtship of Amelia-Jane Collins had masked the lack of depth and understanding in their marriage, which had subsequently crumbled.
Elizabeth sought to reassure her sister.
“Dear Jane, I think you can rest assured that Jonathan, some twenty years later, is far less likely to rush headlong into another marriage. Besides, unlike Amelia-Jane, Anna Faulkner, should she be his choice, is an intelligent and mature young woman. Indeed, she may well prove to be an ideal companion for him and his daughters.”
“But do they love each other, Lizzie?” Jane asked, and Elizabeth was taken aback by the question. Before she could speak, Jane went on, “I know, from everything I have seen over the years, that where there is love and respect, most other difficulties can be overcome; however, if a marriage is not built on true affection and understanding, it will fail when beset by problems. With Amelia-Jane, of whom I was very fond at the time of her marriage to Jonathan, it was easy to see that she had become bored with his work. She had very little understanding of its value, and the more engrossed he became in it, the greater was her annoyance with him. Yet, he had no indication at all of the nature of her feelings.”
It came as no surprise to Elizabeth that her sister, whose marriage was one of the most felicitous she had ever seen, should be anxious about her son.
She tried again to set her mind at rest.
“Jane, Jonathan is a responsible man with a far greater understanding of these matters now. You should not be too anxious on his account,” she said, but she could see her sister was not altogether convinced.
Jane had hoped for a chance to take up the matter with Jonathan. The opportunity she sought would arise a few weeks later, when several members of the family travelled to Oxford, to attend a recital by young William Courtney, who was a student of Music there.
His parents, James and Emily Courtney, travelled with the Darcys, while the Bingleys went directly to Oxford with their daughter, Sophia. They had rooms reserved at a local inn, the same one at which Jonathan and his daughters were to be accommodated.
Jane planned to speak with Jonathan after the recital.
Unbeknownst to her, however, Jonathan had already visited his sister Emma a fortnight ago, to seek her counsel and, en route, he had received some unsolicited advice from his eldest daughter.
Travelling together to London, they had dined at the house in Grosvenor Street and, as they took tea after dinner, she had surprised him when she remarked, gently but with the clear certainty of youth, “Papa, may I speak plainly with you about a matter that concerns all of us?”
Though somewhat taken aback, Jonathan was quick to declare that she should feel free to speak her mind.
“Of course, Anne-Marie, but what is it that has you so worried?”
“I am not worried, Papa, but if I did not speak now, I would not rest for fear that I would have let you down by keeping silent.”
Even more astonished than before, he hastened to reassure her.
“My dear Anne-Marie, you need have no such fear, you could never let me down. Have I not told you how much I have valued your help with your sisters, at a most difficult time for all of us?”
“Papa, I do not mean to harass you, please hear me out. I speak only out of concern and great affection for both you and Miss Faulkner,” she said.
“Miss Faulkner? How is she involved?”
Anne-Marie stopped and took a deep breath before continuing. Placing her hand on his, she said rather quickly, “It matters not if she is or is not, Papa. What I have to say concerns you most of all. Should you decide some time in the future to marry again, I merely ask you to be certain that it is because you love and value her, whoever she may be, and not because you feel that Teresa, Cathy, and I need a mother.” Seeing his shocked expression, she hastily added, “Forgive me, Papa, I have no right to speak to you in this way, but it would break my heart, should you take such a step and suffer more unhappiness. I shall never forgive myself.”
Jonathan was speechless for a few minutes. He was not angry, merely astonished. Yet, he had to ask, “And may I ask why you have mentioned Miss Faulkner in this context? Did you suppose I could involve her in such a cold and cynical arrangement?”
Anne-Marie had tears in her eyes; she had not wanted to hurt or annoy him and now she feared she had done both.
“No, Papa, I did not suppose that. I was only afraid because I have much respect and affection for her and I could not fail to see how close you have become over the past few months, since moving to Netherfield. I would be delighted if Miss Faulkner and you could find happiness together. But, having seen how much you suffered over the years, trying to please Mama, while your work in Parliament consumed so much of your time, I was afraid that it might happen all over again. I am sorry, I did not intend to distress or anger you.”
Her father leant forward and took her hands in his.
“Anne-Marie, please do not upset yourself; you have neither distressed nor angered me. I should be churlish indeed, were I to take offence at the words of my daughter, when she was attempting to secure my happiness.
“I was, at first, surprised, but no more than that. My dear child, let me assure you, I believe that no woman, not Miss Faulkner nor anyone else, deserves to be married merely to provide a substitute for a mother. I would never ask any woman to marry me unless I cared deeply for her and was certain she could love me and my children. On that score, I can give you my absolute word.
“As for Miss Faulkner, I am very pleased to hear that you regard her with affection and esteem. I have far too much admiration for her to even contemplate the sort of unfeeling arrangement you fear.”
“But you do like her, Papa?” she asked, quietly.
“Yes I do. I like her very much,” he replied. “She is one of the most enlightened women I have ever met and I enjoy her company immensely. But, I have no indication what her feelings are; it is a matter for the future.”
He then stood up and moved to the window and said in a somewhat matter-of-fact voice, “There is something else I want you to know. When I have conveyed you to Harwood Park, I shall proceed to Kent to see Aunt Emma and Mr Wilson. The visit is not purely for pleasure, though I am sure it will be that; I intend also to inform James Wilson that I shall not seek re-election to the House of Commons.”
Seeing her startled expression, he held up a hand.
“Before you say anything, let me tell you that I have made this decision on my own, because, since moving to Netherfield, I have realised the value of my time and my children. I am responsible for Tess and Cathy; I want to stay with them and be a good father to them. I cannot do that if I spend most of my time at Westminster.”
Anne-Marie sighed, “Are you sure, Papa? Are you not giving up your life’s work?”
Clearly, she was troubled by the prospect.
But her father was not.
“Indeed, no. I shall not be giving up on anything important. I intend to continue working on causes that matter to me, but outside the Parliament. I could make speeches, persuade people, lobby Members of Parliament, and be generally useful, whilst remaining at Netherfield,” he explained.
“Do you think Mr Wilson will be angry?” she asked, apprehensively.
“No, I do not; disappointed perhaps, but not angry. Not when he understands my reasons.”
Anne-Marie went to him and put her arms around him.
“Papa, if it is what you want, I am very happy you have decided. I pray that everything will work out well and we will all be happy again.”
And he assured her that it was his wish as well.
Later that afternoon, having seen her safely returned to her friends at Harwood House, Jonathan left for Standish Park. Emma and James Wilson were very glad to see him, though they were disappointed that Anne-Marie was not with him.
Over the years Jonathan Bingley had b
ecome not just a brother-in-law to James, but a dear friend and trusted colleague. They had known one another since their college days, developed an interest in politics, entered Parliament, joined the Reform Movement, and fought diligently to promote the same causes.
A dedicated Reformist, James had consistently supported the extension of the franchise beyond the rich and powerful. Jonathan had worked with him to persuade their colleagues and negotiate with their opponents.
Personally, too, James, whose errant brother David had been married to Emma until his death ended their wretched marriage, had reason to be grateful for Jonathan’s discretion and sensitivity. It had been his swift action that had spared the family the scandal that might have engulfed them following David’s suicide.
James’ subsequent marriage to Emma, whose years of anguish had ended only with her husband’s death, had been welcomed by the family and especially by Jonathan.
Brother and sister were very close and often turned to each other for advice. It was not surprising, then, that before telling James of his decision, Jonathan sought out his sister.
Emma was alone, missing her daughters Victoria and Stephanie, who were touring Italy with their governess; when her brother entered the sitting room, she greeted him warmly, glad of his company.
She did not notice the gravity of his expression and chatted on for a few minutes about the girls’ departure and how much they were missed.
A maid brought in tea and cakes, and Jonathan waited until she had left the room before he spoke.
“Emma, pardon me for intruding upon you …” he began, but she interrupted his apology.
“Jonathan, you know you have no need to apologise. You are not intruding and I am very happy to see you.”
Jonathan smiled and tried to continue. Initially, he had hoped to explain in clear and logical terms the reasons for his decision not to stand at the next election, but when he began, he appeared to become confused and blurted it all out at once and not very coherently, either. He told her of his distress at discovering that Amelia-Jane had blamed him, specifically, in a letter to Anne-Marie, for the breakdown of their marriage.
Netherfield Park Revisited Page 25