The Ladies of Longbourn Page 2

  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?

  Writing to Emma Wilson, her sister-in-law and confidante, Anna had said,

  Dearest Emma,

  I am unable to ignore a feeling of unease about this match, as if all is not as it seems. Yet, Anne-Marie seems so content, it is difficult to believe that a mistake has been made. Reverend Bradshaw is himself most attentive to his bride to be, whom he calls “Annie,” which Jonathan reminded me was the name of the little ladies’ maid, Annie Ashton, who was killed in the same accident as Amelia-Jane. He wonders if Mr Bradshaw’s use of the pet name may upset Anne-Marie, but in truth, she appear
s not to mind at all.

  Though confused and a little apprehensive, Anna had said nothing to Anne-Marie. Experience had taught her tact and, together with her natural reluctance to pry into the affairs of others, she had restrained any desire to query, confident that in time she would come to know Mr Bradshaw better and discover why Anne-Marie had chosen to marry him. Anna was certain there would be a good reason. Anne-Marie was not some silly young woman, nor was Mr Bradshaw the likely subject of a thoughtless infatuation; it was just that she could not see it, she told herself.

  She continued her letter to Emma,

  I can understand the attraction in his case—apart from her beauty, her intelligence, good nature, and strong sense of Christian charity would be obvious advantages to a man in his position. She will make an excellent clergyman’s wife, but, Emma, dear, I wish I knew why Anne-Marie has accepted him. We know nothing of him beyond the obvious, and in his conversation, he reveals very little of himself. Perhaps, he is reserved, as many clergymen are, and it may be that after they are married, he might be less so, and his excellent qualities of mind and character would become clear to us all. For Anne-Marie’s sake and for the peace of mind of my dear husband, I pray this is true. Jonathan is filled with misgivings, and if it were possible, he would speak with her, but this is impossible since we are at all times accompanied by either the Harwoods or Mr Bradshaw himself.

  He is courteous and very well spoken; if only he were even a little more interesting, I might be satisfied and say no more!

  Despite her hopes, however, Anna had not succeeded in discovering why young Anne-Marie Bingley had decided, with no prompting from anyone in her family, that it was time to be married and then chosen to wed Mr John Bradshaw. All they knew was the couple had worked together at the military hospital, where he was chaplain, and Mr Bradshaw had served in the war with John Harwood. That both Mr and Mrs Harwood held him in high esteem was at least some source of satisfaction, but it had not explained Anne-Marie’s attachment to him. Neither her father nor Anna had discussed it with her, although both had some reservations about the match, which they had expressed chiefly to one another.

  Anna wrote to Emma Wilson,

  At least, Eliza Harwood can be counted on to ensure that Anne-Marie is fully aware of everything she herself knows about the man to whom she has become engaged, and if Mr Harwood and he served in the Crimea together, there is probably not a great deal the two men do not know about each other. Surely, he cannot have been of questionable character and be appointed a chaplain; he must be a good and respectable man.

  In her reply, Emma had seemed to concur, and in the year that followed, nothing had come to light to change their opinion.

  When Anna Bingley entered Anne-Marie’s bedroom, she found her alone, still seated in the chair she had drawn up to the window, from where she could look out at the park. This was her favourite room, her very own room in her father’s house; Anna recalled how much care had been taken to furnish it with taste and style, making it ready for her, when following her mother’s death, Anne-Marie had come home to Netherfield for the first time. It had been, for the most part, a happy homecoming.

  Here she was again, coming home after another funeral—her husband’s.

  As Anna closed the door, Anne-Marie rose from her chair and Anna went to her, embracing her, holding her close. As Anne-Marie’s tears flowed and her sobbing increased, Anna could not help wondering at the violence of her grief. While she had expected and indeed welcomed Anne-Marie’s expressions of sorrow as being natural and necessary, Anna was quite surprised by their intensity, which seemed to her to be not commensurate with the restrained nature of the couple’s attachment.

  There had always appeared to be a high degree of reserve in their relationship, even in the privacy of their family, a quality one might have interpreted as part of the natural decorum of a clergyman and his wife. Yet, on occasions, the lack of any warmth and ardour had caused Anna to wonder whether, in spite of Anne-Marie’s apparent contentment, there was some impediment to their happiness of which she was unaware. Apart from her own experience of marriage, in which she was deeply happy, Anna knew other couples, who when newly wed, had seemed far less able to conceal their feelings than Mr Bradshaw and his bride.

  This was why Anna was so astonished by the extraordinary severity of Anne-Marie’s outpouring of grief. As her body shook with sobs, Anna held her, trying to find a moment at which she could intervene, to speak some consoling words, but for fully five minutes there was not a word exchanged.

  Finally, fearful that she may suffer some injury as a result of her exertions, and not wanting to encourage her to any further extremity, Anna took Anne-Marie to the bed and attempted to help her lie against the pillows.

  “There, let me help you out of this gown and into something more comfortable,” she said, picking up a wrap which the maid had laid out for her. At those words, Anne-Marie sat up abruptly and having borrowed a handkerchief to dry her eyes and blow her nose, she said in a perfectly ordinary voice, “Thank you, Anna, but if you will send for Jenny, I think I should like to take a bath and go to bed.”

  Taken aback by this sudden change of mood, Anna asked, “Would you like me to stay with you or perhaps come back after you have had your bath?” But it seemed this would not be necessary.

  “No, Anna, you must be very tired yourself. You have been very kind and it has been a long day. I think I can cope. If you send Jenny to me, I shall be all right,” she said, very firmly.

  Anna could not make it out at all and was becoming increasingly concerned about young Anne-Marie’s state of mind. Having found Jenny and sent her upstairs to her mistress, she rejoined her husband, who had waited for her in the drawing room. Anna did not wish to trouble him with her own disquieting thoughts. Fortunately, Jonathan was himself so tired that she found he was in no hurry to question her about Anne-Marie. Once she had reassured him his daughter wanted only to bathe and go to bed, he was satisfied that she was being well cared for. It had been, for them all, a most exhausting day.

  Anna kept her thoughts to herself until she had time later in the week, with her husband having left for Longbourn soon after breakfast, to write again to Emma Wilson. They had met briefly after Mr Bradshaw’s funeral, and it was Anna’s turn to write.

  With Emma, she could be as open and forthright as she wished to be, for between them there had grown an association of affection and trust, which meant a great deal to both women. That their husbands were close and loyal friends, political colleagues as well as brothers-in-law, served only to enhance the value of their own friendship. Their letters to each other were always as candid and honest as the depth and intimacy of their friendship would allow.

  When Emma Wilson received her sister-in-law’s letter, she was extremely puzzled. Anna seemed quite unlike her usual calm, collected self; indeed she seemed so discomposed in concluding the letter that her handwriting appeared unusually hurried and unclear, as if her hand was shaking. Yet, at the start of the letter, the words and hand were both quite distinct. Emma turned back to the beginning.

  Anna wrote,

  Dearest Emma,

  It is not only because I owe you a letter that I sit down to write, but because I truly have need of a trusted friend to whom I may unburden myself. I cannot, so soon after the shock of Mr Bradshaw’s untimely death and the pain of the funeral, impose upon my dear husband more anxieties, greater even than he has borne to date. Yet, I can no longer keep my misgivings to myself, so you, my dear sister, must forgive this intrusion of my troubles into your oasis of peace at Standish Park. I have some time to myself this morning, with Jonathan gone to Longbourn and Anne-Marie still abed with a cold, while Teresa and Cathy are gone with Mrs Perrot to church.

  My concerns are about Anne-Marie, who has been with us this last week, since the funeral. Naturally, I had expected to help her cope with her grief, and believing I knew her well enough, I sought to comfort her, only to be faced with an outpouring of sorrow
so extreme as to completely confound me. I wondered, had I laboured all these months under some misapprehension? Had there been some great passion between them, which I had failed to recognise? I was afraid lest anything I said offended her and yet I understood her not at all. It was most confusing.

  However, infinitely more disquieting was the suddenness with which she stopped weeping, blew her nose, dried her tears, and declared that she was well and no longer needed my company, much less my counsel. Emma, if I believed this to be true, I would not be concerned; but it is difficult to accept that the young woman whose lamentation I had just heard had within a few minutes pulled herself together and decided she needed only a bath before bed.

  The following morning and every morning thereafter, she has risen early and gone to church, alone or with her maid Jenny, returning only after the family has finished breakfast. During the day, she retires to her room or to the library, where she spends most of her time reading or gazing out of the windows. This I have from Mrs Perrot in whom Jenny has confided. She is most concerned about Anne-Marie. At night, she dines early, eating a mere morsel of food, and retires to her room, where if Jonathan or I intrude upon her, even to say goodnight or ask after her health, she is immediately in floods of tears. Only with young Jenny, her maid, is she able to converse without weeping.

  Now Emma, you are probably going to tell me that Anne-Marie has just been widowed and at twenty-three she is young enough to behave as she does in such distressing circumstances. You would be right, and I would be the first to acknowledge it, if I thought that the explanation fitted the circumstances. Unfortunately, dear Emma, I cannot. Nothing that I have known or observed of Anne-Marie and Mr Bradshaw leads me to believe that their feelings were commensurate with the intensity and violence of her present grief.

  Emma, I think if I were to give you one instance, you might better understand my concern. Some months ago, Anne-Marie and Mr Bradshaw were spending a week with us, as were Caroline Fitzwilliam and her young daughter, Amy. On the Sunday, Frank Grantley, who had recently become engaged to Amy, arrived, announced that he had been invited by my father to visit St Alban’s Abbey and Cathedral, and urged all of us to accompany them. It being a perfectly splendid day, with no sign of rain, it was suggested that we take a picnic and so it was arranged.