Today is the day before the wedding. A little while ago, my mother took Louisa with her into the kitchen; I am embroidering a reticule while Maria alternates between adding lace to a cap and gazing out the window with a furrow between her brows.
“I do hope the rain stops soon,” she says, and stabs her needle into the cap’s fabric. Then she raises her head yet again, watching as the rain falls against the glass in sheets. “Though I suppose it will make little difference whether it stops now or tonight; it will be a muddy walk to the church tomorrow either way.”
“It is not the weather but the ceremony which matters tomorrow,” I say.
She exhales her frustration. “I know! But would it be too much to ask that the weather reflect the happiness of the occasion?”
I laugh. “It cannot be fine on every bride’s wedding day, or we would never have any rain at all.”
“Yes, but not every bride’s wedding day is a happy one,” she says, and I feel my smile slip away. She does not notice, but holds up the cap. “Do you think this will become me? I have tried on all my others, and I confess I cannot decide whether I look well in them or not.”
The cap is made of insubstantial material, with fine lace at the edges. The cap I am wearing just now is very plain in comparison. “Of course it will become you,” I say. “Very few things would not, I think, and something as pretty as that cannot help but look well.”
She smiles and returns to her work. The steady pounding of rain on the walls and windows is the only sound in the room. When Maria speaks again, she startles me. “Would it be too strange to ask you to sleep with me tonight?” she says.
I look at her. “Maria,” I say, but she reaches forward and captures my hand.
“Oh, please do,” she says. “I know I shall be too nervous to sleep much, and we could talk as we used to.”
I think of our old bed, with its warm soft coverlet and the familiar dips in the mattress where each of us lay. “I would like that very much.”
She starts to smile. “Mr. Collins would not object?”
I have no idea what William will make of this, but I say, “Not in the least.”
WILLIAM MADE A few bleating objections to Maria’s and my plan but was silenced by my talk of sisterly duty and devotion, so I now find myself tucked into bed beside my sister for the first time in years. The rain has subsided into a light, arrhythmic patter on the roof, and the single candle on the night table casts dancing shadows upon the walls. The sound of my sister’s breathing, the pillow under my head, the pattern of the paper-hangings are all so familiar. It feels like I am in a dream world, hushed and still, where the colors are not as bright as they should be.
Maria turns on her side to look at me.
“I am so happy, Charlotte,” she whispers.
“Then I am glad for you.”
“You do like him?”
I am happy to be able to answer truthfully. “Very much.”
“Is it . . . Mamma told me something of what to expect, of course, but—is it all right? What happens . . . between a husband and wife, I mean.”
My body is hot and prickly, and I am grateful for the faint, flickering light. “It is nothing to fear,” I say.
She blows out a relieved breath. “George wants ever so many children.”
“And they will doubtless all be little cherubs, with your coloring and his curls,” I say, smiling.
“If they are half as sweet as my niece, I will be content.”
I prop myself on my elbow. “May I ask—your courtship was so short. So—sudden. Until you wrote to me of Mr. Cowper, the last man you spoke of was Mr. Andrews, who asked you twice to dance. How . . . what made you sure of Mr. Cowper?”
She is giving me a most peculiar look. “It was no faster or more sudden than your engagement. But, well . . . I cannot really explain it. When George and I spoke it was—easy. He understood what I was saying.” She shakes her head. “I must sound very silly.”
There are dark eyes and crooked teeth and a gentle smile in my head; I cannot get them out. “No,” I say. “Not silly.”
She gives a little laugh. “And I never really liked Mr. Andrews—he has the largest ears you have ever seen, and he is so much shorter than I am—it was like dancing with Frederick.”
Again, that prickling heat. “A man needn’t be handsome to be worthy of your attention,” I say.
She flinches back from my vehemence, cups her palm over her mouth. “Of course not,” she says through her fingers, and then puts out her other hand to touch my arm. “I am sorry—that was thoughtless of me. Even men who are not so well favored can make excellent husbands.”
She thinks I am talking about William—naturally, she does. I roll onto my back and her hand slides away from my arm.
“Do not let us quarrel,” she says. “Please, Charlotte.”
There is something the matter with me. I stare up at the canopy until the pattern of the fabric there blurs before my eyes. “There is nothing to quarrel about,” I say. “I should not have taken offense; I am only tired.”
I can hear her swallow. “Of course.”
I must do better than this. I force myself to turn back toward her. “Truly, Maria—I am so glad for you.”
Her smile starts small but spreads quickly, and she scoots nearer to me. “I have not even told you about his proposal,” she says, and I lean forward to listen.
THE CHURCH PORCH is strewn with herbs and rushes. Our feet crush them as we enter, releasing a scent pungent enough to compete with the smell of damp grass. The rain stopped sometime during the night, though we had a time protecting Maria’s slippers and hem from the muddy lane as we walked to the church. But the sun is shining weakly through the clouds.
Chapter Twenty
It is nearly evening when we reach the parsonage. Louisa wriggles in my arms as William leaves the coach, wailing her impatience to be free. The moment I set her upon the ground, she is running, weaving like a drunkard through the hedgerows.
John is taking our luggage from the driver, while William says something in a peevish voice. I untie the ribbons under my chin and remove my bonnet, bending my head to let the cool air drift across the back of my neck. My hairpins pinch, and I wish it were time to go upstairs and remove them, to take off this gown and the corset underneath and lie down in my nightshift. I look up at the house. Its stone walls, its neatly placed windows and stout chimneys, are so familiar. Mrs. Baxter has opened the front door and is standing to the side, waiting for us to come in so she can take our outer garments.
I think of my parents’ maid, throwing open the door to Lucas Lodge as the wedding party returned after the service. She smiled and bobbed curtsies and clasped Maria’s free hand, the one not wrapped possessively around Mr. Cowper’s arm, and said, “I’m so glad for you, Miss—”
And then she’d clapped a hand over her own mouth, her grin growing wide behind her fingers. “I mean, Mrs. Cowper,” she said. Maria blushed and smiled shyly up at her new husband.
We all sat down to a handsome wedding breakfast, which Gabby, my mother, Maria, and I had begun preparing the day before. The cake was rich with nuts and dried fruit, covered with icing flavored with almonds and rose water. I offered bites to Louisa from my own plate as William, seated a little down the table, compared it favorably to a cake he had enjoyed, at the wedding of the Cliftons’ daughter, when he first arrived in Kent. “Lady Catherine,” he said, “spoke very approvingly of the flavor.”
My mother accepted this highest of compliments with obvious pleasure. Her dismay over Mr. Cowper’s profession seemed entirely forgotten, at least for the moment; at the church, as the couple stood rapt before the vicar, I had watched my mother watch them. She must have felt my gaze, for she turned to me and smiled a little.
“I suppose they do look well together,” she had whispered, her lips barely moving, and my thoughts were thrown abruptly back to the harvest ball, Mrs. Prewitt saying the very same words to me as we watched her niece danc
ing with Mr. Travis.
“And happy,” my mother had said after a moment—so softly that I was unsure whether she spoke to me or to herself—and I dragged my mind forcibly back to the present, to Mr. Cowper standing straight and handsome, looking down upon my sister with shining gladness; to Maria, looking up at him with a secret sort of smile. The damp made Maria’s hair curl becomingly around the autumn flowers woven through it from our parents’ garden. I cast a quick look across the church, to where Mr. Cowper’s parents and sister sat; his mother was crying, his father patting her hand.
We all drank to the couple’s health and fruitfulness before they left for Mr. Cowper’s—now their—home. My father spoke at length, and with great feeling and self-importance, welcoming the Cowpers into his home and into his family. The room felt saturated with goodwill, and for the first time I almost regretted my choice to forgo a feast after my own wedding. But perhaps the mood would have been different, my parents’ pride in my conquest shadowed by my own ambivalence. But this feast, at least, was quite unspoiled. Louisa was passed from person to person like a squirming parcel, and I watched as my parents, my sister, even my brothers kissed and petted her. Even William, full of cake and fruit and wine, had subsided into happy silence.
Now I back away from the parsonage, slowly at first, and then more quickly until I am nearly running, my bonnet in one hand and my breath hindered by a crushing pressure inside my chest. I spy Louisa darting down a path; she squeals when she sees me, and a little of the pressure eases as I turn around so I can give chase properly. There is no need to go inside just yet.
THE HEAT INSIDE the church is unseasonably oppressive, dense with the moisture that heralds a coming storm. At his pulpit, William is sweating heavily in his stock and cassock, his hair plastered to his forehead and in front of his ears. Though I oughtn’t be, I am grateful that so few congregants have attended this morning’s service, for the press and heat of more bodies would be intolerable. As it is, I wish William would shorten his sermon; but improvisation is not one of his strengths.
It feels like release when the service is finally ended, the hot stagnant air inside the church seeping like treacle through the thrown-open doors. I stand outside and welcome the warm wind against my cheeks. We are all listless, our greetings less animated than usual. Even Lady Catherine is subdued; no doubt she feels the disadvantage of her gown’s heavy fabric beside the thin muslins of the other women’s dresses. William mops his brow with a handkerchief and accepts thanks from the churchgoers with rounded shoulders and modest smiles.
I allow myself to be drawn into conversation with Mrs. Jenkinson. At the edge of my vision I can see Mr. Travis standing, speaking with another man; I know, from the slight turn of his head, that he is watching me, too. Though I want to, I do not excuse myself, even when the other man walks away and Mr. Travis is alone. Instead, I stay where I am, safely ensconced among the party from Rosings. The wind twists my skirts around my legs, and I hold my elbows and pretend to study the gathering clouds.
THE RAIN BEGINS to rush down just after we return to the parsonage—the door has not yet closed behind us when there is a crash of thunder and a sudden deluge. Both William and I turn in surprise, framed in the doorway and watching as our small courtyard turns, very quickly, to mud. Louisa, startled by the thunder, clutches at my neck.
William is the first of us to stir. “I was going to walk to Rosings to offer my help in the gardens,” he says, and looks up at the sky, where the clouds have drawn together into a solid mass. Then he turns to me. “Shall we keep each other company, my dear? What were your plans for the afternoon?”
With Martha with her family, and the rain falling so heavily, there is nothing to do but stay with Louisa in the nursery. I say so, and William looks at our daughter as though surprised to find her there, then down the hall toward his book room, and then up again at the sky. My shoulders grow taut at the idea of being shut up with him and all his nervous energy.
“An excellent notion,” he says.
Upstairs, William stands with his hands at his sides as he watches Louisa chase her spinning top across the floor, quick and graceless on her hands and knees, squealing her excitement. I wish, perhaps unkindly, that he would leave us alone. When she notices his observation she looks up at him with a sort of wary curiosity; his lips curl into an uncertain smile; and then she is distracted when the top stops spinning and tumbles onto its side.
MRS. BAXTER TURNS the meat near the fire, then wipes her brow with one brawny forearm. It is unbearably hot in the kitchen, even after yesterday’s storm and with the door open to let in the breeze. I can feel my chemise and dress clinging to my back. Fat drips from the joint into the pan beneath, and there is a sizzle and hiss. Mrs. Baxter sighs.
Life has felt strange and stagnant in the days since we returned to Kent. I have been spending much of my time in the kitchen with Mrs. Baxter. The trees and bushes and the plants in the kitchen garden are heavily laden with fruits and vegetables that must be harvested and preserved to keep through the winter. I made a cask of elderberry wine before we departed for Maria’s wedding, but there is still mead to make from William’s honey, and jars and jars of jams and pickles to put up. And all the while, Mrs. Baxter and I scarcely speak a word to one another. I am sure William would approve; he is very much in favor of servants knowing their place. But after being at home, where the kitchen work was passed in animated conversation with my mother, my sister, and even the maid, the quiet hours here pass very slowly.
There is one person with whom I would particularly like to speak, but despite having several times ventured out to visit parishioners since our return, I have put off calling at the Travis farm, though I know I must call soon so that old Mr. Travis can enjoy some time with Louisa.
Instead, I imagine conversations with the younger Mr. Travis as I pack cabbage and cauliflower into jars; I have spoken more to him in my head in the fortnight since our return than I have in reality to anyone else. I describe dinner with the Bennets on our first night in Hertfordshire and hear his low laugh; he listens attentively when I describe Maria’s wedding and my relief at discovering that Mr. Cowper seemed a very agreeable, gentlemanlike man.
But I feel frozen whenever I think about meeting him somewhere in public; I do not know that I can bring myself to be merely civil, as I have determined I must be.
“It seems impossible that it is autumn, and not the height of summer,” I venture.
“Indeed, ma’am,” Mrs. Baxter says, and then our conversation lapses once more. I try vainly to think of something more to say. The housekeeper fans herself with her apron and looks about for her next task, seeming quite unconcerned by the littleness of our exchanges. I close my eyes against the smokiness of the fire. The meat spits again; again, Mrs. Baxter sighs.
IN THE VILLAGE, Mr. Travis is speaking to the blacksmith. I keep my face mostly averted as I go about my shopping so as to avoid the necessity of deciding how best to greet him. But I needn’t have worried; he is cornered almost immediately by Mrs. Prewitt, her niece pulled along behind her.
WE ARE INVITED to Rosings for the evening. The Cliftons are coming with their son, who is home from Cambridge, and Lady Catherine’s note indicated that our presence was required so there would be the proper number of people for quadrille after dinner.
“How well you look this evening, my dear,” William says as we walk the short distance down the lane.
I look at him. “I—thank you,” I say, and then look away again. William is a great payer of compliments, but I know for a fact that the two ladies he wished to marry before he proposed to me—before turning his attentions to Lizzy, he admired her elder sister, Jane, until it became obvious that Jane and our neighbor, Mr. Bingley, had already formed an attachment—were both very handsome. I find it hard to trust his words.
Dinner is the usual refined affair, and I am silent throughout much of it, eating and drinking only a little and watching those around me. The dining room at Rosings
is lit by dozens of candles, but still it is so vast that much of the room remains in darkness, the footmen lining the walls merely man-shaped shadows except when they step forward to pour wine. The candles do, however, illuminate the gleaming table settings and platters of rich foods, and cast the faces of my dining companions in a light that gentles all of their profiles and makes even William almost handsome.
The conversation, if it can truly be called such, is propelled largely by Lady Catherine and requires little participation from the rest of us. She dispenses advice like an apothecary’s draughts, and I wonder with sudden tiredness whether the others at the table are nodding and smiling with as little sincerity as I am. I want, very badly all of a sudden, to be away from here, and I press my feet in their thin slippers hard against the floor to keep myself still.
There seems to be something blocking my throat; I take a little wine, but it merely trickles around the blockage, and there is something pressing on my chest, too, and a buzzing in my head that dulls the voices around me to a faint murmur. To either side of me, Mr. Clifton and Mrs. Jenkinson are eating their pigeon with apparent relish, and I watch them with a strange sense of disconnectedness. I look into the flickering flames of the many-armed candelabra at the center of the table, and cannot breathe.
Chapter Twenty-One
Louisa and I go outside at dawn. Travel seems to have disturbed her sleep schedule, and so she and I have been rising together once more. The morning is chilly; I wrap us both in a warm shawl but do not bother to change out of my nightdress or do anything else except don my boots. William would be horrified, but he will not be awake for hours yet.
The sky is streaked with orange and pink. I point out the colors to Louisa, push the hair that has escaped its plait behind my ears. She fidgets until I let her down, and then she runs unerringly toward the pig’s pen and stands staring at the animal where it lies upon the ground, twitching in its sleep. In a very few weeks it will be fat enough to slaughter, and then she will have to wait until next spring for us to get another. I stand back, arms wrapped around myself, and watch her.
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