Netherfield Park Revisited (22 page)

***

Returning to the house in Grosvenor Street some weeks later, having first accompanied Anne-Marie to Harwood House and the care of her friend Eliza Harwood, Jonathan Bingley found several calling cards and messages of condolence awaiting his attention. He spent an hour or more responding to them. Most were from colleagues and friends who had been unable to travel to Longbourn for the funeral.

Having finished the rather tedious task, he decided to walk up the street and call on the Wilsons. Since the funeral, after which they had returned to London, he had missed their company. He yearned for Emma's kindness and her husband's unvarying generosity of spirit.

Disappointed to discover that they had, that very morning, left London for Standish Park, he was at a loss, not knowing what he would do with his time. His two younger girls were with their grandmother at Ashford Park and he was on his own, alone for the first time in weeks.

In no mood to face the camaraderie of his club, he was about to retrace his steps, reluctantly, facing a lonely evening at home, when a cab slowed down and Monsieur Armande, leaning out, called to him.

He could tell from Jonathan's smile that he was exceedingly pleased to see him. Stopping the vehicle, he opened the door and invited him to “join me for a drink.” Jonathan climbed in, clearly happy to accept.

Madame Armande was delighted to see him.

“You will stay to dinner, yes?” she asked, and he did not need much persuasion to agree.

It was certainly a far better prospect than dining alone.

Monsieur Armande got their drinks and, as they talked, he brought out some of the material he planned to use in the Art School, the opening of which was fast approaching. Indeed, it was less than a fortnight away. Monsieur Armande was anxious to have Jonathan's opinion on the program he had drawn up and though his friend protested that he was not, by any means, qualified to pass judgment on such matters, Monsieur had too high an opinion of him to pay much attention to such a little matter.

They had been involved in their discussion for some time when the front door opened and Miss Faulkner came in. Rising to greet her, Jonathan noticed that her complexion glowed and her eyes shone with the exercise of walking in the brisk Autumn air.

She explained that she was returning from Evensong. She had enjoyed the walk across the park, she said

“You've been at the Abbey?” asked Jonathan, who had heard the Abbey's celebrated choir often, on ceremonial occasions.

Anna smiled. “Oh no, nowhere as grand as the Abbey; at St Margaret's, where they sing just as sweetly and with much less fuss. I find it more restful than its larger neighbour. Have you never been?” she asked, and Jonathan confessed reluctantly that he had not.

“For shame,” she said with a little laugh that indicated she was only teasing and was not seriously censuring him, “You do know it is the parish church of the Parliament?”

“Indeed, I do,” he said, with a self-deprecatory smile, “I know I ought to attend more often.”

She was so enthusiastic about the beauty of the young voices that Jonathan promised to come along and hear them one day, very soon. When she assured him he would not regret it, he said, “You have certainly persuaded me, Miss Faulkner, but, while I admire and enjoy fine singing, I must confess I am a mere novice in the appreciation of church music.”

As if emboldened by her initial success, she promised that it would give her great pleasure to instruct him, since choral music was surely one of the most sublime of human achievements.

Jonathan then declared that he would no longer delay his enjoyment of such a singular pleasure and an appointment was made to attend the church of St Margaret at Westminster the following Sunday.

Clearly pleased, she went upstairs to put away her bonnet and wrap and returned to find them discussing the program for the Art School.

Monsieur Armande had already told him that Anna would be assisting him with the teaching. Now, he revealed that she had been entrusted with a set of lessons in Still Life studies, which she had been busy preparing.

When Jonathan expressed an interest, she brought out her folio and let him see her work, in the same unpretentious manner in which she had played for them when he had first dined at Haye Park.

Jonathan genuinely admired her work and admitted he was looking forward to the exhibition.

“It would do no good to try to teach me,” he said modestly. “I could never draw, but my lack of skill has made me an even greater devotee of the work of those who can and I do look forward to seeing your work and that of your students, of course.”

Madame joined them as they went in to dinner and revealed that there had been a great deal of interest in the classes; Monsieur Du Pont was very pleased.

“We have already enrolled twenty-seven, mostly young ladies, but one or two gentlemen also,” she explained as they sat around the table.

Monsieur Armande expressed great pleasure and declared that he had not hoped for half that number.

Jonathan, sitting next to Madame and opposite Anna, could not help noticing how well Anna looked. She had removed her outdoor coat and wrap and wore a simple gown of deep blue silk, which seemed to highlight her eyes and brilliant complexion. As they talked, she spoke eagerly and without affectation on matters that interested her, remaining silent when the conversation drifted to other subjects.

He was not given to paying compliments, being, for all his time in London and at Westminster, rather shy and afraid of giving offence.

On this occasion, however, he was a little less diffident and, taking the opportunity afforded by the absence of both Armandes from the room for a few moments, he told her how well the colour suited her and was rewarded for his courage with a smile that lit up her face and a sincere expression of thanks.

The rest of the evening was spent in such various and interesting discussions as absorbed all of the hours between dinner and midnight, when Jonathan, alerted by the chiming of the clock, leapt up, apologised for keeping them so late, said goodnight, and left rather abruptly.

Refusing Monsieur Armande's offer to accompany him, he set off to walk to Grosvenor Street.

The distance was certainly not great, and it was a fine night. Though the trees had begun to shed their Autumn leaves, he enjoyed the clear, cold air as he crossed the Square and chose deliberately to walk through St James' Park, instead of taking his usual route.

It had turned out to be such a satisfying evening, he could scarcely believe how depressed he had felt at the start of it, facing the prospect of a solitary supper. How fortuitously Monsieur Armande had appeared just as he had decided to return to Grosvenor Street.

Jonathan was very grateful to the Armandes. Their company and their generous hospitality had made a great difference to his life.

And of course, there was Miss Faulkner, in whom he found more to admire and esteem each time they met. He looked forward to their next appointed meeting at St Margaret's Church, with a keen anticipation of pleasure.

For the first time in months, Jonathan Bingley felt liberated from the melancholy that had afflicted him.

It was an exhilarating feeling.

End of Part One

Part Two

In the late Autumn of 1859, the government of Lord Palmerston was almost totally obsessed with the questions of Italian freedom and unity. The Prime Minister, with his able Chancellor Gladstone and his enlightened Foreign Minister Lord Russell, believed it was in England's interest to take up the Italian cause and did so most assiduously throughout the year and into the next.

In the lobbies and corridors of Westminster, the names of Count Cavour and Garibaldi were heard more often and spoken with greater regard than were those of the working class leader John Bright or the champion of individual liberty, John Stuart Mill.

It appeared as though neither the improvement of the conditions of the artisans and their families nor the freedom of the individual had for Palmerston the same urgency as the need to gain for Britain an advantage in Europe, through the support of Italian unification.

Jonathan Bingley, whose interest in foreign affairs was far outweighed by his desire to press for Reform of the electoral laws, which still prevented most working class men and all women from voting, found little to interest him in the matters that absorbed the time and effort of the Parliament.

In fact, since the death of his wife and the purchase of Netherfield Park, he had felt even less enthusiastic about returning to Westminster as a Member of the House of Commons. On several occasions, he had turned over in his mind the idea of standing down from the position he had taken with the party, but had postponed the decision out of consideration for his brother-in-law, James Wilson.

In the course of the following week, when the Parliament was not sitting, he took the opportunity to attend to a number of outstanding matters.

Initially, he had, with Anne-Marie's help, gone through Amelia-Jane's things, keeping some of her personal trinkets and ornaments for either the children or their grandmother Mrs Collins and sending most of her clothes away to a charity that Eliza Harwood ran for widows of the war.

In the process, he'd had a rather unpleasant surprise, discovering a large number of unpaid bills that had come in. In the present unhappy state of his family, Jonathan did not feel inclined to speak of it to Mrs Collins; instead, he took them down to Netherfield, where he could peruse them in private.

They were, for the most part, bills from shops and warehouses, mainly for clothes, food, and wine, though in one or two cases, even Jonathan was unable to decipher what they were for. There was, however, no doubt that they were genuine and would have to be paid.

Then, there was the matter of his wife's will.

Perhaps the final irony lay in the revelation that she had recently changed her will, to leave almost all her valuable jewellery and some small number of gold sovereigns to Mrs Arabella Watkins. Indeed, to do so, she had taken them away from Miss Caroline Bingley, who for some unknown reason seemed to have suddenly lost favour with her.

The lawyers, an old and trusted family firm, explained that they had tried their best to dissuade Mrs Bingley, but to no avail. Now that Mrs Watkins was no more, they had informed Jonathan that his eldest daughter, Miss Anne-Marie Bingley, would inherit it all. Mercifully, she would never discover that she was her mother's third choice, receiving her inheritance only “in the event of Mrs Watkins' earlier demise.”

It was almost too bizarre to contemplate, especially in view of the fact that most of the items so bequeathed had been gifts to her from her husband or his parents.

Jonathan decided to tell no one except Charlotte Collins, to whom he handed over several of her daughter's trinkets and a few pieces of jewellery not itemised in the will. He believed, rightly, that she would appreciate them for their sentimental value. Mrs Collins was grateful for her son-in-law's thoughtfulness. The little velvet case he brought her contained a bracelet of coloured stones, an ivory brooch, and some rings—all dating from the early years of their marriage. Charlotte could not wear them, they were far too youthful for her, yet they had a greater value as keepsakes.

She thanked him sincerely and invited him to stay to dinner. She was dining alone, she said.

“Unfortunately, Miss Bennet is not feeling well enough to come down tonight. She has been rather poorly since the funeral. Sarah has taken her a light dinner. She eats very little,” she explained.

Jonathan was most concerned and, before leaving Hertfordshire the next day, he called again to enquire after his aunt's health.

Mrs Collins reported that she was feeling a little better but still too weak to leave her room.

Perturbed by her news, Jonathan proceeded to Standish Park to visit Emma and James. He wanted to thank them for their unfailing support during the dreadful days and weeks just past and consult them about the situation at Longbourn.

Under the terms of his grandfather Mr Bennet's will, when Miss Mary Bennet died, Jonathan would inherit the entire property, including the house. He had begun to wonder about the position of Mrs Collins in such a situation. He was well aware that, although she would be welcome to stay with either of her daughters, Rebecca Tate in Derbyshire or Catherine Harrison in Kent, Charlotte Collins had a strong preference for continuing to live independently in Hertfordshire.

For his part, Jonathan wished to do his best to accommodate her, especially since Lucas Lodge, the family home in which she had grown up, was now occupied by her brother's children and virtually closed to her.

“What would you suggest, Emma?” he asked, as they sat in the drawing room after dinner, on the evening of his arrival.

His sister was unwilling to even consider the prospect of another death in the family so soon after Amelia-Jane's funeral.

“Surely, my dear Jonathan, it cannot be such a pressing problem. I know our aunt Mary is not as well as she used to be, but I do not believe it is a life-threatening condition. I hope she will recover soon and live on for many more years. It is quite distressing to consider it at this stage,” she protested.

Jonathan understood and did not press the matter, which was clearly upsetting his sister.

“Dear Emma, pray do not upset yourself, I asked only because of the position of Mrs Collins at Longbourn. I have no objection at all to her staying on, but it may be best to have it clearly understood in what capacity she stays. It would save her any embarrassment in the future,” he explained.

James Wilson, himself a lawyer by profession, agreed with Jonathan, even though he hoped it was a problem that they would not have to face for a while yet if Miss Mary Bennet recovered from her present illness, as they all hoped she would.

Amelia-Jane's unpaid bills, however, were quite another matter and had to be given immediate attention.

Emma was shocked to discover how much money was owed to how many tradesmen, shopkeepers, and merchants. In a few cases, it was not clear who had placed the orders and then, there was even some housekeeping money owing to Mrs Giles!

“Poor, silly, misguided Amelia-Jane. It is quite clear now that her so-called friends Mrs Watkins and Mr Alexander were exploiting her and she, poor thing, was none the wiser,” said Emma, outraged by the information Jonathan had put before them.

Her brother agreed, adding that despite some very good advice from her mother, his wife had never taken money matters seriously.

“At first, it was something of a joke between us, when she used to run through her allowance midway through the month, but gradually it became more embarrassing and less funny,” he said and, turning to James, asked, “James, would you please instruct your clerk to attend to these bills? You can draw on my account with you to settle them. Anne-Marie has already written to some of them and I have settled Mrs Giles' account and paid the caretaker at the Dower House, who was owed two months wages!”

James was happy to oblige, relieved that the financial obligations had not been greater.

As Jonathan prepared to return to London, Emma and James were eager to discover when he intended to move permanently to Netherfield Park. He smiled for the first time that evening and Emma noticed a look of real satisfaction upon his tired face as he anticipated the pleasure.

“Quite soon, indeed, as soon as I have had a few changes made to some of the rooms. I find the main bedroom too ornate and dark, and the drapes in the study and drawing room may have to be changed; the colours are rather over-powering—all that heavy plum-coloured velvet!” he said with a grimace. “I intend to get some sound advice on the matter while I am in town and get the work started very soon.”

He bade them farewell and, before getting into his carriage, said, “You must all come and stay at Netherfield when I have settled in there, bring the children too, there is plenty of room. Mama tells me it is quite beautiful in Spring!” and he was on his way, leaving Emma hopeful that her brother was, finally, recovering from the shock and distress of the last few months.

***

He made the journey to London in good time, stopping only a few hours at Rochester to rest the horses and snatch some sleep.

The following day being Sunday, he rose late, read the papers, wrote some letters and, in the evening, went out to St Margaret's Church in the shadow of the great Abbey at Westminster, where he was to meet Miss Faulkner at Evensong.

Alighting from his carriage and crossing the road to the church, he had an irrational feeling that she may have forgotten their appointment or changed her mind, leaving him alone in the unfamiliar church. He could not explain it to himself, but a disconcerting feeling of panic assailed him as he entered the church and did not immediately see her there. But it was only momentary, for as his footsteps sounded in the nave, a young woman in a bonnet of lilac and grey turned around, and he saw his fears had been groundless; she was here already.

He joined her in a pew some distance from the chancel, where the priest was reading from the Book of Common Prayer. After the reading, the priest and his attendants retired to their seats below the altar steps, and the choir sang, first a psalm and then a glorious anthem. As Anna softly explained the order of service, the sublimely beautiful young voices rose, creating an almost ethereal sound that Jonathan found profoundly moving.

After the closing hymn, they left the church and stepped out into the late evening light. She turned to ask if he had enjoyed the music but did not; seeing the unmistakable expression of pleasure that suffused his face, she knew he had clearly been deeply moved.

He spoke before she did. Taking her hand in his, he said, “Thank you, Anna. I can say quite sincerely that was one of the loveliest experiences of my life. Thank you for asking me. I am very grateful.”

She had not expected such a deep response and did not know quite what to say—except that she was happy it had brought him so much pleasure.

They had by now crossed the road and he was about to hand her into the carriage, when he stopped and said, as if on impulse, “It is such a beautiful evening and there is still so much light in the sky, shall we walk back through the park?”

When she agreed without any hesitation, for she was very fond of walking, he looked pleased and gave instructions to his driver to take the carriage round to Belgrave Square and wait for him.

Turning to Anna, he offered her his arm.

As they walked, he asked after the health of Monsieur and Madame Armande and, being assured they were well, there followed other questions about preparations for the Art School including her own classes.

Was everything in readiness for the opening? She said it was and he was happy to hear it.

Then it was her turn to ask if he had left Mrs Collins and Miss Mary Bennet in good health. He mentioned his aunt's indisposition and she was concerned at her continuing ill health, pointing out that the onset of Winter was not far away. On hearing he had visited Standish Park, she wanted to be told about Emma Wilson. Was she well, and how were the children?

These queries filled up the time as they walked, each seeming reluctant to stop, lest the silence between them became awkward.

They had reached the lake and, as they made to walk around it, a flock of migrating birds flew in and wheeled across the water; they stopped to watch them.

In the silence that followed, Jonathan spoke, “Anna,”—he broke off. Self-conscious and a little awkward, he asked, “May I call you Anna?”

She smiled at the question.

“Of course you may, you have known me since I was a child. We are almost cousins!”

“We are indeed, thank you,” he said and added, “Then you must call me Jonathan, I should like you to; besides, there are at least three Mr Bingleys in the family and what is the use of a name if no one ever uses it?”

Anna laughed and indicated that she would be happy to oblige him.

Returning to his original opening, now they were walking around the lake, he said, “Anna, please let me thank you from the bottom of my heart, no, not just for the pleasure of this evening, though that has been rare and lovely, but for all your kindness to me and my family, especially my young daughters.

“You gave of your time and attention so generously, and your willingness to comfort and help them … I fear I have no words to express my thanks. Please accept my heartfelt gratitude on their behalf and for myself.”

His words took her by surprise. There was no doubting his sincerity.

Anna was silent at first, unable to respond; then recovering her composure, she urged him to accept everything she had done, even as she insisted it was very little, as part of the friendship and regard that she and her family had for him, his children, and all their family.

“Mr Bingley, Jonathan, you must believe me when I say it was a pleasure marred only by the sad circumstances in which it occurred. If the situation had been different, it would have been wholly enjoyable. Quite apart from the sense of duty I must feel towards them as my cousin Amelia's children, both Teresa and Cathy have such gentle, affectionate natures and are so well taught, I had no trouble keeping them occupied,” she declared.