Part 1: Gracechurch Street

Posted on Thursday, 17 August 2006

Bingley’s carriage rolled slowly down Gracechurch Street, as his driver searched for ‘Edward Gardiner’ on one of the tarnished brass nameplates. Charles Bingley did not mind the slow progress; although he had sent a note around the day before, indicating he would call the next day, he had received no reply and he was quite uncertain of his welcome. Indeed, he was not entirely sure that paying this call was what he wished to do.

It was 27 years since Bingley had last seen Jane Bennet; 27 years since he had left Netherfield for London, intending to return in a few days. He had never returned, had given up Netherfield without ever seeing the place again. Bingley had been only 23 when he met Jane Bennet and had known her less than two months. Still, she had been ever since his ideal of an English maiden. But time takes a toll from us all; Bingley was aware that part of him was reluctant to update his image of Jane; to replace a vision of a perfect 22 year-old girl with the reality of a 49 year-old woman. Why ruin perfectly good memories for the mere chance, and a remote one at that, of attaining present happiness?

Bingley’s heart had over-ridden his good sense. He could no more have failed to follow-up on Darcy’s information concerning Jane Bennet than he could have willed himself not to breathe. His mind might tell him there was a real prospect that Jane Bennet would now more nearly resemble her mother than her former self, but his heart would not believe it. Surely the perfect girl would now be the perfect woman? No, the nervousness Bingley felt, the nervousness that excused the slow progress of the carriage, was occasioned by the fear of his reception at Gracechurch Street; not by the fear of what he might find there.

If, all those years ago, he had raised Jane Bennet’s expectations, Bingley knew that she might for many years have harboured justifiable resentment towards him; if, indeed, she ever thought of him at all. Bingley had not consciously behaved badly, but he could not reflect with satisfaction on what he had done in failing to return to Netherfield as intended. He had innocently believed that his sisters and his best friend must have had his best interests at heart and, with the insecurity of youth, he had preferred their exposition of affairs in Hertfordshire to his own understanding.

The 50 year-old Bingley would never behave in such a fashion; his dissatisfaction stemmed from his belief that neither would many 23 year-olds. If Jane Bennet would see him at all, how could he apologize for 27 years of neglect?

The carriage halted; the driver appeared at the door. “Found it, sir,” he said. Bingley exited the carriage, drew a deep breath, and approached the door to the house. He pulled the bell cord.

The door was not answered by a liveried footman, as would have been the case at Darcy’s townhouse or Bingley’s own. Bingley could not know it, but the plainly-dressed middle-aged maid who answered the door of the Gardiner townhouse was an indication of economies recently adopted within. “Charles Bingley, to call on Miss Jane Bennet,” he said.

Bingley was shown to a small but comfortably furnished parlour. The maid invited him to be seated, then left him. In a few minutes, another woman entered. She was also plainly dressed, in a grey gown with black trim. Her hair was grey, pulled back into a severe bun, but her back was straight and her manner lively. Her complexion was no longer smooth, but the laugh-lines predominated. She was a not-unattractive older woman, though Bingley felt sure Jane Bennet had been taller and should presently have a more youthful appearance.

The confusion must have shown on Bingley’s face, for the woman smiled broadly at him. “I believe you have unwittingly flattered me, sir,” she said. “We have not met. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Madeline Gardiner and I am Jane Bennet’s aunt. She will join us shortly.”

“Charles Bingley, ma’am. I see you are in mourning; I trust I do not intrude at a bad time?”

“No, Mr. Bingley. You do not. We rarely receive visitors, but we are no longer in deep mourning. My dear husband, Edward Gardner, contracted a putrid fever last autumn and did not recover. My niece and I carry on as best we can.”

Just then, Jane entered the room. Bingley stood and sought to disguise his involuntary gasp with a half-bow and “Miss Bennet”, by way of greeting.

Jane Bennet had been a great beauty as a girl of 22, but the woman before him was scarcely less attractive. Like her aunt, she was dressed in a plain grey gown and her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. But the grey in her hair contrived to combine with her natural blonde colour to create the effect of an ash-blonde. Her complexion showed some laugh-lines about the eyes, but was otherwise youthful. She retained the figure she had had as a young woman and her posture was, if anything, better than it had been in her youth.

As had been the case all those years ago at the Meryton Assembly, Bingley was lost at his first sight of Miss Jane Bennet.

For her part, Jane saw before her a middle-aged man who could not deny his years, but wore them relatively well. He was well-dressed, in a style that would be affected by a prosperous merchant rather than by a stylish member of the ton. His hair, which apart from some grey at the temples retained its natural colour, was thinning, but Jane had noticed only a small bald crown when he had bowed to her. He appeared to still have his teeth. The wrinkles about his eyes and forehead, while not deep, indicated that their owner had perhaps spent more time frowning than laughing.

“Mr. Bingley,” said Jane with a slight curtsey, “I trust you are well and your business in London was concluded to your satisfaction?”

“Business?,” asked Bingley. He then realized that Jane was alluding to his excuse for quitting Netherfield all those year ago; there would be no postponing that issue. “Err, yes,” he said, “I am quite well, thank you, and the business that called me away from Netherfield in the year eleven was, in itself, of little consequence; I cannot recall what it was. But you have brought me directly to the point. With your permission, I would like to explain what happened and to apologize for my behaviour.”

Jane smiled benignly. “I see no need for an apology, Mr. Bingley, but if you wish to tell us a tale, I would be delighted to hear it. Is it to be a long one? Shall we have some tea?”

With some trepidation, Bingley smiled and replied that tea would be very nice. When it had arrived and they had made themselves comfortable, Bingley went on to tell the tale of his time in Hertfordshire in 1811, to narrate the views and actions of his sisters and his friend Mr. Darcy, to confess his own gullibility and his deferral to their views. He described his subsequent life; his marriage some years later to Georgiana Darcy and her untimely death in child-birth; his subsequent estrangement from Fitzwilliam Darcy; his restlessness at the idleness of his life as a ‘gentleman’ and his consequent assumption of an active role in the business he had inherited from his father. He described how the business had prospered (though he did not say so, he was now a wealthier man than Darcy) and how he had tried to put his wealth to some use through good works. In particular, he had been an active supporter of Wilberforce’s campaign to abolish slavery in the British Empire and was proud of their ultimate success. Bingley concluded with a description of Darcy’s recent visit to Mrs. Collins at Longbourn, his encounter there with Mrs. Brown (née Elizabeth Bennet) and his recent visit to Bingley, which led directly to Bingley’s now sitting in Mrs. Gardiner’s parlour.

Jane listened to all this with rapt attention. She had retained her youthful inclination to think well of everyone and was prepared even to think that Bingley’s sisters and friend had meant well in their actions. If they really had thought her indifferent to Mr. Bingley, of course they were right to warn him against her. Having always retained a nostalgic regard for Mr. Bingley, Jane listened with interest to, and something that was very like pride in, Bingley’s synopsis of his life. Bingley had always been an amiable man; it appeared he had grown into a good one. Jane’s generous heart regretted only that Georgiana Bingley had to die before Charles Bingley was able to grow up.

Of course, Jane herself was no longer the naïve girl she had been at age 22. She had been her own mistress all her adult life, was long since reconciled to her spinsterhood, and was not uncomfortable with her life as her Aunt Gardiner’s companion. She was not very interested in waiting on any man’s interest, not even that of Charles Bingley.

So, Jane commented, “As my late father once said of another gentleman’s story, ‘With such tales to hand, who would read novels?’ Mr. Bingley, your life’s story has been very diverting and you are a gifted raconteur, but of what interest can it be to my Aunt or to me? Why have you troubled to share all this with us?”

The two hours Bingley had just spent in Mrs. Gardiner’s parlour had been as happy as any he had know since the death of his wife. He knew he could never recapture the happiness that might have been his had he behaved more responsibly in his youth, but he had hopes that some future happiness could yet be salvaged.

Charles Bingley breathed deeply and, with a nervous grin that Jane found quite endearing, said, “Miss Bennet, I know this must seem sudden … perhaps rash … but … I was hoping … that is … I would like very much … if we … that is … if I … could have your permission … to call … I mean … to court you.”

Bingley looked from Jane to her Aunt and back to Jane with an expression that bespoke how pleased he was with his own boldness in saying so much. That expression was wiped away with Jane’s response.

“I see no occasion for that, Mr. Bingley,” she said. “You could not possibly wish to marry me, and surely there is no occasion for a courtship if there is to be no marriage?”

“Miss Bennet,” expostulated Bingley, “you must allow me to be the judge of whom I wish to marry!”

“I have no fortune or connections.”

“I have fortune enough for both of us and I have no need of connections.”

“I do not come from a good family.”

“Your father was a gentleman, which I cannot say of mine.”

“I snore.”

“I’m afraid she does,” interjected Mrs. Gardiner, who considered that Jane was teasing Mr. Bingley and decided to enter into the spirit of things. “She sounds most unladylike when she is asleep.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Bingley. After all, he thought, Georgiana had complained that he too snored.

“I am a fallen woman, Mr. Bingley.”

“Jane!,” said a shocked Madeline Gardner, “Whenever …?”

“Oh, Aunt Gardiner,” replied Jane with an impish smile that brought out the resemblance to one of her younger sisters. “It was a long time ago. A musician; he played the ophicleide.”*

Bingley paused momentarily at this information. It was a long time ago. Too many things were a long time ago, and it was his future happiness he was seeking to secure. “I forgive you,” he said, “if you can forgive me.”

Jane was not at all sure she had any need of his forgiveness, but decided to accept the response in the spirit in which it was intended. But she was not yet done.

“I can no longer have children,” said Jane. “I cannot provide you with an heir.”

“We can adopt a child,” replied Bingley, without too much thought.

Jane was delighted with this response. At 49 years of age, she could no longer bear a child, but she was in good health and felt herself capable of raising one. Although she had helped raise her cousins, she regretted not having been a mother herself. She was satisfied with Bingley and saw no reason for delay.

“Mr. Bingley,” she said, “I see no occasion for a courtship. If the banns are read for the first time Sunday next, the marriage can take place in four weeks. During that period, we can locate a suitable child for adoption and take him or her into our home immediately after the marriage.”

“Miss Bennet,” said a bemused Bingley, “Did you just propose marriage to me?”

“I did, sir, but with a condition.”

“Oh, I understand,” said Bingley. “But where shall we find a child to adopt?”

“The parish workhouses,” said Jane with a practical air. “They are full of abandoned and orphaned children with no hope of a respectable future. Any one of them will do for our purposes.”

“If I may suggest,” said Bingley cautiously, “the London workhouses are, as you say, full of children. We could provoke a riot by offering to take one. But a country parish …; a workhouse there would have fewer inmates. We could see the children, talk to them and select one that might be more suitable.”

Jane had no difficulty with this suggestion. “I was a country miss, myself,” she said. “Where do you suggest we look?”

Bingley thought only a moment before replying, “Lambton, in Derbyshire. It’s near Darcy’s place at Pemberley. He takes such care of his tenants that the population of the workhouse could not be excessive.”

“And,” said Jane with a nod to her aunt, “It would give my Aunt Gardiner an opportunity to revisit the scenes of her youth.”

Part 2: Lambton

A week later found Miss Jane Bennet, her Aunt Gardiner and Charles Bingley riding in a carriage north to Derbyshire. On the second day, they arrived at the Lambton Inn and settled in for a stay that might last several days. Mrs. Gardiner was determined to spend some time visiting old friends and Bingley, for Jane’s sake, was prepared to accommodate her.

The next day, Bingley presented himself at the workhouse, spoke to the beadle, and arranged that, the following day, he and Jane should have an opportunity to visit the children presently resident there. There were presently seven: two boys, seven and eleven and five girls, aged two through thirteen. The parish officials were delighted that this gentleman and his lady might relieve them of one of these children, and instructed the matron, Mrs. Bumble, that the girls were to be washed up before the projected interviews, in the hopes that one of them might be chosen. The boys were of some use on the treadmill.

At the appointed time, Bingley and Jane presented themselves at the workhouse to meet the children. They were shown to a small and comfortably furnished parlour to which, it transpired, the inmates of the institution were not usually granted admittance. Their interview with the Bingleys (the beadle did not appreciate that Bingley and Jane were not yet wed) was to be a treat for the children in more ways than one.

One by one, the children were shown to the parlour: first the boys, and then the girls beginning with the eldest but one. The parish officials hoped that this order of presentation would encourage the Bingleys to select the youngest girl, a choice that would yield the greatest relief to the parish finances.

Of the boys, Nick, 11, had lived his entire life at the workhouse, having been abandoned on the doorstep as an infant. He was inarticulate, but well-formed. He had a wild look in his eyes, as though he were terrified at meeting somebody from the wider world. Tom, 7, had been there only a little over a year, having arrived as the sole survivor of a family of tenant farmers (not on the Pemberley estate!) whose cottage had burned down around their ears. He was desperate to be chosen, smiling and bowing and tugging his fore-lock in a sad impersonation of what he considered to have been his father’s good manners.

The girls were also a mixed lot. Eleanor, 11, could remember nothing of her past. She had been found wandering the hedgerows in confusion, and brought to the workhouse for her own safety. She had plainly been abused, but must once have lived in genteel circumstances because she could read.

Maud, 10, was a quiet, introspective girl. Her father had been a modestly successful tradesman, a cooper, but both parents had died of the pox and the uncle who arrived to administer their small estate was disappointed to discover there was nothing left to provide for their child. He considered his duty done when he personally saw little Maud delivered into the care of the parish.

Cassie, 5, had been brought to the workhouse by a neighbour when her father had been pressed into the Navy; that had been several years earlier and, as no word was ever heard of him, he was presumed dead. Her mother had died in giving her birth. Cassie had recently reached the age when she was expected to work a normal 10-hour day and was desperately unhappy. She had to be forcibly removed from the parlour, kicking and screaming, at the end of the interview. Bingley and Jane were aghast.

Lisa, 2, was blue-eyed and blonde. She was too young to be expected to work and was, it seemed, a happy toddler. Mrs. Bumble had dressed her in a little gown hastily borrowed from one of the parish matrons, so that she would show to her best advantage. Lisa had been another infant left on the door-step, which was not entirely a bad thing: nothing was known of her parents. She was an adorable child and an easy choice for anyone looking to adopt a small child.

After the interviews were over, Charles Bingley and Jane Bennet looked at each other in silence. They were now in the position they had planned for: they could select a child and proceed with their marriage and an adoption. Lisa was an obvious choice: they would be her true parents, for she would remember no others. Tom was a possibility, if Charles wanted a son to take over the business. But they sat, in silence, gazing into each other’s eyes. Both were distressed by the misery they had seen; and this was a small, well-run, country workhouse!

To put off the evil moment when a choice must be made, Jane enquired after the fifth girl in residence, and was informed that Jill, 13, had declined the opportunity to be considered for adoption. Jane was intrigued and asked if she might be taken to the girl. Initially, she was refused, but Jane was strong in her own way and in a few minutes found herself shown into a large room with stone walls, nearly bare of furniture and lit by a few high and very grimy windows. Seated on a bench, sewing burlap bags, was a slim red-haired girl, too pale from lack of sunlight, but a handsome girl; she might one day be a great beauty. She sat erect, and had not noticed that she had visitors.

Jane thought that, had this girl been dressed in a fine gown and had she been sewing a sampler rather than a bag, she would have appeared at home in any drawing room. Jane asked to be left alone with Jill, and then approached her.

“Excuse me,” said Jane, “allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jane Bennet and I am here to choose a child for adoption.”

The girl stood and replied with a curtsey, “Good morning to you, ma’am. My name is Jill Sloane.”

Jane continued formally, “I understand, Miss Sloane, that you do not wish to be considered for adoption. Is that so?”

“It is, ma’am.”

“Might I ask, Miss Sloane, why you are of this view? Are you opposed to adoption in general, or do you take some exception to me?”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” the girl replied, “you seem a perfectly respectable lady and I do hope you will select one of the other children.”

“But, Miss Sloane, why would you not wish me to choose you?”

“I could not bear it, ma’am. I could not be happy, knowing that the others were still here and still suffering. I will soon be 14 years of age and able to leave. They have longer to endure. Please, ma’am; choose one of them.”

“What shall you do when you leave?,” asked Jane.

“I do not know, ma’am. I may go to the City. But I shall never voluntarily enter a workhouse again. I will do anything to support myself … anything!”

Jane knew very well what “anything” might entail in London, for an attractive 14 year-old girl without friends or family. “Yet, you care enough for the happiness of the other children, you love them well enough to stay here longer, for the sake of one of them?”

Jill looked steadily at Jane and replied, “There is little happiness and less love in this place, ma’am.”

At that moment, Jane made up her mind. “Miss Sloane,” she said, “if Mr. Bingley were to take all six of the other children, caring for them would be more work than I could manage by myself. Would you consider coming with them, to help me manage our household?”

For the first time, an expression of hope passed across Jill’s face. “Can it be? Are you offering me employment as a house-keeper?”

Jill’s face fell when Jane responded, “No, I am not.” But excitement again animated Jill’s features, as Jane continued, “Is it not normal for an older sister to assist her mother with her younger siblings? I am asking you to be my daughter, Miss Sloane. Do you think you might like that?”

“I … I don’t know, ma’am. I know so little of you. But, if all of us could leave this place and live in a gentleman’s house, I think I might like that very well indeed.”

Jane returned to the workhouse’s parlour to find Bingley still absorbed in thought. He rose from his chair to meet her.

“Charles,” she said, “have you reached any conclusion as to which child to take?”

Bingley smiled because this was the first time Jane had addressed him by his Christian name. But the smile vanished as he returned to his problem. He could not decide which child to take … which children to leave. “I was thinking, Jane, that, as you are to be the child’s mother, the choice should be yours.” Bingley thrilled at his use of her name, and hoped she did not notice that he was evading his responsibility.

Jane did notice, but it suited her present purpose. “Charles, I have just been speaking with the eldest orphan, a Miss Jill Sloane, and I have made her a modest proposal. If we take all the children, she is to assist me in raising them.”

Bingley paused for a moment, wondering if he had heard correctly. “We are to take all seven children?”

Jane stepped close to Bingley and touched her hand to his cheek. “It is more than we agreed to, Mr. Bingley. If it is too much, I will release you from your engagement.”

“I liked it better when you called me ‘Charles’, Jane. I would not have suggested that we take seven orphans, but I was distressed at the thought of leaving any of them. I love you for many reasons, Jane; your generosity not least. I love you too much to deny you anything within my means. I have never loved anyone but you and I insist on doing in three weeks’ time what I should have done 27 years ago. You cannot release me and I will not release you.”

Jane liked this response very well and arrangements were soon made to return in three weeks for the children. Bingley spoke privately with the beadle and, for a price, was able to arrange that the children would not be required to work for that period.

Bingley and Jane returned for lunch to the Inn, where they found a discouraged Madeline Gardiner. While she had met up with some old friends, two others had passed away and a third no longer recognized anybody. They decided to cheer Mrs. Gardiner up by proposing an outing.

The grounds at Pemberley were always delightful and would provide a suitable destination. Bingley observed that, as they were in the neighbourhood, he ought to call upon his brother-in-law Darcy. He also wondered if Jane was comfortable with visiting Darcy, given the history of his interference in their lives.

Jane disabused Bingley of any such concern. “I am sure Mr. Darcy did what he did out of concern for your happiness, Charles. I can bear him no ill will. And I should like to see him, if only out of curiosity. You know, he might have been my brother.”

This information, though 27 years old, was news to both Bingley and Mrs. Gardiner, and provoked a lively discussion over lunch. All were in good spirits as they set out for their afternoon excursion to Pemberley.

From a third floor window, Darcy watched a carriage proceed along the drive. At the pond, it stopped and a party of tourists descended. One woman stayed near the carriage, but a man and another woman walked arm-in-arm along the path towards the house. The man might almost have been his old friend Bingley, although Darcy doubted Bingley would ever visit him again after the news Darcy had conveyed, what was it? Ten days earlier? The woman was tall and blonde; she might almost have been Elizabeth’s sister, Jane.

Darcy laughed at the thought. If Bingley had called upon Jane Bennet, if he had narrated Darcy’s role in separating Bingley from her, Jane Bennet would despise him. She, whom he had thought a fortune-hunter, had remained unwed all these years. Never had he erred so grievously in his judgment of another human being. Jane Bennet’s disposition had been a sweet one, but nobody of flesh and blood could forgive the wrong he had done her. Only God, or one of His angels, could be so forgiving. Darcy smiled to himself. Bingley had always thought Jane Bennet an angel.

As Darcy watched, the couple stopped walking and the woman turned to face the man. They embraced and kissed. The woman who had remained with the carriage politely looked the other way. Darcy did not.

The couple disengaged and continued towards the house, walking slowly and with a deal of unnecessary contact, as lovers do. The other woman was assisted back into the carriage by the coachman and was driven to the house. As the couple approached closer to the house, Darcy perceived that the man was, indeed, Charles Bingley. Impossible as it seemed, the woman could only be …

Darcy knew he should be shouting for his housekeeper to prepare for guests; he should be alerting his wife, Lady Claire, to the arrival of visitors; she had always liked Bingley and might choose to be ‘at home’ to him. He ought to have got a move on. He didn’t.

Darcy stood in the window and cried.

THE END

* The ophicleide was invented in 1817 and was antecedent to the saxophone, which was not invented until 1840, two years after this story. With this clue, some of you will realize the inspiration for this little exchange. Nobody’s perfect; not even Jane.