The Ladies of Longbourn (3 page)
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 appears 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.
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.
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.
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.
J
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.
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.
Now, as you know, Emma, my father's enthusiasm for these historic places is quite fanatical, and together with the verger he took us through every significant part of the old place, from the Norman tower to the site of the martyr's tomb!
Both couples followed us through the ruins of the abbey and the great cathedral, but the contrast between them could not have been greater. While Frank was keenly interested and Amy listened eagerly to every description, there was no mistaking the fact that their chief fascination was with each other. Indeed, it was quite touching, and not a little amusing, to watch how much care he took to explain details of church architecture and practice to her and even console her, when she seemed distressed at the rather gruesome story of St Alban's martyrdom, as told by the verger. Not only was their fondness for one another quite obvious, it was clear that neither wished to conceal it, although they behaved with decorum at all times.
With Mr Bradshaw and Anne-Marie, there was no such closeness. His interest was all upon the architecture and antiquity of St Alban's Cathedral and the historic abbey. Indeed, he would be fixed upon the proportions of the tower or the nave or the detail of the carved oak doors, asking so many studious questions of the verger or my father, while she wandered away, seemingly disinterested, into the presbytery or the cloisters. A stranger might well have taken them to be indifferent acquaintances rather than husband and wife. It was quite remarkable, except none of us seemed to want to remark upon it.
Later, as we enjoyed a picnic in the adjacent meadow, Anne-Marie sat with Jonathan and myself and talked of the blueness of the sky or the beauty of the flowers, while Mr Bradshaw continued his interrogation of
my father about St Alban's. The other pair of lovers took advantage of the opportunity to walk in the woods and disappeared accordingly.
On the way home and afterwards, I could see no sign of the warmth and affection one expects of couples newly wed between Anne-Marie and Mr Bradshaw. Which is why I am truly unable to fathom the intensity of Anne-Marie's grief. Can you help me, dear Emma? Is there something I have failed to see?
At this point, the writer appeared to have been interrupted, for the letter was broken off and was not resumed for, it appeared, quite a while.
As it turned out, it was several hours before Anna could take up her pen again. Unbeknownst to any of her family, it seemed she had faced a crisis, which had come upon her so swiftly and with so little warning, she'd had no time to call upon anyone for help, except young Jenny Dawkins.
Her description of the frightening episode quite bewildered Emma, as she read of Anna being interrupted in her sitting room by Jenny Dawkins, who had rushed in, wringing her hands and claiming that Anne-Marie had collapsed upon the floor of her room. Anna had rushed to her bedroom and found Anne-Marie slumped on the rug beside her bed. With Jenny's help, she had been revived and helped into a reclining chair. As the colour returned to Anne-Marie's face, which had been frighteningly pale, Anna had sent Jenny downstairs to bring up some tea and toast. Then, taking advantage of her maid's absence, Anna had pleaded with Anne-Marie.
"My dear Anne-Marie, you can, if you wish, tell me to mind my business, but your father and I are worried and anxious about you. We love you and want to help you through this dreadful time, if you will only let us. I can see you are unhappy and grieving; will you not talk to me about it?"
At first, Anne-Marie had merely looked away, shaking her head, but as Anna persisted, "Are you sure, my dear? This is not like you. We have shared sad times before, and I know it must be very difficult, but I would like very much to help, if you wish it," the tears had begun again, but this time the words came, too, and soon it had all poured out.
Haltingly, painfully, it was told, a strange tale of John Bradshaw's approach to her some months after her mother's death and Eliza Harwood's active encouragement of it.
"She reminded me that he was a good, kind, Christian man, who could be trusted to look after me and would remain faithful to me." But, when Anne-Marie, while acknowledging all this, had said she did not love Mr Bradshaw, Eliza had reassured her that one should not always look for love and romance, for as she had said, "Love is not everything, and Romance, well it is a fleeting, fanciful thing. Trust, loyalty, and goodness above all are far more important to a marriage," she had said, adding that marriage to Mr Bradshaw would mean that "you will always be near me, my dear friend, for if Mr Harwood does as he plans and offers your Mr Bradshaw the living at Harwood Park when it falls vacant next year, you will want for nothing, for we shall be neighbours, forever!"
When Anna, who was already shocked by Anne-Marie's revelations, asked, "And what did you say, Anne-Marie?" she replied, "I said most firmly, that I could not, however good Mr Bradshaw might be and even more because of it; I could not possibly agree to marry him, knowing I did not love him. But Eliza was very persuasive."
Anne-Marie admitted that her friend's kindness to her in the recent past had weighed upon her mind and she had not wanted to lose her friendship.
"I wondered also, what would become of me, were I to remain unwed."
Anna was astounded. "My dear Anne-Marie, surely you did not imagine that your father would not have made the best possible provision for you? There was no need for you to feel under any obligation to the Harwoods, however hospitable they had been to you, not to the extent of taking Eliza Harwood's advice on the man you marry!" she said, and to her great relief, Anne-Marie agreed.
"I know that now, but at the time I think I was so depressed by all that had happened with Mama, I felt I needed the security of her approval," she confessed and added, "but there was also Mr Bradshaw to consider; he had waited patiently for my answer, for many months, as he promised he would. I began to feel guilty about refusing him after all that time. Besides, we worked very well together at the hospital."
Anna shook her head, unable to comprehend the situation.
"And do you mean to tell me that you accepted him and later married him, knowing you did not love him? Did he know how you felt?"
At this, Anne-Marie began to sob again, and Anna had to hold her until she was quiet and able to speak coherently.
It appeared, from the story Anne-Marie told, that Eliza Harwood had agreed to acquaint Mr Bradshaw with her young friend's answer and returned with the