Women of Pemberley (5 page)

Later that day, when his mother was resting upstairs and Emma was reading to her daughters, James Wilson arrived unexpectedly, only staying long enough to take a cup of tea with them before rushing away. He did, however, leave a message for his mother. "Please tell my mother that everything has been arranged for Friday's journey to Kent--it is best that we return on Sunday afternoon. We shall have to take her carriage--mine is not big enough."
Emma asked, "How many shall we be?"
"Just the three of us and mother's maid, of course. She goes nowhere without her," he said as he apologised and flew out the door on his way to a meeting in the city, leaving her smiling at his enthusiasm.
After he had gone, Emma contemplated her situation. Once again, she felt as if her isolation was being opened up and her unhappiness was relieved, just a little.
She had deliberately held back from her parents the true state of her ten-year marriage. It was not only because she had not wanted to break their hearts--she knew what the truth would do to her father. There was some of her pride involved, as well.
The decision to marry David Wilson had been hers alone. She had consulted no one, not even her brother Jonathan.
David was the good-looking, ambitious one of the two Wilson brothers. She had known him first as a boy, when their families became acquainted; he had been at Winchester and only came home for holidays. Then he had gone away to Cambridge and had spent some time in Europe before returning to London. It was not long after the deaths of William and Edward had devastated their family.
David had just entered Parliament and when Emma and he met again in London; he was the most sought after young man in town.
Emma Bingley's beauty had been universally admired. Like her mother, she was a rather reserved young woman, with a reputation for graciousness and gentility. David Wilson had courted her assiduously throughout the season with extravagant compliments, saying on one memorable occasion, when they had met at a ball, at which he had monopolised her, "My God, Emma, you were always pretty, but now, you are beautiful!"
They had met often during the months they had spent in London and had a good deal of fun together. His parents seemed to like her and had invited her to stay at their country house in Kent. When he proposed, she had had no reservations about accepting him.
James Wilson, who was some seven years older than David, had occasionally been present, but had seemed more interested in the company of her parents, she recalled. David used to think him dull and given to good works. "He takes his position as the eldest in the family very seriously indeed," he had said.
That there was some truth in his description, Emma could not deny. James did take his position in the family seriously, especially after his father's death. As for being dull, there was no more truth in that accusation than in several others her husband was wont to throw around, as she was to learn later.
More recently, she had realised how utterly unfair David had been to his brother.

At Pemberley, in the days after Julian's party, much discussion centred around Mr James Wilson, their unexpected guest.
Not many people had paid much attention to David Wilson's quiet, serious-minded brother, whose legal and Parliamentary work kept him occupied for most of the year. When he could get away from London, he was known to prefer Standish Park--his family property in Kent--which accounted for his unfamiliarity with the Pemberley families, who had seen him rarely since Emma's wedding.
His sudden appearance at Pemberley with Emma had ignited their interest. Apart from his generosity in conveying Emma and her daughters to the party, for which he was universally praised, Elizabeth was inclined to agree with Jane's original judgement, which was now supported by several of the gentlemen.
Fitzwilliam recalled meeting him as a much younger, new member of Parliament, during the heady days of the passage of the Reform Bills. "I remember him as intelligent and thoughtful even in those days; he made a quite remarkable speech on the need for wider representation in Parliament as part of Britain's claim to be a democracy. Many of the older Tories were horrified."
"And so were a few old Whigs, I bet," quipped Anthony Tate. "I was most impressed by his arguments against excessive protection. I hope he will not object if I borrow some of his ideas for my next editorial on the subject."
Darcy, who gave approbation rarely, and then not in a fulsome way, was generous with his praise. "In the short time he spent at Pemberley, I found him to be a man of sound principles and good judgement. Even better, he was not opinionated and arrogant--and having once suffered from that condition myself, I am quick to diagnose the contagion in others. Mr James Wilson is, happily, free of such folly. He is certainly the kind of man with whom I would be happy to be better acquainted."
"Darcy, this is high praise indeed," said Fitzwilliam.
"Indeed, it is," said Mr Gardiner, "and I am inclined to agree with Mr Darcy. I shall certainly look forward to our next meeting."
Listening to the gentlemen, Elizabeth was amazed at the general approval that James had received, but her sister was not surprised. "I have said all along, Lizzie, that while he could not boast of the good looks and popularity of his brother, James Wilson is by far the better man. I have not changed my mind."
It was something she had said to Bingley on one occasion, but it gave her no joy to know that she was right.
A week later, a letter from Emma reached her mother just as she was setting out to visit her Aunt Gardiner. Elizabeth was also expected to join them, and Jane decided she would take the letter along and read it with her sister.
She was reluctant to open it in the presence of her aunt, who was not as yet privy to Emma's troubles. However, she need have had no fears on that score, for the letter contained not a single word of complaint. It was filled with Emma's delightful memories of her visit to Pemberley.
Reading it together, Elizabeth and Jane marvelled at the lightness of its tone. There was never a hint of her present unhappiness or a twinge of self-pity. Instead, she revelled in the pleasure, unexpected as it had been until the day before, of being able to visit Pemberley and see them all.
Dearest mama,
she wrote:

There is nothing I wanted more than to see all of you, especially you and papa, but also Aunt Lizzie and Cassy and Richard, and all the others. I have missed them all so much.

If there is one thing that I dislike about living in London, it is that it is so distant from the places where so much of my heart is held hostage by my dear, dear family.

I should have been truly miserable at missing Julian's party and little Elizabeth Jane's christening, and I would have done, were it not for the kindness of Mr James Wilson and my dear mother-in-law.

It was she who had whispered to him that we were very disappointed about not going to Pemberley, on account of David's work, and so brought about his offer to convey us himself.

Dear Mama, you will, I am sure, be very pleased to hear that Mr Wilson was very happy that he had been treated with such friendliness and shown so much hospitality at Pemberley.

On our return journey, which was accomplished in remarkable time, he quizzed me about everyone he had met at Pemberley--not, I hasten to add, in a prying or inquisitive way, but simply because, as he said, "They were all such interesting people."

He says he is looking forward to visiting Derbyshire again--he has had so many invitations, I am sure it will not be long before you see him."
As for myself, I cannot say often enough how happy I was to be back with you and be a part of the Pemberley clan again. I do miss you all so.
We are to go to Kent next week with Mrs Wilson. I shall write again when we return.
Your loving daughter,
Emma.

Elizabeth and Jane were quite astonished at the letter. "Emma is clearly so happy at having been able to come to Pemberley," said Jane, "she is able, at least for a while, to put her troubles aside."

"She is certainly fortunate in her in-laws," said Elizabeth, pointing out that Mrs Wilson's kindness to Emma matched that of her eldest son. "I wonder, Jane, do they know of the pain Emma has suffered and continues to suffer in her marriage?" she asked.

Jane was unsure; Emma had not mentioned speaking of it to anyone. "I do not think she has told them. She might be afraid that they would take David's part against her, as in-laws often do," she said.

"His mother might--mothers are forgiven if they are partial to their sons," said Elizabeth, "but I cannot believe that a man as fair and sensible as James Wilson seems to be would let his judgement be similarly distorted."

Elizabeth was sure that if James Wilson discovered how his brother was treating Emma, he would not stand idly by. Jane agreed, but her own qualms for her child overwhelmed her. As she tried to put her letter away, tears spilled down her cheeks, and she had to be comforted by her sister.

Jane was taking her daughter's unhappiness very hard. Her own almost idyllic marriage, in which, after some thirty years, husband and wife still considered themselves particularly blessed to be wedded to one another, had not prepared her for coping with the type of continuing misery that Emma's situation implied.

The weather on Friday was cold, but fortunately, it was also fine. The journey to Kent was, therefore, not as trying as it could have been had it been wet. They travelled the road from London to Canterbury, stopping for a meal at Dartford. As they travelled on, Mrs Wilson tended to fall asleep, leaving James and Emma to maintain a conversation.

He was surprised to learn that, having spent only a small part of her life before marriage in London, Emma had done very little travelling in these parts. She had, for instance, only once visited the historic town of Canterbury, and then just for a few hours, during which she'd had only time enough to see the exterior of the great Cathedral.

"That will not do at all, Emma," said James, who confessed that Kent was his "most favourite county." He had travelled all over it since he was a boy, but never had he grown tired of its beauty and variety. Their family had lived in Kent for two centuries.

"Next Summer, we shall make sure that you visit Canterbury and Chilham, perhaps Ramsgate as well," he promised. "I cannot believe that you have not been to Ramsgate--David and I spent many Summers there when we were boys. We have been most remiss."

It was late afternoon when they reached Standish Park. The house, standing amidst woods and parkland not far from Maidstone, was older and larger than her home in Leicestershire. It had been in the family for well over a hundred years, having been built in the middle of the last century of a russet red brick that seemed to glow in the late afternoon sun, making the house stand out from the green meadows and dark woods behind it.

Emma liked the house very much--more than the one they occupied in Mayfair, in spite of its fashionable style. It was a comfortable and welcoming place, with large airy rooms and beautiful landscaped grounds. She had spent most of the early years of her marriage here, and it brought back many memories of her daughters' early childhood.

That evening, after dinner, they spent some time in the library--a fine, well-proportioned room which held an excellent collection of books.
Amidst the family portraits on the walls was a painting by a little known French artist which Emma had always liked. Since they were selecting things to take back to London, Emma asked if she might borrow the painting for her room.
Mrs Wilson was delighted. "Emma, of course you may. It would look very well in your sitting room." It was immediately taken down, cleaned, and packed for transport. When Mrs Wilson was ready to go to bed, Emma followed her upstairs while James remained downstairs, reading in front of the fire.
Saturday was one of those remarkable late Autumn days when the season appears to move back into Summer. The morning had been cold but clear, and by midday, it was almost warm enough to deceive one into believing it was not November at all.
Having spent the day with Mrs Wilson, Emma took some time in the afternoon to visit the Conservatory, which was full of Winter blooms. Attracted by the warmth of the last hours of sunlight, she stepped out onto the terrace, where James found her looking out at the view, which fell away from the terraced gardens to the meadows and river valley below.
He joined her, apologising as he did so for startling her. "Mother has gone upstairs to rest before dinner; I wondered where you had got to."
Emma smiled. "I wanted to see the Conservatory--the flowers are always beautiful--but I could not resist coming out here," she said.
"When we first came to live at Standish Park, this used to be my favourite spot." He agreed that it was the best view from the house, and took some time pointing out familiar landmarks and his favourite woodland walks, which he recommended to her.
Emma confessed she was not much of a walker. "Perhaps in Spring," she said laughing, "I might be persuaded."
"Well, I shall try again in Spring," he said, with a smile. "Kent is a very special county, you know, Emma. William the Conqueror believed that being nearest to France, its men were less ferocious and more cultured than those inhabiting the rest of England."
She laughed and wondered aloud what Mr Darcy might have to say to that, to which James replied, "Oh, the men of Derbyshire have always been strong, Emma. Even the Romans feared them and left them alone, for the most part!"
Even as they talked, Emma realised that David had not shown an interest in the house or its grounds, and certainly had never made the effort to talk to her about it. His brother clearly loved the place.
A sudden gust of wind caused her to shiver and draw her wrap more closely around her. James suggested that they return indoors.
In the Conservatory, which was pleasantly warm, she sat down facing the terrace, and James took a chair across from her.
When he spoke, his voice was serious, though his manner was gentle. "Emma, I cannot make you tell me. I will not even attempt to persuade you to tell me why you are unhappy, but if you want to talk to me, I am ready to listen and if I can help in any way, I shall," he said.
For a while it seemed as if she would not respond at all and then, quite suddenly, when he leaned across and touched her hand and said, "You have nothing to fear Emma. Whatever you tell me will be in the strictest confidence, and I will do nothing without your permission. You have my word," her resistance seemed to crumble and it all poured out, as though she no longer had the will to hold it back.
For James Wilson, it was a revelation that left him appalled and grieved. He had asked the cause of her unhappiness and when the problems had manifested themselves. He had not for a moment anticipated the answer he received.
Within a very few months of their marriage, while they were still on their wedding tour of Europe, Emma had realised that David Wilson had not married her because he wanted a wife, as her mother had been to her father, or a partner, as Caroline was to Fitzwilliam.
"It was soon clear to me that while my husband enjoyed taking me out and introducing me to his friends as his new bride, it was the role of a doll or a pet that I was expected to fill, not a partner." Her voice, diffident at first, strengthened as she spoke. "David's friends were permitted to dance with me or compliment me on my looks or my clothes, but I was not permitted to engage them in anything but the most superficial conversation. When we visited art galleries or museums, David would ask the questions--I was supposed only to smile and drink it all in. One memorable evening in Paris, we had been asked to a soiree at which two of the most celebrated opera singers had been invited to sing. It was a great privilege to be there and hear them. But, when Madame Lemercier, our hostess, invited me to join a small group of ladies and sing a chorus or two, together with her famous guests, David was so annoyed, he walked out into the night and did not return for several hours. I was so mortified. I had thought he would be proud of me. I had spent many years learning under a very famous teacher, and I enjoyed singing. After we returned to England, he forbade me to spend any more time on singing lessons. He thought they were a foolish indulgence."
James's countenance betrayed his astonishment. He had often heard Emma sing and could not understand his brother's objections. "Do you mean he stopped your singing lessons?"
Emma nodded, "And he has since refused to let me have Victoria and Stephanie taught as well. He says he will not have them turned into performing monkeys."
James shook his head, aghast that she had lived with such harassment and neither he nor his mother had known of it.
Emma explained how much it had meant to her mother, who had never had much of a voice, when it turned out that Emma could sing. She had been encouraged to have lessons and had developed a good singing voice, but David wanted none of it.
"Do you mean you no longer sing?" James asked, incredulous.
"When I am alone or with the children, but not in company. I have no wish to annoy him," she said.
James was almost speechless, but there was more to be heard.
Emma revealed that she had had to fight for the right to care for her babies; David had demanded that they be handed over to their nurses day and night, and it was only the intervention of his mother that had led him to give ground and let her stay at Standish Park with the children.
"If David had had his way, they would have been banished to a nursery in the South Wing--out of sight and out of earshot. He wanted to take me back to London with him, but when I was there, he had no use for me, or very little. Unlike Caroline, who used to accompany Fitzwilliam to all the parliamentary functions, I was only expected to grace the ladies' tea parties, and then I was to smile and say very little. David made it clear that he was the Member of Parliament. I was not to have or express opinions on any significant subject. He was quite adamant about that."
James, quite unable to comprehend the reasons for his brother's behaviour, could only express sympathy. "Have you attempted to remonstrate with him or to persuade him to a different way of thinking?" he asked.
She answered with a degree of hopelessness that saddened him, "Indeed I have, particularly at the start of our marriage, but it did me no good at all. I soon learnt that crossing my husband or even pleading for a change in his attitude would only make matters worse. It irritated and made him even more stubborn."
"And the situation has never improved?"
Emma explained things had got much worse since they had gone to live in London after his father's death. "Now, I do not get told where he is going or whom he is going with. He has also started to drink quite heavily, and I dare not object. He can get very angry indeed."
James, looking anxious, stood up and came around to her, "Emma, tell me, has he ever threatened you or has he..." His face was dark with anger, but she was quick to deny the implication of his question.
"No, never; he has been rude and surly, I admit, but never has he laid hands upon me in anger." As tears filled her eyes, she added, "There have been times when I have been afraid, I confess, but it has never come to such a pass."
James was clearly appalled. At first, he said nothing, walking away from her to the end of the Conservatory, his face gloomy, his brow furrowed. He wanted to alleviate her distress in some way, but had no means to do so. He was mortified and revolted by her account of his brother's behaviour, yet knew there was little he could do to change it. When he came back to her, it was to apologise. "Emma, I am sorry, profoundly sorry. I had no idea, and yet, I should have known. Why have you not told us, my mother or myself ? Why have you endured this torment alone for so long?"
She admitted then that she had only very recently confided in her mother, pleading with her that it should go no further. "I had no wish to anger David or bring dishonour upon your family by taking such a step," she replied.
James was astounded. "Dishonour! Emma, how can you speak of bringing dishonour upon our family? It is David, my brother, who has dishonoured us all with his appalling behaviour and his vile treatment of you! I can only apologise for him on behalf of my family, and I give you my word, Emma, that I shall do all I can to set things right." Though he spoke with restraint, there was no doubting his anger nor, indeed, the compassion he felt for her.
Emma begged him not to tell his mother. "She is not in good health, and I will not have her hurt on my account. And should you approach David, he will, in all probability, deny everything and blame me. He will surely refuse permission for me to go out with any of my friends and may even forbid me to see my parents."
James's consternation could not be concealed. "Emma, if I am to say nothing to my mother or David, how then I can help you?"
Emma shook her head. Her distress was obvious as she pleaded with him. "Please, James, I know what I ask may seem unreasonable, and I thank you for wanting to help me, but for all our sakes, David must not know that I have spoken of these matters to you. It will infuriate him and I will suffer the consequences."
This time, realising the depth of her distress, he assured her of his secrecy. He felt the frustration of his situation keenly. He wanted to help, to relieve the pain and suffering to which she was being subjected, yet he could also understand her fears. His brother could be moody and stubborn. He knew now he could also be irrational and cruel, and Emma and her children had to be protected from the consequences of any action he might take. He decided to consult a very close friend in London before taking any steps in the matter.
Meanwhile, he gave Emma his word that he would say nothing to David or their mother.
She seemed much calmer since they had spoken, and he presumed that the telling of it had helped. Indeed, she almost smiled as she declared that she would like to go upstairs now and rest awhile before changing for dinner. For his part, James had never felt more wretched and helpless than he did at that moment.
After dinner, at which Mrs Wilson remarked that Emma looked rather pale, they withdrew to the drawing room. James opened up the pianoforte and sat down to play. It was a most superior instrument with a beautiful tone, and Emma knew her brother-in-law played very well. Having worked through a couple of simple compositions, he turned to her, inviting her to sing and offering to play for her.
Before Emma could protest or beg to be excused, Mrs Wilson intervened. "Now that is just what I would like, above anything. Emma has a charming voice, yet, except to sing to the children, she rarely lets us hear it."
James needed no further encouragement. Coming over to Emma as she sat beside his mother, he offered her his arm. "Come now, Emma, you cannot disappoint my mother," he said.
Emma did not require much persuasion. She began with a couple of popular English airs and, soon finding it more enjoyable than she had imagined, continued with some of Mrs Wilson's favourites.
Her sweet, clear voice delighted James and his mother, who said quite firmly when Emma had finished singing, "When we return to London, Emma, you shall sing for me every evening. You have the most pleasing voice of anyone I know. What's more, I think it is about time that Victoria and Stephanie started music lessons, don't you agree, James?"
James could not agree more and added that he would look forward to hearing Emma sing whenever he dined at the house in Mayfair.
"Perhaps we may soon hear my nieces too," he added, and Mrs Wilson agreed.
"Certainly, there is no reason why they should not be as talented as their mother, now is there?"
Emma looked across at James and smiled. He was glad to see how her general demeanour had improved. She smiled more easily and her eyes were bright. The singing had certainly lifted her spirits. The evening, he decided, was a great improvement on the afternoon.
Returning to London on the Sunday, Emma noted that of all the things being taken to Mayfair, James had chosen only one for himself.
When they broke journey, she made a comment, at which he smiled and said, "Yes, it was my father's writing desk, and I have a sentimental attachment to it. For the rest, since I hope to return to live at Standish Park next year, it did not seem sensible to move too many things."
When Emma expressed some surprise, he explained, "It is the area I represent in Parliament; I ought to spend more time there."
"Does that mean we shall not see you as often as we do now?" she asked, a note of regret creeping into her voice. There had developed between them a close and friendly relationship over the years. James, unfailingly courteous and considerate, had been for Emma relief from her moody, demanding husband.
She had been frequently grateful for his company, especially at family gatherings, when her husband often neglected her to spend time with his friends. James had always found her good company. More reserved than the society ladies of London, but more talented and certainly more beautiful than most of the women of his acquaintance, and blessed with a sweetness of disposition unmatched in their circles, Emma was a natural favourite.
Though he had never suspected the extent of her unhappiness, he had occasionally detected in her a melancholy strain. He recalled her saying, after a grand family gathering, "These occasions seem calculated to make one miserable." And when pressed for a reason, she had added, "I cannot explain it, but I often find I am less happy after than before. Perhaps the anticipation of enjoyment is always better than the fulfilment of it."