“You will spoil her,” I say, but I cannot help the way my mouth tugs up at the corners.
“Nonsense.” Mrs. Fitzgibbon sits in the second chair and lets out a sigh. “Children need spoiling, and mine never lived long enough for me to spoil them. Though perhaps it was for the best, after all.” She glances at me and lowers her voice, as if to keep Louisa from hearing. “Mr. Fitzgibbon liked his drink, and when he was in his cups he was a handy man with his fists. I don’t know but that it would have broken my heart to have my children used as he used me.”
I cannot imagine being treated so roughly that having my children perish in infancy would be preferable to their enduring the same. I look at Louisa, sucking on her sugar lump, and I think of her brother, whose life I have always thought I would have given anything to extend, and shudder.
Mrs. Fitzgibbon seems to sense my mood. “Well, and it was long ago, now,” she says. “In the end, he was too ill to work—not that he ever did much of that anyway—or even to drink.” She watches my hand as it traces the edge of my letter.
“News from home?” she says leadingly.
I look at Louisa, who rocks back on her bottom as she enjoys her treat. “From my sister,” I say. “She is engaged.”
“Oh, how lovely.” Mrs. Fitzgibbon tilts her head. “Is it not?”
I can feel the doubtful expression upon my face and struggle to smooth it out. “Of course it is. She is marrying for love.”
The old woman settles back with a snort. “Well, I married for love,” she says, and then looks sorry for the words. She glances sideways at me. “Good fortune to your sister,” she adds, with a skeptical sort of sincerity.
“I HAVE SOME news.”
William looks up from his plate. Dinner tonight is cottage pie, his favorite dish. Mrs. Baxter looked at me askance when I requested the change to the menu—“It is so hot, Mrs. Collins; are you sure you would not prefer something less rich?”—but I insisted.
“What is it, my dear?” he says.
“I have had a letter from Maria. She—she is engaged.”
“Engaged!” William says, and actually sets down his fork. “What is the gentleman’s name?”
“Mr. Cowper. George Cowper.”
“I hope he is worthy of her?”
I know what William is not saying, and bite the inside of my cheek.
“He is an apothecary,” I say at last.
“An—oh, my dear. That is not—her ladyship will not—” William brings his hands to his chest, pressing against the front of his waistcoat, his face full of dismay.
“The match may not be grand,” I say quickly, “but Maria seems very happy. She writes that she hopes we will be able to attend the wedding.”
William shakes his head slowly. “Lady Catherine may not be able to spare me.”
This is nonsense. I toy with my fork. “They are to be married in September, just after the harvest,” I say. “Maria understands that your duties must keep you in Kent until then, at least—”
“I am expected at the ball,” William says. “Her ladyship depends upon me.”
“I know that,” I say evenly. The harvest ball at Rosings Park is always the event of the season in Hunsford. “That is why they are delaying the wedding until autumn. It is very important to Maria that I—that we—be there.”
William’s distress is still obvious, but he appears to be attempting to moderate it for my sake. He takes a bite of pie and chews loudly.
“Well,” he says at last, tone doubtful, “it is not as though her intended is a common laborer, is it? It must be a relief to your parents to have her . . . settled.”
It is as close to tactful as William is capable of being. Almost, I could love him for it.
THE DRAWING ROOM at Rosings is very dark, all the heavy curtains drawn. Miss de Bourgh must be suffering from one of her headaches. I am put in mind of Mrs. Fitzgibbon’s shadowy cottage and wonder what she would think to see these great big windows, all covered up.
Miss de Bourgh reclines upon a chaise longue with a handkerchief covering her eyes. Mrs. Jenkinson sits beside her, her hands idle, for it is too dim for reading or sewing. I wonder, as William and I approach Lady Catherine and make our bows, how long she has been sitting so. Lady Catherine pulls her eyes away from her daughter to acknowledge our greetings, her mouth a puckered line.
We are here by her invitation, but the circumstances are hardly conducive to a lively visit. Almost, I offer apologies for disturbing them, but tuck my tongue against the roof of my mouth; presumably, Lady Catherine would have informed us had she wished to rescind the offer of tea. William sits very still beside me, fingers laced together in his lap and feet carefully still upon the floor. Silence descends, broken only by the maid’s entering with tea and cake.
“Your husband informs me that your younger sister is engaged to be married.” Lady Catherine’s words are a hiss, almost too low for me to catch. She stirs sugar into her tea and looks at me expectantly. William’s eyes dart between us.
“Yes, Your Ladyship,” I say.
“It is a pity she did not make a better match. I cannot imagine what she was thinking of—what your father was thinking of to allow it. Miss Lucas struck me as a very sensible girl when she visited here.” Lady Catherine takes a bite of cake, chews with soft smacks of her lips. I hold my peace; I know enough to know that she is not yet ready for my response.
“She is a gentlewoman,” she says. “Even though your father has little in the way of property or fortune, she is a gentlewoman, and as such she has obligations to her family! Why, how will your brothers’ marriages be affected by this alliance? How will your own daughter’s?” She shakes her head. “Your poor mother—how I pity her.”
I duck my head at the mention of Louisa; William’s head bobs. “Mrs. Collins and I are unable to account for this, Your Ladyship, I assure you—”
“Lower your voice, if you please, Mr. Collins,” Lady Catherine snaps, and William claps a palm to his mouth. Her ladyship’s gaze slides toward Miss de Bourgh, who has not moved at all. After a little silence, she sighs and looks at me.
“Mr. Collins says you wish to attend the wedding.”
I swallow. “I do, ma’am. Maria is my only sister; it would feel . . . wrong not to attend her wedding.”
“Sentiment,” Lady Catherine says with a sniff, and I cannot disagree.
Chapter Fourteen
I have not spoken to Mr. Travis since he left me with such haste outside the circulating library. After church on Sunday he chose not to linger with the other farmers, who gathered and talked in the cool shadows under the May tree at the edge of the green, but instead left after the service was concluded, and though I went once to visit his father, the son was toiling in a far field and, so far as I know, did not even know I was there, though my heart trip-trapped against my ribs when I spotted his figure in the distance.
Today, I am sitting with old Mr. Travis in his garden. The blanket we brought with us is spread upon the ground under me, soft and thick. Old Mr. Travis is dozing on his bench, an empty plate beside him with only a few soft, sweet crumbs remaining of his slice of the seed cake I baked this morning. Martha has Louisa by the leading ribbons, allowing the baby to explore the garden without letting her get close enough to harm the herbs and flowers.
“We heard a rumor,” says a quiet, familiar voice from behind me, “that there was cake.”
I look around at Mr. Travis. His dark hair is untidy and his clothes are dusty from the fields, but his hands, clasped together before him, have been scrubbed clean. There is uncertainty behind his eyes when they meet my own, and I feel annoyance rise—with him, for the gift of a borrowed book and for his sudden, strange vulnerability, and with myself, for accepting his offering and for the way I seem always to respond to his presence in such a nonsensical way. He is neither especially handsome nor especially learned, at least not in the things that matter in polite society; and yet I feel pulled to him, as if I am wearing invisible ribbons at the shoul
ders of my dress and he holds the other ends.
But I have never made a fool of myself over a man, and I refuse to start doing so now. “There is cake,” I say lightly, and cut a slice for him and one for Henry Peters, his young farmhand, who hovers at Mr. Travis’s side as if uncertain he belongs here. They eat, Henry very quickly and with mumbled thanks before he returns to his work. But Mr. Travis remains; his eyes follow Martha and Louisa as they take their turns around the garden, and at last he looks to me, delight in the lines about his mouth.
“This is new,” he says.
“Louisa is very proud of herself. And your father was in raptures when she came to him on her own, with no hand to steady her.”
“As he should have been. It is a great accomplishment. The first of many, I’m sure.”
My laugh comes out as a gust of warm air. “I hope she is more accomplished than her mother, at least.”
He looks at me inquiringly; I recline upon my forearms and stare at Louisa. Her bonnet is askew; her entire body is given over to the delight of her own physicality and to the thrill of exploration. Her two teeth stand out tipsily in her open, laughing mouth.
“I have no accomplishments,” I say at last.
“I find that difficult to believe.”
“Why? Because I am the daughter of a gentleman?”
Mr. Travis comes nearer. “May I?” he says, indicating the blanket, then settles himself upon it at my nod. He cants his head upward to look at the sky; my eyes are drawn to the sharp protrusion of his Adam’s apple and the faint shadow of bristles over his cheeks and throat.
“Because you told me yourself that you once loved to draw,” he says. “And—yes—forgive me, but I suppose I have always been under the impression that gently bred ladies have little to do but collect accomplishments.”
“Your impression was mistaken, at least in my case. Some gentlemen’s daughters spend a good portion of their day in the kitchen.”
He looks at me. I press my lips together and raise my brows. “I made the cake I brought today,” I say in response to his unspoken question. “My family has no cook, and so my mother and sister and I prepared all of our meals. My father was a merchant, Mr. Travis, until I was nearly a woman grown. When he—decided—to buy a small estate and sell his business it was . . . not the soundest of decisions.” I think of my mother’s dismay, of coming upon her once as she cried helplessly in the larder after my father announced his decision. We will all starve, she said, and though it was never anywhere near so dire as that, we did have to economize. We had a maid but no cook; we made over our dresses, sometimes more than once, rather than buy new ones.
“I had no drawing master and no governess,” I say. “Any—little—ability I have is entirely self-gleaned. What I do would certainly not be recognized as accomplished by anyone in Lady Catherine’s sphere.”
But now I think of Mrs. Fitzgibbon’s mean little cottage, so dark even during the day, with only the one room in which to cook and eat and receive visitors; of her single delicate porcelain cup, so obviously cherished. Of the fact that she had not corresponded with her sister in years, for want of just a little extra money. Everything I imagine I lack seems petty in the face of true deprivation.
“You must think me . . . quite ridiculous,” I say.
“No.” A pause, and a sly smile. “No accomplishments at all?”
I laugh—too high, too shrill, and I glance quickly at the elder Mr. Travis to make sure I have not woken him. “None,” I say. “That is—I can draw, a very little. And play—a very, very little. My mother was in charge of my education, and she cannot paint, she speaks no other languages . . . She did make sure we could dance, for how else were we to meet men?” My smile is thin. “Louisa will be better educated than I was, at least. I will make sure of that.”
“Mrs. Collins,” Mr. Travis says slowly, “I owe you an apology.”
I say, “Oh, no—” with reflexive politeness.
He shakes his head. “I was discourteous when last we met. I have no excuse—”
“It’s forgotten,” I say quickly, and he subsides, but I can feel him watching me. I think, as I have so often since it arrived, of Maria’s letter. I wonder what she and her Mr. Cowper talk about.
“My sister is engaged,” I say.
“That is excellent news.”
“It is.” Of course it is. It is. “She seems very happy.”
His eyes remain steadily upon my face. “That is as it should be when one is engaged, is it not?”
“Yes,” I say. In fact, happy does not do justice to Maria’s effusions—there is no man more handsome or with a more engaging manner; her Mr. Cowper carries himself well and dances beautifully. He is witty and kind, and everything about him is so very agreeable that she cannot imagine they will ever argue. I clear my throat, avert my eyes. I cannot bear the pressure of his scrutiny. “They have not been acquainted for very long. That is—why this is a surprise.”
“Ah.” He looks out over the garden for a moment, then adds in a careful way, “Of course, it does not follow that a short acquaintance means the match will be unhappy.”
“Of course not.” I pause. “Mr. Collins and I became engaged after only truly conversing twice.” I flick a glance at him and then away.
“Ah,” he says again.
“Lady Catherine and Mr. Collins are both disappointed by the match.”
I want to stuff my fist into my mouth, stopper myself like a bottle. I must find a way to keep my every thought from spilling from my throat when I am around this man. His mere presence cuts through the heavy layers of my reserve as if they are so much net.
“Why is that?”
I touch my lips together, then say, “Because—Maria’s intended—he is an apothecary.”
A raised brow. “A worthy profession.”
“Yes. But—it is a profession.”
Mr. Travis snorts quietly. “And there’s the rub,” he murmurs. I stare, wrong-footed by his use of such a reference; he looks back without expression.
“Really, it is not such an unequal match,” I say. “It would have been perfectly eligible if my father had not been knighted. We are not—Maria does not even have a dowry.”
His laugh has a sharp edge. “But he was knighted.”
“She sounds so happy,” I say once more.
The compassion in his eyes is suddenly intolerable, and I look down.
Louisa chooses now to crumple to the ground with a petulant cry, suddenly overcome by tiredness after so much exertion. As we both watch, she lashes out at the surrounding grass with fists and fingers.
“Oh, love,” I say on a breath, and hold out my arms. Martha brings her to me and settles her in my lap, where she rubs her knuckles against her eyes and whines as I rock her gently, back and forth.
Mr. Travis plucks long strands of grass and begins to weave them together, his big fingers managing the delicate work with incongruous ease. When he is finished, he holds out the grass plait.
“For you, little miss,” he says, startling Louisa out of her ill temper. After a moment she takes it in her fist, examining it; then she waves it madly. He grins.
Chapter Fifteen
I am weeding the kitchen garden when Mrs. Baxter pokes her head through the doorway. “Mrs. Collins,” she says, “Mr. Collins asks that you join him in the front parlor.”
I raise an eyebrow, spread my hands to show their dirtiness. “Tell Mr. Collins I will be in in a moment.”
She shakes her head. “It’s urgent, ma’am. Her ladyship has come to call.”
Oh, bother. I stand and rub my hands vigorously with the hem of my apron, then untie the apron and give it over to Mrs. Baxter. “Thank you,” I say even as I hurry through the kitchen and into the house proper, tucking flyaway strands of hair under my cap and smoothing down my dress as I go. When I open the parlor door, William half-stands.
“Charlotte, my dear,” he says. “Lady Catherine was just telling me that she has some news!”
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I make my curtsy, which Lady Catherine receives with a slight inclination of her head, and take my seat on the chair beside William. “Indeed, ma’am?”
William leans forward, palms against his thighs. “I was just saying to Lady Catherine that it must be news of great import, for her to condescend to call upon us to discuss it!” He looks at me pointedly.
“Yes,” I say. “We are all eagerness.”
Her ladyship smiles, just a little. “I have received a letter from my nephew Mr. Darcy.” She pauses dramatically. “He wrote to say that he and his family will be visiting Rosings in just a few weeks. They will be here in time for the harvest ball.”
William clasps his hands together, and I only just prevent myself from doing the same. Eliza! Here! Lady Catherine’s eyes slide to me, and her satisfied smile drops away.
“No doubt you will receive a letter of your own informing you of this news, Mrs. Collins.”
I make my tone as conciliatory as I can. “Yes, probably, Your Ladyship.”
“It is no more than the duty and honor that he owes to me and Anne,” she says at length. “But—aside from his unfortunate marriage—Darcy has always been very attentive to duty. And he has told me,” she says, a little of her satisfaction returning, “that Mrs. Darcy has taken my advice about the new chair covers for the music room at Pemberley.”
LADY CATHERINE DEPARTS and I return to the garden. I am joyful at the prospect of seeing Elizabeth again; I sing as I pluck weeds from among the vegetables. My voice is thin, and I would never dream of performing among company, but just now, with the sun pressing warm against my back, the smell of the earth in my nose, and the thought that soon my friend will be here, I cannot help myself.
“DO YOU THINK that my cousin and her husband will honor us with a visit during their stay at Rosings Park?”
I look up from the shift I am sewing. William stands in the doorway to my parlor. He is so large, and my parlor is so small, that his presence feels all the more intrusive. I stab my needle into the cloth and set it aside.
“I certainly hope so,” I say, “unless Lady Catherine requires their attendance constantly.”
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