Netherfield Park Revisited (19 page)

As Emma held them close, Lucy went upstairs to pack their things.

When they were back at her house, Emma let them spend the morning with their grandmother, making sure that they were left undisturbed, with plenty of refreshments and time to themselves.

Emma finally concluded her letter to Emily Courtney.

Oh dear God, Emily, did I ever dream I would complete this letter in these circumstances? I shall send it express, so you get the news as soon as possible. I suppose Jonathan will send telegrams to Papa and Mr Darcy.

We do not know all the details of how the dreadful accident happened, the police and the magistrate will be investigating, but what good will it do?

Amelia-Jane is dead, together with her two friends. We think the other woman was Mrs Arabella Watkins and the gentleman, an attorney by the name of Alexander. They at least went by choice on this ill-conceived and dangerous journey. Not so, young Annie Ashton, Amelia's maid, not yet eighteen and her parents' only daughter!

She was dragged away from Kent, where she had lived all her short life in the country and taken first to London and then to Bath! A young, innocent life snuffed out because of the stupidity of her mistress and her fine friends! How can this be fair?

Please Emily, pray for them all and for us, especially Jonathan, who seems like a man in a nightmare. He is not yet returned from the police office, where he has gone with James. A terrible task awaits him on his return. Anne-Marie and Charles must be informed of their mother's death!

You can see why he needs your prayers.

I hope we shall see you soon. I have no information about the funeral arrangements; I expect you will hear from Jonathan in due course.

All is confusion at the moment.

Yours etc

Emma.

When the gentlemen returned, Jonathan set about immediately sending out telegrams and express letters to close friends and family in many parts of England.

He had already written to his son Charles, but with his daughter Anne-Marie, a journey across town had to be undertaken.

Funeral arrangements had to await the completion of the police enquiries.

Charlotte Collins had asked that Amelia-Jane be laid to rest in Hertfordshire, in the churchyard where the Lucases had rested over several generations. Jonathan agreed immediately. He could see no reason for refusing her mother's request, nor did it seem appropriate to insist upon having Amelia-Jane interred among strangers in the North, where his father's family lay.

Another painful duty awaited him.

Young Annie Ashton had to be returned to her grieving family in Kent.

It was a task Jonathan intended to perform himself; having already sent for her uncle John Ashton, who was the caretaker at the Hunsford Church, to accompany her body. Jonathan would bear the cost of her funeral, of course, and travel to Kent to face her family.

James Wilson offered to arrange for the announcements in the newspapers, and Emma, having seen the expression on her brother's face and feeling his pain as if it were her own, dressed appropriately and went downstairs.

“I'm ready, Jonathan; I think we have to go to Anne-Marie without any further delay. It will not do that she should hear it from someone else or read of it in the
Times.”

His gratitude was expressed wordlessly, in the warmth of his acknowledgement of her concern, as he collected his things and followed her out to the carriage.

To Harwood House they went, Jonathan determined to do the right thing by his daughter and Emma anxious to do all she could to help her brother at perhaps the worst moment in his life.

Eliza Harwood was tending the roses when Jonathan and his sister alighted from their carriage in the driveway of Harwood House.

The bright smile with which she prepared to welcome them faded and her cheerful greeting died upon her lips as she took in the significance of their mourning clothes.

They had come with grave news, she was sure of it.

“Mr Bingley, Emma, I am so happy to see you, but surely … there must be something wrong … please tell me, what has happened?”

They went indoors and into the sitting room, where Jonathan asked, “Is Anne-Marie home?”

Eliza nodded. “Yes, but she was very tired, having been up all night with a difficult patient. I sent her upstairs to rest a while,” she explained.

Jonathan decided to tell Eliza the reason for their visit, and, omitting the personal details of his troubled marriage, he told her of Amelia's ill-fated journey to Bath and the accident that had taken her life.

Jonathan had no knowledge of how much of his wife's unhappy story was already known to Eliza Harwood, but he assumed that his daughter may have divulged some but not all of the unfortunate circumstances.

However, when the death of four persons including Amelia-Jane was revealed, Eliza cried out in horror and covered her face.

“Oh my God! Mr Bingley, I am so sorry, oh dear! What will Anne-Marie do? It was but a short time ago that she wrote to her brother, begging him to come to London and help her convince her mother not to move to Bath.

“But Charles is busy with his medical studies in Edinburgh, as you would know, and can spare very little time. Does he know of this terrible accident?” she asked.

Jonathan nodded gravely. “Yes, I have written to him by express,” he replied.

After asking some more questions and taking a little time to calm her own feelings, Eliza dried her eyes, ordered some tea for her visitors, and went upstairs to break the news to her friend.

When they came downstairs, Anne-Marie went directly to her father and clung to him as she sobbed, tears spilling down her cheeks.

For several minutes, she didn't say a word; then asked, “Did you see her, Papa?”

Jonathan knew exactly what she meant. “I did. Your uncle James and I went with the police to identify your mama and poor little Annie Ashton.” He paused and tried to compose himself before saying, “Your mama was not disfigured in any way, nor was Annie. The fall must have caused instant death; we can only hope they did not suffer,” he said, as she wept inconsolably for her unhappy mother and young Annie, too—they had played together as children and attended Sunday School at Hunsford.

Then, to everyone's surprise, she said, “I must return with you to Grosvenor Street. Cathy and Tess will need me,” and went directly upstairs to pack her clothes.

She returned in less than half an hour, before they had finished their tea, packed, changed, and ready to leave. Embracing Eliza and thanking her for all her help, she asked her to explain her absence to the matron at the hospital.

“Please tell her I am sorry to let her down; I hope it will not be for too long,” she said, and Eliza's eyes filled with tears as they said goodbye.

Emma and Jonathan were astonished at the calm, measured, and responsible way in which Anne-Marie had organised everything.

On the journey between Harwood House and Grosvenor Street, Anne-Marie said very little, but she sat close beside her father and held his hand in hers, as if to comfort him, while seeking to draw from him some strength to help her cope with what lay ahead for both of them.

When they arrived at the Wilsons' apartments, she ran upstairs to her two young sisters and found them reading to each other. Her arrival triggered both tears and joy, for the girls had longed for their sister.

She embraced and kissed them and told them they were going back to their own home and their grandmother was coming, too.

Emma watched, amazed at the way she got them packed and ready, and thanked both James and herself and all the servants for their kindness to her sisters, as they prepared to leave. It was hard to believe that this young woman had been told of the death of her mother a couple of hours ago.

What neither Emma nor Jonathan knew was that Anne-Marie had spent many days agonising over a letter she had received from her mother the previous week, a letter in which she had hinted at a journey and a new home with kind friends. While she had made no mention of Bath or Mrs Watkins, it had been plain to Anne-Marie that her mother was planning to leave London and her family.

… I shall write to you, my dearest Anne-Marie, and I hope you will come and see me when I am settled in my new place. I know I can depend on you to look after Tess and Cathy for me.

They will not be short of money, of that you can be certain, for your father is very generous with allowances; indeed, if he were as generous with his time and affections as with his money, we should have all been a good deal happier.

Remember, dear Anne-Marie, when you marry, whether for love or money is not the important matter, but whether your husband has time to spare for you …

If he has not, it is a lonely life indeed …

The sad little message had lain hidden, even from her friend Eliza, while she had fretted about it, wondering whether she should acquaint her father with its contents. Now her poor unhappy mother was dead, it was unlikely to see the light of day again. The news of her death, even though it had come as a terrible shock, had been almost a relief after that letter, a cry of despair, more sharply poignant than before.

At least now, Anne-Marie knew what she had to do.

After Jonathan, his three daughters, and their grandmother had left, Emma and James Wilson found themselves alone in their own apartment for the first time in several days. They were, neither of them, strangers to pain and death, and felt great sympathy for Jonathan and his children. Discussing the circumstances surrounding Amelia-Jane's death, they were forced to the conclusion, in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, that she had been foolishly misled by her friends into leaving her husband and children for no apparent reason. Her own agony and sense of helplessness was unknown to them.

Emma, who, for the sake of family loyalty and her children's security, had borne many years of mistreatment and humiliation in her first marriage, was more severe on her sister-in-law than James, who was willing to allow that there may have been extenuating circumstances that explained Amelia-Jane's unhappiness; but neither would admit that any level of discontent could justify what she had done.

As to any thought that Jonathan, by some act of omission or commission could have contributed in any way at all to the problems that beset his wife, nothing could have been further from their thoughts.

“Jonathan has always been a good husband and father; no one could doubt that he loved Amelia-Jane and the children and has always provided for them most generously,” said Emma, of her beloved brother. “He is devoted to his family, loyal, kind, and hardworking to a fault.”

James agreed. “He brings the same estimable qualities to his work for the Party and I have no doubt that, should he choose to re-enter Parliament, he will fulfil the duties of a Member equally well.”

They went upstairs in complete agreement that Jonathan Bingley had been singularly hard done by. Life, they agreed, had not been fair to him.

The following morning brought even more evidence of this.

They had risen late, since James did not have to attend the Parliament and Emma was weary from several days and nights of anxiety, and had just finished breakfast when Jonathan arrived. This time, he brought with him a letter from his son, Charles.

It had arrived that morning and was a short, sharp, hurtful letter, in which he appeared to censure his father for not doing enough to prevent his mother's death.

Clearly, Sir, your unwillingness to take a strong stand against Mama's notion of moving to Bath has contributed to this disaster. I cannot believe that she would have acted as she did had you made it clear to her you desired her to remain in London with you because you needed her at your side.

I have often felt that, just as you did not always indicate to me what you expected of me, neither did you let Mama know what you expected of her.

She was, as a result, frequently bewildered, as I was, by what we took to be your indifference and, in such a state of confusion, she would have been easily misled and used by others, as she undoubtedly was.

Perhaps she was persuaded that there was more satisfaction to be had in the social round of Bath, where she had friends, than by staying in London, when you spent most of your waking hours at Westminster.

Reading the letter, written as it was in the plainest of terms, Emma and James both felt that young Charles Bingley had obviously misunderstood the situation completely.

Jonathan was hurt and confused. “He thinks I am solely to blame. How am I ever to convince him otherwise?” he asked.

Seeing his anxious, unhappy expression, James urged him not to despair. “Emma and I will talk to Charles when we meet. I assume he will come direct to Longbourn for the funeral. We will meet him and persuade him to return with us via London. Have no fear, Jonathan, we will ensure that he learns the truth. He is mistaken. No one who knows you can doubt that.”

Jonathan was grateful but insisted that they must not try to salvage his reputation by damaging that of his late wife.

“I will not have you do that under any circumstance; if my son or anyone else wishes to hold me responsible, I will bear that burden, rather than see Amelia-Jane vilified in death. She was, for most of the years of our marriage, a loving wife and mother. Those who encouraged her discontent are far more culpable than she ever was. As for Charles, any attempt to censure his mother will only harden his heart against me,” he declared with great firmness, eliciting from his brother-in-law an immediate assurance that they would do no such thing.

“You can trust me, Jonathan, I will do no such thing; but I hope to help Charles to understand the facts,” said James, and Jonathan, being somewhat comforted, was persuaded to stay and take tea with them.

Some minutes later, the doorbell rang. A servant answered it and presently announced Monsieur and Madame Armande and Miss Faulkner to see Mr Bingley. They had heard news of the accident that morning and had come as soon as they could to offer their condolences.