Charlotte

by Helen Moffett

  She stopped again. Was it enough? Had she gone too far? What if Lady Catherine took it upon herself to write to the Darcys on the subject? Lizzy would never forgive Charlotte for interfering in a matter so painful and personal. But it had to be done.

  ‘There are many reasons to delay – merely delay, nothing more – our transfer to Longbourn, many unexpected benefits and advantages.’ It was time to spread the butter. ‘For one, although he would bear it bravely, it would cause Mr Collins extreme grief to leave Hunsford, Rosings, and yourself. Where will he ever find another benefactor so generous and active, so interested in his fortunes? I include myself in that grief, Lady Catherine. The thought of being distant from all that is beloved here is an evil indeed. To take possession of Longbourn would be cause for congratulation, but no less commiseration.

  ‘It would be an act of kindness to keep Mrs Bennet safe in the comforts of her own home and all that is familiar at this trying time of her life; but it would also allow her daughter, Mrs Darcy, the tranquillity of mind – and body – that might be necessary to safeguard the succession of Pemberley. Once that is assured, we can reconsider the matter of the tenancy.’

  I did my best, Eliza, she thought, as she sat back and exhaled. Silence once again, broken only by the ticking of the handsome clock on the Adam mantelpiece. Charlotte was aware of Lady Catherine’s scrutiny, of something like sour amusement in the older woman’s mien.

  ‘You are a shrewd woman, Mrs Collins. Mr Collins did well the day he married you. Speaking of whom, is he apprised of your scheme to delay his enjoyment of his legal inheritance?’

  ‘Indeed he is, Lady Catherine. But I have said nothing of Mrs Darcy’s situation to him. I left that matter until such time as I could discuss it with you, trusting in your feminine discretion. But I know that if you throw your weight behind my suggestion – one which has the best interests of not one, but three families at heart – we might persuade him together.’

  Now she was convinced she saw a faint smile. ‘Very well, Mrs Collins. Your argument concerning an heir in the Pemberley nursery is unanswerable. I will support this lunatic scheme of yours, at least for a year or two. We shall discuss it further, but let us agree, for the time being, that after we have both spoken to Mr Collins, he should write to Mrs Bennet with this proposal. And then we shall see.’

  She reached for the bell alongside her chair and snapped her wrist, clanging its silver tongue once. ‘Let us have Blake fetch the good brandy from the cellar. I believe we should drink to the memory of Mr Bennet, to the future of Pemberley, and to the health of your family, Mrs Collins. Your friends and relations have an asset in you. I commend you for that. And it has not escaped my notice that my daughter – she returns from France next week – relies on your company, too. We shall not lose you to Hertfordshire just yet.’

  CHAPTER XXXV

  THE NEXT EVENT OF NOTE was the return of Anne and Mrs Jenkinson to Rosings. While the latter was sadly haggard and reduced by her spell abroad, the change in Miss de Bourgh’s appearance was marked. She was pleasingly improved in plumpness, but most startling was the brownness of her face, in which her eyes were much brighter and her teeth flashed like piano keys. She also seemed possessed of new energy, her steps and movements lacking in their habitual languor. Fortunately, her mother cared for nothing beyond her daughter’s improved health, and took full credit for the excursion, now deemed to be her idea. There was talk of such a trip becoming an annual event, and perhaps even finding a companion younger and a better traveller than poor Mrs Jenkinson.

  Charlotte’s first encounter with Anne after her return was at dinner at Rosings, on which occasion they could not speak other than in generalities of their respective eventful summers. But soon came an invitation to meet in the hothouses again, ostensibly so that Miss de Bourgh could show Charlotte the new plants she had brought back from the Mediterranean.

  It transpired that the heiress had stayed several weeks with the French nuns on their island, before decamping to Nice, then roasting in all the glare of late-summer Provençal heat. Here she had spent the days in a cool stone pension, reading, writing, and trying her hand at sketching: ‘You can scarcely have an idea of how poor my efforts were,’ she assured Charlotte when the latter expressed an interest in seeing these attempts.

  Early in the mornings, in her plainest gown and pattens, she would visit the local markets: ‘Such a press of odour and colour and noise!’ Amid the clatter of hooves and boots on cobblestones, and the honking of doomed geese and ducks, she would purchase such delicacies as white peaches and goats’ milk cheese, and make her breakfast as she wandered, sometimes adding a tin cup of rough red wine to her repast.

  Once Mrs Jenkinson had retired for the night, which she often did early, perpetually felled as she was by the heat and her charge’s generous offerings of laudanum, Anne would venture out to explore, dressed once more as a man. This stratagem had enabled her to visit taverns and other watering-holes of dubious repute, where any queries were met with a hoarse mutter identifying the speaker as an English native unable to converse in French – a necessary pretence to foreclose discovery. Charlotte marvelled at her companion’s boldness, but Anne waved aside her concerns.

  ‘You would think, Mrs Collins, that this involved risk, that I was placing in jeopardy if not my virtue, my modesty,’ she said, extracting a tin from a pocket and liberating a small cheroot, which, to Charlotte’s amazement, she lit and puffed at. ‘An Englishwoman abroad at night, unaccompanied, in the insalubrious quarters of a foreign city! But not even eavesdropping exposed me to anything really dreadful or dangerous.’

  Waving her evil-smelling cheroot, she admitted to curiosity as to what men discussed when the gentler sex was absent. ‘How disappointed I was! I found that they are the dullest of creatures. My understanding of colloquial French might be imperfect, but I heard no exciting tales of striving, exertion, or battle, whether with forces of nature or other men, no accounts of travels and travails, of broader vistas and horizons. Barely even any mention of emperors and empires, the rise and fall of nations. Instead, an endless litany of complaint: against their employers or employees, their fathers or brothers, their spendthrift or sour wives, their ungrateful children. You never heard such – whining. It put me in mind of beagle pups. So there you have the mystery that is men explained, Mrs Collins. Wholly self-absorbed and possessed of a sense of grievance that the rest of the world does not share their sense of self-importance.’

  Charlotte, although by now laughing, felt she had to spring to the defence of the stronger sex: ‘Nay, how can you say so, Miss de Bourgh? Think of the good men you yourself know …’ Her voice trailed away as she considered the men of Anne’s acquaintance.

  ‘Precisely my point. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s charm does not alter the fact that he is entirely self-serving. My cousin Darcy, I would agree, is the very model of moral probity, but he might be more appealing if he were not so very serious and formal in his pursuit of goodness. And I hesitate to speak of your own spouse, Mrs Collins, but even as a partial wife you must own that his greatest virtue is his affection for you and his children. All that is good in his character springs from that source.’

  She stopped to peer at Charlotte. ‘Am I too frank? Is my lack of varnish discomforting? I certainly do not mean to draw you into marital disloyalty.’

  ‘No,’ said Charlotte, fanning the smoke away with a sprig of lavender. ‘No, it is not that. I might disagree with your judgement of the three men I do know, one intimately, but I do not feel compromised.’

  She hesitated. Could she speak of Jacob without betraying herself? ‘What gives me pause is that I came to know a man – no, a gentleman – at Pemberley this past summer. He was there to attend to the musical instruments. And when Sarah fell in the river, he saved her. No doubt this influenced my opinion of his good qualities, but I found him wholly sympathetic.’

  ‘So he told you no tales of hardship, no accounts of the various wrongdoings and injustices h
e suffered?’

  Charlotte paused, remembering the taste of warm milk and the servant’s head pillowed on rounded arms. ‘He did, once. But that was different,’ she said, seeing Anne grimace. ‘He was a Jew.’

  ‘Ah, that does indeed alter the complexion of things. It cannot be easy to make one’s way in the Christian world as a Semite,’ said her companion.

  The talk turned to more general matters, with Miss de Bourgh congratulating Charlotte on the accession of her family to the Longbourn estate, although, as she was quick to note, this was a matter of the vagaries of fortune rather than calculation. ‘I commend you on your management of the situation: allowing the surviving Bennet females to remain as tenants, while maintaining your home here. But what really has my admiration is that my mother considers this an excellent plan of action. This leads me to all but suspect witchcraft on your part, Mrs Collins. Did our gypsy friends weave a spell, perhaps?’

  Charlotte laughed again, and demurred, and talk turned at last to matters botanical, in which she took a sincere interest: most particularly a new and creeping form of rosemary Anne had brought back from Provence, which she hoped might prove resistant to frost.

  A few weeks later, Charlotte heard at the front door more than the usual commotion that announced a visitor, and her husband’s astonished voice: ‘Mr Darcy, sir! You do us great honour! Welcome, welcome to our humble abode. My dear Charlotte, see what a great compliment is paid to us here! Mr Darcy has come to call. What civility! Come in, sir, and accept such hospitality as we can offer, although it will of course be nothing as to what we received at your hands this past summer, or the welcome that no doubt awaits you at Rosings.’

  This tide of words carried both men into the front parlour, where Charlotte joined them, deeply curious as to what brought Mr Darcy to their neighbourhood. After the bows and curtseys were performed, compliments exchanged, news of Mrs Darcy given, and enquiries as to the health of the Misses Collins made, their visitor explained that he had business in town, but had heard news concerning Longbourn he wished to have explained to him in person.

  ‘Is it true, Mr Collins, that you are deferring taking possession of the estate for the time being? My wife received a somewhat unclear account from her sister Mary, in which she indicated that by your good graces, she, her mother, and her sister Kitty are to remain in occupancy as tenants, with the bailiff to continue the management of the farm now that Mr Bennet has died. I confess I might not have given this puzzling story too much credit had I not received a short note from Lady Catherine conveying similar information. May I enquire, as one deeply engaged in the well-being of my wife’s family, as to its veracity?’

  Charlotte held her breath. This indeed was a test of her husband’s resolve. Fortunately, Lady Catherine’s assent to the plan, and indeed her speeches on the nobility and magnanimity thereof, had fortified Mr Collins to the extent that his enthusiasm for it now matched his wife’s. ‘Indeed, sir, every word of it is true. There is no need to turn a grieving widow and her daughters out of their home just yet. Let us allow some time to pass.’

  ‘But Mr Collins, legally, Longbourn is now your home. Possession of the estate would allow you the life of a gentleman; your family would rise in standing and ease.’

  Now Mr Collins looked a little crestfallen, so Charlotte thought it time to slip into the conversation: ‘Mr Darcy, all you say is true. But the income from Longbourn will come to us, and it is not forever, you know. Mary and Kitty might marry soon, and who knows how long Mrs Bennet may yet live? Besides, we are not so discontented with our lot here – the attentions of your aunt, the work of the parish and stewardship of our Parsonage – as to wish to quit it at the first opportunity.’

  ‘But you are uniformly gracious to concern yourself with such small matters, sir,’ cried Mr Collins. ‘We are grateful for your attention and advice.’

  ‘You give me too much credit, Mr Collins. Mrs Bennet is my wife’s mother, Elizabeth’s sisters are my sisters. Their happiness and comfort is very much my concern, especially at this time of bereavement. But still more important is the happiness and comfort of my wife, and I must own that at a time of great grief and distress, these tidings have made a significant impression on her. She speaks of nothing but your compassion and kindness. Mrs Collins, I have a note from her for you, in which I assume she conveys these feelings to you directly.’

  He drew a letter from his jacket and presented it to Charlotte, who hastily tucked it into a pocket lest her husband suggest she open and read it to them all.

  ‘I am glad to learn that Mrs Darcy takes comfort from our decision,’ she said, hoping to lead the conversation into a different channel. ‘And I am certain Mrs Bennet is greatly supported by the knowledge that she has good friends about her at this time.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Mr Collins, veering towards dangerous territory. ‘And think, in all the first distress of widowhood, Mrs Bennet need not give up her home to others, move elsewhere, find herself estranged from familiar scenes and faces.’

  Mr Darcy regarded them thoughtfully. ‘Mr Collins, yours is certainly not the usual response of an heir, and I would be sorry to see the legitimate process of inheritance disrupted. Are you not being too super-fine? Pray do not make such a momentous decision for the ease and convenience of my family. We could easily accommodate ten Mrs Bennets at Pemberley.’

  Her husband opened his mouth, but Charlotte was there first: ‘Oh, sir, do not mistake us for saints! We are, we freely confess, motivated as much by self-interest as compassion. The extra line of revenue will make our lives here more comfortable – we can employ a curate, and Mr Collins can pay more attention to his sermons and his writing, and matters of the land here at Hunsford. We mean no disrespect to the processes of the law, or to the conduct of our superiors, and intend to be guided by them in due course. But the suddenness of Mr Bennet’s death has taken us all off guard. There is no reason matters should not go on as before for a little time, while we all make our adjustments.’

  Mr Darcy nodded. ‘Very well. I shall write to my wife tonight to convey the particulars of your decision. Might I say once again that whatever the reasons that prompted such an unusual course of conduct, she finds it a source of comfort and ease, and speaks repeatedly of the kindness of your family. We are both indebted to you.’

  Happily, Mr Collins was so distracted by the notion of Mr Darcy being indebted to him, and so determined to contradict this point, his speeches took him all the way to the door to see off their illustrious visitor, with Charlotte obliged only to return his bows with her most gracious curtsey.

  As soon as she could, she repaired to her parlour to read Mrs Darcy’s letter in private.

  My dear Charlotte,

  I write in haste, as Mr Darcy leaves for London in an hour, and has just apprised me of his decision to visit you to seek clarity on the matter of Longbourn. I will be frank. I see your hand in this, my dearest and oldest friend. I mean no disrespect when I say that I doubt that Mr Collins would or could have dreamed up such a scheme. Delay taking possession of Longbourn? It is an act of such kindness, Charlotte, such thought and care of the feelings of others, as can only stem from your good heart. Depend upon it, I know that however united a front you and Mr Collins present, this proposal stems from your concern for myself and my family. When I think of the times my mother has been less than gracious to you, I am ashamed, and grow even more grateful towards you. Even if this plan does not come to fruition – Mr Darcy is dubious about it, and I cannot imagine how you got Lady Catherine to agree to it – know that I appreciate your kind efforts to spare my mother and sisters further grief and misery. And, remembering our conversations at Pemberley, I suspect you of wishing to spare me an added burden of anxiety, too. I have not spoken of this point in particular to my husband, and shall not divulge my suspicions that you are behind this plan to anyone else, not even my sister Jane; but I know she joins me in praising your true compassion and friendship at this time of sorrow. I send my co
mpliments and love to Sarah and Laura. I miss having children at Pemberley.

  God bless you,

  Yours, etc.,

  Eliza Darcy

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  EARLY AUTUMN WAS THE PERIOD most marked by industry and activity in Kent, and the fields were once again filled with travelling labourers, the women’s skirts bright splashes of colour against the pale stubble and golden grass of field and meadow. Carts trundled along the lanes, piled with sweet resinous-smelling hops on their way to the oast houses to be stripped, sifted, and dried.

  This was, as always, the busiest time of year for Charlotte. Everything in the garden and orchard seemed to ripen at once, and the tasks of digging potatoes and roots, picking and storing fruits, preserving vegetables in vinegar and currants in syrup, brewing perry from the first green pears, seemed Sisyphean. The tinkers were back in their field on the Rosings estate, and her friends there brought her trugfuls of berries, wild greens, or mushrooms wrapped in leaves almost every other day – much appreciated additions to the table, but also requiring preparation or preservation. Outdoors, Mr Brown and Mr Collins were active in the orchards and nuttery, while she, Mrs Brown, and Katie seemed to be in a permanent state of bustle as they shuttled between garden, kitchen, pantry, and cellar.

  The apples were ripening rapidly, and Charlotte had collected a bucket of windfalls for the pigs. Carrying it into the yard, she was suddenly intensely aware of the ordinary stink of animal manure, and had only time to turn to the nearest pile of straw before vomiting neatly onto it.