Charlotte Collins: A Continuation of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice

by Jennifer Becton

  She was shocked at how easily her façade cracked under his kindness. Tears welled again in her eyes, and she only shook her head.

  He turned abruptly, searching the ballroom intensely. “I can see that he has. I’ll speak to him.”

  “No!” She laid a bare hand on his arm to restrain him. “You must not.” She desperately wanted to tell him everything, to share her burden. In fact, she could not prevent herself. “Please, I am already ruined.”

  At her words, he turned back to her, and her hand fell to her side. His face was drawn into a confused expression. His forehead was a furrowed as a farmer’s field, and Charlotte had the strange inclination to smooth it with her bare hand. “Ruined? Impossible. You are the most upright woman I’ve ever met.”

  “It does not matter. He will tell people, and they will believe him.”

  “Tell people what? No one who has ever met you will believe any negative remarks about you.”

  “They will believe him when he shows them the evidence.”

  He noticed the single glove clutched in her hand, and gently, he took it from her. The cloth seemed to burn her hand as it slipped through her fingers.

  She hung her head as she saw understanding begin to come over him.

  “He has the other glove?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would he take it?” He looked at it as though it would reveal its secrets.

  Charlotte shook her head, unable to speak the truth, wiping at her eyes to keep the tears from falling.

  His voice came out in a harsh whisper, his eyes hard. “He is trying to intimidate you into some sort of illicit affair with him!”

  Charlotte nodded but did not meet his eyes. “He will ruin me if I do not give in to his demands, and I will be ruined if I do as he wishes. Either way, my reputation in society will be completely and utterly destroyed.”

  Saying the words out loud caused Charlotte to comprehend the full extent of her situation. “Not only will I be ruined, but so will my family. And poor Maria will have no hope of ever marrying well. Oh Lord…. And my house. I shall lose that as well once he goes to Lady Catherine.”

  Charlotte covered her face, her hand shaking, but she did not even think to be embarrassed by her exhibition of feminine frailty. She cried quietly for a moment and then took a deep, fortifying breath. Now was not the time for hysterics. She must try to think of a solution.

  Unfortunately, she knew very well that nothing could be done, but she reviewed possible courses of action anyway. Perhaps she could somehow retrieve the glove during the evening, but how? Impossible. In all likelihood, he had already sent for his carriage and would soon be away. Perhaps she could destroy the remaining glove and deny the matter entirely. Also impossible, for the glove bore her own initials. She could go to Lady Catherine and tell her what had happened, but why would she believe her over her own relation? Indeed, nothing could be done to save her.

  “He will show them my glove, which was a gift from him many months ago. A gift that bears my initials. And that dance….” She winced. “I have been here alone with him all this time. People will believe him. They will have no choice in the face of such evidence.”

  She expected Mr. Basford to leave her now, to save himself from sharing in her ruin. But he did not move. He stood like a rock before her.

  Seeing his implacable features, Charlotte turned to leave, to spare him if he would not spare himself. “I must find Maria and procure a carriage. I must leave here immediately! Please order the carriage for us, if you please.”

  “No.”

  He was refusing his carriage! Feeling trapped, she began to panic. How would she and Maria get home? Would they have to walk home in shame through the dark streets of Westerham?

  “You must not leave, and you must not cry. What you do now will have a large impact on your future.” Mr. Basford’s voice sounded authoritative and calm.

  Even amid her distress, the truth of his words penetrated. She must minimize the damage. She turned back to him and watched in horror as he removed his own gloves and placed one in his jacket pocket. “What are you doing?”

  “You must have gloves for the rest of the evening. I understand that going without them is simply not done. People will take notice and ask you about them, and you’re certainly in no frame of mind to deal with the situation directly, at least not yet.” He handed one glove to her. “Put on your glove and carry this other with you. People may notice that you’re only wearing one, but they will see that you carry its mate. If anyone asks, tell them that the fabric has irritated your skin and that you regret that you must carry it.”

  She stared at him, unsure of what to do or think. Her mind was muddled, her thinking unclear. Would it benefit her to allow Mr. Basford to come to her aid? Could she trust him? Did she have any choice?

  She did as he suggested and slid her glove back on her hand. She took his glove, which she folded to disguise its masculine cut, and held it in her hand.

  “But you will be without gloves.”

  He rolled his eyes subtly. “I’m an uncouth American. It will be expected that I would break with custom in this way.”

  “But—”

  “Do not concern yourself with my reputation, Mrs. Collins.” He offered his arm, but Charlotte only stared at it, uncomprehending, as though he were the first gentleman ever to offer her such a courtesy. All proficiency of etiquette seemed to have deserted her. “You must go inside, speak to people, and behave as if nothing has happened.”

  “I do not think I can.” Her hands shook, and her stomach was tight. The world seemed to tilt around her, and she leaned against the wall for support.

  He stood squarely in front of her. His body was very broad and strong, but his carriage was not at all intimidating. He waited until her eyes met his. His voice was firm when he spoke. “You can and you shall. You must begin to fight his lies even now. You have done nothing wrong.”

  She nodded mutely, taking another bracing breath as a faint glimmer of courage shone inside her heart. She knew what she must do and turned to Mr. Basford, took a deep breath. “You must dance with me.”

  Charlotte almost expected him to make a jest about her forward behavior, but, thankfully, he appeared to give the idea serious consideration. “Yes, I think it wise for you to dance with me, and also with any other gentleman who asks. Talk with your friends. You and Maria will depart in our carriage at the end of the evening as planned.”

  He offered his arm again. Slowly, she reached for it. He took her ungloved hand, tucking it in the crook of his arm, and led her toward the door.

  As they walked toward the ballroom door, Charlotte tried to think through her situation. Was she behaving wisely or would she exacerbate the problem? Every emotion told her to flee, to leave the ball and continue to run, but her mind said that flight was the easy course of action. And Charlotte had often found that the easiest solution did not yield the most desirable results. The difficult road was usually the one that ought to be travelled.

  They reached the doors, and Charlotte took a shuddering breath. Mr. Basford gave her a stern look. The furrows were back in his brow. “Just don’t cry.”

  She looked at him crossly. She may be a little rattled, but did he think her so weak that she might burst into tears in public? Perhaps she had cried on the balcony, but she would never do so in the ballroom! She was stronger than that. She detested debutantes who allowed their emotions to rule their behavior, or worse, who used their tears to manipulate others. She would see herself through the evening, and she would behave with her usual grace and good sense.

  She hoped.

  Charlotte kept her focus ahead of her as they entered. The room was alive with movement and sound. Couples danced in dizzying patterns, and voices seemed to swirl around her. What had seemed so pleasant only ten minutes prior now overwhelmed her, and she wondered suddenly if she was capable of maintaining her poise.

  Her hand tightened on Mr. Basford’s arm.

  He whis
pered, “You’ve spent your whole life performing for others. You can certainly continue to perform for the rest of the evening.”

  Again, anger cut through her embarrassment, and she glared up at Mr. Basford. Did he think her merely a performer?

  He only smiled back. Pleasantly. Charlotte wanted to remove that smirk from his face, but she forced her attention to the people around her. She had a fleeting recognition of her longtime friends as they moved around the ballroom. Would any of these people ever speak to her again after Mr. Edgington’s news came out? Mrs. Card and Mrs. Farmington were seated in a corner, leaning toward each other to share gossip. Maria stood nearby watching as Mr. Westfield finished a dance with Miss Farmington. Would any of these people ever deign to speak with her again?

  When the next dance began, Charlotte found herself being led to the floor by Mr. Basford. The steps came automatically, and she scanned the room for Mr. Edgington. She found him leaning insolently against the far wall. Mrs. Holloway stood nearby, conversing with two women. She looked frequently at Mr. Edgington and was obviously attempting to draw him into their conversation. Charlotte wondered where Mr. Holloway was. Perhaps he was taking some refreshment or had stayed at home with his pig. It was most certainly better company than his wife.

  Mrs. Holloway’s ridiculous bird adornment bobbled as she spoke, still glancing at Mr. Edgington, but he paid her little heed. He was watching Charlotte. Heat rose along the skin of her neck, and angry tears jumped to her eyes.

  Mr. Basford spoke to her softly. “It is a nice ball, is it not, Mrs. Collins?”

  She tore her gaze away from her enemy and looked at her partner, and his gaze was intense, calling her to focus and forget Mr. Edgington. “It is indeed, Mr. Basford.”

  “Of course, since it was given by my uncle, it would be rude of you not to agree.”

  Charlotte laughed, but even to her own ears, it sounded odd, forced and unnatural.

  “I find that I enjoy your English country dances more than I expected.” Mr. Basford was attempting to be companionable. “We have many similar dances in Savannah.”

  Charlotte made her best effort to focus on the topic of conversation. “It is nice to hear you say something positive about our land.”

  He smiled down at her sincerely. The furrows were gone, and smooth skin took their place. He looked so attractive, even to her overwhelmed mind. His steps were confident, and each time his bare hands met her bare one she could feel his strength enter her body.

  As their hands met again, he gave her fingertips a gentle, warm squeeze. “There are many things I like about England, although I may not have shared as much as I should have.”

  “And I find that Americans may not be as ill mannered as I originally believed.”

  He grinned widely, and somehow Charlotte knew that her secret was quite safe in his possession.

  They made polite small talk for the remainder of the dance, and Charlotte almost managed to forget her situation under Mr. Basford’s compliments and distracting comments. When the dance was completed, he offered to escort her to acquire some lemonade, which she accepted, drinking gratefully, not realizing how thirsty she had been. After lingering a few moments over the cold meats and cheeses, Mr. Basford led her to an empty place alongside the dance floor. She expected him to excuse himself, but he did not. Instead, he took his place beside her, seeming almost proprietary in his stance. Acquaintances came to chat, and still Mr. Basford remained at her side. She wondered if she ought to speak to him, tell him he could go, but she found she liked having him there.

  And so conversation flowed freely, and soon, the crowd began to dwindle. Alone with Charlotte again, Mr. Basford leaned down near her ear and said, “Relief is on the way. I see that Maria is making her way across the room. It is undoubtedly time for you to return home.”

  She spotted Maria and Mr. Westfield as they slowly made their way around the small group of dancers who kept to the floor, talking and laughing along the way. It was good to see Maria among her friends again even if all her wounds had not yet healed. She wondered if any of her companions would remain when Mr. Edgington’s slander became public.

  “You have done well.” Thank heaven for Mr. Basford and his ability to distract her from her thoughts. However, Charlotte knew she did not deserve such a compliment. During the last few hours, she had been relying on his strength a great deal, but when Mr. Edgington used his weapon, she would be completely alone and unaided.

  She began to say as much to Mr. Basford, but he interrupted her. “Do not contemplate the future just yet. We will deal with that as it comes.”

  “We? This is not your dilemma. It is mine alone.”

  Mr. Basford looked away quickly, but she saw irritated lines cross his brow. She was surprised to realize that she might have angered him, and eager to soothe him, she turned her full gaze on him. “I appreciate all that you have done for me tonight, but you are not required to suffer for my folly.”

  “What folly? You have done nothing to deserve this.” His voice sounded harsh, and Charlotte wondered at his tone. She studied his profile. His teeth were clenched and his lips were stretched into a tight line. He was not angry, she realized, but injured.

  Her tone was gentle, as if to calm him. “Have I not? I trusted an undeserving man.”

  Maria and Mr. Westfield were very close now, so Mr. Basford leaned down slightly to say, “I hope that will not cause you to distrust all men. Some of us are worthy.”

  Before she could think of a response, her sister arrived at her side with Mr. Westfield as her escort. “Has it not been a lovely evening, Charlotte? I am sorry that it has to end already. Everyone behaved charmingly, even Miss Farmington and Mr. Card,” she added in a discreet whisper. “No one suffered from the want of a partner. Such wonderful music, delicious food, and…” Maria glanced at Mr. Westfield. “…such agreeable companions.”

  Although she could not concur with the hearty compliments her sister lavished on the ball, she said, “I am glad you had such a pleasant time.”

  “Indeed, it has been a most enjoyable evening. It is a shame to see it end.” Mr. Westfield’s eyes were intent on Maria, and Charlotte felt hope for her sister. Perhaps he was in love with her, and she only prayed that his love was strong so that Mr. Edgington’s slander would not dissolve it.

  Mr. Basford, who had been watching his nephew, turned to Charlotte. “Perhaps we’ll call on Mrs. Collins and Miss Lucas this week.”

  “Oh, yes, that would be pleasing indeed, Uncle.”

  Charlotte nodded her assent, grateful for the excuse to speak with Mr. Basford again soon, but she did not meet his eyes.

  Mr. Basford stepped away to order the carriage while Mr. Westfield bid Maria a fond farewell, causing her to giggle, as he escorted her out the door. Charlotte remained behind.

  When Mr. Basford returned, Charlotte saw that they were quite alone in the vestibule and offered his glove to him. “Thank you for this evening.”

  He only shook his head, and she dropped her hand. “I hope you do not object to us calling on you later this week.”

  Knowing that she should act demurely, she could not. She looked at Mr. Basford squarely. “No, indeed. I quite look forward to it.”

  He inclined his dark head toward hers. His voice was soft but firm when he said, “Until then, do not worry. We will simply tell the truth. All will be well.”

  Fifteen

  The Armitage’s carriage rumbled up the cottage drive. Candlelight flickered in the sitting room window, and Charlotte knew that Mrs. Eff and Edward had awaited their return. For the first time, she wished they had not. Mrs. Eff would not be as easily fooled by her veneer of nonchalance as Maria.

  The coachman assisted Charlotte and Maria from the carriage and then the conveyance disappeared with a loud growl of wheels on stones. Mrs. Eff opened the cottage door as they approached. “Welcome home. May I take your things?”

  Maria removed her wrap and gloves and piled them in Mrs. Eff’s arms
while recounting each minute of the ball. Charlotte removed her pelisse and handed it to Edward, but she retained her gloves. She hoped no one had noticed.

  Mrs. Eff handed the heap of Maria’s garments to Edward. “See that these are properly stored.” He disappeared down the hall, and Mrs. Eff looked at the sisters. “A fire is still burning in the sitting room. I thought you might enjoy some tea before bed.”

  Charlotte clutched the mismatched gloves behind her skirt, wringing the fabric back and forth. She did not want tea. She wanted privacy. Why would not everyone just go to sleep?

  Maria yawned. “I do not think I could stay awake long enough for the water to boil.”

  Thank heavens. Now Charlotte could engineer a few moments of peace to dispose of the evidence of the night’s crimes.

  “Mrs. Collins?”

  “Thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Eff. I think I will sit in solitude by the fire for a few moments, but I do not require any tea.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, you and Edward have had a long day. You ought to retire.”

  Mrs. Eff eyed her and then nodded. “Sleep well, Mrs. Collins. I do look forward to hearing about the ball tomorrow morning.”

  Charlotte tried to smile and wondered if she had managed to do so. Mrs. Eff said nothing, looked at her oddly, and then disappeared to her chamber.

  The door to the sitting room was ajar, and Charlotte pushed it open. She walked into the chamber as though she were moving in water. Her steps were slow, and as her arms swung at her sides, the fabric of the gloves brushed against her skirt in long, slow strokes. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. It was the only sound she could hear. When had the house become so quiet? Could Mrs. Eff hear the hum of fabric on fabric? Would she hear the crackles of the glove as it burned?

  Charlotte stood before the mantel, and the peat fire smoldered before her. If only destroying the glove would destroy Mr. Edgington’s slander. But as long as its mate existed, Charlotte was ruined.

  Still, she would do what was within her power. And that was to destroy the offending article. She flung her glove on top of the smoldering peat and watched as flames began to grow and consume the fabric.