Page 59 of Introducing Mrs. Collins
‘Shall we?’ asked Fitzwilliam, expecting a demurral.
Charlotte grinned. ‘Let’s.’
Upon entering the maze, Charlotte turned a sharp right, as he took the left. Charlotte got immediately lost, taking sudden turns, going back and trying again, and to no avail.
After five minutes, she heard him.
‘Where are you?’ came his voice, from some way off.
‘Obviously, I do not know!’ she exclaimed into the air, laughing a little, breathless.
‘I have found the middle!’
‘Good for you!’
‘It is very nice here; I recommend it,’ he said drily.
‘I would love to join you! But the hedge seems to want my company.’
‘I’ll try to find you!’ he called back.
She continued in one direction, then, finding a dead end, turned back. It was hard to believe that so small an area could cause her to feel so disorientated. Thick clouds had now covered the waning afternoon sun, and she felt rather cold. The tall hedge close around her cast the narrow paths into shadow, and even as she cursed herself for being foolish, she started to feel a little panicked. She was truly lost and had been for some time now.
She picked up her pace and called out again, ‘I cannot find my way!’ She felt foolish and a little desperate. She heard no reply.
Perhaps it was the sudden shade or the cold or an after-effect of her encounter with Wickham, but she felt suddenly emotional, and tears pricked her eyes. She was running in a panic now, turning corner after corner – until, taking one more left turn, she ran headlong into the chest of Colonel Fitzwilliam.
He grasped her arms, steadying her, then looking down and seeing her distress and her shivers, he wrapped his arms around her, gently cradling her head as she pressed it into his chest. She clung to him while her panic abated, appreciating the sturdiness of him. After a few moments, she was recovered, but she did not loosen her grip. She wanted to stay this close, or closer, to let him enfold her, to lift her up. She did not want to wait any longer. She did not want to hesitate.
She pushed just far enough from him to be able to look up and see his face. He was peering down with fierce intensity.
‘Charlotte,’ he said, almost to himself, his voice rough and low, tasting how her name sounded on his lips.
She grasped onto his jacket, holding him to her. She knew she had his attention and his affection and his protection. But was there more than that? Could there be?
His hair had fallen over his brow, and she brought her hand up and gently pushed it back, then let her hand fall to his neck. She stood on tiptoes and, rising up, pressed her lips to his.
He responded gently, politely – so lightly at first that she felt she had made a mistake. He matched her, but as she fell back onto her heels, he did not reciprocate. She looked down, embarrassed, and tried to pull away from him, but he held onto her.
In a strained voice, he said, ‘I do not want to hurt you.’ With one arm still around her, he brought a hand up to echo her own action and slowly brushed away a stray lock of her hair. She put her hand over his and pulled it down firmly and placed it on her waist.
Her breath was heavy, and she looked him in the eye as she replied, with a clear voice, ‘I will not break.’
She felt a change then. She felt the hand on her waist hold her tighter through the many layers of her coat and dress, his strong fingers clamping the gathered fabric into her skin. His other hand was behind her neck then, and with his fingers entwined in her hair, he pulled her face firmly to his, craning over to envelope her in a deep kiss.
Had Charlotte had the mental capacity to think about it, she might have considered that this was her first proper kiss: her first kiss fired by mutual desire. But she had not the room for reflection in this moment, she had only her instincts, which were strong and clear; she wanted to be as close to Colonel Fitzwilliam, in whatever way she could, as soon as she could.
She pulled at his lapels, grabbed at his hair as he tugged at her coat, impatiently undoing the buttons, then straining at the final one, which eventually burst off. The isolation of where they were was intoxicating: no onlookers, no coachman, no servant or eavesdroppers. They were half a mile from anyone, and anyone who came to find them would fail.
How they revelled in being lost. Her coat was on the ground, his jacket off, his shirt loose and neckcloth untied so that she saw the flush at the top of his chest. She felt his hand move down her back, drawing her still nearer to him. His mouth was now at herneck, seemingly as eager as she was, needing to find and touch every inch of her that he could see, and those he could not.
They both knew what came next – no need for words, only instinct. They both were thinking of skirts gathered, a shirt ripped open, the frantic need for something to lie down upon or press against. They might have. They nearly did. One moment more, and they’d have fallen to their knees on that cold ground – pulling, unfastening, casting off – had not a few drops of rain started to fall.
Just one or two at first – Charlotte blinked as a raindrop fell on her forehead and ran down into her eye. Heavier drops began to fall then, on Fitzwilliam’s chest or the back of Charlotte’s neck, more and more, marking the beginnings of a downpour. They acted to douse the fire that had consumed them, for long enough to give them pause – to really consider what was next.
His hands stilled; she pulled her mouth from his, and they stood, heads close, holding on tightly in the rain, breathing and staring, daring the other not to stop. But they were both too intelligent not to think of the consequences, now that their minds had a second to do so. Practicalities that a moment before had been swept aside now resumed their significance. The ground they were to use as a bed was fast becoming swamped. The coats that lay on the ground were getting drenched. They were expected back. They would be missed. They would be noticed.
A decision seemed to have been reached silently, and recognising a surrender of sorts, Charlotte flung herself into his chest, her head under his chin, in a gesture of affection over desire. Her arms encircled him under his jacket, and he put his around her shoulders, kissing her head. Locked there for a few minutes, both of them thought of all that had just happened, their brains fizzing with the unknown that was before them. Then they slowly unwound, retrieved their coats and started to make their way back.
