Netherfield Park Revisited (9 page)

Thanking Dr Faulkner, he requested that the matter of his inquiry be treated as a confidence, to which the good doctor readily agreed.

“Of course, Mr Bingley, you may rely on me. I am accustomed to keeping matters confidential, and not all of them are medical matters! You'd be surprised at the confidences with which people trust us,” he said as they moved out to join the ladies and admire the splendid display of Summer flowers in the garden.

Charlotte Collins was very proud of her achievements in the grounds of Longbourn and wished to show them off. As they walked along the flagged path bordering the lawn, Jonathan found himself between Miss Faulkner and Mrs Collins.

When they reached the terrace, he helped his mother-in-law down the shallow steps and turned to help his younger companion, but she was already there before him, smiling at his look of mild surprise.

“You are very sure-footed, Miss Faulkner,” he said with a smile, to which she replied that she had done a lot of walking in Europe and had learned to watch her step, since many of the lesser roads and country lanes were in very poor condition.

“My friends the Armandes are great walkers. Every Sunday, after we had been to church, the entire household would walk miles, in every kind of weather, too,” she said, “and when we got home, usually with our arms full of wild flowers from the fields and meadows, there was always steaming hot soup and fresh baked bread. The scent would fill the house!”

“You make it sound truly delightful,” he said, amused by the obvious pleasure she took in recalling the experience.

Anna laughed. “Oh, it was. I must say, the Europeans know how to enjoy every simple experience. Things we would regard as commonplace, like collecting mushrooms in the woods, picking fruit in the orchard, or even just baking bread, I cannot explain it, but somehow, they seem to gain a new, more pleasurable quality over there. It's very much like the work of the new French painters, who render very ordinary things—a basket of fruit, a jug of milk, many homely articles luminous and extraordinarily beautiful.”

Jonathan wanted to tell her of his friends at Westminster, who had seen and admired their work, but was reluctant to interrupt her. She spoke with so much feeling and enthusiasm and her eyes and voice were so expressive, he wished she would go on, but suddenly, as if conscious of her own voice, Anna stopped.

They had reached the end of the terrace. This time they had several steps to climb to the drive and she gladly took the hand he offered and thanked him for his help.

The others had stopped to admire a rose bush, of which Charlotte had added several to the garden at Longbourn; Jonathan, conscious of the warm afternoon sun slanting down upon them, led the way indoors.

“And have you been doing any drawing recently?” he asked and was surprised when she replied with obvious pleasure, “Indeed, I have. We visited Hatfield House a week or two ago. My father has an abiding interest in historic houses. When we were in Derbyshire, it was difficult to drag him away from Chatsworth and Pemberley. Well, he wanted to show me Hatfield House and the old Palace where Queen Elizabeth lived as a girl, when her horrid sister Mary Tudor sat on the throne and persecuted everybody who disagreed with her.”

Jonathan laughed, amused by her irreverent view of history. He had often driven past the great mansion built by the Earl of Salisbury in the grounds of the palace where the young Queen Elizabeth had been told of her accession to the throne, and he wished now he had stopped to visit. It would, at least, have made this conversation easier for him.

“And were you impressed?” he asked.

“I most certainly was, but I think I was more excited by the buildings and the architecture than their historical significance, and my father was a little disappointed. I did make a few preliminary sketches and would love to go back and do some more, perhaps later in the year, when it is not quite so warm in the sun.”

He was about to ask if he might be permitted to see her drawings when an express arrived at the door. The maid collected it and brought it directly to him.

It was a letter from Anne-Marie. Jonathan, a little surprised that his daughter should be sending him an express letter, excused himself and, as the others came indoors and fresh pots of tea were brought in and placed on the table, he slipped away to read his letter in the library.

No one seemed to notice when Jonathan Bingley did not come back into the drawing room soon afterwards. He had intended to read his daughter's letter quickly and rejoin their guests, but the contents so disturbed him he felt unable to return to the drawing room immediately and had gone upstairs instead.

Entering his room, which used to be Mr Bennet's bedroom, overlooking the park and shrubbery on the eastern side of the house, Jonathan read the letter again, unwilling to believe the words on the page.

She wrote, providing alarming information about her mother's present state of mind, and implored him to take her seriously.

Dearest Papa, I assure you I am not exaggerating the situation. We are in danger of losing Mama to the tender mercies of Miss Caroline Bingley and her dreadful friend, Mrs Arabella Watkins! I do not know if you saw her at Lady C's funeral; if you did, you will not have forgotten her for she is, I promise, quite the most insufferable woman I have ever met! … It is beyond belief that she has so much influence upon Mama.

Papa, I beg you to return as soon as possible …

… and so it went on, detailing all that had taken place in his absence.

Clearly, Anne-Marie had been in a desperately unhappy state when she wrote. Her usually neat, rounded hand was at times illegible, and the words almost leapt off the page at him, so passionately did the writer seem to feel the outrage she expressed.

Her father, who knew how deeply she could be moved, wondered at the distress she must have endured to write in such a vein.

Some twenty minutes later, conscious of his duty to their guests, Jonathan tucked the letter into his pocket and went downstairs. The Faulkners appeared to be preparing to leave and as they gathered in the hall; only Anna seemed to have noticed that he had been missing for a while.

Perhaps recalling the express communication he had received, she said discreetly, “Not bad news from home, I hope?”

Jonathan hardly knew what to say; taking the easy way out, he smiled and said, “No, it was my fault. I have not written all week and Anne-Marie has been anxious. I shall have to send off an express tonight.”

Anna smiled and seemed as if she was about to ask a question when Mrs Faulkner came over to invite Jonathan to dine with them at Haye Park, on the Monday.

Even as he thanked her, Jonathan was unsure if he would be able to attend. Then Anna said, “You could look at my sketches of Hatfield House and tell me if you think they are worth working on,” and the question was settled at once.

He smiled and declared that it would be a pleasure he would look forward to, even though he confessed he was not qualified in any way to give such an opinion on her drawings.

Like his father, Jonathan Bingley had been blessed with good looks and good humour, happily combined with a degree of modesty that usually endeared him to his companions and friends. It was no different on this occasion.

After the Faulkners had gone, Jonathan decided that he would write immediately to Anne-Marie, to reassure her and say he was arranging to return to London as soon as his business at Longbourn was done.

He wanted very much to go to dinner at Haye Park and calculated that it would probably delay his departure by a day and a half at the most. It was very unlikely, he decided, that his wife, with or without the malign influence of Mrs Arabella Watkins, would do anything extreme in the meantime.

The following morning, having returned from his early canter around the park, Jonathan changed, breakfasted, and went to Meryton to see Mr Armstrong.

He introduced himself as a friend of Dr Faulkner and was immediately told he needed no introduction; the name of Bingley was well known and respected in the district. Moreover, Mr Armstrong revealed that Dr Faulkner had called on him but a short time ago and asked him to pay very special attention to Mr Jonathan Bingley, who was interested in the property because he had been born at Netherfield House.

Mr Armstrong was so excited; he was all of a twitter at meeting Jonathan and would take him immediately to view the property.

Jonathan could not fail to be impressed by what he saw. The house was not too large nor too small, with a handsome exterior that was dignified without being pretentious and several fine rooms within. Improvements had been made to lighting, plumbing, and the landscaping of the grounds, all of which, as Mr Armstrong did not fail to mention, added value to the property.

The furniture, drapes, and fittings were in good order if a little overpower-ing in style and colour. A small number of trusted servants and a caretaker, who came highly recommended, might be retained if the new owner wished to do so, Armstrong explained.

They briefly discussed prices and Mr Armstrong was kind enough to say that Mr Bingley could have the privilege of first refusal before he considered any other buyers, “on account of your family's very intimate connections with the property, sir,” he said, clearly intending to please.

Satisfied with his efforts, Jonathan saw an opportunity to restore his family to their own home, make Amelia-Jane happy again, and settle most of their current problems.

He was very confident that his wife would love Netherfield Park, just as his mother had done. It had elegance without affectation, which he found very acceptable. A modest gentleman of conservative taste, it suited him well.

Returning to Longbourn, he wrote and despatched another note, this one to Amelia-Jane at their house in Grosvenor Street, describing the property, expressing his enthusiasm for it, and urging her to come down with him to inspect it at the earliest opportunity.

His letter, though short, was affectionate in tone and gave sufficient information to demonstrate the seriousness of his intentions:

Dearest, I am sure you will adore the house and the park, which, though not as grand as Rosings or Pemberley, are both exceedingly handsome and perfectly maintained. It is a fine Georgian manor and should suit our family well.

We shall also be close enough to London—a mere twenty odd miles—and the neighbourhood is quite charming. Indeed, this part of Hertfordshire seems to grow prettier each time I visit …

… and so on, hoping with his appreciation to enthuse her as well.

That evening, the two ladies from Longbourn and Jonathan Bingley dined with the Faulkners at Haye Park, arriving with plenty of time to look around the place. Here again was another recently “improved” Georgian residence, which impressed Jonathan with its simple, uncluttered elegance.

Mrs Faulkner showed them around some of the rooms, which were very handsome, and the remarkable conservatory filled with tropical blooms. She was keen to point out that the interior design and choice of colours for pelmets, drapes, and rugs were the work of her daughter Anna, whom she credited with greatly improving her own appreciation.

“I myself had very little understanding of artistic matters, but Anna has been a patient teacher,” she explained modestly.

Anna herself, charming and friendly, was the perfect hostess—attentive without being fussy.

At dinner, Jonathan found he was to sit between her and Dr Faulkner's mother, who was very quiet and concentrated upon her food, except when her son was speaking, when she would stop eating and give him her undivided attention.

They had been seated a while, making no more than small talk about the weather, when Anna said, “Mr Bingley, I was about to ask you last afternoon, when Mama interrupted us: how old is your eldest daughter?”

Surprised that she had remembered and taken the question up, he replied, “Anne-Marie is twenty, but she is very grown up and responsible for her age,” he replied.

“And she lives at your home in Kent?” she persevered.

“No, indeed, she lives at Harwood House, just outside of London, with my cousin, Eliza Harwood. She used to be Elizabeth Courtney. Anne-Marie is a trained nurse,” he explained. “She, too, was inspired by the example of Miss Nightingale. She works now at the military hospital, which stands in the grounds of Harwood House.”

Miss Faulkner's eyes were wide with surprise, as she expressed her admiration in no uncertain terms. “Mr Bingley, forgive my astonishment, but I have no words to tell you how much I admire the selflessness and determination of such women. Nursing the sick and wounded, especially soldiers, must be the noblest of professions. Yet it must also be one of the most difficult and hazardous occupations.”

She proceeded to relate a most touching story. “During the war in the Crimea, Monsieur Armande's two sisters volunteered as nurses to tend the French soldiers. They joined a group of fine French women, who could no longer bear to see the neglect and suffering of the men at the front. Unfortunately, Jeanette, the younger sister, contracted typhus and died. Poor Monsieur Armande was distraught, especially when Marie-Claire, her elder sister, insisted on carrying on her work until the war ended.”

Jonathan was moved by the story and her quiet, deeply felt words. He was glad of yet another subject in which they shared an interest. He was finding it easier to converse with her each time they met.

After the meal, they repaired to the drawing room and Anna brought out her sketches—those she had made at Hatfield House and another of an old stone bridge—and laid them on one of the card tables.

Having declared that he knew very little of Art and drawing, Jonathan pronounced the sketches of Hatfield House to be “very good, indeed.”

It was a considered and moderate response, which in fact did no more than imply that he found them very pleasing.

But then he saw the drawing of the bridge, with its arches spanning a river and the merest suggestion of mountain peaks against the sky.