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

by Jennifer Becton

  Taking a deep breath, she turned and crossed the room to the wardrobe. Inside, she found the small wooden jewelry box where she had hidden the glove Mr. Basford had loaned her the night of Mr. Edgington’s deceit. Underneath her accoutrements, she saw the fine fabric of his glove. She had not allowed herself to think of that glove since the day she had put it away. She had tried not to remember the kindness it represented, and she certainly did not touch its soft fabric as she was now.

  She should destroy the glove. It should meet the same fate as the gloves given to her by Mr. Edgington. She glanced at the hearth, knowing what she ought to do. She would not be free of Mr. Basford until the glove, the only remnant of their friendship, was gone.

  But she simply could not do it.

  Running the tip of her index finger along the contours of the glove one last time, she closed the box. Mr. Basford was gone, but she was not ready to release him completely.

  ~**~

  With each step of her boots, Charlotte vacillated between retreat and determination. Left boot, retreat. Right boot, determination. Left, right, left, right. Retreat, determination, retreat, determination. Her steps carried her onward, closer to Colonel Armitage’s house.

  She had planned to be careful, to be above reproach, and yet here she was, paying a call on a gentleman. What could she possibly be thinking?

  She was not thinking. That fact was very plain. She was employing her heart, not her head, and she refused to allow herself to contemplate the wisdom of doing so. She simply continued walking.

  In due course, she stood before the colonel’s house. Of only moderate size, it seemed to tower above her now, looking ominous and foreboding. But Charlotte did not even consider the option of returning home. She had gone too far to allow her fears to dissuade her. Her heart was at stake.

  Slowly, Charlotte walked up the front steps—left, right, left, right—and brushed the dust off her skirt. She checked her bonnet and tucked in stray wisps of hair. She was determined to look the best she could after such a long walk, even though she realized the low value Mr. Basford placed on fashion.

  She raised her hand to knock, but stopped short, remembering to fetch her card from her reticule. Mrs. Charlotte Collins, it said in plain black script. So proper and detached. And she wondered if this prim Mrs. Charlotte Collins would recognize the slightly disheveled woman on Colonel Armitage’s doorstep.

  This time when she lifted her hand to the door knocker, metal struck metal, and the sharp sound seemed to echo around her. She heard the muffled footsteps of the butler approaching the door. It opened with a whoosh of air, and a large gentlemen greeted her. “Good day, madam.”

  “Good morning,” she handed him her card. “Is Mrs. Armitage at home?”

  He took the card and glanced at her name before dropping it in the receiving bowl on the hall table, and Charlotte got the distinct impression that he did not believe the prim name on the card matched the woman standing before him. She brushed at her gown again.

  “I am sorry, madam, but she is not at home this morning.”

  “Oh dear.” What was she to do? She had depended upon Mrs. Armitage’s being at home to receive callers this morning. Charlotte glanced behind the butler, hoping that Mr. Basford would appear as if by magic. But the hallway was empty.

  Charlotte joined her hands in front of her gown and dropped her eyes. Was she to have gone all this way for naught? She could not allow that. She had already risked her reputation; why not see her task to completion? She raised her chin and found the butler still looking at her. “Is the family at home?”

  “No, I am afraid they are all out this morning.”

  Out? Charlotte wanted to shout. All of them? The colonel? Mr. Basford? Everyone? How could they be out? She must see Mr. Basford. She simply must.

  “Mr. Basford. Is he in?” Her words sounded tight.

  “He too is out, madam.” The butler was clearly losing patience. “No one is at home. They are all out.” The last word was annunciated as though Charlotte were an imbecile.

  “Oh.” Charlotte’s mind raced. What should she do?

  “My apologies,” he said, slowly closing the door. “Good day.”

  The heavy oak door drew closer and closer to Charlotte’s face, and she was frozen, wondering what course of action, if any, to take. If the door closed, she would have no choice but to return home a failure. Suddenly, one word escaped her tight lips: “Wait!”

  Startled, the butler halted the door’s progress and stared at her. Charlotte had startled herself and for a moment said nothing. What would she do? What could she do? She must say something. She could not stand here staring at the butler all day.

  “May I be of service, madam?”

  She gathered her courage. “Yes, you may. I would like to leave a note, if I might, for Mr. Basford. I require a quill, ink, and sheet of writing paper, if you please.”

  He did not appear pleased by her request, but he did not argue. “Yes madam.” He opened the door fully. “If you will follow me.”

  The butler led her into the sitting room and to a small, well-appointed escritoire. She seated herself in the chair and immediately took up quill and paper. What would she say? She had never written a letter of this nature to a gentleman. The butler’s voice broke into her thoughts. “I will return for the letter in a few moments.”

  Charlotte had already forgotten the butler and nodded in annoyance. She understood his message. She would not be left unattended long to write her inappropriate note. Her fingers tightened on the quill, and she began the letter:

  Mr. Basford—

  But the words would not come. She did not know how to convey all that was in her heart in a letter with a butler waiting to sweep her out of the house like yesterday’s refuse. She huffed out a sigh. Perhaps this was a poorly conceived idea after all. She dropped the quill on the paper, causing ink to pool in the corner. She stared at the stain.

  The paper was ruined. She was ruined. It was all ruined!

  Charlotte grasped the paper in her hands and prepared to crumple it, but a dull sound entered her mind. The butler’s heavy footsteps approached from a distance. She had no more time. He would escort her to the door and not readmit her. She could not allow herself to be indecisive.

  Charlotte quickly replaced the paper on the desk and picked up the quill, and after dipping it in fresh ink, she began to scribble furiously. Her handwriting barely resembled that of a genteel lady. It looked more like an animal had danced across the page with muddy feet. But Charlotte paid no heed to her penmanship and wrote:

  I had hoped to find you at home this morning, but since you are away, I must compose this note. I do so to hope to see you Saturday at the Cards’ dinner party, for I greatly wish to speak with you.

  The door opened and the butler appeared at her side. “Madam?”

  “A moment, please,” she begged, holding her left hand in stopping gesture.

  Searching her mind frantically for a suitable closing, she could find none. The butler cleared his throat, and she glanced at his hard-eyed expression. She had no more time.

  Before folding the paper in a hasty configuration and handing it to the butler for delivery, she wrote one word.

  Charlotte.

  Twenty-Three

  Charlotte did not at first regret composing the letter to Mr. Basford. She imagined each day that he would arrive, unable to wait until the dinner party to see her. And each evening, when he did not arrive, the tiniest bit of regret crept in.

  She had walked miles to pay a call on Mr. Basford. No gently reared woman would do such a thing. She had left a desperate note. No lady of sense would dare write to a gentleman, and certainly not out of desperation. And worse, she had signed her Christian name. Charlotte. No lady would do such a thing in a letter to a gentleman who was not her husband. And no gentleman would misunderstand the implication.

  Perhaps Mr. Basford believed she still harbored resentment for his role in the incident between Maria and
Mr. Westfield. But that could not be. Her letter was proof enough that she felt kindly toward him. Perhaps he was kindly rejecting her. A horrid thought.

  By the day of Maria and Mr. Card’s dinner party, Charlotte had neither seen nor heard from Mr. Basford or any of the Armitage family.

  She did her best not to appear depressed when in company, but she felt her disappointment keenly. Her final hope was that Mr. Basford would appear at the party, but she knew the possibility was quite remote. He had told Mr. Card and Maria when they had issued the invitation that it was unlikely that he would be able to attend.

  Still, on the evening of the party, each time the door opened to admit another guest to the sitting room where they had gathered to converse before dinner, Charlotte turned eagerly to discover who had entered. The appointed time to dine drew nearer and nearer, and still he did not come.

  Charlotte talked with the guests, taking an eager interest in them. At least, she hoped she appeared interested. In truth, she had very little idea what had been said to her thus far that evening. She hardly knew to whom she talked. Perhaps she had spoken with the rector. She could not be certain.

  Finally, dinner was announced, and Mr. Card escorted Charlotte into the dining room on one arm and his wife on the other. He mouthed the necessary compliments about his good fortune at having two beautiful women to escort, but Charlotte scarcely heard him. Mr. Basford had not come. Her mind cried out in sorrow, but she smiled to those around her.

  The dinner consisted of numerous long courses, and each one was more highly lauded for its palatability than the last. Charlotte wished they had served only bread and cheese. It would have been faster.

  She was seated next to Maria, who seemed very proud of her position opposite her husband at the head of the table. Speaking only when absolutely necessary, she listened as Maria and her guests talked and concentrated on attempting to push Mr. Basford’s rejection from her mind.

  The simple fact was that Charlotte would have to accept her life as it was. All in all, it certainly was not a bad life. She had financial security, a lovely shelter in the Cards’ home, and the opportunity to buy a new gown now and then. She had a small circle of friends—most of whom were represented at the table—and she had Maria and Mr. Card, and she dearly loved them.

  One day, she would be able to view Mr. Basford as a mere acquaintance. Until then, she would try not to think of him at all. Resolved, Charlotte turned her attention to the plates that appeared before her and ate without tasting a bite.

  After dinner, the group returned to the sitting room to take tea and coffee and to engage in cards on the tables that Mr. Card and Maria had set up for the occasion.

  Several guests left after the meal, citing the chilly night as the reason for their early departures, and the remaining guests chose to play at cards. Charlotte knew she would make a terrible participant in such an endeavor and took a seat on the bench near the fire. She purposefully kept her back to the door so she would not be tempted to look at every servant who entered the room in the vain, foolish hope that Mr. Basford had come.

  Charlotte sat on the edge of a light blue brocade armless bench, which the servants had placed conveniently at the back of a settee to provide additional seating for the dinner party guests, with a book resting in her lap. The heavy oak door had been rather busy, admitting servants to clean up the tea things and to keep the fire stoked.

  Charlotte had just congratulated herself for not turning around once to see who had come into the room when she felt someone sit on the settee behind her. She assumed that one of the card players from the table behind her had tired of the game and cried off to take a seat by the fire.

  “Charlotte,” a voice whispered.

  Mr. Basford’s voice. It washed over her like warm water.

  Mr. Basford was on the settee behind her, with his back to her.

  He had come!

  Suddenly weak, Charlotte’s arm, which had been resting decorously on the book in her lap, fell limply at her side, her fingers brushing the brocade fabric on the edge of the bench. Her face reddened, and she glanced around, hoping no one had observed her discomfiture. Everyone was otherwise occupied with their games, and no one even seemed to notice that Mr. Basford had arrived.

  “Ben.” The whispered word fell from her lips unbidden. She had never used his given name before, and it felt brazen.

  She could sense him at her back and smell his woodsy scent mixed with the odor of sun and horses, and she realized he must have come directly from a long ride. She wanted to turn and face him, but propriety prohibited her. Propriety and fear.

  “I had to see you. In public, just as you wanted,” Mr. Basford whispered.

  They were silent a moment, voices murmured around them and the fire crackled softly beside them. His hand casually draped itself over the low arm of the settee, and his fingers brushed against Charlotte’s. She jumped at his touch, and then a fire spread through her. His fingers sought hers, first tracing the backs of her knuckles, inviting her to open to him.

  She lowered her head and glanced at the card players from beneath her lashes, but there was no one to witness their inappropriate behavior. Everyone was distracted by their games.

  “Ben, this is…” she began as his fingers continued to brush hers. But she did not have the will to pull her hand away as she should.

  “Inappropriate. I know.”

  His thumb now traced the contours at the base of Charlotte’s hand, which had opened into a loose fist.

  His voice was even quieter now, and she had to lean slightly back to hear him. “I am sorry for missing the meal. My uncle and I were at a hunting cabin. It was quite remote, and I did not return home and find your note until this evening.”

  Relief and understanding flowed over Charlotte. He had rushed to see her. Never had the scent of horses been so welcome.

  “And about Miss Lucas and James. It was entirely my fault. I never should have interfered. But it was never about them.”

  Charlotte could not reply. Her voice would not function, apparently, when he touched her. She swallowed and attempted again to form reassuring words. But they would not come.

  “For me, it was never about them.” His voice was quiet but insistent.

  “But…” she tapered off, trying to think of something practical to say. To explain that she had quite forgotten about Maria and Mr. Westfield and his role in the debacle. That she was not angry. That she had missed him.

  “It was about you, Charlotte. I am in love with you.” His voice paused, but his fingers continued to stroke the palm of her hand, encouraging her fingers to accept his. “You must believe me when I tell you that I cannot forget you.”

  “I have not forgotten either,” Charlotte said, her voice barely a whisper. Then after a moment, she confessed, “I still have your glove.”

  She could feel the rasp of his fingertips across her soft palm.

  “Marry me.” His whisper was rough with restraint.

  Charlotte could not speak words of either sense or nonsense at that very moment. Instead, she opened her hand and wove her fingers between his, shuddering slightly at the intimate contact. There they remained, holding hands with the fire as their only witness.

  Epilogue

  “I do not think that gentleman likes me one bit,” Mr. Basford said as he joined his wife on the settee. He sat closer than propriety dictated, but Charlotte no longer cared. She only snuggled into his dark brown coat and inhaled deeply of his woodsy scent.

  “Who? Mr. Darcy?”

  “Of course. The Darcys are our only houseguests, aren’t they? Mr. Darcy is the only male, I believe. Or is there something you wish to tell me? Have we other visitors hiding in one of the bed chambers?”

  Charlotte ignored his jest and answered with as much seriousness as a woman in love can muster. “Mr. Darcy is a gentleman of contradiction. He believes in strict respectability and decorum, but Lizzie tells me he is a loving husband with a humor not visible to most acqua
intances. And I know that he would go to the greatest lengths for her.”

  She smiled as she recalled Mr. Darcy’s facial expression when, not more than a half hour ago, he had observed Mr. Basford’s curious sitting habits. She giggled. “But I thought he would not be able to contain his disgust when you tilted back on the rear legs of that desk chair.”

  “I recall seeing that very same look cross your face when I first came to call.”

  Charlotte leaned back so she could look at him more fully. He had a handsome face, even when he chided her. She lifted her hand and stroked his cheek. “I did not know you as well as I do now. You too are a gentleman of contradictions. You appear to be an uncouth lout, but in reality, your character has many things to recommend itself.”

  Mr. Basford took hold of Charlotte’s hand and brought it to his lips. “And these recommendations are what convinced you to marry me?”

  “Indeed. And the fact that I was desperately in love.”

  “Yes, it was all part of my plan.” He grinned. “I gave you no option but to marry me.”

  Charlotte tucked her feet beneath her, snuggled close again, and thought back on their wedding, which had taken place on an autumn morning in Mr. Collins’s former parish church. She found it appropriate that she would marry the man she truly loved in the church where Mr. Collins had delivered countless mind-numbing sermons.

  The majority of the sanctuary had stood empty—much as it had for Mr. Collins’s Sunday services—but Charlotte hardly noticed. She had begun to be influenced by Mr. Basford’s beliefs regarding the need to gain society’s good opinion, and although she had not yet done away with her concern completely, she certainly placed a great deal less emphasis on it. Her family and close friends had come to share in her happiness, but she was so besotted by him that she would have been almost as pleased to marry Mr. Basford with only a clergyman and a witness present.

  As a wedding gift for his new bride, Mr. Basford had attempted to purchase Charlotte’s treasured cottage, but he had met with the resistance of Lady Catherine, and even his charms—and a very large sum of money—could not persuade her to part with the property. Disappointed, he had confessed his attempt to Charlotte. She had been saddened at the news initially, but upon further consideration, she decided that Lady Catherine’s unforgiving nature had resulted in a blessing, for the specter of her former patroness would no longer hover over her life.