Page 39 of Introducing Mrs. Collins
She opened her mouth and shut it again. The answer wasno. In his current circumstances, he was not free to make his own choices: to freely marry or take a home or leave his position. But none of this was cheering or helpful, so Charlotte said instead, ‘I do not know that any of our lives are our own. We are all subjects to circumstance, are we not? I, for example, might wish to join the army, but I am not allowed.’ She was being playful again.
Colonel Fitzwilliam smiled at this. ‘I have said it before, and I maintain that you would excel in the army. I can see you looking well in regimental dress.’
He was lost in that picture for a brief moment, then struggled to regain his train of thought, but Charlotte was already moving the conversation forward briskly. ‘So,’ she summarised, ‘you would wish for a modest house, with a green drawing room and a mantelpiece, and you would live there with your horse?’
‘And, God willing, a wife!’ he added defensively. ‘I do not plan to make my life with a horse!’
Charlotte laughed. ‘Well, you have only mentioned the horse!’
‘Well, that is because I already know my horse.’ He was pensive for a moment. ‘Yes, a home, with a wife, and…’ He tapered off for a moment.
‘And children?’ suggested Charlotte– it seemed the natural missing piece from the picture he had painted.
He considered and replied, non-committal, ‘Oh. Yes, perhaps. I would be glad to have children, if they came. But I do not value the prospect of children as keenly as I do the prospect of companionship. And I have never had that desperation for legacy that some men have – my brother being one… But who knows! All of this may be nonsense, Mrs Collins. As I said at the start, how can I know what I want when my only experience of life is what I have lived?’
Charlotte wrinkled her brow in scepticism. ‘That is not as unique as you think.’
‘Living an army life?’
‘No, I mean, that we all of us are limited in our scope. None of us know the full breadth of experience that the world has to offer. But we may still make an educated guess at what we want and strive to achieve it.’
He listened to her attentively and nodded, then seemed to turn in on himself. ‘It is not always possible to live the life you wish,’ he said, with some degree of melancholy.
Charlotte looked at him in his damaged state and did not begrudge him such a gloomy statement. He had earnt the right to it, she thought.
‘Mrs Collins, you must play for us,’ came the invitation – or rather instruction – from her hostess across the room. The great favour that Lady Catherine had bestowed on her, in letting her use the piano, had to be repaid somehow, and one publicperformance seemed a fair price for the privilege. But Charlotte felt the weight of Lady Catherine’s expectations – as if the hours spent practising on this instrument ought to be on display here, as proof of her hostess’s magnanimity. It was the first time most of the guests here would have heard Charlotte play, which added another pressure, if one were needed. Nervously, she rose and made her way to the piano.
She sat and considered what she could play, and play well. She decided on an andante movement by Pleyel – the mood in the room did not feel as if it would suit a sudden burst of lively music. She played it with feeling and felt pleased with her performance.
As she finished, her audience applauded, but Lady Catherine called out, ‘That was very good, Mrs Collins, but I know you have much more to show us. Play again. I would enjoy something rousing.’
In truth, Charlotte was glad of the push. She acquiesced to the request and, after a moment, settled on an elaborate sonatina by Clementi. With runs and trills and fast arpeggios, it was a fine showcase for her.
If she had been able to look out while she was playing, she would have seen the reactions of her audience: Miss Anne de Bourgh was delighted; Lady Catherine was smug, taking some of the credit for this; Colonel Fitzwilliam looked as if he were in awe of her, and Mr Collins wore a peculiar expression on his face. It might have been shock; it certainly was not joy.
Early on in his acquaintance with Charlotte, Mr Collins had a feeling that they were a fine match – and an equal match. His sense of worth was now innately tied to his marriage; he had found his place in life and been accepted. He had always believed that he and Charlotte were on a similar plane, physically and intellectually, and that was a comforting thought.
As he watched his wife play, he did not feel that comfort. He did not recognise her. This poised, assertive woman was a vision, undaunted by entertaining a room of high-born people in a housesuch as this, with a talent he had had no idea she possessed. She was radiating energy, joy and purpose, all while carrying his child. She was splendid, and her splendour shook the foundations of his peace of mind. Whereas another man might have felt only pride in his wife, for Collins, this feeling what mixed with something much more disquieting.
What he felt was:She is beyond me.What he felt was:I will not be able to keep her.
1800
MAIDENHEAD
William Collins walked the mile from the vicarage to his home in the centre of the town. For three years now – since he was ten – he had been having lessons twice a week with Mr Poulteney, the vicar, with four other local boys. Mr Poulteney was a kind, highly educated man of about forty, with an interest in many things beyond the scripture. Those he taught were local boys who might go on to be farmers, soldiers, shopkeepers or work in service. He therefore did not waste his time or theirs teaching them what boys at Harrow or Eton would be studying. He could not resist teaching them a little Latin but did not go beyond the basics:amo,amas,amat, and a few fun phrases for them to throw in to impress a stranger. But he did teach mathematics, as well as botany and geography – skills that might be applied broadly and which were useful in all walks of life.
With some help from his wife, he even taught them some simple country dances. It was quite a sight: thirteen-year-old boys self-consciously holding one another’s hands in a square formation, walking in a circle around a vicar’s small drawing room. William had a feeling his father would not approve of this activity, and fearful he might somehow catch wind of it – or worse, see it! – he always chose to bow out of the lesson, standing at the side and claiming a bad leg. He was short for his age and had no skill for sport; in times outside of study – when the boys would run or tussle or shout well-meaning insults at each other – he always felt a little out of place.
He made up for it in his studies. He learnt the Bible very well, having an unusual capacity for memorising verses. He also hada fine hand for sketching, which was nurtured by his tutor. Mr Poulteney had given him sheaves of paper, expensive paper, to draw studies of the plants and flowers from his garden that they were learning about. His botanical drawings, unlike his peers’, were intricate, more like art than science; they were carefully shaded, using a mixture of a soft and heavy touch of the pencil.
One afternoon, his tutor gave him his drawings to take home to show his father, and some blank pages besides to fill in his own time. William felt proud of his work and pleased with the gift; such paper was a real luxury.
On entering his home, he could see his father through an open doorway, sitting in the front room. It was neither a study nor a drawing room, containing both a desk and an old settee, and the family had always simply called it the ‘front room’. The house only consisted of five rooms in total so they each needed to perform overlapping functions. There was no room in the house whose sole purpose was repose.
His father was seated behind the desk and seemed to be leafing through some letters, emitting angry grunts, a heavy frown etched into his forehead. The fire wasn’t lit. No fires in the house were lit, despite the chill. Recently, William had formed the impression that his family were poorer than they had been a few years previously, but he did not know why. He knew that Eton used to be talked of for him, and no longer was. He knew that the house used to be warm, and no longer was. He knew that his father used to smile at him, and no longer could.
Since his mother died, his father had changed. He had always been serious, but now he was surly. His temper could rise at the drop of a crumb from the table. He would snap at the maid and dismiss visitors boorishly. But then there had been some callers who were very unfriendly, arriving late at night, and whom William had overheard making demands of money – and making threats. His father had not been boorish with these men, insteadpleading quietly for them to leave. William did not like seeing his father desperate and decided he preferred him boorish. That preference came with its limits, however.
