Netherfield Park Revisited

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  I am sorry to be writing with news that will trouble and inconvenience you, but Anne-Marie is ill and I should feel that I have been negligent if I did not inform you at once.

  She has had during this last week or so a persistent cough, which she has ignored except to take some medication to soothe her throat, and she has continued her work at the hospital.

  Yesterday, however, the matron in charge found her feeling very low and sent her home, by which time she had a fever as well. I had the apothecary in immediately, but he could not give her any comfort.

  Tonight, her fever was very high and I have sent for Dr Morton, who may be more help than the apothecary.

  By the time he had read half of what she had written, Jonathan had leapt up from his chair and declared that he had to leave at once.

  Ignorant of the content of the letter, James was immediately concerned for his brother-in-law.

  “Jonathan, what is it? What has happened?” he cried and was handed the two carefully penned sheets to read, while Jonathan raced upstairs to make preparations for his journey.

  James read on.

  Eliza was apologetic:

  Mr Bingley, I am truly sorry to trouble you, but my present condition prevents me from nursing Anne-Marie and I do believe she needs careful nursing over the next few days. Perhaps if Mrs Wilson could recommend a good, experienced nurse, you may wish to bring her with you. At this moment, I have a woman from the hospital who will stay overnight, but she is not a trained nurse.

  She concluded with more expressions of regret and prayers for her friend’s recovery.

  James had by now realised the seriousness of the situation. He knew Jonathan would want to set out as soon as possible and, in view of the distance he had to travel, would probably need a different vehicle to the one in which they had arrived.

  He was on his way out to the stables to see his steward when his wife and Anna arrived at the front entrance, having just this minute returned from their visit to the cottages. They were talking happily together as they came in, carrying bunches of flowers given them by the children.

  James hated having to give them the bad news. But no sooner had she heard than Anna declared that she could nurse Anne-Marie; she had nursed Madame Armande through a terrible illness, and in any event, there was no time to find “an experienced nurse” who could leave her family and travel to London, she said.

  She raced upstairs to find Jonathan, only to discover that he would not hear of it.

  “Anna, I cannot allow it. It may be an infectious disease, some contagion she has caught at the hospital. Your parents would never forgive me if you were to be stricken with it, too. It is out of the question.”

  In spite of his seemingly unshakable opposition, she went away and packed her things and urged her maid to prepare to travel almost at once.

  With Emma’s support, she returned to Jonathan and begged to be allowed to go with him.

  At first, it seemed he would not be moved. But as she persevered, explaining that she was old enough at twenty-six to make her own decisions and asking him to consider how important it was that Anne-Marie should receive the most devoted care, he softened and, finally, said, “I will only permit it if the doctor assures me it is not infectious and you will not be in any danger. Should he declare it to be some pestilential disease, you must promise me you will leave at once with Sally and return to Haye Park. I shall engage a trained nurse in London to care for Anne-Marie.”

  Anna agreed to all his conditions, praying meanwhile in her heart that it may not be as he feared. She felt Anne-Marie would recover sooner with the care of someone who knew and loved her.

  Jonathan’s anxiety to be gone meant that every other matter was set aside and arrangements were expedited for their departure, in order that they may reach Dartford by nightfall and be on their way to London in the early morning. There was general sadness at the manner in which what had been a near-perfect fortnight had been disrupted, and fervent hopes expressed for Anne-Marie’s swift recovery. Emma and Anna embraced, each promising to write.

  In the carriage, Anna sat opposite Jonathan, trying very hard to keep the tears which were stinging her eyes from spilling down her cheeks. His face revealed his own agony, and it struck her that she had never seen him look so downcast, not even when, a year or so ago, the dreadful news had broken of Amelia-Jane’s accident and death.

  Finally, unable to bear it alone any longer, she crossed over to sit beside him and took his hand in hers. The little gesture of kindness seemed to be the last straw and she saw him struggle with the tears, as he gripped her hand and gazed steadily out at the darkening landscape.

  All the beauty that had surrounded them on their journey to Standish Park now receded from their sight as they thought only of Anne-Marie and prayed that her condition would not worsen before they reached her.

  They were eager to get to their destination, and yet, when Dartford was reached, there was no comfort in it, for there was still more than half a day’s journey to London. Neither Jonathan nor Anna could eat or sleep, and while she, with Sally for company, could at least speak of her fears, he suffered alone, wondering how it was that Fate had picked upon his daughter, just as it had done with Amelia-Jane.

  When dawn came, they partook of a light breakfast and were soon on their way again. Fortuitously, it being a Sunday, the roads were almost deserted and with fresh horses, they made excellent time.

  At Harwood House, Eliza came out to welcome them, and it was plain that, in her condition, she could not be expected to care for the sick.

  Clearly, she would very soon be brought to bed with her first child, yet she greeted and welcomed them into her home and, having first reassured them that the doctor had declared that the condition, though serious, was not infectious, she sent her maid upstairs with them to Anne-Marie’s room.

  Because Dr Morton had insisted that Mrs Harwood should not enter the invalid’s room, Eliza had not seen her friend since her condition had worsened, so was unable to give them an accurate account of Anne-Marie’s state.

  When they entered the room where she lay, with the heavy curtains closed lest the glare hurt her eyes, Anna could not suppress a gasp, and even Jonathan was shocked at the sight of the slight figure lying in the bed.

  Having spent a restless and feverish night, Anne-Marie had a bad headache and had not the strength even to sit up, but lay there, weak and listless. If she heard them enter, she made no movement at all to indicate it.

  Anna rushed to her side and Jonathan could not believe how languid and pale she seemed as he stood at the foot of her bed. Only when her father took her thin hand in his did she respond to their presence, with the merest pressure of her fingers as she clasped them around his.

  Leaving them for a moment, Anna tried to discover from the nurse who had been tending her what potions and cordials had been administered and in what measure. The woman, who had merely carried out the doctor’s instructions, knew very little. Determined to discover more, Anna went downstairs to find Eliza and found her in the hall with Dr Morton, who had just arrived to see his patient.

  Mrs Harwood made the introductions, and Anna accompanied him upstairs, where Jonathan Bingley waited at the top of the stairs.

  He was eager for information.

  “Dr Morton, please tell me, what is this dreadful disease that has afflicted my daughter?” he asked.

  Dr Morton had to admit, reluctantly and in many circumlocutory words, that he did not know the true nature of Anne-Marie’s illness, except to say it was a condition whose symptoms were a high fever, headache, and aching limbs, all of which caused severe discomfort, but were unlikely to result in anything more catastrophic than temporary debilitation.

  When Anna and Jonathan asked almost together, “In how much danger is she?” he answered that she was gravely ill, but she was also young and strong, and with good nursing
care and the right medication, he was quite confident that she would recover in time.

  Having been in to see the patient, during which time Anna was permitted to remain at her bedside, Dr Morton pronounced her to be “very little improved” on her condition of the previous night.

  “But,” he said, “her fever must be reduced further by taking more potions, which I shall prescribe, and she needs plenty of deep, restful sleep.”

  Asked if he had any particular instructions, he replied, “You must see to it, Miss Faulkner, that she has her medication on time and gets plenty of rest to restore her body’s health,” and, having doled out more pills and cordials, he left, promising to call again that evening.

  All that day and most of the following night, Anna sat with her patient, who seemed to wander in and out of sleep, awaking suddenly and crying out, without knowing what she feared; then just as quickly falling into a deep slumber again. Around midnight, it seemed her fever had reached a frightening level, making her very restless and causing Sally to wake Anna, who had dozed off in her chair. They placed strips of damp, cold cloth on her forehead, gave her small sips of water to drink, pulled the bedclothes up around her, and waited for her body to sweat out the fever. They would then rub her down and change her sodden clothes. Thereafter, they knew she would sleep more peacefully.

  Her father came and went, his agony unabated, waiting for the dawn and some change in her condition. Jonathan was extremely worried and twice pressed the need for a second opinion, but was prevailed upon by Eliza Harwood and her husband to trust Dr Morton.

  “He has been a very sound physician, Mr Bingley; members of my family have been in his care on many occasions; if there is any need to call in a colleague, I am sure he will do so,” Mr Harwood assured him, and Jonathan agreed to wait one more day.

  “If there is no material improvement in her condition, I shall call in a man I know in Harley Street,” he said, firmly.

  Shortly after first light, Anna heard a carriage arrive and, parting the curtains at the window, she saw a man alight. He was an unfamiliar figure and she assumed it was Mr Harwood, returning from one of his business trips. However, soon afterwards, she heard footsteps on the stairs and in the corridor, coming down to Anne-Marie’s room. The door opened and in the half-light, she could not at first recognise him—it was Charles, Anne-Marie’s brother and Jonathan’s only son.

  While Sally went to find Mr Bingley, Charles greeted Anna briefly and explained.

  “I came as soon as I heard. Aunt Emma sent me an express … I had no idea she was ill. What is it? How long has she been like this?” he asked.

  Anna remembered suddenly that he was studying to be a physician himself and answered his questions, which, though pointed and brusque, were sensible enough.

  He checked the patient without disturbing her sleep, looked at the array of medications on the bedside table, and left the room.

  In the corridor, he met his father, who had come upstairs, having been alerted to the arrival of his son.

  The two men, who had not spoken in several months, stopped, looked at one another, and suddenly grasped each other’s hands and embraced briefly, before going downstairs together.

  Anna, seeing their brief reunion, smiled as she closed the door and returned to her patient’s bedside. She prayed their disaffection may be resolved; she knew how deeply it had hurt Jonathan.

  Later, Charles returned and was happy to find his sister awake. She seemed to recognise him and, though she did not speak, she let him sit with her and hold her hand until it was time to take her medication.

  The arrival of Dr Morton gave him a further opportunity to discuss her condition, and it appeared he was familiar with similar symptoms in patients he had seen in Edinburgh. They had suffered from a virulent type of influenza, he said, many had recovered, albeit severely weakened by the illness, but some—notably the elderly and the very young—had died, mostly of pneumonia following neglect or a relapse.

  Dr Morton, who claimed he had not seen too many patients who had died of the affliction, agreed with Charles that rest and good nursing were essential for a full recovery.

  “I must congratulate Miss Faulkner,” he added. “She has hardly left Miss Bingley’s side since arriving here.” Charles and his father exchanged glances and appeared to share an unspoken thought.

  All day, Charles and Anna took turns at sitting with Anne-Marie until, at about 4 o’clock, Anna, relieved by her maid Sally and urged by Eliza Harwood, came downstairs to tea. Hitherto, she had taken all but her main meals upstairs, so as to be near her patient.

  “How is she?” Jonathan asked, comforted to note that Anna seemed less fearful than before.

  “I hope and pray I am right; I think I have noticed a small improvement since about two o’clock this afternoon. She has slept for almost four hours and her pulse is stronger, she breathes more easily and does not groan in pain as she used to. While I am almost afraid to hope and must await Dr Morton’s verdict, I do believe she is past the worst.”

  “Is she awake now? May I see her?” asked Jonathan, and Anna agreed.

  He was gone in a trice, running up the stairs to his daughter’s room, where he found her propped up on her pillows, still looking wan and listless, but when she saw him, she managed a smile. A few minutes later, Charles followed his father upstairs.

  When Anna returned to the room, she found them together, not speaking, for Anne-Marie was too weak to converse at any length, but both men were clearly pleased to find her looking much better than before.

  Anna was about to slip out and leave them together when Anne-Marie looked up and beckoned to her. Slipping an arm around her neck, she whispered her thanks and stroked her hand, before lying back on her pillows. The gesture, however feeble, gave great hope to her family.

  Jonathan, realising how tired Anna must be from three days of unremitting anxiety and exertion, sent her away to rest, which she did gratefully, in a quiet room that had been prepared for her further along the corridor.

  So exhausted was she that she did not awake until Dr Morton arrived that evening and asked to see her, so he could congratulate her on her care of his patient.

  That night, Jonathan sat with Anna in the drawing room after dinner, while upstairs, in her bedroom, Anne-Marie slept for the very first time without the aid of sleeping draughts or pain reducing potions. Her fever was at its lowest since they had arrived, and her body no longer ached unbearably. Her brother sat with her, having persuaded Anna to let him do some of the work.

  Jonathan was keen to take her home to Netherfield Park, where she could rest and regain her health. He was well aware that they had already accepted the generous hospitality of the Harwoods for a week and was keen to leave as soon as it was safe to do so.

  Meanwhile, in a gesture that further indicated the improvement in their relations, he gave Charles permission to use the house at Grosvenor Street for as long as he intended to stay in London.

  When Dr Morton was applied to, he warned that the patient must not in any way be exposed to the risk of pneumonia and great care must be taken to ensure a continuation of the excellent nursing she had received.

  “A relapse must be avoided at all costs,” he declared, solemnly. “I cannot say it often enough, Mr Bingley,” he said, “medication alone will not do. Your daughter owes her recovery, maybe even her survival, to the admirable way in which Miss Faulkner has organised her care.”

  Turning to Anna, he declared, “My dear ma’am, I am sure Miss Nightingale herself would have been proud of your selfless devotion to the care of your patient.”

  Anna said little except to thank him for his kind words, but she was pleased to have his approval, for she had no training at all and had used only her common sense and experience in caring for her sister in Hampshire, who had suffered a very similar affliction last Winter.

  Jonathan took the oppor
tunity to tell her how grateful he was for her devotion to Anne-Marie, as well as her support at such a critical time.

  “I could not have managed without you, my dear Anna; your calmness and strength have meant everything to me.”

  Anna, though delighted with his words, was even happier that his problems with his son seemed to have been resolved.

  “I am glad the difficulty with Charles has been settled. I can see it has brought you much relief, and he seems more contented, too,” she said quietly.

  “I believe you are right, Anna. Even better, he has expressed a very high regard and affection for you,” he said, as he took her hand.

  Anna, who had felt no hostility at all from Charles and had found him helpful and courteous, was pleased to have her impressions confirmed.

  ***

  By the end of that week, Anne-Marie was sufficiently recovered to come downstairs, to the delight of her family and her friend Mrs Harwood, who, having been denied the chance to attend her when she was sick, lavished a great deal of attention upon her now she was convalescing.

  It was still not considered wise for her to travel directly to Hertfordshire, but with Dr Morton’s permission, she was allowed to be moved to Grosvenor Street. He promised to call in daily to see how she was progressing, and only after he was quite satisfied that she was out of danger, would she be permitted to undertake the twenty-five mile journey to Netherfield Park.

  Charles Bingley, having acquainted Dr Morton with his own training as a physician, was entrusted with watching over his sister, and together with Miss Faulkner, he was confident they would ensure her safe passage home.

  While at Grosvenor Street, they suffered some further disappointment.

  It came in a letter from Mr Darcy, who wrote to say that Elizabeth’s uncle and his business partner, Mr Edward Gardiner, had suffered another heart attack, and his son Richard, himself a physician, had warned that he may not recover from this bout of the disease, which had already weakened him considerably.

  Elizabeth and I do not feel we can leave the family, especially Mrs Gardiner, at this time, in order to travel to Netherfield at Easter, as we had planned…