Page 66 of Introducing Mrs. Collins
As the music began, she took his hand, and they moved together seamlessly.
They did not speak during the dance. It was difficult to feign small talk when they enjoyed rich conversation in private. And they dared not speak freely in case they betrayed a detail or a level of intimacy that could be overheard. And so they danced quietly, glad just to be near each other. Their steps aligned with natural ease, and they fell into rhythm with one another and with the other dancers.
Charlotte had never felt elegant during a dance; her height often made her feel ungainly, and her steps always seemed heavy. But now, she felt… graceful. She knew that she and Fitzwilliam were dancing particularly well together; she felt eyes on them, onlookers watching and smiling. She knew what they were doing was dangerous, foolish, and this attention should be unwanted. But her only thought was:Let them look.If she enjoyed how firmly he held her right hand behind her back, while they promenaded smoothly, she hoped it was not apparent. If he gazed at the fall of her shoulders as she skipped away from him, he trusted it was not noticed.
But it was. Not by everyone assembled, but by someone with a keen eye, who observed from the other side of the hall. At this very moment, that gentleman’s eyes were narrowed in speculation, though he turned his face back politely as he resumed his conversation with Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
4th January 1813
Dear Charlotte,
Let me, for the sake of clarity – and all that is romantic – first state that I am very happy in my marriage and blessed in my position and that I am as much in love with Darcy as ever, etc. But now, that achieved, may I also declare that I miss you intolerably!
As much as I am enjoying my time with my husband, I cannot help but mourn the loss of our delightful November days. Being removed from my family home, and especially since Jane has married, I miss having such kinship at close quarters. Having you near reminded me of such sisterly comfort. It is a shame, indeed, that friendship should have to make way for matrimony. But to have good friends to stay was a balm indeed; I feel rather proud of myself for having manufactured such an excellent scheme, and I hope we shall do it again soon.
I do not wish to draw your mind to unwelcome thoughts, but I wanted to inform you that Wickham has been censured by superiors within his regiment. He cannot be demoted without drawing attention to his specific actions (and thereby to ourselves and to you), but he will never rise to any rank beyond where he is now; both Darcy and Fitzwilliam have set about ensuring this. He will soon be in Spain, so he will at least be put to some use. It is small consolation, but to know he will never truly thrive makes me glad.
It is a unique situation we are in. We must support them financially, or Lydia – and any children that follow, and I bet that will be soon – would fall into ruin. But he must be humbled in some way. Therefore, it has been a difficult balance. I hope we have done right.
But tell me, how is Mr Collins? And how do you fare? I heard that Lady Catherine held a ball. Were you invited? We were not, and quite pointedly so! She invited Georgiana, but not Darcy! Can you imagine?She is wilful and petty as ever, but her attempts to offend only serve to divert me. If only she knew.
Ah, it is a comfort to write to you. I wished to write cheerfully, but I know you would wish to know the truth: that my father is very unwell. You may have noticed in November that he was a good deal changed. I had thought it was the shock of Lydia, etc. and that he might recover, but now I think on it, he was not truly well before that occurred. He is thin now and easily wearied. Jane assures me he is being tended to. He has seen Bingley’s physician – a good one – but they cannot detect anything. Jane keeps me well informed; she is at home with them often, as Netherfield is so near. We do not know how it will go.
I am to travel to Longbourn to stay with them next week, and I think I will be there for some time, so you may write to me there.
Your loving friend,
Eliza
CHAPTER X
A week after the ball, Rosings was back to its usual state – still grandiose as ever, but darker, quieter, even peaceful. It was rendered especially so since Lady Catherine and her daughter, along with Mrs Jenkinson and several staff, had decamped to London for a fortnight. The reason for this was ostensibly for Lady Catherine to see a particular physician, but her true motive was rather more intriguing. At the ball, Miss Anne de Bourgh had caught the eye of a certain Lord Chartwell – a respectable, genteel man in his forties – and his affections had been returned. January was not the ideal time for courtship, being outside of the social season, but Lady Catherine wished to move swiftly in the hopes of securing him.
This past year had seen a happy change in Anne’s condition and in her disposition. How this had come about was not known; she had seen fewer doctors than ever and certainly been bled less often. And yet, she walked outdoors more and had regained her appetite. The states of panic that used to rule her seemed to come less frequently, and that, in itself, made her less prone to them. Anne was on an upward cycle, which her mother was loathe to interfere with but could not help but take advantage of. Lady Catherine had long grown reconciled to the idea that her daughter would live alongside her at Rosings in respectable spinsterhood, but she had recognised the change in Anne, and acted upon it. Her design in throwing a ball had not been to satisfy the whim ofMr Smithson, as Charlotte had thought, but to display her daughter to a generation of eligible men yet to meet her.
It was a successful scheme; there was much interest, and, after sifting out the mercenary, the dull and the poor, her daughter had found Lord Chartwell. He was a handsome, wealthy widower, with a fine reputation, three estates and still a good head of hair.
This was an opportunity not to be wasted. The carriages were packed, their London residence prepared, and they departed within the week with plans to linger – with dignity, naturally – in the vicinity of an eligible man. Lady Catherine had done it before and it had worked then. She had no qualms about repeating the scheme for her daughter.
Meanwhile, Charlotte was eager to renew her visits to Rosings to practise the pianoforte. Preparations for the ball had so far delayed the possibility, but on the day after the household had departed for London, Charlotte headed to the great house and the staff, who knew her well by now, let her in the back door without fuss, as she wished.
As she made her way up the stairs discreetly, she could not help but wonder whether she would encounter the colonel. She did not think it very likely, her being tucked away upstairs, and he being, presumably, occupied downstairs. But it was possible, and while it was not her intention on this visit, she found it hard to erase him from her thoughts.
She arrived at Mrs Jenkinson’s room and, making her way to the small pianoforte, she removed her coat and bonnet, placing them to one side. She peeled off her gloves and lay them on the top of the instrument.
Leafing through the music in the cupboard, she found a sonata in C sharp minor by Beethoven, a piece she had enjoyed playing a number of times before. It was slow and sombre, well-suited to deep winter, but also rich and romantic to her ears. She placed the sheets on the stand and sat down on the long piano stool, arranging her skirts and making herself comfortable.
Her fingers found the keys as though no time had passed and, as the melody built, she allowed her eyes to close; she knew the notes well enough now not to need the sheets. She lost herself in the music, her body swaying with the movement of the melody as she felt herself drawn in by something deep and instinctive.
As she approached the middle section, she opened her eyes and saw Colonel Fitzwilliam standing in the doorway, openly watching her. She was not startled by it; perhaps she had felt his eyes on her. She kept on playing, enjoying the sensation of being observed while indulging in this passion.
He slowly moved towards her. She did not look at him but at the keys. He sat next to her on the stool, and she paused.
‘Keep playing,’ he whispered gruffly in her ear as he leant closer towards her. ‘Please’.
She did so, and as her fingers found the keys, he moved closer still to kiss the back of her neck, his arms moving about her waist. She struggled to continue, her breaths coming faster now. He could sense the growing excitement in her, and it served only to increase his own; his hands gripped her tighter; his kisses became more urgent.
As her hands rested on the final chords, his own heavy hands touched hers, pressing between her fingers, until they clutched together at the keyboard. She turned to him then, and he kissed her, lightly at first and then with increasing urgency. A dissonant chord sounded as she mashed the piano keys, before pulling her hands away and threading her fingers through his hair, hungry for him.
