CHAPTER IV
ONE DAY CHARLOTTE HAD A package, which had been misdirected to the Parsonage, to deliver to Rosings. She took no pleasurable anticipation in the task the way her husband would have done, and might have left it to his return from parish business to ask him to carry it over the lane and through the park. But it was a clear day with a sharp edge to the distant blue sky, frost still holding bare trees and plant stalks in its crystalline grip, and she relished the chance to escape her routine for half an hour.
Upon arrival, she was surprised to be ushered into the presence of Miss de Bourgh only. Lady Catherine was at the same parish meeting as Mr Collins, no doubt advising men of the cloth on how best to write sermons and administer relief to the poor, and Mrs Jenkinson, Miss de Bourgh’s regular companion and chaperone, was laid low with a megrim.
After handing over the parcel, which contained embroidery threads from London, Charlotte folded herself onto a chair and made the necessary conversational gambits. Miss de Bourgh drove her phaeton and ponies past their gate whenever the weather allowed, and she regularly stopped to exchange a few civil words with Mr or Mrs Collins, but she usually declined invitations to come indoors. In fact, Charlotte could count on the fingers of one hand the occasions on which the Rosings heiress had entered the Parsonage, and did not believe she had ever been tête-à-tête with her before. As she cast about for topics beyond the weather, her hostess asked: ‘Do you ride, Mrs Collins?’
‘Not since I married, Miss de Bourgh. But as a girl growing up, I had my share of stumbling around on a faithful dappled mare.’
‘Do you miss it?’
Charlotte stared at her interlocutor, surprised by the turn the conversation was taking. ‘I miss the exercise it afforded, and the opportunity to travel further abroad than my own two feet might carry me,’ she replied.
‘We have in our stable at present a very quiet gelding no longer fit for carriage work. If you wish, I shall instruct Walter that you should have the use of him when your time permits you to ride.’
Charlotte did not know how to respond. Her shoulders loosened at the thought of an innocent avenue of temporary – not escape, exactly, but reprieve – as winter tightened its hold on the countryside and made walking less and less pleasant. But how was this to be managed? And what would Lady Catherine make of this unprecedented offer?
As if reading her thoughts, Miss de Bourgh followed with, ‘Do not concern yourself with my mother, Mrs Collins. I shall settle it with her, and she shall settle it in turn with your husband, if need be. You would be doing Dobbin a kindness; I am sure the fellow grows bored standing around idle. I know I do.’
This indeed was a surprise. Charlotte looked more closely at Anne, always a pale, thin creature, small for her age. Her features suggested eggshell delicacy, but were not without appeal; and the curls that escaped from her cap were the colour of moleskin. With surprise, she realised that the heiress must be at least thirty by now; and if it were possible to feel pity for someone who stood to inherit an estate as grand as Rosings, she felt a pang for the younger woman, with no prospects of matrimony or a family. She wondered why no suitors presented themselves, but imagined that Lady Catherine would suspect and see off fortune-hunters at every turn.
There was, of course, the matter of Anne’s frailty, which Lady Catherine kept trumpeting as the only reason the world was denied the privilege of witnessing her daughter’s hypothetical triumphs – from a glittering appearance at court to dazzling displays of musical and artistic talent. And yet Anne’s thin arms were like whipcords – Charlotte had seen her steer and temper the ponies pulling her phaeton with a mere flick of her wrists and set of her narrow shoulders. She had also glimpsed her bowling along the lanes in her fragile conveyance at a pace that would have made the boldest of rakes blanch.
Miss de Bourgh coloured slightly under Charlotte’s scrutiny, or perhaps at the unguardedness of her own remark, and added, ‘And of course you are always welcome to walk the grounds and the parkland, as you know. In inclement weather, remember that you can at least take a turn in the conservatory or the greenhouses. Many of the plants will be dormant until spring, but at least there will be both shelter and an illusion of outdoor life. I imagine you will be glad of the distraction.’
This was interesting, given that Anne had not attended Tom’s funeral, on grounds of poor health, and while accompanying the Rosings party on the official condolence visit, had spoken not a word. Charlotte was grateful both for this evidence of concern, and for the cough with which their conversation turned to more general matters.
Back home, she was not sure how to proceed, or how much weight to give Miss de Bourgh’s invitation, but three days later, a note came from the great house, signed by Anne herself, stating that Walter expected Mrs Collins at the Rosings stables later that day. When presented with the note, Mr Collins knotted his hands in confusion rather than any real dismay, but made no objections, and Charlotte duly walked over to the stableyard once she had finished her morning tasks.
Here waited a brown horse whose size might have been daunting were it not that his barrel sides and scooped spine suggested a beast of considerable age. His height was a boon, given Charlotte’s tall frame, and his placid temperament was still more welcome. To her embarrassment, Walter mounted another horse, evidently intent on accompanying her.
‘The mistress says to lead you out at first and show you the lie of the land,’ he explained. ‘After that, if you feel able, you are free to ride unaccompanied. You need only send a note in the morning should you wish the use of Dobbin here, and you will find him saddled and ready for you.’
Charlotte could not speak, immersed as she was in the long-forgotten sensations of seeing the world from a different height, the rich scent of the animal beneath her, the coarseness of the mane into which she twisted her fingers, the stretch and pull of muscles and sinews grown rusty from lack of use.
The world from her new vantage point seemed to spring into greater clarity; a chaffinch on a branch ahead appeared to be cut from glass, the sweep of bare willows at the water’s edge suggested an Oriental etching. The lines of the surrounding lands, soft when swathed in summer foliage, seemed stronger now, as if the bones underlying the gentle Kentish hills were visible. For an hour, Charlotte was able to exist only in the present moment, fixed as she was on holding her seat and enjoying this new exertion, swaying in the saddle as her steed set down his bucket-sized hooves.
Upon finally returning to the stables, she felt all the effects of gravity as her shaky legs once again stood on solid ground, but the sensation was far from unpleasant. She was aware of physical and mental relief, almost as sharp as the scent of horseflesh now clinging to her. Effusive in her thanks to the groom, she was uncertain as to whether she was expected to visit the great house to offer further gratitude in person. But as it was growing late, she went home, where her husband complimented her on her high colour, remarking approvingly that the outing seemed to have done her a power of good.
Attending to her daughters, who clamoured for an account of their mother’s adventures on horseback, Charlotte silently agreed with Mr Collins, at that moment writing Lady Catherine a note of thanks for her gracious kindness in allowing his wife the use of an old and idle animal. The excursion had indeed done her good; by granting her the chance to escape, for a brief time, the burden of grief added to her daily round.
In the weeks that followed, although diffident about imposing herself at first, Charlotte became accustomed to walking over to the Rosings stables, and the replenishment she found in following the local rides on Dobbin’s broad back. He was the perfect companion: mild in temper, needing only a press on the flank or a gentle tug on the reins to suggest direction, his presence nevertheless offered comfort. The loss of her child was not something this large beast could ever comprehend, and his perfect indifference steadied her more than human concern could do at this time.
A few times, Anne was waiting in the stableyard when she
arrived to ride Dobbin, and accompanied her on her rides, mounted on a grey mare with a gawky-limbed foal at foot. At first Charlotte was somewhat dismayed at the prospect of giving up the solitude these excursions afforded, but found that Miss de Bourgh did not consider them opportunities for conversation. Apart from the necessary consultations as to which routes to follow, their rides took place mostly in silence, broken only by the cawing of rooks, the faint jingle of bridle and bit, and the differing percussions of hoofbeats at walk or trot.
On one of these rides, they came into a field sufficiently sheltered to offer patches of grass, and reined in their mounts to offer them a minute or two of grazing. The foal, which had been circling its dam as assiduously as a bee in a clover bed, bounced towards them as if on springs and thrust its head under the mare’s belly to suckle. Something about its awkward eagerness, its wide-spaced eyes and long lashes, reminded Charlotte so piercingly of Tom that she bent at the waist, almost hissing with pain. She was not conscious of weeping, only of wetness coursing down her cheeks, and small splashes on Dobbin’s withers.
Miss de Bourgh looked back over her shoulder: ‘You are not taken ill, I hope, Mrs Collins?’
By now Charlotte’s face was stinging in the raw air, and she was obliged to fumble for a handkerchief. She tried to speak, but found herself unable to offer her companion any reasonable reassurance or explanation. Eventually, all she could say was, ‘The foal. It is the foal. Miss de Bourgh, I miss him so much. So much!’
Anne’s frown deepened. ‘Of course, you are speaking of your son. I, who have never desired children, and am almost certainly unlikely to bear them, will not claim to understand your grief at the loss of your child, Mrs Collins. Such presumption would be disrespectful. But with my family history, I can contemplate and grasp the implications of the loss of an heir. You might not know that before me, my mother gave birth to three sons – none of whom lived more than a few hours – and thus was the shape of all our lives determined.
‘I have had my mother’s lawyer in to explain the details of my inheritance until the man is hoarse. As long as my mother lives, or I live, I am safe. But I confess the question of what happens to my home and fortune once I am dead plagues me more and more. I love Rosings: every hare in its fields, each tree in its spinneys. It is the child I will never have. So, detached as I might be from the feelings involved, I can comprehend the enormity of the loss of your son and heir in this regard. You are now none of you safe.’
Even as she struggled to master her own runaway feelings, Charlotte found herself gaping. She did not think she had ever heard Miss de Bourgh speak at such length before. She was once again rendered silent, not only by the bluntness of Anne’s words, but also by the sense that someone understood her worst anxieties, the implacable and inescapable laws of inheritance that stalked them all, her gnawing worry for her daughters.
Her companion took up her reins and suggested they trot on in single file, which precluded any further pursuit of this line of conversation, but Charlotte felt fractionally less alone, and took comfort from that.
On the homeward stretch of their journey, Miss de Bourgh spoke again, equally bluntly: ‘Do you speak to Mr Collins of your grief? Do you share memories of your son?’
‘I cannot. Such reminiscing would rake him raw. If I am truthful, it rakes me raw. But it is like picking at a scarred wound; it pains, but there is also relief in it.’
‘I see. Your loss has had unforeseen consequences for me, Mrs Collins. I am a profoundly solitary creature – some might indeed say selfish. Yet one would have to be an insensate brute to remain indifferent to your recent loss, and your fortitude in bearing the unbearable. It has impressed upon me that life is a cruel business, but that perhaps there might be comfort to be found in connecting with our fellows.’
Without pausing for a response from her companion, she continued, ‘Shall we canter this last stretch?’ And the galvanising movement of their horses, and the crunch and clatter of hooves as they came first to gravel and then cobblestones where stablehands waited to take and tend to their mounts, momentarily cleared Charlotte’s head.
Several days later, the establishment at Rosings received a visitor in the form of Anne’s cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was also the cousin and confidant of Mr Darcy. The unexpectedness of the visit caused a small flutter in their immediate circle. Charlotte remembered the Colonel very well, especially from the early days of her marriage, when he and Mr Darcy had visited Rosings to pay their respects to their aunt. She had liked him for his wit, gallantry, and easy way with Lady Catherine, while not inclined to consider him wholly trustworthy. She recalled the avidity with which he had sometimes regarded Miss de Bourgh, and the different kind of avidity with which she had occasionally caught him watching Elizabeth, on the occasion of her friend’s first visit to the Parsonage.
She wondered at his travelling at such an inclement time of year, but assumed that Kent made a convenient stop en route to the winter pleasures that London afforded. The Collinses were invited to dine at Rosings on the evening of his arrival, but Laura was fretful with a cold that day, and Charlotte refused to stir from her side. One slippery aspect of grief, she had found, was the unreasonable but no less real anxiety that any lack of attention or vigilance might lead to disaster. So Mr Collins argued in vain that Katie could tend to their daughter and send for them in case of need; Charlotte would not be moved, and her husband was obliged to walk over to the great house by himself.
On his return, he was able to list the dishes served, the sad matter of Lady Catherine’s vexation upon discovering that the fish was perhaps not quite fresh, along with the extreme obligingness of his noble hosts and their guest. The latter had offered to accompany him the following morning on a visit to a parishioner, a wounded soldier, with an eye to providing advice as to what aid could best be offered the crippled man. However, Mr Collins could shed no light on the reason for the Colonel’s visit, which he ascribed to the irresistible joys of Rosings, and the delight of Lady Catherine’s company.
The next day, the Colonel did indeed pay the Parsonage a short visit, during which he was as habitually civil and charming as always, offering Charlotte his condolences on the loss of her son with real and gratifying kindness, before heading out with Mr Collins on their errand of mercy.
About a week later, after a spell of biting wind and freezing rain had kept Charlotte from her rides, a note arrived from Miss de Bourgh: would she care for a ramble round the hothouses the following afternoon? Charlotte handed the communication to her husband, whose response, once he had recovered from his surprise, was predictable: ‘My dear, what a mark of honour and affability! Could any couple be happier in the notice of noble patrons? This emanates from Lady Catherine, I am sure of it. This is testament to her good opinion of you, that she suggests or encourages such a visit. And indeed, she is not wrong to value your amiability and steady temper. Miss de Bourgh is gracious indeed in marking you out for attention this way. I would offer to accompany you in this most happy enterprise, but I am not unaware that ladies sometimes feel the need for exclusively feminine companionship, and my presence, while surely not unwelcome, might indeed be unwanted.’
Charlotte forbore from pointing out that for months on end, barring the presence of menservants, Rosings could pass as a nunnery, with only Lady Catherine, Miss de Bourgh, and Mrs Jenkinson in residence, and settled to writing a note of thanks and acceptance. Mr Collins hovered over her, suggesting a word here and there, and although the servant who had brought the note was waiting for the reply, he even offered to carry her letter across the park in case the opportunity for expressing personal thanks to members of the household arose.
CHAPTER V
THE NEXT DAY, CHARLOTTE PRESENTED herself at the Rosings hothouses, magnificent structures of glass and iron that branched off from the main conservatory. She had not explored them since the early days of her marriage, when Mr Collins was determined to wring from her praise of every aspect of Rosing
s. Now she was instantly struck by the softness and wetness of the air, the faint sound of running water, the near-tropical warmth, and the all-pervading sweet odours. One of the hothouses was reserved for salad leaves and vegetables too tender to withstand frost, but the one in which Miss de Bourgh awaited was given to plants from far-flung balmy corners of the globe, as well as those table flowers that required respite from more punishing cold during the winter months.
Anne did not waste time on pleasantries. ‘Mrs Collins, as you know, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mr Darcy’s cousin, visited my mother and I last week. I believe he called on you as well. His purpose in coming here was to make me an offer of marriage. Again. The man grows desperate. His purse does not match his tastes.’
Whatever Charlotte was expecting, it was not this, but she masked her expression of astonishment and waited for her companion to continue.
‘He has proposed before. You are aware, Mrs Collins, of my unusual situation. My mother managed to settle the estate on me as her heir, but if I die a childless spinster, all our property and fortune reverts to the next surviving male – who is Mr Darcy. The one man in England who does not need a single extra penny. This while so many impecunious young men have fast horses, gambling debts, and other necessities to pay for.’
Charlotte stared at the younger woman – she did not think she had ever heard Anne speak with such asperity in their several years of acquaintance.
‘Forgive me,’ she said, trying to think of a delicate way of asking why Miss de Bourgh had presumably and repeatedly declined the Colonel’s proposals. ‘But it sounds like an unobjectional offer. Is it sincerely made?’
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