The Ladies of Longbourn (12 page)

He had told himself it was because he knew few women of such keen intelligence and independent views; but he had then been disturbed to find that, in his quieter moments, it had been her lovely face and graceful figure, rather than her opinions, that seemed to dominate his thoughts. Indeed, if he were to be honest with himself, he would have to admit that these feelings had little to do with her fine social conscience and humanity, nor was he particularly concerned that her political loyalties were rather more radical than her father's or his own.

Having accepted the fact that she seemed to occupy his mind during most of his waking hours, he finally conceded that he was rapidly becoming bewitched by her. Her beauty and charm now appeared to him to be enhanced, while her character had acquired a peerless quality that placed her well above any other woman he had known.

Having contemplated all of this over a reasonable period of time, Colin Elliott had begun to wonder whether the lady was, even to the smallest extent, aware of his feelings. Of her affections, he was uncertain.

When they had met in the garden at Longbourn, after his absence at Westminster, he had been quite unable to conceal his pleasure at seeing her again, yet wondered if she had even noticed. If she had, she had given no indication of it and though she had greeted him with warmth and friendliness, he could not detect even a flicker of additional interest on her part, except, of course, when he mentioned the hospital or the activities of the Parliament. Of the latter, there was always plenty of interesting news, but of the former, he was beginning to despair.

Unfortunately, he had not had an opportunity to broach the subject of the hospital with his father and so had very little to report.
Throughout the following week, and especially when they moved Teresa and Anne-Marie back to Netherfield, he had tried desperately to discern some change in her attitude to him with no success.
She had thanked him warmly and sincerely for his help, appeared most grateful for his compassion, but nothing more. Colin Elliott was convinced he was getting nowhere.
Called away for a few days to his father's estate, he returned vowing to discover if she had missed him at all. Having called first at Longbourn, to inquire after Mrs Banks and Mrs Collins and found them very satisfactorily settled, he rode over to Netherfield. There, he found all three ladies at home, though Mr Bingley had gone up to London on business. When Anna invited him to stay to dinner, he accepted with alacrity. As they sat taking tea on the lawn, they were joined by another young man, one he had met on a previous occasion, but in different circumstances, a Mr Frederick Fairfax. Mr Fairfax had brought along his sketch pad and while he scribbled and scratched incessantly, Teresa who seemed most interested in his work, sat beside him and looked on, occasionally pointing out some feature of the drawing.
When Anna was called away to console young Nicholas, Colin Elliot found himself alone with Anne-Marie, seated at some distance from the other two, who seemed intent upon their task. Expecting to be asked about his efforts to secure his father's support for the hospital, he had prepared an answer, something plausible, which he hoped she would believe. But the need did not arise, for Anne-Marie was deeply involved in a book she was reading. It was a novel by Emily Bronte, a young woman whose authorship had been originally concealed by a male pen name. Anne-Marie had acquired a copy of
Wuthering Heights
, the only novel Miss Bronte had written, and confessed to Mr Elliott that it had absorbed her totally. There was no mistaking her enthusiasm.
"There is so much energy and passion in the characters and the writing, yet when one recalls that Miss Bronte lived out most of her short life in a parsonage at Haworth, on the edge of the Yorkshire moors, one has to wonder at the power of her imagination," she said.
Colin Elliott was unfamiliar with the novel, but in view of his companion's recommendation, he determined that he would obtain a copy and read it forthwith. Meanwhile, he was content to listen to her read him particular passages and discuss their meaning.
So engrossed were they, that they did not notice that Frederick Fairfax had completed his sketch. Teresa brought it over and held it up; it was a sketch of two figures seated together, poring over a book, their faces obscured, hers by a beribboned hat, and his, because his head was bent close to hers, looking at the page.
In attitude and stance, however, they were unmistakably Anne-Marie and Mr Elliott, and the sketch lent them an air of familiar intimacy that was quite remarkable. Colin Elliott held his breath, somewhat embarrassed and apprehensive, afraid that she may be offended or, worse, regard it as impertinence and probably destroy it. He found it very appealing and would have liked to ask the artist for it, but, unwilling to be the first to comment, he said nothing.
Anne-Marie took the drawing from her sister and having regarded it for a few minutes, smiled and said lightly, "That is very good, Mr Fairfax; if you will sign it for me, I think I might have it framed."
Mr Elliott's relief was palpable. It meant she was not offended. He smiled and plucked up the courage to look more closely at the picture and commented that he thought Fairfax had not got the detail of Mrs Bradshaw's hat quite right, which remark brought laughter all round.
At that very moment, Anna returned and, seeing the drawing as well as the looks on their faces, she knew--indeed she was certain--for the first time that there was, or at least there was soon going to be, much more than an ordinary friendship between Anne-Marie and Colin Elliott.
To her, the signs were unmistakable.

At dinner, the conversation returned to India, more specifically the Mutiny and the horrors thereof. This time, Frederick Fairfax mentioned his uncle at the Colonial Office, who had gone to work in India after the Mutiny, he told them. Teresa then volunteered the information that Mr Elliott had spent several years out there. Mr Fairfax was interested.

"Did you really, Mr Elliott? Was it awful? Why did you leave? My uncle, who quite enjoys the place, says the horrible things that happened during the Mutiny have driven thousands of English people away..."

Anne-Marie, who had already noticed the expression on Mr Elliott's face, an expression that spoke to her of distress, was unwilling to have the pleasant ambience of their dinner table destroyed by recollections of evil and mayhem and decided to intervene in the conversation.

Colin Elliott had started to speak; plainly reluctant, he stuttered, "Well, it was not really the Mutiny at all...in fact, I was in England at the time--" he began, when to his complete surprise and subsequent delight, Mrs Bradshaw interrupted him, "Mr Elliott is far too modest to tell you himself, Mr Fairfax, but the truth is his party wanted him to stand for Parliament and take over the mantle of his father, Sir Paul Elliott. That is why he left India. Is that not so, Mr Elliott?"

Stunned by her diplomacy and profoundly grateful, he agreed instantly, "Yes, that is correct. My father was anxious to retire and I could hardly refuse such a secure seat in the Commons."

This information so impressed Mr Fairfax, that he raised his eyebrows and changed the subject altogether and Anna, intercepting Anne-Marie's glance, smiled to herself.

Later, when they were gathered in the drawing room taking coffee, Frederick Fairfax brought out his drawings to show them how he planned to improve the cottages on the home farm at Netherfield. While Anna, Teresa, and Cathy were poring over them, gathered around a table in the corner of the room, Anne-Marie offered Colin Elliott more coffee.

He accepted; it gave him the opportunity, as they moved away from the others, to say in a low voice, "Mrs Bradshaw, please let me thank you for preserving me from another recital of the horrors of the Indian Mutiny; I am afraid I was hopelessly stranded and without your intervention I would not have escaped."

She laughed, a genuinely happy, lilting laugh, like he had not heard from her before, and said, "I was quite certain you had no wish to go through all that again. Mr Fairfax is probably too young or has had too little experience of life to realise that those who have known that kind of agony have little desire to retell it in all its particulars on every occasion.

"I recall your distress when you first told us of it; it was plain to me, that even though you were not present to see the atrocities, hearing of them had been sufficiently harrowing to cause you much pain. I do not blame you for wanting to put it behind you, and I certainly did not wish to have you go through it all over again at dinner tonight."

She spoke honestly, without sentimentality or drama and yet, once again, Colin Elliott was lost for words. This time, because he was so delighted by her admission of understanding and sympathy for him that he knew not how to respond, fearful of saying too much or too little.

He wanted desperately to let her know how much her words had pleased him, yet feared that too effusive a declaration may alarm her and spoil everything.
In the end, he thanked her simply and sincerely with all his heart and, looking into her eyes as he spoke, he felt...he wondered if perhaps...no indeed, he was absolutely certain that he had seen in them a response that gave him a glimmer of hope.

HE WEATHER BEING WARM AND
dry for much of the season, a considerable amount of work was accomplished on the cottages of the Netherfield Estate. Frederick Fairfax had worked hard on the plans,

which had met with Mr Bingley's approval before Mr Lockwood was recalled and the builders hired to begin the work. It was completed to the satisfaction of his employer and the occupants, who were perfectly happy to put up with the temporary inconvenience to have their dwellings so much improved.

Jonathan Bingley was a conscientious landlord and, with his wife and daughters to support him, his management of the estates at Longbourn and Netherfield was exemplary. Here were no displaced and impoverished farmhands and tenants without a piece of land to cultivate or a roof over their heads. They were still free to use some of the fields and all of the commons and woodlands. While several of the younger men had travelled into the big towns to look for more lucrative work, many returned disillusioned to the farms and orchards.

Like his father Charles Bingley and his uncle Mr Darcy, whose fine estates of Ashford Park and Pemberley owed nothing to the ruthless practices of greedy landholders, Jonathan had sought always to engender trust and loyalty between himself and the men and women who lived and worked on his land. The maintenance and improvement of their cottages, the provision of many traditional amenities as well as a new hall for the church school, had all been initiated by him and in return he had received their loyalty in good measure.

So satisfied was he with the work on the cottages that Messrs Lockwood and Fairfax were reengaged and asked to produce a plan for a modest hospital for children. There was as yet no approval from the council and certainly no money, but Jonathan believed that if they had a plan and a site, the rest might well follow.

Just outside the boundaries of the Longbourn Estate, in a place called Bell's Field, stood a derelict chapel, which may have been, some centuries ago, before the destruction of the monasteries, part of a Catholic convent. It was surrounded by some acres of farmland, woods, and meadow, most of which had lain neglected and overrun by weeds for decades.

Aware of Anne-Marie's desire to establish a hospital for the children of the area and persuaded by his wife of the importance of providing his daughter with something worthwhile to occupy her time, Jonathan Bingley had contacted the agents for the owners of the property and found them very willing to sell and at a most reasonable price.

"Their father was killed at Balaclava and they could not afford to do anything useful with it and agreed that it was a shame to leave it to the brambles and weeds," he explained, as they discussed their plans.

"When I told them we had in mind a hospital for the children of this area, they were overjoyed. Their father, who was himself a physician, would have approved, they said, and wished our scheme every success. They asked only that the two graves that lie behind the old church be respected."

When Anne-Marie heard the news, she was ecstatic and wanted to be taken immediately to the site.
"After years of neglect, it is not in the best condition," her father warned, "and you may be disappointed."
But, she would not be dissuaded.
"I could not care if it had a thicket of thorn bush and brambles as high as the sky, so long as we had a piece of land and permission to build a hospital. Oh Papa, you are wonderful!" she cried and flung her arms around her father's neck.
Unfortunately, he had to dampen her enthusiasm by reminding her that they did not have approval yet, and it was by no means a certainty. However, he was hopeful. "When Mr Elliott was here last week, I intimated that we may soon have a site and he has promised to speak with his father about the matter of approval. Sir Paul has considerable influence on the council and could be of assistance in this regard."
Even Anna was surprised at this news and, as they climbed into the carriage and drove to Bell's Field, where they alighted and gazed at the forlorn little church, she hoped with all her heart that Colin Elliott would not disappoint them. Clearly, Anne-Marie was very hopeful, and her enthusiasm was undiminished by the appearance of the neglected site. "We could have it cleared and made ready in a week," she declared, and once again, Jonathan had to warn that they could do little more than clear away the brambles, without the approval of the council.
"I have asked Mr Lockwood and Frederick Fairfax to look at the place and draw me a modest plan," he said, and before she could cry out in delight, he added, "Only because I believe that with a site and a plan and some pushing from Sir Paul Elliott, we may stand a better chance with the council."
But she would not let any of his reservations dull her bliss, so filled was her mind with the picture of what had been a dream for almost a year. She could scarcely believe it was about to become a reality. Turning to Anna and her father, she said, "I should like to keep the chapel, Papa; restore it and use it as part of the hospital."
Anna thought it would be a good idea too, but Jonathan was cautious. "It has been neglected and exposed to the weather for so many years that Lockwood would need to get his builder to look at it. It may not be safe, if the timber has rotted away. But, if he says it is, I can see no reason why it could not be retained and refurbished; we shall have to see."
"Could we look?" Anne-Marie asked, her eyes shining with excitement.
At that point, he had to refuse. "Oh no, my dear, it would be foolish to venture in while it is in this neglected state. I think we must wait until the place has been cleared and the rubbish burned."
Seeing her disappointment, Anna added a word of caution also: "Your father is right, Anne-Marie, there could be rats . . ."
"Not rats!" Anne-Marie's desire to explore evaporated at the mention of rats. Brambles she could face, but she drew the line at rats. Reluctantly she agreed and they returned to their vehicle, even as she turned to look longingly at the place which now held her dreams.
Passing the turn-off to Longbourn, they decided to call on Mrs Collins, whose spirits had been greatly restored now that Harriet had returned.
Mrs Banks came regularly to sit with her and read to her, for though she was as active as she ever was, Charlotte's eyesight was not as good as it had been. The two women had become good companions.
"Ever since we lost dear Mary, I have missed having someone to read to me," she had said to Anna, "Harriet is too busy and Mrs Sutton does not speak the words as clearly, though she does try. Mrs Banks is very good indeed."
On this mild afternoon, as they approached the usually quiet house, they could hear a great commotion, and as they drew up at the entrance, Mrs Sutton came running out in floods of tears, crying out "No, no, please, no!"
So astonished were they, that for a few seconds they were unable to decide what to do. But, as Mrs Sutton recognised the occupants of the carriage, she ran back into the house and, by the time the ladies had alighted and gone indoors, she had fled upstairs.
Anna found her aunt in the parlour looking quite anxious and bewildered, while Anne-Marie followed Mrs Sutton upstairs, only to find she had locked herself in a spare bedroom and could be heard weeping uncontrollably within.
Unable to get in and unwilling to force an entry, she came downstairs and found Harriet Greene. "Harriet, what on earth is the matter? Why is Lucy Sutton in such a state?" she asked.
"Mrs Sutton has had some bad news, ma'am," Harriet replied.
"Is this to do with her husband, Mr John Sutton? Has he discovered her?" Anne-Marie asked.
Harriet held back for only a moment and then decided that it was best that the truth be told.
"I think so, ma'am. I believe Mrs Sutton received a letter from him last week and when she did not reply, he sent another; only this time, he is threatening to come down and take the children back to London."
Anna had come out of the parlour and joined them. Hearing Harriet's words, she asked, "Harriet, how long have you known about this business of Mrs Sutton's husband?"
Harriet looked anxious; she was an honest woman and knew that the family trusted her implicitly. She would not lie. "Not very long, ma'am. Mrs Sutton spoke to me, in confidence, soon after I returned from Nottingham," she explained. "Mrs Sutton was very upset, ma'am; she said a man had been asking questions about her in Meryton and she was afraid. She feared he was a private detective. She told me then that her husband was not dead; he had returned from the war, and she said he was stark raving mad, ma'am. He would drink a lot and swear and shout and beat her and threaten the children. She could not bear it any longer and ran away, when he was fallen asleep, dead drunk, she said. The way she told it, I felt truly sorry for her, ma'am," said Harriet, looking pretty miserable herself, as she recounted the events for them.
"Mrs Sutton begged me not to tell Mrs Collins or yourselves, fearing she might be put out of her cottage and lose her work here, teaching the children. Her two little girls, they are so terrified, ma'am, it breaks your heart to see them."
Both women were speechless for several minutes. Then Anna asked, "And what happened today?"
"She has had a letter, ma'am, saying he will come for the children. She came to ask me if we could hide the two girls here. The boy is at boarding school, and his father cannot get to him there; besides the lad is old enough to stand up to him, she says, but she is mad with fear for her two little girls, the poor woman, she will surely lose her mind if they are taken from her, ma'am." Harriet was almost in tears herself.
Anne-Marie asked quickly, "Where are the girls now?"
"They are upstairs, ma'am, and Mrs Sutton is very afraid. I told her I could not allow them to stay and she had to ask Mrs Collins, and then Mrs Collins said she could not say yes unless Mr Bingley agreed. Mrs Sutton was only weeping quietly until she heard the sound of the carriage, and I believe she did not stop to think; she was afraid he had followed her down here. She ran out and back again, when she saw it was yourselves."
Jonathan Bingley had come into the room, having waited a while in the hall. He had heard some but not all of Harriet's story, but it had been enough to convince him of the seriousness of the situation. He asked Harriet Greene a few more questions, sufficient to enable him to understand the predicament in which they had been placed.
Turning to his wife, he said quietly, "My dear, we have no choice but to protect Mrs Sutton and her daughters from whatever danger threatens them. We must convey them to Netherfield. They cannot stay here; should Sutton discover them, he will surely arrive and harass Mrs Collins and the rest of the household. It would be a most unsatisfactory situation. At least, at Netherfield, they will be out of his reach."
Having first cautioned Harriet, that she must on no account reveal their whereabouts, he asked her to go upstairs and get the girls and their mother ready to depart for Netherfield. "Tell them they need have no concerns about their things; we can send someone round to the cottage to collect them tomorrow," he said and added, "You can assure them they will be quite safe at Netherfield."
Addressing his daughter, he said, "Anne-Marie, you can tell Mrs Sutton that I shall send for my solicitor tomorrow and he will advise what can be done to afford them some legal protection."
Meanwhile, Anna went to reassure her Aunt Charlotte, who was, by now, distressed and eager to discover what was going to happen.
"I had no idea at all, Anna, none at all," she protested, "Lucy Sutton told me she was a widow and I believed her. I am truly shocked. I thought she was a good, quiet woman."
Anna tried to reassure her, "My dear aunt, please do not concern yourself; I am sure she still remains a good woman. If what she has told Harriet is true, she has run away from a drunken, cruel husband to protect her children. She probably pretended to be a widow in order to avoid too many questions; you know what village gossip is like."
This explanation seemed to put a whole new complexion on the matter, for Charlotte. She could feel sympathy for any woman who found her children threatened. "Poor Mrs Sutton, what will she do?" she asked, and Anna explained that they were being conveyed to Netherfield. Mrs Collins was clearly relieved. "Oh good, I know they will be safe with you," she said.
Minutes later, Harriet returned with Lucy Sutton, who looked shamefaced and unhappy, while her two girls seemed cowed and afraid as if memories of their father's violent temper had come flooding back.
Anne-Marie could bear it no longer; she went to them and embraced them, assuring them that they would all be perfectly safe at Netherfield.
Jonathan sent them on their way with Anna and decided to wait with Anne-Marie for the return of their carriage.
He had let Anna go with them to Netherfield so she could help them settle in after their ordeal. On the morrow, he hoped a magistrate might be found to afford them protection.
Before Harriet took Mrs Collins upstairs, Jonathan reassured them, "I shall send Mr Bowles round to you tomorrow; should Sutton or anyone else arrive, he will deal with them. You will not be harassed."
As they waited for the carriage to return, it grew late, and Jonathan could see that Anne-Marie was very tired. On the way home, she began, suddenly, to weep.
"Papa, I feel so terrible," she said, through her tears, and he, believing she was distressed by what had transpired in the hours before, tried to comfort her, but she wept even more. "You don't understand, Papa; I knew all the time. I had seen her husband, John Sutton, at the hospital last year and when I met her and heard she had claimed to be a widow, I thought she was lying because she was guilty of something terrible and I condemned her. Papa, I just condemned her; I feel so dreadful now."
Astonished at this recital, Jonathan said nothing, as she continued, "I feel I have behaved so badly, I who should feel sympathy and concern for a woman who is unhappily married, I who knew what it was to have to pretend to be what one is not, how could I have been so presumptuous as to condemn her without ever asking to hear her side of the story? Papa, how could I have been so wicked?" she asked, still weeping, plainly unable to control her anguish.
Jonathan let her weep, knowing she needed to relieve her pent-up feelings of guilt, but then spoke gently though firmly, "My dear Anne-Marie, you are the last person who could be wicked to anyone. I know you well; you are tenderhearted, even with complete strangers, caring for them as if they were your own. Pray, my dear, do not judge yourself so harshly. No doubt, you misunderstood Mrs Sutton's motives only because you were ignorant of her circumstances. But, you did no real harm and now you have an opportunity to do some good. When they are at Netherfield, you can help them, especially the two children; they must surely be in great need of comfort and reassurance," he said.
She looked up at him, confident of his understanding and affection.
"Thank you, Papa, I shall try, but what will they do? How are they to be protected?" she asked.
"When Mr Hart, my solicitor, has spoken with Mrs Sutton and ascertained the whole of her situation, he will advise the best course of action. Meanwhile, she and her daughters will remain at Netherfield under my protection. Should Sutton turn up on my property, I can have him arrested for trespass and brought before the magistrate."
Certain her father would do everything in his power, Anne-Marie was content to wait until they were back at Netherfield, where they found Mrs Sutton and her daughters had been shown their rooms and were, even now, safely ensconced therein. One of the maids had been sent to assist them, and tea had been taken up to them.
When Anna came downstairs she reported that their guests were a sad, fearful little group, who had pleaded to be excused from coming down to join the family at dinner.
"They are very tired and the girls have frightening memories of a violent father. Poor Mrs Sutton can hardly think, so terrified is she of losing them to him. I've asked Mrs Perrot to have their dinner served upstairs. I do hope they will feel better tomorrow," she said.
On hearing this, Anne-Marie went directly upstairs and found them all huddled together in the large bed in Mrs Sutton's room. They looked so apprehensive and pathetic, she went to them and put her arms around them and as they hid their faces in her gown, Marigold and Lucinda began to weep, while their mother stood by, looking totally helpless and wretched.
Anne-Marie had to fight back her tears. In her own heart, she was so miserable that the tears she shed were partly for her own relief. She had been badly shaken on discovering how utterly wrong she had been about Lucy Sutton. Not only had she misjudged the woman on very little evidence, she had also deliberately spoken ill of her, voicing what had turned out to be unfounded suspicions, ascribing the basest of motives to a helpless woman who had only been trying to protect her children.
Realising the gravity of her mistake, she was deeply sorry and her contrition was both genuine and painful.
She tried to make amends, "Mrs Sutton, Lucy, please do not be afraid; you are perfectly safe here, and my father has assured me that tomorrow he will summon his solicitor, who will advise on some resolution to your problem."
Lucy Sutton, clearly grateful, clung to her hand and, still tearful, revealed that she had feared that her husband would return and remove her children. She had been traced to Meryton by a hired private detective, she said, and then the letters had begun to arrive, threatening her, ordering her to return to London with the girls or else . . .