Lady Lucas appeared relieved and snuggled deeper under her blanket, but Sir William leaned forward. “That is reassurance indeed, but I only wish he had a title. An appointment to the knighthood. Maria is quite pretty enough to marry a person of rank.”
Charlotte regarded her father. He knew very well that America did not operate under a system of rank. Perhaps his mind had dimmed more than she had realized. “I fear that titled gentlemen are rather difficult to come by in America.”
“Oh, of course.” Sir William looked momentarily confused and then he took Charlotte’s hand. “You are a good daughter, my dear. You made a good marriage yourself, and I am certain you will ensure that Maria will also be so fortuitously settled.”
Charlotte only smiled.
~**~
In the new year, Charlotte and Maria returned to the warm—but not stiflingly so—walls of the cottage in Westerham. Foul weather caused social invitations to arrive infrequently, and Maria heartily lamented her empty calendar and spent her hours planning future perambulations in sunny gardens and picnics by the river with various and sundry gentlemen. She was determined to fall in love. With Mr. Westfield if possible.
Love was also on Charlotte’s mind. In her youth, she had not believed that love existed, but she had seen the proof of it. Now, she wondered at its nature. How did it feel? Maria seemed wild and willing to be wooed. But did love overwhelm or coax? Did it break in like a thief and steal one’s heart? Or was it patient and kind?
Charlotte did not care for poetry, and she did not often turn her thoughts to it if it could possibly be helped. But Shakespeare’s question came to her mind, “Tell me where is fancy bred, or in the heart or in the head?” Love in poetry was one matter, but what of the real world? What was love?
She was contemplating poetry! She was in desperate need of some diversion or she would certainly begin composing some lines of her own.
So when Mr. Jonas Card and his mother paid a call on them one overcast afternoon, Maria and Charlotte were both quite pleased, for Maria had gained society and Charlotte had been able to forgo her poetical musings.
Mr. Card and his mother had only just entered the sitting room, when Maria decided to enact her plotted escape, although only out to slog along the damp country roads in Mr. Card’s barouche.
“Why do we not pick up Miss Farmington and drive into Westerham for a while this afternoon?” Maria asked Mr. Card in a pleading tone. “I am desperately in need of some amusement outside this house, and the weather is not so cold as to make the trip unpleasant.”
“Our driver is along to chaperone, so if it is agreeable to your sister, let us be off,” Mr. Card looked to Charlotte for permission. With a proper chaperone, there was no reason to thwart her sister’s escape plot. Even though she did not wish to be alone with Mrs. Card for a protracted period of time, it was better than the alternative.
So she nodded her consent, and soon the young people had departed, leaving Charlotte with Mrs. Card and a pot of tea. Jonas’s mother was a diminutive woman of little meaningful conversation but many words. Moreover, she was of single-minded purpose, much like a terrier. She was determined to fetch a daughter-in-law who would bend easily to her will with regard to the running of the Card household.
They had already discussed the weather and the upcoming change of seasons, and the conversation lulled, causing Charlotte to await Maria and Mr. Card’s return with some eagerness. Why had she not reminded them not to tarry too long in town?
“We have not seen you and Maria about this winter. We had worried that you had disappeared into Hertfordshire for good.”
“No, we still reside happily here. We merely chose to enjoy a quiet holiday with our relations. As you know, our parents must keep to the house due to their ill health. We felt it unkind to leave them during Christmas.”
“A noble thing to do, but we missed you at our assemblies.”
“Thank you. It is very kind of you to say. I know that Maria longed to attend those functions. She missed her companions greatly.”
“I believe it is also safe to say that Miss Lucas was missed as well, especially by Jonas.”
Charlotte sipped the tea, desperately hoping for a turn in the conversation, but Mrs. Card spoke again.
“It has always been my fondest wish that Miss Lucas would one day marry my Jonas.”
Charlotte set her cup daintily in the saucer and then placed it on the table, giving herself time to consider a proper reply. Was there a proper reply? She was hardly in a position to negotiate a marriage contract for her sister, especially to a gentleman whom she had no wish to marry. “It is flattering to know that you consider Maria suitable match for your son. He is an upstanding gentleman.”
“Indeed, they are a fine match, and I have said as much to Jonas.”
This conversation was not at all to Charlotte’s liking. She knew very well that her sister’s affections lay with the American Mr. Westfield and not with Mr. Card, whom she viewed as little more than a toy to be discarded at her whim.
“Mrs. Card—”
“I suppose Miss Lucas is in love with that dreadful young American, like every other young lady of our acquaintance.”
Charlotte sat up rigidly. Were her thoughts so obvious? Her words teetered too close to the truth. “To the best of my knowledge, Maria is not in love with anyone at the present time, and I do not believe that this is a suitable topic of conversation.”
Mrs. Card’s eyes hardened to something between granite and steel and then softened slightly. “Forgive me. I just worry so about my Jonas. I do want him to be happy.”
Finally, some relief. “I do understand. I want Maria to be happy as well.”
“I must confess that I have heard nothing negative at all about Mr. Westfield. In fact, I have heard just the opposite. It was indecorous of me to say such things, but it does feel good, now and again, to say bilious things about other gentlemen. It makes my Jonas stand out as the deserving gentleman that he is.”
“Your acknowledgment does you credit.” Charlotte hoped the conversation would soon land on even footing. “Mr. Card is indeed a fine gentleman and a good catch for any young lady.”
“How kind of you to say. And I must say that by all accounts, Mr. Westfield is a testimony to his English lineage. He behaves in a civilized manner and is always pleasant at a party.” Here Mrs. Card leaned forward in the manner of a conspirator. “It is his uncle whose behavior is questionable.”
After her conversation with Mr. Basford at the winter ball, Charlotte could well believe that.
“Oh?”
“I had it from Mrs. Holloway who had it from a relative of the colonel’s that Mr. Basford behaved as quite the libertine in America.”
“Oh dear.” Libertine was not the description she had expected. Clown or jester, perhaps, but not libertine.
“They say he was thrown out of America for indecent behavior. And to be thrown out of a country as indecent as that is really saying something.”
Charlotte could believe him rude and flirtatious, but she could not believe him to be such a man as that. “Can one be thrown out of a country without some sort of trial? That seems rather unlikely, do not you think?”
“Not after the things he has done here. He is often impertinent and overtly plainspoken. He seems to laugh at us all. I would put nothing past a man such as him. Have you not marked his behavior?”
Charlotte nodded her assent and refilled her cup of tea.
“It is utterly incomprehensible to me that he would be chosen to chaperone young Mr. Westfield. He does not set a decent example at all. What could Mr. Westfield’s parents have been thinking to send him across the world in such a man’s care? Some people, it seems, simply do not understand the way of the world.”
Charlotte leaned back, and curiosity forced her to ask, “Are you at all acquainted with a Mr. Lewis Edgington? I encountered him some months ago at the winter ball.”
Her face brightened at the prospect of rel
ating more gossip. “Now there is a man who is reputed to be thoroughly good.”
“It is nice to hear a man is said to be so.”
“He is a widower. He lost his wife about the same time as Mr. Collins’s accident, I believe. I have heard that he keeps a very nice sort of house with a respectable number of servants, and it is said that he rarely gambles.”
Charlotte was preparing to make a suitably disinterested reply when the sitting room door burst open and Maria entered followed by Mr. Westfield and Mr. Basford.
Charlotte and Mrs. Card stood abruptly, surprised at their calamitous entrance.
Maria flung herself on the settee where Charlotte had been sitting. “Lord, you will not believe what has happened to us!”
“Good heavens, Maria! This is very untoward,” Charlotte said and then turned to welcome her new guests. “Please do sit down.”
Mrs. Card sat down on her chair rather heavily for a person of her small size. “Where is Jonas?”
Mr. Westfield took possession of the other upholstered chair beside the fireplace, and Mr. Basford sat in the small wooden chair beside the writing desk, immediately tilting it back on its rear legs.
Charlotte stared at the airborne chair legs and imagined that she could hear the wood creak in protest, causing her to question not only the integrity of the chair’s structure but also of Mr. Basford’s character, for only a questionable gentleman would show such disrespect for the furniture of a lady.
No one had responded to Mrs. Card’s inquiry, so she repeated herself. “I demand to know what has happened to my son.”
Mr. Basford concealed a smirk, Charlotte was certain of it.
“You will never believe it, Charlotte,” Maria said, “but poor Mr. Card’s carriage broke down on the way out of town. Fortunately, we were soon discovered by Mr. Westfield and Mr. Basford, who summoned help and then offered us a ride home in their carriage, for it is threatening rain.”
Concern crossed Mrs. Card’s features. “Oh dear. Rain! Where is Jonas? He shall be quite soaked through if he does not hurry!”
Mr. Westfield replied, “The repair has been made to the carriage, and he should be not fifteen minutes behind us. He was fortunate to be so near town when the break occurred.”
“I do hope he beats the rain, for I cannot bear a wet ride home.” Mrs. Card arose and walked to the window, her hands clasped in front of her. The gentlemen arose as well, Mr. Basford slower than his nephew.
“Do not worry, Mrs. Card, he will be along soon,” said Mr. Westfield.
“What has become of Miss Farmington?” Charlotte asked Mr. Westfield.
Mr. Basford answered. “We deposited her at her home on the way here.”
Charlotte nodded and was just about to suggest another cup of tea to her new guests, and hoping her supply would stretch to accommodate so many, when Edward entered the sitting room to announce Mr. Card, who stood beside him looking somewhat embarrassed.
The gentlemen bowed, and Mrs. Card appeared to be restraining herself from going to him. “Jonas, are you well?”
“Yes, Mama, I am quite well, only a little ashamed at putting out Miss Lucas and her friend especially in such threatening weather.”
“Does it threaten still?” Mrs. Card turned again to the window. “It is quite dark. Jonas, we must return home immediately.”
Mr. Card smiled apologetically at Maria. “As you wish, Mama. Pray excuse us, and Miss Lucas, please accept my sincerest regrets over our ruined ride.”
Maria barely tore her eyes from Mr. Westfield when she said, “The incident is already forgotten.”
And Charlotte could well believe it. When Mr. Westfield was near, it appeared, her sister forgot nearly everything, good manners included.
After the Cards departed, the gentlemen were once again able to take their seats, and the party became quiet.
“Shall we have tea? Maria, ring the bell and inform Mrs. Eff that we require another pot.”
Maria went obediently.
“Why do the English have such an obsession with tea?” asked Mr. Basford, still leaning precariously on the back legs of the chair. “It is nothing but a few dried leaves after all.”
Charlotte studied him. “Indeed, your censure is unwarranted, for I have heard that Americans are quite mad for the stuff as well. Particularly in Boston, I believe.”
Charlotte was pleased with her retort, and so was Mr. Basford, who leaned his head back, causing the chair to tilt even further, and laughed heartily.
“She has you there, Uncle.”
“Yes, indeed, she does.”
“Mr. Basford seems to believe that the customs of our country are quite stilted and unnecessary,” Charlotte said to Mr. Westfield.
“I confess that I do,” Mr. Basford replied, letting the front legs of the chair return to the ground. “Take for instance the custom of calling people by their family names. I’ve seen close friends referring to each other as Mr. or Mrs. Whatnot. It’s ridiculous.”
“In your opinion, perhaps, Mr. Basford. I have never called social acquaintances by their first names unless I have known them since childhood. It is too familiar and uncomfortable.”
“That is only because you have not practiced. Call me Ben, and you’ll soon see how nice familiarity is.”
Charlotte looked at him with horror. “Indeed, I will not! That sort of familiarity is only permitted in private moments between married couples, and perhaps not even then!”
He spoke as if she had not. “And I’ll call you Charlotte.”
“Indeed you shall not!” she objected, leaning forward as though to apprehend his words.
Mr. Westfield came to her rescue. “Uncle, do stop tormenting Mrs. Collins.” He turned to Charlotte. “He is still reacting to your tea comment. He does not like to be bested in a battle of wits.”
Regaining her composure somewhat, Charlotte asked Mr. Westfield, “Are all people in America this informal?”
“No. In truth, the rules of propriety are somewhat relaxed in our country, but many of us are almost as formal as you. However, Uncle believes strongly in informality and fancies himself ahead of his time.”
“Someone ought to tell him that it will do him no good to be ahead of his time if he is rejected by society in the present. He will have no acquaintances to speak of and even fewer friends.”
“You are probably correct,” Mr. Basford said conversationally. “I care nothing for mere acquaintances, but a true friend will accept my eccentricities, Mrs. Collins.”
He emphasized her name, causing Charlotte to flush. “With such appalling manners, it is unlikely that you will ever develop true friends, Mr. Basford.” She emphasized his last name in the same manner.
Edward entered just then with the tray, and he deposited it on a side table. He looked very pleased at having accomplished his task successfully. Charlotte smiled, while Maria began to serve the tea, beginning with Mr. Westfield. She did not concentrate on pouring, but smiled at the American, and Charlotte hoped she would not overfill his cup and spill on the rug. It was such a bother to clean rugs. The room would be in upheaval for days.
She was about to admonish her to take care, when Maria righted the teapot and spoke. “Have you heard, Charlotte? We are all invited to Colonel Armitage’s house for an evening of cards.”
No longer concerned that her rug would be destroyed, Charlotte considered the invitation. Maria knew that she did not enjoy cards and would not blame her for turning down the invitation. She was on the verge of doing just that when she saw the look Maria gave Mr. Westfield and the look he returned.
“We will go, of course, will we not, Charlotte?” Maria asked, still looking at Mr. Westfield.
“I do not see how I could refuse.”
Four
“I should have refused,” Charlotte said as the team of large-bodied gray horses pulled Mr. Card’s lovely barouche—though not half so fine as any of Lady Catherine’s elegant conveyances—along the well-rutted roads. “This rain ha
s all but destroyed the lanes, and it is a dreadful evening for being out.”
Maria scowled. “Do not be so sour, Charlotte.”
Mr. Card looked quite discomfited and shifted in his seat. “We will soon be in a pleasant room with pleasanter company.”
“That is a subject worthy of debate,” Charlotte murmured to Maria. It was unlikely that the weather, or Charlotte’s temper, would turn for the better before the night was out. She had passed a very taxing week. She had been obliged to call upon Mrs. Card, and after a dull quarter hour in her company, she had spent the rest of the week going over her finances, which always dampened her mood.
Maria leaned forward and asked in a hushed tone, “Why are you in such poor spirits this evening?”
In truth, Charlotte did not relish being in the company of Mr. Basford, but she did not want to confide in her sister, who could keep nothing secret. “I do not intend to be. I am certain the weather has depressed my spirits. I will be less gloomy, I am sure, when we are in company.”
“Then it is quite fortunate that we arrive at Colonel Armitage’s home soon, for Mr. Card and I will not have to bear your mood very much longer.”
Charlotte stared out into the gathering darkness and remained silent. The sun was hanging low, and its light filtered through the cloudy, rainy sky, casting the world in a gloomy haze.
Beside her, Maria fidgeted with her dress, adjusting the dove-colored fabric across her lap so that there were no wrinkles. Charlotte observed her preening gestures, and then she looked at her own dress. She had worn mourning attire for so long that she felt odd wearing this gown of pale colored cotton with a subtle dusky blue floral motif. The decision to relinquish her mourning garb entirely had been difficult, but Maria, for once, had made good sense.
“Charlotte,” she had said, “You have served your time and done your duty to Mr. Collins. No matter how much you wish to deny it, you are still alive, and as such, you need to retake your position in society.”
“You speak as if I am some great lady. I am just Charlotte Collins.”
Charlotte Collins: A Continuation of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice Page 4
