Page 88 of Introducing Mrs. Collins
She picked up the top letter and began with that.
15th December 1813
Dear Mrs Collins,
Forgive my belated reply to your last letter. I have had a great deal to occupy me of late. Anne is to marry soon, and I have had various issues to contend with. When two great estates unite, it is both a blessing and a curse – there is much to consider. I have great hopes Lord Chartwell will eventually agree they should settle at Rosings. His home, though sizable, and of a good lineage, is in Wiltshire, which, as I am sure you will agree, is not suitable. I do hope he will be sensible – I trust that Anne will be able to work on him, if she has learnt anything from her mother.
To the main purpose of my writing: I enclose some items that ought to belong to you. They were sent to Hunsford parsonage, but because that house sits empty, they were redirected to Rosings. I have kept them here. I have not opened them, but I recognised the handwriting on the address. I do not doubt that you will understand my reasons for keeping them from you but I hope you will understand why I now feel it is time for you to have them. I judged it all as best I could, and I hope it is for the best – or that it may be, in the future.
I hear that you are now mistress of Longbourn. I am very glad of it. If you ever need advice about the estate, I am willing to bestow it. But I do not think you require it.
Yours sincerely,
Lady Catherine de Bourgh
15th March 1813, Portsmouth
Dear Charlotte,
I write to you from the offices of the harbour in Portsmouth. You might laugh to see my state at present: quite far from the smart soldier you met at Rosings a year ago. I have been here waiting for a ship for some days, but until I am called to it, my time is my own. Therefore, I have let my whiskers grow long, and I have no access to a bath: I am aware I look and probably smell somewhat like a pirate, albeit a pirate with little gusto and sadly lacking in treasure. For now, I am taking advantage of the luxury – or, more accurately, the curse – of having no one to impress.
Forgive me, Charlotte, for writing to you. I know that you wished for silence between us, for both our sakes. I want to obey you. I want to make our parting as easy as it can be for you, but I feel like I cannot breathe, cannot think, without speaking to you, even if that speech is unanswered. I see things every day that I want to tell you of. I meet people whom I wish to introduce to you. I imagine you by my side, often. If it sounds as though I am losing my senses, I do think it is possible. Being here, on the edge of the land, alone, awaiting a journey that takes me back to hell, can drive a man a little mad.
The lady who runs my lodgings reminds me of my aunt, except that she has an income of about ten shillings a week (most of those mine). She is marvellously pompous – but pomposity sounds much better in the Hampshire accent. She disapproved of me at first, but I think I have improved in her esteem the last few days. She asked if I were running away from something, and I told her no. She didn’t believe me.
I have never been much of a scribe, but I think about Parker and missed opportunities. I do not intend to miss one again. And after all, not even the French can stop me writing a letter.
I hope the ship comes soon; although I am loath to travel farther from you, I have been in limbo since we parted, and I sicken of waiting for the next chapter. I think of you every moment.
Yours, always,
RF
16th April 1813, Lisbon
Dearest Charlotte,
We arrived at the port of Lisbon yesterday. It is as dirty and crowded and noisy as I remember it, and I greeted it like an old friend – an old friend whom you would not wish to see too often. It is run down but it still thrives: traders, labourers, soldiers, gentry, bustle in the streets, and if I wished to, I could attend a card party every day and a ball every night. It will not surprise you to know; I do not wish to.
I must look a little more like a colonel now and try to behave as one. With every salute and paper signed and route decided, I feel myself transforming once more into a soldier. I do not find the satisfaction in it that I once did, beyond the unimaginative relief of a return to the familiar. And yet even my jacket does not feel like a good fit any more. I used to find comfort in the manners of the army, in the rough company of men away from home, in the simplicity of being told where to go and whom to point a musket at. I asked to return because I hoped to find comfort in that once again. I do not thus far. I only find comfort in remembering you.
I know it is foolish to write, and a risk – to you, not to myself. I have always seen the threat I pose to your reputation and your future, even if I could not find the strength to break it off with you. But you, Charlotte, always stronger than I, did.
You asked me once what point there was in being together since our future was already written. I wish now that I had said to you: it is not written. It is not easy, but it is not without any choice. I should have said, ‘Let us go, now, away from here! Together.’ I wish I had fought harder for you.
Yours, always,
RF
10th May 1813, Freineda
Dear Charlotte,
Are you well? A small question, but the only one that occupies my mind of late. I sincerely hope you are thriving. I know you cannot tell me how you fare, and so I must imagine your answer. It is May, which suits you well, for I know you do not like the full heat of summer. You will be spending much time out in your garden in Hunsford, dirtying your hands and tending your flowers. St Thomas’s will be beautifully decorated by your hand, spring blooms everywhere. When I think of you these days, it is surrounded by flowers and in that white dress you wore at the Rosings ball. It is hard to imagine that colour out here – everything is stained with orange dust.
It has been an arduous journey from Lisbon to Freineda – some 220 miles. I travelled on horseback with two other senior officers – one returning from leave, the other from an injury like myself – all of us ordered to Headquarters to receive our command. We found the horses in Lisbon, but I think we were conned – mine went lame halfway, and after making the poor thing struggle on most of the way, I got off to walk the last few miles. My uniform got rather worn from that, and I repaired it with any fabrics I could find locally. But I am here now, safe if weary, a patchwork soldier with a useless horse. I do not know what I will do with him. I rather like him – a chestnut Arab with white socks. I have called him Achilles, as it was his heel that let him down. I don’t think I can stomach letting him go. Perhaps he will rally in time for our departure.
Wellington has now given me my command – I’m to lead a brigade, and I have been introduced to them. I was impressed. They have been drilled relentlessly through the winter, and any one of them is ten times the soldier I was when I first came out.
