Recollections of Rosings (46 page)

    Plainly hearing little of the homily, Frank Burnett stared straight ahead at the stained-glass window behind the altar. Beside him, Catherine could sense his restlessness and in a moment of innocent mischief, her hand, concealed within the folds of her sleeve, crept surreptitiously into his. Very soon, she seemed to say, it will be over. His fingers curled around hers, confirming her impression that he had waited for a gesture from her and was grateful for her understanding. As they stood thus together, it was as though they had already been joined together in love, oblivious of Mr Griffin and the congregation around them, feeling only the joy of this day that had been so long in coming.

    Then it was done. Mr Griffin led the way to the vestry, the organ played, bells pealed, and friends and relations milled around them, wishing them happiness; but they knew only the relief and joy of being at last together, man and wife, as they had always wished to be.

    In the days that followed, they spent but a day in London before travelling by train to Dover and crossing the channel to France, where Frank Burnett had lived and worked for many years. They had planned to stay a week in Paris and travel thence to Italy. If Paris was where Frank had learned his craft, it was in Italy that he had lost his heart to the fine arts. He had long wished to share his enthusiasm with Catherine, whose burgeoning interest he had encouraged from the earliest days of their association.

    While they were not in time to witness the entire festival of the Grand Carnivale, which Frank had described to her in minute detail, Catherine did have the opportunity to view from the balcony of their hotel the amazing antics of persons young and old, as they danced and paraded up and down the Corso on foot, in carriages, or on horseback, exchanging volleys of confetti, sweets, and flowers as they passed.

    The music, the colours, and the enormous energy of the scene below them brought a kind of high excitement such as she had never experienced before in her life. Never had she been in the midst of such bewitching entertainment. It absolutely assailed her senses. Turning to her husband, she saw him watching her, clearly pleased by her response.

    "Is it as enjoyable as you thought it would be?" he asked.

    Her eyes shone and she nodded. "Oh yes, indeed it is, and much more besides. All these people, so much vitality and high spirits, had you not told me of it, I should never have imagined it. I have seen nothing like it in all my life."

    "Then you are glad we came to Italy?" he asked.

    Her answer left him in no doubt. "Of course. I would not have missed it for the world."

    These were by far the most delightful and enlightening days of Catherine's life. Not since childhood, certainly not since she had entered the gilded cage of Rosings, had she known such freedom to feel, think, and speak as she wished. Untramelled by the constraints imposed upon her by Lady Catherine's patronage and years of watchful compliance at Hunsford parsonage, where Dr Harrison's reputation took precedence over all else, she could now seek and respond to new experiences and emotions without reservation. Freed of her inhibitions and customary reticence, she could, with her husband's help, enjoy all that life offered them, delighting with him in their easy intimacy and close understanding.

    Catherine had never been to France or Italy, nor even ventured outside the home counties, except to visit Pemberley or Bath. There were a myriad things Frank had told her of, which she was eager to see and learn, and since he was a most conscientious teacher, keen to show her all his favourite sights and places, their days were filled with the pleasures of stimulating and agreeable companionship. At the end of each day, her mind was brimming with images and ideas, all new and exhilarating. Catherine had never known such freedom, nor such fun.

    Even sweeter was the joy of loving one another, secure in the knowledge that they had been emancipated from the tedium of conformity and were accountable to no one but each other. The openness and freshness of Italy and the liberality it afforded them was blessedly sweet. It enhanced every new experience, filling each day with new pleasures and each night with the hope of something more to look forward to on the morrow.

    They travelled through several towns and picturesque little villages, until at last on a fine, clear day, they reached that most seductive of Italian cities— Florence. Frank had promised her she would be enchanted and she was.

    For Catherine, everything about Florence was astonishing, and though she knew little of its complex history, her husband took special pleasure in introducing her to all that he had learned and loved there, delighting in the depth of her response. The splendid bridges over the river Arno, the palaces of the Medici with their works of art, of a scale and magnificence to take one's breath away, all set in a landscape of such exquisite loveliness, left Catherine filled with wonder and bereft of words.

    Nothing at Rosings, with its grand collections of art and artifacts, had moved her as these did.

    "I do not think I could ever absorb completely what I have seen here," she confessed one afternoon as they sat watching the sunlight retreat from the river into the hills, leaving smudges of indigo and smoky blue shadow across the landscape. "There is so much loveliness, I feel privileged to be here," and reaching for his hand, she thanked him, "especially with you to tell me all about it. I owe all this pleasure to you; without your guidance, I should not have known such beauty existed. Dear Frank, thank you."

    He was deeply moved by her appreciation.

    "Dearest Catherine, it has been the fulfilment of my fondest wish to have you here with me, to share my enjoyment of places and works of art which have obsessed and absorbed me for years. To recall our enjoyment of them in future years will be my special pleasure."

    "I understand," she said softly, "it will be mine also."

    Even as she accepted Frank Burnett's love, Catherine had not imagined that at her age, she could feel as she did now.

    The discovery that the passage of time had not dulled her capacity to feel passionately and enjoy being deeply loved brought profound and singular satisfaction. It was something entirely novel in Catherine's experience. Nothing in her life so far, or in her previous marriage, had prepared her it.

    Writing to her sister, she spoke briefly of their travels in France and Italy, but more intensely of their shared happiness. Becky was struck by her candour.

    …she wrote, leaving Becky in no doubt of her meaning. Becky, more than any other person, could understand exactly how her sister felt.

    As the days passed and the year slipped deeper into Winter, these shared experiences so engaged them, they were reluctant to acknowledge that it was time to return to England. But there were just two weeks to Christmas and they had an invitation to Pemberley. Catherine had not forgotten their obligations.

    "Much as I have loved it, we have been away too long. Poor Becky must be tired of her own company; besides, we are expected at Pemberley on Christmas Eve," said she one morning, when a bitter wind sweeping down from the Alps had kept them indoors in their room, where a lively fire added comfort to inclination.

    Turning away from the window, where he stood watching two little boys playing in the snow, her husband feigned astonishment. Why, he declared, only last night she had confessed to him as they lay in bed that her love for Italy was increasing with every day they spent in the country. She had professed she never wanted to leave.

    "Am I to understand, my love, that you wish to leave Italy with all this beauty and return to a damp English Winter?" he asked and she, smiling, replied without dissembling, "Only because we must, Frank, we have some promises to keep; else I think I would happily stay here with you all Winter, for never have I been so thoroughly contented."

    "Nor I, my dearest Catherine," was his heartfelt response, as he held her in his arms, unwilling at that moment to admit the need to depart. "If my only obligation was to our mutual happiness, I would not be able to give you a single reason to leave this lovely place. I should beg you to stay here with me all Winter and into Spring. But, I fear you are right, duty calls and it is probably time to return to England."

    Plainly neither wished to end the pleasures they had enjoyed, yet both were well aware of their responsibilities.

    Two days later, with the weather threatening to worsen as the Alpine winds stripped the last of the Autumn leaves from the oak trees and swirled them around the fountain in the piazza, they left Italy to return to England.

    Taking a hired vehicle from Victoria Station, they drove to a hotel, where they spent the last night of their honeymoon, before journeying to Rosings Park on the morrow.

    They found John Adams and Lilian settled comfortably into the house they had taken a few miles outside the boundaries of Rosings Park, while Becky had spent the final days of fine weather having more of her furniture moved down from London and installed at Edgewater.

    Arriving at the Dower House, Catherine's newfound sense of freedom was renewed as the realisation dawned that for the first time she had a home of her own to share with a husband, one who had declared unashamedly that his chief preoccupation in life was ensuring her happiness.

    It was the type of situation she had believed existed only in the romantic imaginations of young women whose wits had been addled by reading too many cheap novellas! No sensible woman of any intelligence would credit it. Indeed, a year ago she would have laughed to scorn anyone who had suggested such a possibility for herself. Yet, here she was, unable to contain her joy.

    The house itself had been transformed in their absence.

    Mrs Giles and her staff had cleaned, aired, and readied the rooms upstairs for them. Becky had generously provided new drapes and fine linen for their bedroom and filled the vases with sweet-scented lavender and Winter roses from the conservatory at Edgewater.

    Every aspect combined to create for them a welcoming atmosphere of warmth and comfort, where for the foreseeable future, they would have only one another to please.

    It was a prospect that could not fail to delight their hearts.

Arriving at Pemberley on Christmas Eve, they found a large party gathered there already. Pemberley looked splendid, as usual, while their host and hostess seemed in excellent spirits.

    An excellent evening's entertainment of music followed a delectable meal provided in the best traditions of Pemberley House as Mr and Mrs Darcy welcomed their many guests.

    That night, as the family and their guests retired to their rooms, Catherine began a letter to her mother, who had been prevented by ill health from making the journey to Derbyshire.

    Giving her all the news, she wrote:

    However, on Christmas Day, to almost everyone's surprise, a carriage arrived towards midday, bringing Julian Darcy and his wife. Mr and Mrs Darcy had kept their secret well; only they had known, because the rest of the party had believed the pair were not expected back in England before Easter. As they were overwhelmed with exclamations of pleasure and welcomed by all their relations, Jane Bingley had whispered to Catherine that Jessica was expecting a child early in the new year, "Which is why they have returned to England earlier than expected," she had said. "Julian insisted she must come home."

    
That I can well believe,
wrote Catherine, continuing her letter that night,
and Mrs Darcy, too, must have wished that Jessica should return to Pemberley for her
confinement.