Netherfield Park Revisited (25 page)

“Indeed, it is, my dear, and especially to see her so happy. She seems almost light-hearted. If I did not know her better, I would have said she was in love,” he said, regarding his wife over his glasses.

Maria was about to retort, when Anna looked in to say goodnight.

Both her parents, seeing her lovely smiling face in the doorway, said goodnight and waited only till she had closed the door, before turning to each other and saying almost at once, “Perhaps she is!” But neither of them would speculate any further.

Monsieur and Madame Armande had no such qualms.

They had observed both their friends, for they had come to regard Jonathan Bingley with a high degree of respect and affection throughout the Summer and were quite convinced that it was inevitable that they would fall in love. They had no doubt about it at all.

Of course, there had been the terrible tragedy of Mrs Bingley's death and, while they had no knowledge of the details, they had drawn their own conclusions about the nature of their marriage.

Since then, however, they had watched, with barely concealed delight, the unmistakeable pleasure that Anna and Jonathan had in each other's company. They shared many interests and seemed so much at ease with one another. For two elderly romantics like the Armandes, there was only one possible conclusion to be drawn. They did caution each other, though, it was bad luck to anticipate another's happiness before the event, so they would say nothing.

As for Anna, she completed her toilette and went to bed.

She had admitted to herself, as she brushed her hair, that the evening had left her with a very special feeling of felicity, but being a young woman of discretion, she took care not to advertise her state of mind.

She did not lie awake long, but just before she fell asleep, she made a little mental note to ask Jonathan Bingley if he preferred Wedgwood blue drapes or mossy green ones in the main bedroom.

They had all agreed that the existing crimson brocade had to go. “Too much like Royalty,” she had joked, and he had agreed absolutely.

***

Two days later, work began in earnest at Netherfield, and over the following fortnight, since time was of the essence, a feverish level of activity was reached.

The Armandes, who had no urgent need to return to London, were happy to accept Jonathan's hospitality at Netherfield, while advising on the redecoration. Jonathan had his steward organise a team of tradesmen and labourers, while Mrs Perrot gathered together a group of young women to do the sewing. The yard and back parlour began to resemble a manufacturing establishment, as they worked to carry out the changes required. Anna and Madame Armande measured, mixed, and matched, drawing innumerable sketches and trying out a range of ideas until they were satisfied they had the right one.

As to designs and colours, they had been given a free hand and, though the new Master of Netherfield was often consulted, he rarely found himself in disagreement with the ladies.

Some things, it was generally agreed, had to go.

First to come down, with not a single dissenting voice, were the “Royal Brocade” curtains in the main bedroom. Jonathan had confessed that he could never sleep in there while they remained. Together with the plum velvet in the drawing room and the rather gloomy grey and maroon stripe in the study, they were consigned to a basket in the attic.

“They'll do for charades and pantomimes,” said Jonathan, firmly.

When the question arose of choosing colours for his own rooms, Anna insisted it was his choice since he had to live with them. He picked a very acceptable Wedgwood blue for the bedroom and a cream with deep green drapes for his study.

The Armandes praised his choice as being “far more modern” than the drab colours they had replaced.

The drawing room and library, which occupied the long spaces on either side of the main staircase and hallway, were both transformed by the use of ivory and cream, increasing the impression of light and air, since both rooms opened onto terraced gardens. Simplicity and good taste predominated throughout.

In the girls' rooms, which opened into each other, Anna had been reluctant to proceed without having them choose the colours, but they were in Leicestershire and the work had to be done before Christmas. When it was completed, however, her choice of soft French beige with rose printed drapes was applauded by all.

But the pièce de résistance was the inspired creation of an informal upstairs sitting room, much like the one at Haye Park, out of a rather cluttered space at the top of the stairs, where a tall window let in plenty of light and admitted a most attractive view of the park.

By banishing two formidable Chesterfields that had occupied most of the space, and replacing them with elegant Regency lounges taken from two of the unused bedrooms, adding some chairs, a table, and a writing desk, the area was changed dramatically into an inviting and useful sitting room.

So pleased was Jonathan with the result that he declared he would further enhance its appeal by purchasing for the walls two pictures he had admired in Monsieur Armande's display. Monsieur was delighted to oblige. The result would surely be a room that was a triumph of imagination and good taste—destined to become a favourite family retreat.

The weeks spent in redecoration and rearrangement at Netherfield would be remembered by all of them as some of the happiest days they had spent together. While they worked very hard, and, for Jonathan and Anna, there was no privacy and little time alone to permit any further exploration of their feelings, it did afford them opportunities to discover the many ideas and aspirations they shared.

For Jonathan, this was a novel experience. His courtship of Amelia-Jane had been so short and intense, his decision to propose marriage to her so precipitate as to surprise even himself. It had caused his usually calm, even-tempered mother some degree of consternation and provoked her to question his judgment in a most unusual way.

He recalled her anxious questions about Amelia-Jane's tender age and her ability to be certain of her feelings, “She is not yet sixteen, Jonathan, how can you be so sure she knows her own mind?” she had asked. Even his father had abandoned his generally disinterested approach to the matrimonial plans of his children to counsel caution.

“It would be wise, since you intend to stand for Parliament, to be quite certain you are marrying a lady who understands the responsibilities of the position,” he had said.

Yet Jonathan recalled also how, captivated by the beauty and exhilarating energy of young Miss Collins, he had felt no qualms. He had believed that her unquestioned good character was insurance enough; her mind would improve with association and maturity.

Of his own affection for her, he had had no doubt at all.

The feelings he had begun to recognise stirring within his heart for Miss Faulkner seemed to have developed over the many months of their recent acquaintance, each occasion providing scope for their enhancement. It was a sensation completely different to the rather desperate ardour of his earlier wooing of Amelia-Jane.

The Armandes had noted their increasing intimacy with much pleasure, for they had a deep affection for both of them. To their partial eyes it seemed the pair were ideally suited, and they would dearly love to see them engaged.

Each evening, it appeared to them that Anna, having taken tea, left more reluctantly than before in the carriage that took her home to Haye Park. While every morning, after breakfast, Jonathan seemed restless and impatient until he heard the curricle from Haye Park come up the drive.

While in all their dealings, there was perfect decorum and propriety, they could not conceal their genuine enjoyment of each other's company. To be with them was to share that pleasure.

When most of the work was done, Jonathan, prior to leaving for London with the Armandes, who were soon to return to Europe, wrote to his mother and daughters at Ashford Park.

A letter he had received earlier that week had said the girls longed to see their father again and hoped they would be together at Christmas.

His mother urged him to let the children know when he would come for them.

“While it would be no trouble at all to have them stay over Christmas, I know they long to be with you,” Jane wrote.

Replying, Jonathan promised he would soon be there to collect them and bring them home to Netherfield.

Dearest Mama, please assure Cathy and Tess that I share their longing for us to be together again. Indeed, it is to this end that we have all worked so hard these last few weeks, getting the house and especially their rooms ready for them.

Netherfield, thanks to the wonderful work of many people, including Monsieur and Madame Armande, Miss Faulkner, and a whole team of tradesmen and staff who have worked tirelessly to finish the job, has been transformed from a rather dull though solid Georgian manor house into an elegant and comfortable home for us all.

I look forward to having all three of my dear daughters home at Christmas and I know they will want me to thank everyone on their behalf.

Indeed, Mama, I can hardly wait until Spring, when you and Papa, Aunt Lizzie and Mr Darcy, Emma and James are all to join us at Easter.

It will be a pleasure we shall look forward to all Winter long.

He concluded with an assurance that, having collected Anne-Marie from Harwood House, he would soon be travelling to Ashford Park.

After despatching the letter to the post, he said his farewells and drove with the Armandes to Haye Park.

Expecting to be away for a fortnight at least, returning only a few days before Christmas, Jonathan had hoped for a private word with Anna to thank her for her help and perhaps obtain from her a promise to visit Netherfield when he returned with his daughters.

But, there was never an opportunity. Whether by accident or design, there was always someone around to engage them in conversation whenever he tried to see her alone.

Only at the end, as they waited for his carriage to be brought round to the front door, was he able to say a few words. They mainly reiterated his appreciation and added the hope that they would meet again soon.

It was she who reminded him of her promise to teach Teresa to draw and he eagerly took the chance to invite her to dine with them on their return.

“I know the girls will be looking forward, very much, to seeing you again, Anna, and so will I,” he declared, with as much feeling as he could express, as the carriage rolled up to the door.

It had been said so quickly and with so little warning, she had no time to take in the significance of the words, much less to respond to them. The others were waiting and before she could say more than a brief “thank you,” he had kissed her hand and was gone.

On reaching London, the Armandes prepared to leave almost immediately for Europe, but Monsieur was as good as his word and ensured that Jonathan was able to make his choice of paintings for Netherfield and another very special item, which he selected and had carefully packed and stored at Grosvenor Street. The Armandes, loathe to part from their new friend, urged him to visit them. Jonathan, though he had no immediate plans to visit Europe, assured them that he had hopes of seeing them again, soon.

Anne-Marie was seeing her father for the first time since the two weeks they had spent, following her mother's death, undertaking together a series of melancholy tasks. It had not been a pleasant time. Going through her mother's things and writing to all the friends and relations who had to be thanked and, even worse, finding the right words to apologise for the delay in settling the many bills she had accumulated over two or three months, had been difficult.

But much worse was the task of explaining, haltingly, to her younger sisters what had taken place, without destroying their image of their mother. Teresa, being rather slight and fragile since her premature birth, had spent most of her childhood with her grandmother Jane Bingley. She was less likely to miss Amelia-Jane than Cathy, who was a sturdy, cheerful girl, who had lived most of her life in Kent. She had been closer to her mother than any of the other children. Her little world had changed utterly overnight, and while Anne-Marie had done her best, there were questions she could not possibly answer.

To some, she did not know the answers herself, while others were best left unanswered, seeing that most of the participants were dead. No one could explain to Cathy why her mother had decided to leave for Bath in Mr Alexander's light carriage, which she had criticised only the previous week as being unsafe for the girls to ride in.

Cathy had recalled and retold the incident when Mrs Watkins and Mr Alexander had been visiting and Mr Alexander had offered to take the two girls for a drive around the park. Cathy had been willing, but Teresa, cautious as always, had wanted her mother's approval, which had not been forthcoming. Indeed, she had been quite cross with Mr Alexander for even suggesting it and had ordered Cathy to get out of the carriage and go upstairs at once.

“She was very cross,” Cathy had said, and Teresa had claimed she would never forget the sharpness of her mother's voice as she rebuked first her daughters and then Mr Alexander for what she had called a “stupid idea.”

“Clearly she did not approve of him driving the girls around the park, and yet, she was willing to make the much longer, more hazardous journey to Bath with him and Arabella Watkins in the same vehicle, careless of her own reputation and safety,” Anne-Marie had said to Eliza Harwood, who had agreed there appeared to be no logical reason for her behaviour.

It was something that had concerned Anne-Marie, but she had never been able to talk to her father about it, feeling he had borne enough pain and needed no more.

When they set out on their journey north, having stopped off in London to purchase Christmas presents for the family, Anne-Marie seemed cheerful enough. But as they journeyed on, her father became aware that she was unusually restless and yet remained silent for most of the time.