Netherfield Park Revisited (38 page)

“I know Lord Russell is keen on extending the franchise and Bright is impatient to see it done, but Palmerston shows no interest at all.”

“There is the question of public education, too,” said Jonathan, who was aware that Prince Albert himself had tried to interest the government in the idea. “With the recalcitrant churchmen being implacably opposed, it seems like a hopeless cause, does it not?”

James agreed. “Even less hopeful than that of the little chimney sweeps—though, on this I am determined I shall support Shaftesbury's Bill when it comes before the Commons. He plans to have the age lifted to ten or twelve, if the Lords can be persuaded to let it through.”

“You will need to watch your back, James, there will be many among the Whigs who will resent your support for a Tory Bill,” Jonathan warned.

“Indeed they will, but there are matters of conscience which go to the heart of my beliefs in our duties as representatives of the people. I cannot turn a blind eye to such appalling conditions as these children suffer.”

James made his own dedication to the cause very clear.

“Jonathan, we legislated to stop the enslavement of adults when we banned the Slave Trade; how can we permit the enslavement of children here in England? Emma and I both feel very strongly about it.”

Remembering Charles and Colin, his two young nephews, Jonathan could well understand the strength of James Wilson's commitment. That his sister Emma supported her husband totally was no surprise.

Their conversation was interrupted by a servant, who brought in an express that had just been delivered. It was addressed to Jonathan and came from Eliza Harwood.

Jonathan could not imagine why she would be writing to him, unless—and as he tore the letter open the only possible reason occurred to him—unless it had to do with Anne-Marie!

He was right; Mrs Harwood wrote:

Dear Mr Bingley,

I hope this finds you well and still at Standish Park. I had gathered from Anne-Marie that you were to spend a few weeks in Kent with the Wilsons.

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.