“Charlotte!” comes Lizzy’s voice. We turn; she and William hurry toward us. Lizzy looks less exhilarated than I feel, and she drops William’s hand the moment she politely can, looking at Mr. Darcy. “I wondered how soon Lady Catherine would have you dancing.”
Mr. Darcy’s smile is pained. “She chose a fine partner, at least,” he says, with a half bow in my direction.
I doubt whether Lady Catherine will insist on her nephew’s dancing again, for I cannot imagine she wishes to see him partnered with farmers’ daughters or tradesmen’s wives. But it would be impolitic to say so—though if I were having this conversation with someone else, I mightn’t be sensible enough to censor myself. I glance over to the corner where Mr. Travis was standing earlier; he is still there. He sees me looking, smiles just a little. I nod, feel my lips pull up in response, and look away again.
“Speaking of my aunt, I should be dutiful and see if she or my cousin needs anything.” Mr. Darcy looks from Elizabeth to me and raises his voice, for the music is starting again. “Would either of you like refreshment?”
“No, thank you,” I say, and Eliza shakes her head. He bows, turns, and begins to weave his way through the crowd. I look at William, hovering behind Lizzy’s elbow.
“My dear,” I say, “perhaps you ought to attend her ladyship as well.”
He seems relieved. “Yes! Of course. An excellent idea.” He turns around a little too quickly and nearly stumbles over the feet of a passing woman. I keep my face very still, listening to his stuttered apologies, and then Lizzy turns to me.
“I was surprised when Darcy told me that there is a tradition of holding a harvest ball at Rosings,” she says, bending her head close to mine. “It did not seem very like Lady Catherine to willingly mingle with her tenants.”
William has moved far enough away now that the music and conversation around us have drowned out the sound of his voice. I make my own voice light and teasing. “But you are forgetting her famous generosity.”
She laughs. “How foolish of me. Of course. I—” But then she stops, her attention caught by something just over my shoulder. I turn, and there is Mr. Travis only a few paces away. His posture speaks of indecision, but he sees us looking and bows immediately.
“I apologize, Mrs. Collins,” he says. “I did not mean to interrupt.”
“Not at all.” My voice sounds thin, and I resist the urge to clear my throat. “Elizabeth, may I introduce Mr. Travis? Mr. Travis, my friend Mrs. Darcy.”
He bows again, and Lizzy does likewise, rising with an expression of polite curiosity.
“Mr. Travis planted the roses for us,” I say, for want of something better.
“Oh, yes—Mr. Collins was very eager to show them off,” Elizabeth says. She smiles her easy smile, and my teeth grind together. “How kind of you to offer your time and expertise.”
Mr. Travis chuckles, glances at me, and rubs the back of his neck.
“It was nothing, ma’am,” he says, and then, “I truly did not mean to interrupt—it is only that I have strict orders from my father, Mrs. Collins, to give you his greetings, and I did not know whether I would have another opportunity.”
“Oh—I am sorry he is unable to be here.”
“As is he.” More people are crowding about; he edges a little nearer, jostled by a passing couple. “This was always his favorite event of the year.”
“Please tell him I will call with Louisa very soon—well, after we return from Hertfordshire,” I say, but then Mr. Clifton, whose estate lies two miles from Rosings, steps forward out of the crowd and bows low to Elizabeth. His bald head gleams in the light of so many candles.
“Might we dance this one, Mrs. Darcy?”
She takes his hand. “I—yes, thank you,” she says, and follows him to the floor with a quick, startled look back at me.
“You go to Hertfordshire soon, then?”
I am very aware of Mr. Travis’s nearness, and I keep my eyes on Eliza and Mr. Clifton, who stand awaiting the start of the music. “Yes—in but a few days. But we will not stay long. Only a fortnight.”
“I am sorry you will have so little time with your family, though—” He breaks off and I do look at him now. He is frowning at the forming set, but he must feel me eyeing him, for he turns a little in my direction.
“You are a fine dancer, Mrs. Collins,” he says abruptly. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself very much.”
He watched, I think, and then do not let myself think of it any further. “Yes,” I say. “I missed it more than I realized.”
He half-smiles and looks again at the lined-up couples. “I would follow Mr. Clifton’s example and ask you to dance,” he says, “but I suppose doing so would be seen as something of a presumption.”
My lips part. There is nothing in the world I want more than to be part of the fray with him, a partner with whom I could be at ease. With whom I could laugh. I imagine our hands touching and our bodies moving together with the music. The longing to accept batters me. But: just a little ways away, Mrs. Prewitt and her niece are standing, also watching the dancers assemble; I think of Mrs. Prewitt’s words outside the church and suddenly I cannot breathe. I look at Mr. Travis’s face, still turned toward the dance, at the lines at the corners of his eyes, the bit of tightness at the corners of his mouth, and I wonder how I can possibly step back from this friendship that has grown so easily, seemingly from nothing.
But perhaps it is arrogant to think that he would mind if our conversations dwindled away, if we met at church or by chance in the village and exchanged only indifferent greetings. Perhaps the prospect of retreating into cold civility would not leave him sore and aching.
Then I look at his fingers, knotted together hard behind his back, and my mind goes blank and silent.
Miss Harmon is smiling anxiously at nothing in particular. There is a wrenching inside of me, and I say, in a voice that is too falsely bright to really be mine, “If you truly wish to dance, Mr. Travis, I see a young lady in need of a partner.” I tilt my head in Miss Harmon’s direction.
Mr. Travis opens his mouth, glances in the direction I have indicated, and closes it again. “I . . . Of course.”
I am conscious of his presence behind me as I make my way over to Mrs. Prewitt and her niece.
“Mrs. Collins!” Mrs. Prewitt says. She flicks a look at Mr. Travis. “What a fine occasion this is!”
“Yes, indeed,” I say, and to Miss Harmon, “May I introduce Mr. Travis to you, Miss Harmon?”
She looks at him, smiles prettily. “It would be my pleasure.”
I make the introduction quickly. “Miss Harmon is visiting from the north,” I tell Mr. Travis.
“Oh, yes?” He turns to her, all polite attention. “That must have been quite a journey.”
“It was. But it is very good to see my aunt and uncle.”
He says, “Would you care to dance?” She agrees, and he offers her his arm. Then he bows swiftly to Mrs. Prewitt and myself. “Excuse us, ladies,” he says, with one quick, unreadable look at me, and they join the set.
“A fine beginning,” Mrs. Prewitt says from beside me. “They do look well together, don’t they, Mrs. Collins?”
Miss Harmon dances beautifully, and Mr. Travis, though less light-footed than Mr. Darcy, moves with confidence. Their hands clasp in the course of the dance, and then they part, twirling away from each other. And then they return. A headache threatens suddenly, just between my eyes.
“Yes,” I say. “They do look very well.”
Chapter Nineteen
Maria must have been waiting at the parlor window, for the coach has not even rolled to a stop when she comes bursting through the front door to stand, body drawn tight with impatience, upon the drive. William alights first, then helps me down; I scarcely set both feet upon the ground before my sister has enveloped both me and Louisa in a crushing embrace.
“It is so good to see you!” she says. “And oh, sweet niece, you are so big!”
I
find that I am blinking against sudden tears. It has been so long since I have seen her—more than ten months since her last visit to Kent. She smells just as I remember from years of sharing a bed.
William clears his throat, and Maria and I pull apart. She looks at him guiltily. “Sister,” he says, and holds out his hand. She places hers in it and he bows with exaggerated gallantry. “Though she does not entirely approve of your choice of husband,” he says as he rises, “Lady Catherine sent us from Rosings Park with her felicitations.” He presses her hand and releases it.
I close my eyes, but not in time to miss the way Maria’s face turns scarlet. “I—” she says, and then my parents and youngest brothers are hurrying through the doorway, saving her from the necessity of an appropriate response to so inappropriate a statement.
“Mr. Collins!” my mother says. She kisses his cheek, and William flushes rosier than Maria. And then my mother turns to me; her gaze darts between my face and Louisa’s, and she laughs and says, “I hardly know whom I missed most!” and wraps us both in her arms. A moment later and she is stepping back, but she reaches for Louisa. “Let me see you, my big girl,” she says, but Louisa leans back in her arms.
“Ma!” she says. “Ma! Ma!” She holds out her hands to me.
“Oh, hush now,” my mother says, and begins walking toward the house. “I have taken out all of your mamma and auntie’s old toys, they have been waiting impatiently for you to arrive and play with them.”
My chest feels full and warm as I watch them go. And now my father is standing before me. His hair has turned fully gray, but his smile is exactly the same. “Charlotte,” he says, and leans down to kiss my cheek. He smells the same, too, the crisp lemon scent of the cologne he always applies a little too strongly.
“Father.” It is silly, perhaps, to be so utterly consumed by gladness, but I am home, and my brothers Samuel and Frederick are waiting their turns to greet me, having already shaken William’s hand with great solemnity. “You have grown so!” I say—Frederick, who is still so young in my mind, sports a few wisps of hair above his upper lip—and they both shuffle their feet and grin.
DINNER IS TO be a far noisier affair than I’d have chosen, for my mother invited the Bennets and the Longs to dine with us. This means that Maria and I are both drafted into service, my mother passing Louisa off to William with a casual “She is all yours for a few hours, Mr. Collins!” She either does not notice or chooses to ignore the flash of panic that crosses his face as she pulls me toward the kitchen.
“There will be four courses,” my mother says. She wraps an apron around my waist as though I am still a little girl who cannot tie the strings herself. Maria covers her mouth but cannot hide the laughter at the corners of her eyes.
Most of the preparation was already finished yesterday, of course, but there is still plenty to do. Maria busies herself arranging fruit while our mother and I ready chicken and hares for cooking. “When do I get to meet the famed Mr. Cowper?” I say.
Maria’s smile says a great deal. “Did I forget to mention—he will join us tonight.”
I glance at our mother, whose face is set stoically. “He sounds like an amiable man,” I say.
“You will adore him, Charlotte,” Maria says. “He is so very good.”
Our mother releases her breath on a sigh quiet enough that I do not think Maria could have heard it.
“Do you not like Mr. Cowper?” I say in a whisper when Maria goes to fetch something from the larder.
“Oh, he is a good enough sort of man. And he does seem very fond of your sister. But his profession, Charlotte . . . An apothecary! Maria’s head has always been filled with fancies. If only she were sensible like you.”
“He can provide for her though, surely?”
“After a fashion. But she will never live up to our hopes for her now, and that’s a fact.”
Maria returns bearing a large platter, and so I must hold my peace.
MR. COWPER IS a very handsome man of six-and-twenty, with a classical face and curling hair. He and Maria make an attractive couple. When the maid leads him into the parlor before dinner, he makes his bows to my mother and father, but he looks unerringly to Maria where she stands talking to Mrs. Long. They greet each other with their eyes before they are able to speak to one another. I look away.
Mr. Cowper and I are seated together at dinner. He is attentive and eager to please, if rather quiet, and several times I look up to find Maria watching him with an expression of great affection from across the table.
“My sister speaks very highly of you,” I say. “I should thank you, sir, for making her so happy.”
“It is she who has made me happy, Mrs. Collins.”
I smile. “That was just the right response,” I say, and he laughs. But we have little chance to speak further.
Like my father, Mr. Bennet looks older than in my memories, his white hair thinner and his waistline thicker. He has been mostly silent throughout dinner, leaving the burden of conversation to his wife, who has cheerfully taken it up—she has managed to mention her eldest daughters’ illustrious marriages at least ten times since the first course. I am almost too tired to be amused; if only my mother had waited until a day or two after our arrival to hold a party.
Mrs. Bennet leans across the table. “Did you think Lizzy looked well when she was in Kent?” she says to me, and then, before I can respond, she adds for the benefit of any who might not have already known the information, “Mr. and Mrs. Darcy were lately invited to be guests of Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings Park.”
Mr. Bennet rolls his eyes and takes a deep drink from his glass.
“She looked remarkably well,” I say, “and little Thomas is quite the handsome boy.”
Mrs. Bennet smiles widely. “Her pin money alone could keep all my girls in gowns and slippers forever. I had hoped Kitty could stay with her at Pemberley for the summer, but Lizzy said not, and I suppose with a new baby she mightn’t have as much time to find her younger sister a husband as I would like. So Kitty has been with Jane and Mr. Bingley at their estate for two months now. Jane writes that Kitty has been much admired.” She plucks an almond from its dish and pops it in her mouth, chews for a moment, and adds, with a pointed little look at Maria, “There is nothing like an advantageous marriage to ease a mother’s mind.”
I glance at Mr. Cowper, who is attending to his lemon cream with apparent single-mindedness.
My mother’s eyes narrow, but she says only, “Indeed. Which is why Charlotte’s wedding to Mr. Collins brought such gladness to us all, knowing that one day she will be mistress of Longbourn estate.” She nods to Mr. Bennet. “One day far in the future we hope, of course.”
Mr. Bennet’s smile is sardonic. “Oh, I’ve been informed by my wife that now Jane and Lizzy are settled I may die as soon as I choose. She has her pick of grand estates in which to spend the rest of her days.” He raises his glass to William. “Your inheritance holds no terrors for us any longer, Mr. Collins.”
William blinks. “I am glad to hear it, sir—you know that I was always uneasy about it, and would have made amends had I been able. But circumstances, ah, being what they were . . .”
I long to kick him into silence, but he is too far away down the table, and so I settle for a generous sip of my own wine.
THE DAYS HAVE passed in a whirl of calls made and received, between which I spend most of my time in the parlor with Maria and our mother, helping them finish a few last items for my sister’s trousseau.
My father and William do whatever it is that men do in one another’s company. I cannot imagine what they might find to talk about, other than the splendor of Rosings Park. And my brothers spend their days at school. I see them but rarely, and when I do I never know what to say to them.
My eldest brother is off term at Oxford, where he is studying the law, a fact that my mother has managed to work into conversation with nearly everyone we meet. She lingers over the word Oxford as if it were a sugared conf
ection. We had always assumed that my eldest brother would take over our father’s shop when he was old enough; with the shop sold, that option was lost to him, but in its place was our father’s determination that his sons should be educated as gentlemen.
Listening to my mother’s quiet boasting, I am struck by sudden understanding: her feelings about our family’s rise in status are as complicated as my own, her vanity warring with her natural practicality. She is proud that my brother will one day be a barrister, rather than a merchant or a lowly solicitor, and she loves to talk about my eventual role as the mistress of Longbourn—an extraordinary stroke of luck, which would certainly never have happened were I still the daughter of a shopkeeper. But when my father was a merchant, our family was prosperous, if not genteel, and my mother had no worries. My brothers could have gone into trade without any loss of status, and Maria could have married Mr. Cowper without her choice being seen as a degradation.
My brother had been staying with a friend but returned home last night for the wedding. He, too, has grown so much since I saw him last; I must tip my head back to look into his eyes. I can almost imagine him as a London barrister, someone who might attract a wife with a fine dowry. To my delight, he seems very taken with Louisa, though he disappeared this afternoon with some childhood friends, despite my mother’s protestations that it looked like rain.
“Boys,” she said. She shook her head and watched him go. “And two more left to raise.” It began to rain steadily not a quarter hour after he left.
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