"Bingley," said his friend censoriously, "you absolutely astonish me. Here you are, with little or no experience in trading in horseflesh, wanting to throw your money away on an untried colt. You are truly incorrigible."
Jonathan sagely advised his father to leave the colt at Rushmore at least until next Spring. "He'd be two years old then and you would have a much better notion of his worth," he said.
Elizabeth and Jane had retreated upstairs to their favourite room, overlooking the park, which was clothed in the fresh green of Spring. Engaged in the lightest of pastimes, they talked of their children, their grandchildren, and cousins. Jane, blessed with three beautiful daughters all content and happy, was looking forward to being a grandmother again when Sophie was brought to bed in the Autumn. Elizabeth admitted to being a little envious; her daughter-in-law Josie did not appear to want more children. "She claims she has her hands full with young Anthony," she said, in a voice in which Jane detected some deep disappointment.
"I cannot believe that. Lizzie; are you sure she is quite well?" asked Jane. "It may be that she is feeling poorly and cannot cope with another child, just yet. She and Julian are both very young; surely, there is no hurry."
"No, indeed, there is not. You are quite right," Elizabeth agreed as she moved to the window. "Besides, I am told that Julian is always very busy and often late coming home from his interminable scientific seminars and college meetings. I do have some concerns, however, about which I wish to talk with..." but Jane was never to discover what those concerns were, for Elizabeth had stopped speaking and peering out of the window, reached for her glasses.
"Now who could that be?" she asked and, as Jane came to join her at the window, "It's a man on...I recognise neither the man nor the horse...I wonder who he is...he's just coming over the bridge and up towards the house. Jane, look there's Bingley going to meet him. Does he know him?"
As they watched, they saw Bingley walk towards the entrance to meet the rider who dismounted and appeared to ask a question.
"Who can it be and what does he want?" said Elizabeth and, as she was about to suggest going downstairs, they saw Jonathan come out. Clearly he had seen the exchange between his father and the stranger and, whereas they had heard nothing, Jonathan was probably better informed, she thought.
They saw the man hand Jonathan a letter, which he opened as he ran up the steps, and when his mother and aunt came downstairs, they saw him standing in the hall reading it, with Mr Bingley beside him. "Good God!" they heard him exclaim, as he turned over the page, "I cannot believe this!" He had turned quite pale and both Jane and Elizabeth went to him at once.
"Jonathan, what is it, what has happened?" they asked almost together, fearful of the news he had received. "Who was that man and what news has he brought?" Jonathan Bingley had always been a very steady character, calm and unruffled by crises, domestic or political. But there was no mistaking his demeanour on this occasion. He looked stunned. When he spoke, his voice was calm but his words struck fear into the hearts of the two women.
"Mrs Sutton's children have been kidnapped."
"What? When? By whom?" These questions were all flung at him simultaneously and Darcy, hearing the commotion in the hall, walked out to find them in turmoil, trying to make sense of the letter.
It took Jonathan some time to read again Anne-Marie's letter, to which Colin Elliott had attached a note written from Barnet, apprising him of the latest news and looking forward to their meeting in London.
"It looks as if the children's father is involved. He has made threats before, but I did not believe he would be so rash as to carry them out while they were housed on the estate," Jonathan explained, reading to the end of Anne-Marie's letter.
"Poor Anne-Marie, she must be at her wit's end," said Elizabeth.
"I must go directly to London," said Jonathan as he put the letters away.
Mr Darcy, realising the gravity of the situation, offered immediately to put a carriage and driver at his disposal. "It will mean Anna and the children can return to Hertfordshire immediately, where I have no doubt Anne-Marie would welcome her back," he said. "It must be dreadful for her, being on her own at such a time as this."
Jonathan agreed and went at once to find his wife. When she heard the news and had read Anne-Marie's letter, as well as the note from Colin Elliott, Anna Bingley was so shocked she had to sit down for several minutes before she felt sufficiently recovered to ask some pertinent questions about the condition of Anne-Marie and Mrs Sutton. Jonathan, armed only with the scant information in his daughter's letter, could not give her all the answers, but did provide sufficient facts to convince her she needed to return to Netherfield at once.
"Anne-Marie must be seriously worried and very short of comfort. If you and the children go directly to Hertfordshire, you may be able to afford her some consolation and support. I think, my dear, we must make arrangements to leave at once," he urged.
Anna agreed, "Oh yes, certainly, but what will you do in London? Do you intend to stay long at Grosvenor Street?"
"In view of Elliott's note, he is best placed to inform me of the situation. I shall probably stay in town for a few days, at least until the culprits are apprehended and the girls found," he said. "From what I have gathered, it seems Elliott has already done a great deal. As the local MP, he has called in the police, given them the evidence, and obtained the assistance of Tillyard at the
Herald
. I am amazed at how much he has accomplished in so short a time. He is now on his way to London."
Jonathan was genuinely grateful to Colin Elliott.
"It must have been a great relief to Anne-Marie that he was present," said Anna, as she gave instructions for the children to be made ready for the journey. She was sorry to miss the picnic to Dovedale, planned for a sunnier day, but she felt deeply for Anne-Marie and Mrs Sutton. Her husband was right; they had to return to Hertfordshire right away.
When they came downstairs, the carriage was waiting for them. They left with much sadness and promises that they would write. Having lovingly embraced his wife and children and settled them into Darcy's carriage, Jonathan bade farewell to his parents and Mr and Mrs Darcy, before setting off for London in his own vehicle.
Once clear of the Pemberley Estate, Jonathan took out a second letter he had received from Colin Elliott. It had reached him two days ago, but not having had time to fully consider its contents, he had said nothing of it to his wife. Now, he read it through once more; Mr Elliott specifically addressed him as Anne-Marie's father and asked permission to propose marriage to his daughter.
Jonathan was surprised by the request and the directness of Elliott's approach. Though he had, on a few occasions, noticed an apparent closeness between them and the ease with which they drew together in company, he had attributed this to their mutual interest in the children's hospital and other community matters. While he would not have been surprised that any man should show an interest in Anne-Marie, whose simplicity of dress and aversion to adornment could not hide her beauty, he was far less certain that she would encourage such an interest.
Yet Colin Elliott, being a man of some intelligence and dignity, would surely be unlikely to apply to him for permission to court her, unless he had received some encouragement. No doubt, he thought, it was a matter they would speak of when they met in London.
Anne-Marie had begun to keep a diary while staying with the Wilsons at Standish Park following Mr Bradshaw's death. A rather solitary and private young person, she had found it useful to record her thoughts and feelings at what was a very trying and painful time in her life. Emma Wilson had encouraged it, explaining how through her own years of unhappiness, she had found some consolation in being able to express her feelings in private and urging Anne-Marie to use it to relieve herself of all the fears and anger which had accumulated over a year and a half of an unhappy, debilitating marriage. This she had done to good effect and, while she did not write every day, she had continued the practice after her return to Netherfield, even though there was now no reason to feel hurt or angry.
Indeed, the recent entries were less pessimistic, though no less introspective and thoughtful, expressing her hopes for the future. Much of it concerned her work with the hospital at Bell's Field, including an expression of her pleasure at being asked by Mr Elliott to manage the hospital when it was complete. She had been honoured to have him put her name up to the board and delighted when they agreed.
Her father and Anna had encouraged her to accept.
In the early hours of the following morning, unable to remain in bed, having been awake well before dawn, Anne-Marie rose and by candlelight, wrote in her diary . . .
How shall I recount this day just gone? I have not the words to describe fully the strange conjunction of events that have taken place, nor am I able easily to express my own feelings about them.
All I know is that I cannot recall another such day, not since Mama's death in the accident on the road at Maidenhead. I remember then suffering shock, guilt, and profound grief for my family and especially for Papa. Today, it has been the same, trying to comprehend how this awful thing has come about.
Poor Lucy Sutton, I know she must blame me, why would she not? I blame myself. Had I not persuaded her to come to dinner, leaving her children with Rosie for the evening, had I not been so selfish, thinking only of my own feelings, this dreadful abduction may never have taken place. Mr Elliott does not agree with me; he believes that Sutton would have done exactly the same, possibly attacking and injuring Lucy if she had stood in his way. I do not know what to think; I only know I feel deeply sorry for Lucy and pray that her girls may be found and restored to her soon else I shall never forgive myself.
Mr Elliott, God bless him, has gone to London to try to discover where the children may have been taken and lodged. As a Member of Parliament, he has contacts at the Home Office and in the Police, which he means to use to obtain more information. He has been exceedingly kind to all of us and, even as I write this, I am compelled to stop and review my thoughts about him, when I think what his intervention in our lives may mean.
Before tonight, Mr Elliott's association with me seemed to be concerned chiefly with the accomplishment of certain aims, which we both shared. While I cannot deny that I had become aware of a degree of interest and even partiality on his part, I did not anticipate the depth of feeling revealed in his words and actions tonight, when he, in the most ardent and yet gentlemanly way, declared his love and asked me to marry him.
I have not yet found the right words to tell him of my own feelings, but in this more intimate encounter, I have no doubt that he would have been able to draw some conclusions from my general demeanour. What could I do? I had once or twice thought it may come to this, but had not expected it would come so soon.
I felt no embarrassment or inhibitions...no sense of impropriety, even though I had permitted him a degree of closeness, which I had not thought I could ever have countenanced with any man.
What was it that let me, without any sense of outrage or immodesty, admit and if I may be totally honest, even welcome such intimacy? I do not know. I cannot explain it, except in terms of my own feelings, which I have yet to fully comprehend. Nor, in the light of his tender but totally honourable conduct throughout, have I any regrets that I did. Indeed, were I to be absolutely honest, I shall have to confess here, that never before in my life and certainly not in all the long months of marriage to Mr Bradshaw, have my innermost feelings been so deeply engaged, nor my thoughts so occupied by one person.
He has said he loves me and I believe him. I think I love him, too, but to accept his offer and marry him, I shall need to discover whether the feelings, that overwhelmed me last night, are only a passing passion or the awakening of true love, without which, marriage would be a cruel charade, and that is a game in which I want no part.
Anne-Marie locked away her diary and, noting there was now more light in the sky, completed her toilet, dressed, and went downstairs. She found herself alone at breakfast; Harriet had finished hers much earlier and Mrs Collins and Lucy Sutton had not yet left their rooms.
While she felt no hunger, Anne-Marie forced herself to eat. Her training as a nurse had taught her that an empty stomach was no preparation for a difficult day ahead. She was halfway through her tea, when the doorbell summoned the maid, who returned with a note for her. Recognising the handwriting--it was Mr Elliott's--Anne-Marie left the table and went into the parlour, which was empty. There, standing by the open window, she read it. Despatched from Barnet, where he had stopped for a meal, Colin Elliott had written two brief paragraphs, the first expressing with great tenderness his sadness at having to leave her so soon after he had first spoken of his love for her, with so little time to demonstrate the depth of his feelings. The second, begging her to take good care of herself and place her trust in him, promising he would not rest until Mrs Sutton's children were found and their kidnappers brought to book.
When he returned, he hoped she would have an answer for him, one that would increase his present happiness a hundredfold. It concluded with a most affectionate salutation, which caused her eyes to fill with tears and she had to rush upstairs to her room, where, having shut the door, she lay on her bed and read again the first love letter she had ever received.
Her face buried in her pillow, her eyes closed, Anne-Marie surrendered to the delight that filled her, as she contemplated the source of her joy. She knew she admired him and approved of his principles, his compassion and strength. She esteemed his sincere, upright character and enjoyed his sense of humour. Now, if he could, by a simple declaration of love for her, arouse such feelings as these, she thought, she must surely be in love with Colin Elliott. There could be no other explanation for this tumult of emotions. She wondered if her father had received Mr Elliott's letter and thought how he may respond. She hoped he would think as she did. She prayed he would not be set against them.