She was promptly assured that no one would have blamed her dear husband for the completely understandable lapse.
Cassy said she had frequently wondered what had prompted the marriage, and Richard had been of the opinion that after her mother’s death, Anne-Marie must have been so deeply hurt and troubled by what she clearly regarded as her mother’s betrayal of their family that she had sought the safety of a marriage with a good, dull man, who would never dream of doing anything similar.
Jane agreed that in all her letters as well as in conversations, Anne-Marie would only refer to Mr Bradshaw as “dear Mr Bradshaw” and would always tell them how very good and kind he was.
“I do not doubt, Aunt Jane, that he was a good man, but one cannot live out one’s life with a person whose only claim to fame is ‘goodness.’ Doubtless he will have saved her soul, but surely one needs some warmth, some rapport, some shared love of music or reading to nourish the soul, which must learn to enjoy and delight in God’s gifts, before it comes to be saved.” Cassy, in full flight, had not noticed her father and Bingley as they entered the room until Darcy said, “That was a fair sermon in itself, Cassy.”
She smiled, knowing he was teasing her, but Jane applied to Mr Darcy for a judgment upon his daughter’s opinion.
“Let us ask your father if he agrees,” she said, whereupon Darcy smiled a wry, crooked little smile and declared,
“If Cassy was speaking of the late Mr Bradshaw, I have to admit that I am in complete agreement with her. Neither Lizzie nor I could ever get much more than exhortations to virtuous living from the man. I am in no doubt at all of his worthy intentions, but for a young man—he was not yet thirty—he was an amazingly dull fellow.” Turning to his wife, he added with a smile, “Not quite as tedious as your late cousin Mr Collins, Lizzie, but close, very close.”
Jane pressed him further, “And do you believe, Mr Darcy, that Anne-Marie was mistaken when she married him? Was she deceived, do you think?”
“Mistaken? Probably. Deceived? No indeed, Anne-Marie is an intelligent young woman. She may have been mistaken when she decided that Mr Bradshaw was the right man for her, but I would not accept that she was deceived by him. Bradshaw seemed incapable of deception. He was honest—transparently so—and dull; he had few remarkable qualities, but honesty was, I am sure, one of them. No, Jane, my belief coincides to a very great extent with Cassy’s. I think, though I cannot know this for certain, that Anne-Marie was so disturbed by her mother’s irrational behaviour and by the terrible events that led to her death that she accepted Bradshaw, believing that marriage to him offered a safe, secure life without risk of betrayal or hurt,” he said, and his sombre voice reflected his sadness.
It had been only a year or two ago that Darcy had, in conversation with his wife, expressed the hope that Anne-Marie would widen her horizons beyond her nursing career, hoping her friendship with Anna Faulkner would engage her mind and encourage an appreciation of the arts.
“Do you believe she never loved him then?” asked Jane, sadly.
Darcy found it hard to answer her.
“I am not privy to her thoughts, but I do know that she always spoke of him with respect and affection. But whether her feelings were deeply engaged, I cannot judge,” he replied.
“I saw no sign of it,” said Cassy, firmly.
“No indeed,” Elizabeth agreed, “yet, they always seemed content. I cannot believe she was unhappy.”
As her husband Richard Gardiner came in to join them, Cassy spoke.
“Not unless you believe that the absence of deeply felt love in a marriage constitutes an absence of happiness,” said Cassy, of whose happiness there was never any doubt. “For my part, such a situation would have been intolerable.”
Cassy had once declared she would never marry except for the very deepest love, and no one who knew them doubted that she had kept her word. Recalling her own determination that she would rather remain unwed than marry without an assurance of deep and sincere affection, Elizabeth could only express the hope that Anne-Marie would find that life had more to offer her in the future.
***
The return of Mr and Mrs Bingley to Netherfield with their widowed daughter was certain to cause comment in the village and on the estate, but knowing the esteem in which the family was held, Mrs Perrot, the housekeeper, was quite confident it would be uniformly sympathetic.
Ever since the news had arrived by electric telegraph late on Sunday night, the house had been in turmoil, with the master plainly shocked and Mrs Bingley, who was usually so calm, in floods of tears.
“Poor Anne-Marie, poor dear Anne-Marie,” she had said over and over again. “Oh, Mrs Perrot, it is just not fair!”
Mrs Perrot, who had lost a husband in the war and a son killed in an accident on the railways, agreed that life sometimes just wasn’t fair.
Mrs Perrot and the manager, Mr Bowles, had had a little discussion and decided that no special fuss would be made when Mrs Bradshaw arrived at Netherfield House. “It’s best we let the young lady rest a while,” Bowles had suggested and she had agreed. He would convey the sympathies of the entire staff and, if Mrs Perrot wished, she could add her own, he had said. So it was resolved and the maids and footman were urged to restrain themselves, lest they cause Mrs Bradshaw even more distress.
Look for Ladies of Longbourn in October 2008
Netherfield Park Revisited Page 38