Page 64 of Introducing Mrs. Collins
He took a deep breath before continuing, ‘I told you I wasn’t afraid of going back, because that used to be true. But that was afalsehood. I am now afraid. I fear the loss of you – the hours, days we might have had. I have not been accustomed to any particular connection in this world. I am, I think, generally well liked and at ease with most – but there has been no one I want to live for. Until you. And now, I find I am not ready to go. Not now.’
He looked straight ahead, afraid of her reaction. She didn’t know how to express the emotions that rose within her at this speech – or, indeed, if she should say anything. Instead, she brought her hand to rest on his, where it gripped the edge of the log.
Eventually, when Charlotte remarked that she would soon be missed at home, they roused themselves to leave the wood; at the prospect of returning, there came a tension between them again. It was not easy, as it had been at Pemberley. Their first touch there had been like a spring uncoiling or water bursting forth from a valve – urgent, unstoppable, no question of when or how or whether it should cease. But now, that initial spark released, they were realising this was something deeper that neither knew how to navigate yet – or when or whether they should.
Fitzwilliam raised her gloved hand and kissed it tenderly. ‘I shall return here tomorrow and every day if I can.’
‘I will try, also,’ Charlotte said simply. She felt tears spring to her eyes. ‘But what will we…’ She faltered. ‘What can come of this?’
He put his hand on one side of her face, feeling the cold of it, and held it there, stroking her cheek. ‘I wish I had the answer. All I know is this: I want to know every part of you. I want to be as close to you as I am able. I want you. But that is all nothing if you do not share the same feelings.’
‘I do share them.’ She shook her head in frustration. Her practical mind could not simply give in to the moment, even a moment such as this. ‘But that is not enough. What of my marriage? What of God? What of our future?’
They both paused, considering that unholy trinity of obstacles, which were almost too great to contemplate.
‘I know not,’ he said. ‘I have no answer. If you wish to stop this now, I understand why. And I will honour whatever you choose – I swear it.’
In the end, she answered her own question. ‘I do not want to stop seeing you. I cannot. If God made me capable of love, then it must be his will that I find it. Even if I left it later than most.’
Colonel Fitzwilliam looked into her eyes searchingly, his brow furrowed with curiosity. ‘Love?’ he asked.
She nodded.
His features relaxed then into an expression of warm, easy delight – as if the summer sun had shone on his face.
Charlotte reached up to kiss him – which he returned with energy.
After a few moments, he stopped to pull her gently to him. She nestled her head under his chin, and he whispered, ‘Love,’ into her ear, like a secret shared between them.
CHAPTER IX
‘Your modesty does you credit, sir, but I must be allowed to offer what I consider a well-deserved compliment on your execution of the cotillion. A fine example of precision, while wholly devoid of undue flamboyance. As clergymen, we are tasked with a role that is, at times, a difficult one to balance, but I congratulate you on treading that line between what is diverting and what is dutiful with uncommon finesse. Or, if I may use the word, with elan.’
‘I thank you, Mr Collins. It must be said that one could not dance finely without a fine dance partner.’ At this, Mr Smithson gave Charlotte a rather obsequious little bow.
She had in fact found the dance rather exhausting, due to Mr Smithson’s incessant questions. He had asked about Mr Collins, about how they had met, about her family, about Lady Catherine and Anne de Bourgh and the Darcy connection and her friendship with Elizabeth. One would think he were writing a chapter inDebrett’s, and Charlotte bet to herself that he wished he could note some of it down with a pen. What an odd character he was turning out to be, she thought: well-liked, seemingly, in the village, harmless enough perhaps, but she could not make him out. He seemed to indulge her husband excessively, which, though obviously not an evil in itself, led her to wonder at his motives, for it was not only her husband that he indulged.
Mr Smithson was already crossing the room to linger close to Lady Catherine, who soon bestowed her attention on him. Theyhad quite a rapport, those two, which made Charlotte nervous somehow. Was it that he seemed to be replacing her husband in Lady Catherine’s affections and that Charlotte feared how such a loss would affect her husband? That was part of it perhaps, but not the whole.
Lady Catherine’s decision to hold a ball for the New Year had been a highly surprising decision; she had not thrown such an event for many years and disliked large crowds of people, especially when they might disturb the order of her house. This much Charlotte knew. She also knew that, a few weeks prior, Mr Smithson had mentioned to Lady Catherine that he had never been to a ball before. He had spoken also of the grandeur of Rosings and what a shame it was that such a pearl was left unseen by so many who might admire it. His sycophancy hit its mark, and Lady Catherine sent out invitations within the week. Charlotte realised that her husband had unwittingly taught his curate a great many lessons – and not all of them liturgical.
Rosings looked splendid, decked out in all its finery for the occasion. The cavernous rooms, which Charlotte had always thought rather gloomy and foreboding, were now transformed. Enormous chandeliers blazed with light overhead, and candles set in gleaming wall sconces brightened every corridor. Tonight, the house had taken on a dreamlike softness; white fabric was swathed across mirrors, and giant urns filled with greenery and trailing ivy sat in the corners of every room. The musicians, seated at the far end of the ballroom, were attired in coats richly embroidered with gold, while many of the guests had chosen to dress in jewel tones in keeping with the season. Charlotte marvelled at the gowns of emerald, sapphire and rich ruby red.
Charlotte herself was in white; she had chosen it in the hope of blending in, white usually being such a popular choice for a ball. But she had not anticipated that so many other guests would wear such vivid colours. For once, quite unintentionally, she stood out.
She loitered now, on the side of the room, watching Colonel Fitzwilliam talk to Anne de Bourgh. Miss de Bourgh’s presence had caused something of a stir. She was so rarely seen in society that even a ball thrown in her own house had not guaranteed her attendance. Yet here she was, looking more at ease than ever. She and Colonel Fitzwilliam were fitting dance partners; Anne could not manage a fast reel, for she would soon be out of breath, but she could move steadily through the more sedate dances. Fitzwilliam, for his part, could step with care, but his leg would not permit him to jump or skip. They had therefore stood up together more than once, grateful for the other’s limitations.
Charlotte felt a little jealous. She would have liked to dance with Fitzwilliam, but they were both aware of the risks; while it would not be improper to dance with him, she feared their mutual regard would somehow be noticed. Presumably because of the same caution, he had not asked her.Which is wise,she convinced herself; in this of all places, she should look to her husband.
She observed Mr Collins now, queuing for a glass of punch. He was humming along to the tune of a jig, tapping his foot and glancing around the room, an idle smile on his face.
Charlotte berated herself, not for the first time.What sort of woman are you, that you can betray him like this?
She found it impossible to reconcile the person she had always believed herself to be with the one who was now acting so recklessly, so selfishly. When she reflected on how cursed she must be for her actions – when she allowed herself the indulgence of self-censure – she saw Collins in her mind, as he appeared before her now: a blameless innocent. That was not a true depiction of him – he, like anyone, was capable of hurting others – but no matter his faults, Charlotte knew for certain he would never betray her in the way she was betraying him.
Yet she had not stopped. She had continued to meet Fitzwilliam whenever she could these last few weeks: a snatched hour here, amoment in the street, a shared look across the church. Christmas had come and gone, and at a time when others pulled their family closer, she had pulled away from her husband and even been disappointed that the festive period limited her freedom to roam. There was no defending it.
And yet, she knew why she was doing it: because it hurt not to. Because she felt like she had unlocked a part of herself that had been buried. Because she felt, after years of duty and modesty and sense, an irresistible desire to be a little daring. Because, after months that had encompassed trauma and loss and shock, it felt like a kindness to herself.
