The Ladies of Longbourn (2 page)

added, "Oh I know he was good and kind and all that sort of thing, but dear me, Aunt Jane, he was quite the dullest person I have ever encountered. When they came to visit after their wedding last year, he had nothing at all to say unless it was about church reform. Poor Anne-Marie did all the talking. Mr Bradshaw insisted on walking miles to visit all the village churches in the district and wanted to attend everything from matins to Evensong, and he would drag poor Anne-Marie along, even when you could see she was longing to stay and chat with the rest of us."

"And he made some boring sermons," said Elizabeth with a sigh. "When they came to Pemberley after they had become engaged, Darcy and I could not believe they were really going to be married. Darcy still believes that Anne-Marie would never have accepted him if she'd had the opportunity to meet more people, especially more eligible and intelligent young men. He would agree with Cassy that Anne-Marie was much too good for Mr Bradshaw and so, I am sure, would Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was at Pemberley at the time, and I remember his astonishment as Mr Bradshaw got up from the table after breakfast and hurried poor Annie, as he used to call her, off to church. She went quite cheerfully, I will admit, but Fitzwilliam was amazed and said as much.

"'Upon my word,'" began Lizzie, who was a good mimic and could do Colonel Fitzwilliam very well. "'Upon my word, Darcy, I cannot imagine he is in love with her if he just keeps dragging her off to church so often.' Whereupon Darcy said, 'It appears to be his only interest. Church reform is his pet topic; I have heard him speak of little else.'"

"And did Mr Darcy not regard Mr Bradshaw as a fit and proper husband for Anne-Marie?" Jane asked, anxiously.
"Oh he was certainly fit and very proper, too, Jane," replied her sister, smiling, "but I do not believe he was interesting or energetic enough for her. She is so full of vitality and energy, feels everything so deeply, while he...I cannot honestly say I could pick a single subject upon which I have heard him speak with anything approaching passion."
"What, not even church reform?" asked Cassy, with a wicked smile, to which her mother replied with a doleful look.
"No, not even church reform. It was a subject he addressed at length and with some conviction, but in such measured tones that it was difficult to listen to him for more than a few minutes, which, if he meant to enthuse us, must surely have defeated his purpose altogether."

Jane, still shocked, did recall on being prompted by Lizzie that Mr Bingley had fallen asleep during one of Mr Bradshaw's sermons, much to her embarrassment. "Poor Bingley," she said. "He was mortified."

She was promptly assured that no one would have blamed her dear husband for the completely understandable lapse.
Cassy said she had frequently wondered what had prompted the marriage, and Richard had been of the opinion that after her mother's death, Anne-Marie must have been so deeply hurt and troubled by what she clearly regarded as her mother's betrayal of their family that she had sought the safety of a marriage with a good, dull man, who would never dream of doing anything similar.
Jane agreed that in all her letters as well as in conversations, Anne-Marie would only refer to Mr Bradshaw as "dear Mr Bradshaw" and would always tell them how very good and kind he was.
"I do not doubt, Aunt Jane, that he was a good man, but one cannot live out one's life with a person whose only claim to fame is 'goodness.' Doubtless he will have saved her soul, but surely one needs some warmth, some rapport, some shared love of music or reading to nourish the soul, which must learn to enjoy and delight in God's gifts, before it comes to be saved." Cassy, in full flight, had not noticed her father and Bingley as they entered the room until Darcy said, "That was a fair sermon in itself, Cassy."
She smiled, knowing he was teasing her, but Jane applied to Mr Darcy for a judgment upon his daughter's opinion.
"Let us ask your father if he agrees," she said, whereupon Darcy smiled a wry, crooked little smile and declared,
"If Cassy was speaking of the late Mr Bradshaw, I have to admit that I am in complete agreement with her. Neither Lizzie nor I could ever get much more than exhortations to virtuous living from the man. I am in no doubt at all of his worthy intentions, but for a young man--he was not yet thirty--he was an amazingly dull fellow." Turning to his wife, he added with a smile, "Not quite as tedious as your late cousin Mr Collins, Lizzie, but close, very close."
Jane pressed him further, "And do you believe, Mr Darcy, that Anne-Marie was mistaken when she married him? Was she deceived, do you think?"
"Mistaken? Probably. Deceived? No indeed, Anne-Marie is an intelligent young woman. She may have been mistaken when she decided that Mr Bradshaw was the right man for her, but I would not accept that she was

deceived by him. Bradshaw seemed incapable of deception. He was honest-- transparently so--and dull; he had few remarkable qualities, but honesty was, I am sure, one of them. No, Jane, my belief coincides to a very great extent with Cassy's. I think, though I cannot know this for certain, that Anne-Marie was so disturbed by her mother's irrational behaviour and by the terrible events that led to her death that she accepted Bradshaw, believing that marriage to him offered a safe, secure life without risk of betrayal or hurt," he said, and his sombre voice reflected his sadness.

It had been only a year or two ago that Darcy had, in conversation with his wife, expressed the hope that Anne-Marie would widen her horizons beyond her nursing career, hoping her friendship with Anna Faulkner would engage her mind and encourage an appreciation of the arts.

"Do you believe she never loved him then?" asked Jane, sadly. Darcy found it hard to answer her.
"I am not privy to her thoughts, but I do know that she always spoke of him

with respect and affection. But whether her feelings were deeply engaged, I cannot judge," he replied.
"I saw no sign of it," said Cassy, firmly.
"No indeed," Elizabeth agreed, "yet, they always seemed content. I cannot believe she was unhappy."
As her husband Richard Gardiner came in to join them, Cassy spoke.
"Not unless you believe that the absence of deeply felt love in a marriage constitutes an absence of happiness," said Cassy, of whose happiness there was never any doubt. "For my part, such a situation would have been intolerable."
Cassy had once declared she would never marry except for the very deepest love, and no one who knew them doubted that she had kept her word. Recalling her own determination that she would rather remain unwed than marry without an assurance of deep and sincere affection, Elizabeth could only express the hope that Anne-Marie would find that life had more to offer her in the future.

The return of Mr and Mrs Bingley to Netherfield with their widowed daughter was certain to cause comment in the village and on the estate, but knowing the esteem in which the family was held, Mrs Perrot, the housekeeper, was quite confident it would be uniformly sympathetic.

Ever since the news had arrived by electric telegraph late on Sunday night, the house had been in turmoil, with the master plainly shocked and Mrs Bingley, who was usually so calm, in floods of tears.

"Poor Anne-Marie, poor dear Anne-Marie," she had said over and over again. "Oh, Mrs Perrot, it is just not fair!"
Mrs Perrot, who had lost a husband in the war and a son killed in an accident on the railways, agreed that life sometimes just wasn't fair.
Mrs Perrot and the manager, Mr Bowles, had had a little discussion and decided that no special fuss would be made when Mrs Bradshaw arrived at Netherfield House. "It's best we let the young lady rest a while," Bowles had suggested and she had agreed. He would convey the sympathies of the entire staff and, if Mrs Perrot wished, she could add her own, he had said. So it was resolved and the maids and footmen were urged to restrain themselves, lest they cause Mrs Bradshaw even more distress.
But, when the carriage drew up at the front steps and Mr Bingley alighted and helped first his wife and then his daughter out, their resolutions counted for naught. As the slight figure in deep mourning, her face still veiled, came up the steps, sobbing maids and tearful menservants scattered. Recalling the bright morning a mere fifteen months ago on which she had left the house as a bride, they were overcome with sadness.
Anne-Marie entered the hall and, having accepted the condolences of both Mr Bowles and Mrs Perrot, went quietly upstairs, following the maid who was to look after her at Netherfield. Jenny Dawkins's mother had worked at Netherfield many years ago, before the Bingleys moved to Leicestershire, and Jenny had returned as a chambermaid when Jonathan Bingley bought the property three years ago. She had been honoured to be chosen by Mr Bowles and Mrs Perrot to attend on Miss Anne-Marie when she first came to Netherfield House. Thereafter, Jenny had attended her whenever she visited, and a warm friendship had grown between them.
Jenny had remained very quiet, warned by Mrs Perrot not to "blub" and upset Mrs Bradshaw, but once they were in her room and Anne-Marie removed her bonnet and veil and turned to her maid, Jenny could hold out no longer. It all came out in a great rush of tears and words, as she ran to her mistress. "Oh, ma'am, I am so sorry," she cried, and as they embraced and wept, it seemed as if Anne-Marie was doing the comforting and it was Jenny who was bereaved.

Jonathan Bingley had been concerned for his daughter. She had been silent for most of the journey, and he was not surprised when she did not come downstairs to dinner.

"Jenny did take a tray upstairs to her, sir, but Mrs Bradshaw had hardly touched the food," said Mrs Perrot, when asked.
Anna, who had finished her dinner, rose and moved to leave the room.
"I shall go to her," she said, and Jonathan reached out and touched her hand, thanking her, reassuring her of his confidence.
He recalled how it had been three years ago, when his first wife Amelia-Jane had been killed in a dreadful accident on her way to Bath. Anna had been invaluable with the girls.
Anne-Marie, though barely twenty at the time, had borne the shock of the news well, with Anna's help, and had helped her two younger sisters, Teresa and Cathy, to cope with their loss. This time, the loss was her own, and there was little her young sisters could do or say that would help her.
Anna, however, was different, Jonathan thought.
He was sure she would find the right words. Her strength of understanding and sensitivity to the feelings of others had enabled her to bring harmony and purpose into their lives at Netherfield Park at a time of considerable confusion, even despair. He knew he could never thank her enough for the delight she had brought him in their marriage, with her warm, affectionate nature and passionate heart.
He had no doubt that Anna would help his daughter cope with her present misfortune. For herself, Anna was not altogether confident that she could.

Anne-Marie had spent only a small part of her adult life at home with her parents, since at seventeen, inspired by the example of Miss Florence Nightingale, she had decided to train as a nurse. Tired of her mother's superficial social round and the inconsequential comings and goings at Rosings Park, where they had lived while her father managed the estates of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Anne-Marie had determined to do something useful with her life.

Abandoning the clothes and jewellery with which her mother had decked her for many years, she had taken to dressing with abstemious simplicity and had taken work at the military hospital in the grounds of Harwood Park, where for many years she had lived at the invitation of her friend and cousin Eliza Harwood. It was there she had met the hospital chaplain, John Bradshaw, who ministered to the same broken men she worked so hard to heal. She had found much to admire in his work in the spiritual ministry to dispirited men and had shared his concern for them and their families. As a close friend of the Harwoods, Bradshaw had been a frequent visitor to their house, and both Eliza and her husband were very pleased when Anne-Marie had announced that they were engaged to be married.

Anna remembered well the day her letter had arrived. Jonathan Bingley had been in his study and had raced upstairs at great speed to find her, unable to comprehend how it had come about.

"Why, Anna, we hardly know him at all," he had said, clearly perturbed by the news. Anna had been very surprised herself, but concealed her feelings well as she let him explain his reservations.

"Had you any knowledge of this?" he had asked, and when she confessed to being totally ignorant of the matter, he had been extremely concerned.
"It is not like Anne-Marie to be so secretive. She is by nature open and frank in all things. When she was little, far more than Charles or Tess, she would seek me out and tell me everything she had been doing and then, during those terrible weeks before her mother's death, it was she, above anyone, who tried to alert me to Amelia-Jane's troubled state of mind.
"Why has she not said a word to me about this--this Bradshaw fellow? I know nothing of the man," he complained, clearly unhappy.
There was little Anna could say to reassure him, having no knowledge at all of Mr Bradshaw, except that he was a conscientious hospital chaplain. Of his character, background, and other interests, they were in complete ignorance.
Later, when Anne-Marie and Mr Bradshaw had visited Netherfield, together with their friends, the Harwoods, who were plainly delighted with the match, her father's disquiet had appeared to ease somewhat, if only because he had a good deal of respect for the Harwoods and knew that Eliza was Anne-Marie's close friend.
"It is unlikely," he told Anna afterwards, "that they would have seemed so pleased about the engagement if they had not been sure it was well founded. After all, they know both Anne-Marie and Bradshaw and are best placed to judge."

Anna had agreed, but after Mr Bradshaw had spent a few days at Netherfield, during which his conversation had seemed limited to just one or two topics of an ecclesiastical nature, and the only music he was familiar with were hymns and anthems, she had admitted to herself that she was beginning to worry. With so little in common, what, she wondered, would they talk about when they were not at the hospital or in church?