by Meg Osborne
“Indeed?” Lizzy stifled a laugh and shook her head to dissuade her companion from further conversation, whispered or otherwise, when she discerned a pointed cough from directed towards them from Lady Catherine’s chair. They lapsed into silence, but Elizabeth found herself marvelling yet again how different the two cousins were. Mr Darcy had judged her from the first and found her wanting. Yet his cousin seemed more amiable by half and was already more than happy to treat both Mrs Collins and her as friends, as equals. Perhaps it was the influence of his work, for being in the regiment, Colonel Fitzwilliam must have been pressed into associating with people from all areas of society and learnt the ability to make friends easily. Would that his cousin could learn from him! Lizzy frowned, watching as Mr Darcy hovered, uselessly, close to the piano, turning Anne’s pages when directed by the slightest nod of her head. Even here, he seemed ill at ease, and she wondered if the poor man ever felt capable of relaxing, even for a moment. The notion of Mr Darcy in any state of repose, indeed anything less than ramrod straight attention, with the slight scowl that haunted his features even now struck Elizabeth as amusing and she laughed again, hurrying to disguise it as a sneeze, lest her good humour attract still more ire from her hostess.
“Do share the joke, Miss Elizabeth!” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked, as Anne finished, and the small party applauded enthusiastically and called for an encore.
“There is none!” Elizabeth said. “I merely observed your cousin over there looking so uncomfortable with his task. I wonder if he would not rather be permitted to retreat to a corner where he might glower in peace, and not feel himself under our scrutiny, as he surely does at present.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam glanced over at the pair, before nodding.
“I do believe you are right, Miss Elizabeth. Darcy!” He stood, walking over to the piano in two long strides. “You can’t stand here all evening turning pages for Anne, here: I will relieve you of the duty for the next piece, and you may rest your feet for a moment.” He lowered his voice and murmured something unintelligible at a distance. From the smile that accompanied it, Elizabeth took the comment for a humorous one, but it was received with such a grimace from Mr Darcy that she wondered if he had found something else to take offence at. How was it that he could so easily feel slighted when his cousin was so open?
This time, as Anne began to play, Mr Darcy came to take his seat, but hesitated, being faced with not one but two disagreeable options. Eventually, he selected a seat beside Mr Collins, although he glanced almost longingly towards the one that had been recently vacated by Colonel Fitzwilliam. Lizzy felt the sting of dismissal and turned pointedly away to smile at Charlotte and ask, with the rise of her eyebrows, how she enjoyed the evening. Charlotte’s features were a little downcast, and Lizzy was sad to see the smile she obediently mustered falter as she glanced over at her husband, who was in danger of succumbing to the after-effects of too much to drink, his chin bobbing heavily towards his chest.
Elizabeth coughed, loudly, so that Mr Collins jerked awake at the noise, and not only Mr Collins but Lady Catherine as well.
“Are you unwell, Miss Bennet?” she asked, with a haughty glare.
Elizabeth shook her head, offering yet another meek apology, and turned her attention back to the piano.
“I was just admiring Miss de Bourgh’s talent. Truly she has formidable musical skill.”
She had hoped this compliment might win her a little favour in Lady Catherine’s estimation, but instead of drawing Anne’s mother into conversation her words served only to secure Mr Collins’s interest, and he hurried to offer his own opinion of Anne de Bourgh, heaping obsequious praise on the only daughter of his patroness. Charlotte let out an irritated sigh that must have caught his ear, because he stopped, suddenly, and paused, blinking, as he regarded his wife.
“And yet I fancy she is not the only young lady who possesses some great musical talent, is not that right, my, ah, my dear Mrs Collins? You, too, very much enjoy playing the piano when you are afforded the opportunity.”
“Oh, no...” Charlotte demurred.
“Do you play?” Lady Catherine’s interest was piqued. “Why, you have been hiding your light under a bushel, which is hardly becoming for the wife of a Curate.” She sniffed. “Anne, dear, before you play again, perhaps you will allow Mrs Collins an opportunity to select a piece for us. I have it on good authority she is well-practised and wishes to demonstrate her prowess.”
“No, Lady Catherine, really -” Charlotte began, her words stilted.
Lizzy noticed her friend’s anxiety and tried to come to her assistance.
“Neither Charlotte nor I are great musicians, not like Mss de Bourgh, although we are both fond of music, are not we? Charlotte, can you recall the name of that particular piece...”
“I care little for its name!” Lady Catherine said. She turned to Charlotte, softening a little in acknowledging the young lady’s evident reluctance. “Do not be shy, dear, for I am sure I shall enjoy whatever pretty little piece you care to play.”
Realising that there would be no avoidance, Charlotte got to her feet, striding grudgingly over to the piano. Colonel Fitzwilliam was escorting Anne to a seat close to her mother, but he paused halfway to enquire whether Charlotte would care to have him stay and turn pages for her, too.
“You need not, I have the piece committed to memory,” Charlotte murmured. “At least...”
“There! And that is skill indeed!” Mr Collins chirped, rising in his seat as if by expressing pride in his wife he might elevate himself also. “Not only to be able to play, but to keep the music in one’s mind...”
Elizabeth turned to glare at him, wondering how he could be so insensible of the impact his ridiculous sentiment was having on his wife. Poor Charlotte had been pressed, on account of Mr Collin’s obsequious praise, into playing a piece she had not prepared, for a group of people she clearly did not wish to disappoint. It was cruel, for Charlotte was not fond of attention, nor had she ever, in all the years Elizabeth had known her, expressed a particular fondness for playing for others. She would do so out of duty, but it was rarely a joy to her. Now, it did not even seem a duty, but a trial to be faced, and not without dread.
Charlotte’s beginning was faltering, and after a few bars peppered with wrong notes, she stopped, drew a breath, and began again.
“All is well, my dear!” Mr Collins called, his voice loud in the otherwise quiet room. “Do not let a few mistakes upset you.”
His words were like a curse, for Charlotte’s attempt at melody fell flat almost immediately, and, in frustration and anger, she slammed her hands down on the keys, abandoning it altogether. Pushing the stool back, she muttered a tearful apology, and fled, leaving the rest of the party open-mouthed in shock.
AT FIRST, NOBODY MOVED, everybody equally surprised by Charlotte’s sudden departure. Then, just as quickly, all eyes turned to Mr Collins, who had sobered suddenly with his wife’s departure.
“Perhaps I should -”
“No, Mr Collins, allow me.”
There was a collective sigh of relief at Elizabeth’s suggestion that she, and not Charlotte’s husband, should be the one to see to her wellbeing, all evidently fearing that Mr Collins would be likely to blunder in and make matters worse.
“Perhaps I should play again, while you are gone,” Anne suggested.
“I hope you will,” Colonel Fitzwilliam remarked, eager to inject some sense of levity back into the room. “Otherwise the task shall fall to Darcy or myself and I assure you that is a rendition nobody will care to sit through!”
Even Darcy mustered a grim smile at this joke and was strangely warmed to see the same ghost of an acknowledgement pass over Elizabeth’s features as she moved past him towards the door. He had a fleeting impulse to stop her, to bid her to assure Mrs Collins that they were all concerned for her wellbeing, but he resisted the urge. Where had such a notion even come from? He was not well-acquainted with Charlotte Collins, and whilst it paine
d him to see her suffer on account of her foolish husband, as it would any young woman, he felt strange wish at that moment to be of service to this particular young woman, or to her friend.
Standing, he turned to look about for some refreshments: any task, really, that might offer him some occupation and prevent him from giving his thoughts too much sway. Anne had begun to play, but the piece was so mild and inoffensive as to be little more than a faint melody in the background.
He walked closer to the piano, to see if Anne wished for him to resume his former occupation in turning pages for her, but realised that she was playing from memory and had no sheet music to refer to. At a loss for what to do, he returned to his aunt, sitting obediently beside Richard, and attempting to enjoy the relative peace.
“I hope we did not do the wrong thing in inviting Mrs Collins to play for us,” Richard remarked, in a low enough voice that only Darcy could have been privileged to hear it. Mr Collins continued to dart anxious glances at the doorway and attempted to cover his wife’s out of character behaviour with a running river of conversation directed at Lady Catherine but which, Darcy was sure, his aunt attended to only very vaguely.
“We did not invite her to! Indeed, I certainly should not have insisted upon her playing if she did not wish to.” Darcy’s response was almost a growl.
“Yes, what was the fellow thinking, forcing his wife into the centre of attention like that?” Richard asked. “It is as if he does not understand her at all: or perhaps he just does not care to. He certainly did not seem to give her feelings or wants any consideration at all, he sought only to impress us.” He muttered something else that might have been “fool” or perhaps merely a snort of derision.
Darcy glanced up at his cousin. Richard’s opinion was one he shared, but he was surprised to hear it offered so forcefully. What business was it of Richard’s how Mr Collins understood or did not understand his wife? It was unfortunate but hardly unusual to come across a couple so unevenly matched. He blinked, recalling that this had been at the heart of his desire to separate Charles Bingley from Jane Bennet. And yet he could not imagine the little scene played out before them this evening ever taking place between Mr and Mrs Bingley, had they wed. But perhaps that was just the impression Miss Jane Bennet wished to portray: of being always agreeable, always sweet-tempered. One only had to observe her mother for above a quarter-hour for a truer picture of what the young Miss Bennet might grow to become. And yet... Unconsciously, his own gaze strayed to the door, but it was not a consideration for Charlotte Collins that drew him, but her friend. Seeing Elizabeth again was a jar to him, but not an unwelcome one. Seeing her again far away from the company of her family was more welcome still, for it had been a reluctant acknowledgement on his part that she belonged to such a clan, and must share their sensibilities. Had he been mistaken about her? His brow furrowed. And, worse, had he been mistaken about her sister? Charles Bingley was heartbroken, still, although he tried to hide it, and his sister was little help. He had half considered inviting Charles to accompany him to Kent but what purpose would that serve?
“Where are your thoughts, Darcy?” Richard asked, at length. “You have been quieter than ever since your arrival in Kent, and that is no small feat!”
“I did not realise you had time to scrutinize my attitude when you were so busy winning friends with your own.”
He was teasing and strove to keep his voice light, but Richard’s laughing response came late enough he felt certain his cousin had read some reproach in his words.
“And what is so very wrong in that? I have great admiration for Mrs Collins - more still, after this evening’s little performance.” He grimaced. “And Elizabeth Bennet seems a charming addition to the party.” His voice lowered. “And you cannot convince me you think otherwise, Darcy, for I may be a careless fellow but I am not an idiot. You care for her, if I am not very much mistaken.”
“There, I fear you are,” Darcy said, glancing up at his aunt for fear she might have overheard Richard’s supposition. Her expression was blank, suggesting he was safe. “I care nothing for Elizabeth Bennet. We are hardly even friends.”
The door opened suddenly, then, and Darcy swallowed the rest of his words.
“My dear Mrs Collins!” Lady Catherine’s welcome was extravagant, and she practically shoved Mr Collins aside in her haste to greet his wife. “Are you quite well? We were concerned after your swift departure.”
“Forgive me, Lady Catherine, gentlemen,” Charlotte said, clutching tight hold of Elizabeth. Her features were flushed, but whether with anger or embarrassment or some other emotion altogether Darcy could not tell. “I was a little overcome with...with the stresses of the day.”
“It is my fault,” Elizabeth interposed. “For I arrived earlier than I indicated I would, and have fully occupied poor Charlotte in the interim.”
“I always think it an unkindness when one is unable to be punctual, or to attend to pre-arranged plans,” Lady Catherine offered, in response to this.
Colonel Fitzwilliam stood, on his feet before Mr Collins could make an attempt, and offered his own seat to Mrs Collins, with Darcy following suit. Both ladies refused, however, and began to speak of returning to Hunsford, which suggestion was seized upon with all enthusiasm by Mr Collins.
Darcy’s gaze rested longer than it ought to on Elizabeth, feeling a sudden rush of amusement for the kindness she had shown her friend in interposing an excuse for Charlotte’s flight from the piano, and winning yet more of Lady Catherine’s disapproval in the process. He sensed, rather than saw, Richard’s scrutiny, though, and forced his gaze away. When the party left, a little while later, he barely summoned the words of a farewell.
Chapter Eight
The old house creaked and settled, and Charlotte was awake to hear it all. Every sigh of every beam, every tree branch knocking against a window, every snore that emanated from the rooms along the hall. Charlotte sighed. At least somebody was sleeping tonight. She had given up hope of being able to sleep, herself, and was instead lying still, patiently awaiting the dawn. The blackness of the night suggested that was still some hours away, and in desperation, she wriggled into a sitting position. What a disaster their evening had been! Charlotte would place at least half the blame for it at her husband’s door. His snore reached her ears again and she frowned, wondering if he had even moved from his study to sleep, or whether he was unconscious at his desk, as she had found him once or twice before. At least previously his unusual sleeping practice could be put down to his work, to his commitment to delivering a wise and insightful sermon. His concern usually sprang from Lady Catherine’s dismissal, in whole or in part, of the words he had already put together, leading to him working late into the night in order to re-draft and begin again.
Charlotte sighed. He had no such excuse this evening, and if he slept at his desk she hoped, self-righteously, that it would be uncomfortable. Drinking! She had never known Mr Collins to drink more than a very little on occasions of celebration, or in place of medicine. What had possessed him to accept Colonel Fitzwilliam’s offer that evening? Or to return to the refill his glass so often? She shuddered. It had been an embarrassment, the way his words had increased in volume and fervour, and ending in his thrusting her into the centre of attention at the piano. As if she, with her mediocre skills, could ever hope to compare to the true talent that Anne de Bourgh possessed! It was cruel, and she had never, before that evening, thought her husband cruel. Silly, yes. Too prone to enthusiasms that were not shared by others, indeed. He tried too hard to make people like him and seemed to alienate them further in the trying. Even that, Charlotte could have sympathy for, and she hoped that as they knew each other longer, Mr Collins might take some security in their solid union and begin to relax his striving nature. Being around Lady Catherin did not help, of course, for she encouraged him in his feeling inferior, indeed, she seemed to encourage whatever it was in Mr Collins’ personality that made him hang on her every word, and flood her sit
ting room with praise and admiration.
Shuffling her feet to the floor, Charlotte stood, reaching for her wrap. She felt her way to the door and slipped quietly into the hallway, gingerly feeling her way down the stairs in darkness. Hunsford Rectory was not large, fortunately, and she had spent so much time indoors that already she knew the house well, and could find her way easily even without the luxury of light to see by.
Downstairs, the house was illuminated by a crack of light from under the heavy oak door of Mr Collins’ study, and a loud snore as she tiptoed past it confirmed her suspicions. She was tempted, fleetingly, to ease the door open and see for herself how her husband slept. She might fetch a blanket, something to ensure he did not wake up entirely uncomfortable. She recalled, then, that she was not speaking to him at present: a childish, petty protest but the only one open to her after their evening, and one she hoped might pierce even Mr Collins’ thick skin. In any case, she was in no mood to talk to anyone and feared the slightest noise that might disturb her husband’s slumber and engage him in conversation. She continued past his room to her own, the small parlour cold but not unwelcoming, for it was her own room, truly, and she had filled it with her treasures. Her hands found their way to the bookcase, and at last, she was forced to admit her need of light, and set about finding a candle. Now, possessing the means with which to see, she returned to her task and was surprised to find a space in the middle of her books. She frowned. One was missing. How peculiar... A small survey of the room located the missing book quite soon thereafter, and Charlotte was surprised to find the very volume she had sought was resting, open, on a low table in the middle of the room, almost as if it had known she would come looking for it and had prepared itself in readiness for her to read.
She settled herself on the chair nearest the book and lifted it to her lap, pulling her wrap around her to ward off the cold and determining she would read here for a quarter hour before attempting once more to sleep.
