Page 62 of Introducing Mrs. Collins
‘No, I know, it is only… I am sorry to greet you at such an hour. But – I do not know when I will next see you…’ Fitzwilliam spoke urgently but quietly.
‘You… you cannot come in.’
‘Of course not; I do not ask it.’ He lowered his voice yet further. ‘I do not want to cause trouble for you. I only wanted to say goodbye.’
Charlotte opened her door further.
He looked at the long plait that fell over her shoulder and onto the edge of her white nightgown and thought about stepping over the threshold, loosening it, putting his hands through that thick hair and pulling it back—
‘Colonel?’
His mind jumped back. ‘When we return,’ he continued, ‘I know that we will see one another in company. But this cannot be the last time I see you alone. It must not. I ask you now, Charlotte. Will you meet me again?’
She hesitated. This was not sensible. It posed a great risk to herself, and it had the potential to cause great hurt to her husband and her family. She was not given to rash courses of action based on nothing but feeling. She had never been led by her feelings. Never.
Perhaps,she thought,it is about time.
CHAPTER VIII
Fitzwilliam put on a long, thick greatcoat and set out, with his walking stick, from the back doors of Rosings. He could now walk, albeit uncertainly, without the stick, but on the uneven terrain of the gardens and the woods beyond, he thought he had better be sensible. In this, at least.
Winter had arrived in earnest – mid-December had brought cold rains and bitter winds, but none of this had deterred Colonel Fitzwilliam from venturing out on his daily walks through the grounds. Lady Catherine and Anne found it puzzling, but as they saw it, a wounded soldier, a little lost without his purpose, must be allowed some quirks. He never invited anyone to join him, and luckily nobody in the household had any inclination to.
He made his way past the rose gardens, through the orchards and across the sweeping expanse of lawn – then, just as he was about to turn back despondently, disappointed not to have found his quarry, he decided he would push on just a little farther. He did not usually venture into the thick woodland that sat on the farthermost patch of Rosings land. This was due to his last vestiges of self-preservation; the steeply rising peaks and sudden drops in the wood, all of it darkened by rhododendron bushes ten feet tall, meant it was a hazard, even to someone who was being as stubborn as he.
But today he did go in, making his way carefully over fallen pinecones, twisting roots hidden by fallen leaves; he was glad of hisstick. A few minutes in, he saw a glimpse of something through the trees – or someone. A flash of blue.
‘Hallo there?’ he shouted.
There was a sudden stillness; then he heard twigs snapping underfoot and saw Charlotte emerging through the trees, coming towards him. She walked quickly and with purpose. Her face was a little ruddy from the cold, and her hair was messy, blown about by the wind. She looked wonderful to him.
He spoke first. ‘I have been hoping to see you.’
She did not reply immediately. They had not met since leaving Pemberley, two weeks earlier, and formality had crept back during that time apart.
‘I, too,’ she said simply.
‘I have taken walks with, frankly, suspicious frequency, in the hope that I might happen upon you,’ he said, with a nervous laugh. ‘The effort has been in vain, until today.’
‘I am glad you found me.’
They stood a few yards apart.
He looked around the dense wood, squinting. ‘I am surprised I did. This has all the hallmarks of a good hiding place.’
She grinned. ‘True.’ She mimicked his movement – looking all around. ‘I find a peculiar charm in this place.’ She turned to one side and beckoned. ‘Shall we walk? Can you?’
He nodded and offered her his arm, which she took gladly, as much for his support as her own. ‘You have walked here before then?’ he asked.
‘I have. Many times. I like the secrecy of it. It feels unexplored. And I know I won’t be disturbed.’
‘Until today.’
‘Today, I wished to be. I allowed myself to be found,’ she said impishly.
As they picked their way through the trees, they spoke of this and of that: their respective journeys from Pemberley, the healthof their households, the bitterness of the weather. Fitzwilliam, in truth, would have picked up where they left off and kissed Charlotte where she stood; but he sensed that she needed space – some small retreat before anything more could be ventured.
‘May I ask you something?’ said Charlotte.
