Charlotte

by Helen Moffett

  As the weather remained clear, they walked across the park to the main dwelling, an imposing building of red and blue brick set on rising ground. The parkland, with deer cropping the frosted grass in the distance, offered glimpses of leafless copses that promised verdant vistas in the summer, and the wilderness area through which they passed on their way to the house was eerily wreathed in old man’s beard.

  On their approach, Mr Collins, by now scarcely pausing for breath, pointed out the many features of the house that inspired his awe, not least the cost of glazing its forty-five windows. Charlotte tried to be patient: she knew he was minutes away from being judged on his choice of bride, which meant that she, the new Mrs Collins, would be on trial. It was daunting indeed; not so much because Charlotte feared Lady Catherine’s disapproval, but because so much of their daily happiness depended on that lady’s goodwill. She had the power to make their lives very uncomfortable if she so wished.

  At last they were ascending the steps and being ushered into the lofty entrance hall by servants; there was hardly time for Mr Collins to demand that Charlotte admire the dimensions of the room and the grandeur of the furnishings found there before they were escorted into the morning room to meet Lady Catherine, her daughter Anne, and Mrs Jenkinson, Miss de Bourgh’s companion.

  Lady Catherine was a tall, statuesque woman with strong features that had no doubt once been striking, if not actually handsome. Charlotte, as she sank into a deep curtsey, noticed that their benefactor had the same dark eyes as Mr Darcy, but there was no resemblance between her and the slight figure of her daughter, who was so pale as to look almost transparent.

  ‘So, Mrs Collins, you are older than I thought you would be.’ These opening words, uttered as soon as the formal introductions were completed, were spoken in the decided tones typical of all statements by Lady Catherine, and Charlotte, startled by her ladyship’s rudeness, thought them not worth replying to. This left her husband almost on the verge of apologising for the advanced age of his bride, but fortunately the entry of servants into the room with tea-things spared his blushes.

  ‘But then I suppose we must be thankful that you are not some green and idle young girl,’ Lady Catherine continued. ‘You must have been very useful to your mother? I assume from what Mr Collins tells me of your situation that you helped her with the running of her home.’ This statement was followed by a thorough inquisition as to Charlotte’s family, education, and life in Hertfordshire.

  Charlotte did her best to answer all questions, no matter how impertinent, without agitation or embellishment, restricting herself to providing the facts. She was well aware that she had no especial talents or charms that might engage or delight on a first encounter; winning the favour of the mistress of Rosings would be a long game. But she was fairly confident it was one in which she would acquit herself well.

  Her first duty, as soon as they had returned from their wedding visit to Rosings, was to write her letters home, even though she was eager to explore her new domain. Mr Collins was at first disappointed, as he was wishing to show her around the garden and grounds, but when she explained that she wanted to assure her parents as speedily as possible of the kind condescension Lady Catherine had shown her, he was full of smiles of approval. She duly wrote them a short note, in which she encompassed her sister Maria, and then penned a more dense missive to Elizabeth.

  Mr Collins raised his eyebrows at the direction of this letter, but no doubt thought his bride would wish to give a full account of the delights Miss Eliza Bennet had spurned, not omitting the attentions flowing from Rosings. Charlotte kept her true motives to herself; still regretting the loss of intimacy between herself and her long-time friend, she was determined to maintain as frequent a correspondence with Lizzy as possible. She depended on the liveliness of her friend’s letters to give her a true picture of events in Hertfordshire, which place loomed larger in her affections than ever before now that she had quit it.

  These tasks accomplished, Charlotte took advantage of the few hours of daylight remaining to roam her new demesne with her husband, eager for him to point out every feature of the garden, and the two meadows that ran down towards the river. But first they retreated down the drive so that she could admire her new home in the whole. The house was built from grey stone in an old-fashioned style, with steepled gables and many-paned windows. A gilded weathercock topped a small cupola that perched over the front portico rather like a helmet. Smoke rose arrow-straight from the chimneys into an unclouded sky, suggesting a hard frost the next day.

  A thick hedge of laurel bounded the front of the property, which was surrounded by a few acres of garden under cultivation, and a small wilderness that led down to the meadows where their livestock grazed. The thin winter sunshine revealed acres starkly black, white, and grey, with only the bright green of the holly and its blood-drop berries offering any colour. But all was neat, and not without cheer; the paths were lined with box and lavender hedges, hard-pruned and tidy. Charlotte was pleased to see that the vegetable garden, hooped about with cages and trusses silvery in the afternoon light, and with spidery trees pleached to the walls, showed signs of orderly planting and good management. She could do much here.

  She was equally interested in the well, byre, and pigsty, the small barn for storing hay, complete with a resident tom to keep mice at bay, and the snug chicken coop behind the house, noting what improvements might be effected little by little.

  As dusk drew in, with the chill air nipping at her fingers and face, she was at last ready to retreat indoors, and undertake a more thorough tour of the Parsonage itself. Although the building itself was old, the interior had been modernised, smartened up, and secured against damp and rot first by Sir Lewis de Bourgh and then his widow, with handsome oak stairs, banisters, and panelling on the walls, and fireplaces of stone cladding the older brick. Pocked flagstones still covered the floor in the domestic parts of the building, but the public rooms and bedchambers boasted wood floors, with Turkey rugs creating pools of red and blue.

  Content with what she had found both outdoors and indoors, Charlotte was more than happy to praise her husband for the contents and contrivances of the home he had made hers, and the next several days were given to minute exploration of every corner and cranny of the house, its attic and cellars, and every appurtenance it boasted. She was especially delighted to find herself the mistress of a bacon safe, which emitted a pungent and pleasant smell of smoked meat and aged wood when she opened it. And while she regretted the absence of a pianoforte – she had hoped that music might sometimes take the place of conversation of an evening – it was not as if she would have leisure for practising.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  AND SO THE FIRST MONTHS of Charlotte’s married life passed. To her joy, Elizabeth replied promptly to her letters, and answered them at great length. The old confiding tone was sadly absent, but she was faithful – and as spirited as ever – in rendering all the news gleaned from Longbourn, Lucas Lodge, and Meryton.

  One thing pricked Charlotte to anger; Lizzy wrote lightly of the officer Wickham’s sudden attention to a young lady who had until her inheritance held no charms for him. Far from criticising his mercenary ambitions, Lizzy excused her former admirer with the observation that handsome and charming young men needed something to live on as much as plain young men.

  And what are plain young women supposed to live on? thought Charlotte, remembering the frank dismay, even disgust, that had passed over her friend’s features when she first broke the news of her engagement to Mr Collins. It took some reflection on the connubial disharmony to which Lizzy was exposed at home, and which had rendered her perhaps thoughtless on the topic of marriage, to make peace with this painful memory.

  Meanwhile, the winter was a mild one, and Mr Collins was able to be assiduous in his care of the garden. Charlotte encouraged, hinted, and sometimes downright insisted that he follow one or other project aimed at improving his modest corner of Kent, arguing for the benefits t
o his health, but welcoming the respite from his chatter. As the eldest of a large brood of children crammed into a house that had always felt too small, she found the luxury of an unpeopled establishment one of her greatest pleasures.

  She hit on the happy plan of commissioning her husband to build a sundial, a project that began when an obelisk commissioned by Lady Catherine for the lawns at Rosings had been too small to suit. It had been made a gift to the Parsonage, and Mr Collins was dispatched to spend his days outdoors, engaged with stakes, ropes, and much checking of his pocket-watch and listening for the chime of the church clock striking the hour. A few fine days, and the hours were marked by stakes, and the business of choosing stones and plants and carving the numerals ensued, giving hours of harmless and happy occupation.

  Their most cheerful conversations in fact revolved around their plans for their home and land. Charlotte, having spotted a few disused skeps in the barn, was determined to install beehives in the orchard, not just for the honey, but so she could be independent of the grocer’s for candles. She was grateful that her husband’s income permitted their purchase, sparing her the labour and odour of making rushlights, but she was determined to be as frugal as was consistent with comfort. She ordered and pored over almanacs and beekeeping guides, considering the blending of garden and husbandry, imagining lavender-flavoured honey and bumper russet crops next autumn.

  Sometimes she and Mr Collins sketched out plans for a conservatory, an object closer to pleasant fantasy than reality, but it was not out of the bounds of possibility (although Lady Catherine would have to agree). And they both studied seed and plant catalogues with interest, Charlotte confessing to a weakness for peonies and dahlias, those foreign and gaudy interlopers amid the usual foxgloves, stocks, and hollyhocks. One project they did put into motion was the establishment of a nuttery; they envisaged walnuts and hazels alongside the ancient sweet chestnuts that meandered down one side of the orchard, and much comparison of varieties and calculation of costs ensued.

  Meanwhile, there was a great deal to do. Although it was the worst time of year for stocking the pantry, exotic fruits and plants were sporadically sent over from the Rosings hothouses, for which Lady Catherine seemed to require only the tax of unending gratitude. Mr Collins provided this in such quantities that it was left to Charlotte only to echo complaisant agreement. This meant she had to find receipts for such delicacies as Seville oranges, which she turned to marmalade, a welcome addition to the table at breakfast time; there was also the unexpected gift of much-prized lemons, which needed to be preserved.

  There was goose-fat to render, butter to churn and wash, late apples to lay down, cider to brew, horseradish to grate, and she did not trust the flour and barley bins – their contents would have to be sifted in case of weevils. Although it was Mr Brown’s job to dispatch a chicken or duck once a fortnight, it fell to her to pluck the birds and save the feathers for pillows.

  The entire house, although neat and in a good state of repair, had that patina of cheerlessness that suggested a bachelor establishment, and Charlotte could not rest until it was as clean and comfortable as she and the servants could make it. This meant that she spent her days in an apron, its pockets filled with beeswax polish and blacking, hung about with dusters and cloths, conferring with the housekeeper and working alongside the maidservant.

  This joint labour was prefaced by the need to cultivate the staff, particularly Mrs Brown. Charlotte’s relationship with her housekeeper was a somewhat peculiar one: although as the mistress, and therefore possessed of the power to dismiss – without a reference – any of her servants, Charlotte was aware that the staff served the Parsonage rather than its incumbents. If, for some reason, the living was taken from them and given to another, the Browns and Katie would remain, at least for a time. In other words, regardless of who paid the wages, they served the establishment – and that meant Rosings, rather than herself and Mr Collins. This transitional passage was nevertheless the one at which the housekeeper and her husband were most at risk – the new chatelaine might take it upon herself to dismiss them and install servants known to her. Promises had perhaps been made to others. So all was wary courtesy and exaggerated formality at this awkward stage.

  Charlotte was also aware that a steady stream of reportage flowed from Mrs Brown to Rosings in indirect turns and twists as the servants of the two households exchanged news. It was safe to assume that no aspect of her husbandry or the minutiae of her household was private, down to the pennies spent on shoe-blacking. It was therefore necessary to enlist her housekeeper as an ally or, at the very least, maintain with her a cordial détente. This required care and tact; Charlotte had to show impeccable management stratagems alongside a healthy respect for routines already established and tenaciously clung to. After one taxing morning spent inventorying the household plate, glass, and silver, trying to strike the correct balance between encouragement and admonishment as she uncovered mottled gravy dishes, tarnished candlesticks, and cracked china, Charlotte felt that no diplomat in the Indies had ever faced so delicate a task.

  Then there was the tithe of marital patience extracted by her husband. She did not need Mr Collins dogging her footsteps, demanding her attention as he rehearsed such small items of news as enlivened their days. Happily, he appreciated her industry almost as much as her role as audience, and here Charlotte found an unexpected ally: Lady Catherine, who openly sent over her servants as much to spy as to carry messages, approved of the new lady of the Parsonage’s bent for domestic organisation.

  At first, this was not evident; in her unscheduled inspections of the Parsonage, Lady Catherine found fault with much: the arrangement of the furniture, the dilatoriness of the housemaid, even the size of their joints of meat – which her ladyship considered too lavish for their small household. It took some time and considerable forbearance for Charlotte to realise this bent for interference and advice was habitual, and that Lady Catherine would have found fault with the domestic arrangements of Paradise itself. In truth, at their regular dinner engagements at Rosings, his patroness repeatedly praised Mr Collins for the wisdom of his choice of bride, almost to the extent of claiming credit for the courtship.

  ‘I was the one who told him to marry, you know,’ was often heard: ‘I was the one who advised him to find a wife in Hertfordshire. I told him to choose a gentlewoman, an active, useful sort of person not brought up high, but able to make a small income go a long way, and he obeyed me completely.’ Mrs Collins could never hear these words without wondering at Lady Catherine’s assumption that they comprised some sort of compliment, but she could not disagree with the bald truth that this description did indeed fit her perfectly, however impertinently it might be expressed.

  The lucky husband placed the arrangement of the Parsonage’s rooms at Charlotte’s disposal, and she soon encouraged him to take the parlour with the best aspect and light for his study, while choosing for her own workroom a small chamber at the distant end of the house, where he might be less inclined to disturb her as she sat over her accounts, or hemmed curtains, or apportioned out the day’s work between herself and Mrs Brown.

  Their life settled into a pattern; Thursdays to Saturdays, Mr Collins, with much throat-clearing and frowning, would write his sermon for Sunday, often coming to Charlotte’s door to read her extracts. At first, she paid close attention, thinking he sought her opinion, but he simply required approbation; so it was easy to nod with every indication of approval, even if it meant that by Sunday she could have entered the pulpit and recited his sermon by heart herself.

  Sundays after church were usually given to the pleasures of Rosings, where they drank tea and listened to Lady Catherine’s minute examination of the sermon, and suggestions for improvement. Charlotte was sometimes tempted to ask whether her ladyship envisaged her husband repeating the same sermon each week, but with the embellishments put forward by his patroness, but held her peace.

  Monday was ostensibly Mr Collins’s day of repose,
but Charlotte insisted that such rest was best taken in the form of healthful exercise, whether joining (and sometimes interfering with) Mr Brown’s work in the garden, or walking abroad. On days when the weather made outdoor excursions impossible, she encouraged him to refine his plans for redesigning and gravelling the garden paths, refashioning the shrubbery, and shifting the palisades fencing the meadows. Tuesdays and Wednesdays he went about the parish on pastoral business or did the work of poor relief, leaving Charlotte to get on with her domestic duties, and by Thursday he was once again attending to his sermon. They dined at Rosings at least twice a week, and although her husband found these visits far more thrilling than she did, the difference in their station in life (of which Lady Catherine could be relied upon to remind them) meant that she could benefit from this hospitality without anxiety about reciprocating it.

  She soon grew popular with her husband’s parishioners because she did not meddle, but attended to suffering and want promptly, effectively, and quietly. She had no interest in lecturing the recipients of her charity, and the care of their souls she left entirely to her husband. She did not hector like Lady Catherine, who was assiduous in sallying forth into the village to scold the cottagers into harmony and plenty, but focused instead on practicalities, tactfully drawing her husband’s attention to cases of real need or tied cottages in need of repair.