Page 35 of Introducing Mrs. Collins
Just as he was considering leaving, he saw her, on the arm of her mother, dressed in ivory and with the same pearls, the same locks of fine blonde hair and that same smile. He resented that she looked the same: he knew that he did not. Ravaged by drink and regret, he was not the sunny boy she had met last year. They hadwritten to each other after her father’s refusal: loving words full of passion and sorrow. But ultimately, she had listened to her father and abided by his decision.
Now, she looked at him with such concern and compassion that it hurt his heart. He must look wretched indeed.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Russell loudly, seeing the girl look at his friend.
She heard him and turned away, back to her group. Fitzwilliam ignored him.
‘Come, who is she?’ asked Radlett. ‘That blonde piece over there – pretty. She’s an interest in you, Fitz.’
‘It is Miss Trowbridge,’ answered Fitzwilliam wearily.
‘Trowbridge…’ Russell seemed to be dredging some memory up from his drunken brain. ‘Eleanor Trowbridge! I’ve heard about her.’
Fitzwilliam frowned at him. ‘What have you heard?’
‘Quite a lot of fun, I think,’ said Russell lasciviously, raising an eyebrow and warming to his subject. ‘Made quite a spectacle of herself last season over someone, maybe a soldier actually – I’m not certain. They weren’t engaged, but I hear she has a light skirt!’
‘Ah, a shame. So pretty,’ said Radlett priggishly, ‘but no one will want a girl who’s lost her virtue.’
Radlett heard a sound beside him, like a low growl, and found himself pulled up by his collar and shoved against the wall, pinned, his feet only just touching the ground. Fitzwilliam held him roughly, saying nothing but pushing so hard against his gullet that Radlett could hardly breathe. Unable to speak, he grabbed at Fitzwilliam, pulling at his lapel, trying to break free, but to no avail. He remained suspended for a few seconds until, all at once, Fitzwilliam let him go. He slumped to the ground, bending at the knee, recovering.
‘What the devil, Fitz?!’ cried Russell, as Radlett got his breath back.
Everyone in the room was staring at the display, and there was a hushed excitement. This kind of event would be the talk of the season, and they were grateful to have witnessed it.
Fitzwilliam looked around the room and saw Miss Trowbridge staring at him, horrified. He looked back, trying to convey some meaning to her with his eyes – sorrow, apology, farewell – but she continued to look mortified. He heaved a sigh and, with bent shoulders, hurried from the room, taking no leave of his friends.
Late that night, upon returning to his barracks, he found he had torn his jacket in the skirmish. Looking in his kit, he found the needle and thread he always kept, but rarely used, and started roughly tacking the fabric seams back together. His mother had taught him to sew, much to the disapproval of his father. She had shown him running stitch, back stitch, tent stitch. She had told him to be slow and patient when his frustrated hands wanted to race. He did not easily get to grips with the intricacy of the task, and once, in frustration, had declared it was not a job for a man. His mother, though indignant, had laughed at her little eight-year-old proclaiming himself a ‘man’ so soon. But she told him that you needed strong hands to sew, which he had. She patiently, determinedly taught him this skill, saying that he should learn to take care of himself. She was already preparing him for life without her.
He looked down at his work and thought that she would not be especially proud of it. It was sloppy, rushed. He pulled out the thread and started again with a neater stitch. Once completed, he cast off and, happy with his work, put on his jacket. He thought about his mother. He thought about Eleanor. He thought about going to war, and he found that he was suddenly eager for it.
He would not have long to wait.
CHAPTER XV
It was late in September that Lady Catherine next invited Mr and Mrs Collins to dine with her, in a fairly informal setting – or as informal as dinner at Rosings could be. At the head of table sat Lady Catherine, who, as she often did, invited Mr Collins to sit at the opposite end – a privileged position which he relished. He did not let her down; before she had taken her seat, he had already remarked upon the grandeur of the table arrangements, the finery of her gown and even how perfectly suited the weather was, as if she might merit praise for having arranged that, too. Lady Catherine took his flattery in good grace, always appreciative of admiration and deference in equal measure.
Colonel Fitzwilliam sat next to his aunt, with Mrs Jenkinson on his other side, while Charlotte found herself placed between Lady Catherine and her daughter, Miss Anne de Bourgh, whom she had not spoken to for some months. Charlotte knew her to be about six-and-twenty, but she appeared younger, with fine wispy blonde hair, a thin frame and a very pale complexion – unsurprising for someone who seemed not to have set foot outside for as long as Charlotte had known her. Charlotte had often found her difficult to converse with, sometimes hardly uttering a word, but this evening, she was determined to bring her out. She had grown in confidence these last months and felt more able to urge a conversation, even a reluctant one. But as it turned out, her efforts were not required, as her companion spoke first, albeit very softly.
Charlotte craned to hear her quiet voice over the hubbub of dinner. ‘I’m sorry, Miss de Bourgh, I did not hear you.’
‘I said: you play extremely well, Mrs Collins.’
Charlotte looked puzzled, then said, ‘Oh! The pianoforte? Thank you, that is kind. I am very grateful to play on the instruments here.’
‘You are most welcome. It is a pleasure to hear you – I am in my rooms a good deal, so I heard better when you played on Mrs Jenkinson’s, but I can still make you out a little on the grand downstairs.’
‘You enjoy music?’
‘A great deal. I used to play – very well they told me – but I find it too tiring now.’
Charlotte refrained from asking her what ailed her, but tentatively asked whether it might yet be possible to play if it were for short periods only, urging that it would be a shame to let the talent slip.
‘You sound like my cousin,’ Anne replied, nodding at Fitzwilliam opposite. ‘He is the only person in this house who does not treat me like a flower threatening to wilt at any moment. If there is draught in the hall, Mrs Jenkinson believes it will blow me over.’
Charlotte pondered this for a moment or two. ‘You are – more robust than they think?’
‘Yes,’ said Anne, taking a moment to chew. ‘I will never be hearty, Mrs Collins. I was very ill when I was a child – they tell me I nearly died. But I am not so useless as they believe. My mother has never even let me dance,’ she added quietly.
