Page 65 of Introducing Mrs. Collins
But what of all that? She was an adulteress. She did not think too deeply about the sin of it or of going to hell; her faith was not so dramatic. But she did think of Mr Collins, who had pulled her from an unwanted spinsterhood, who had arranged his home for her, made room in his life for her, and who loved her as well as he could, even though she could not love him.
It was not a passing thought but had been a constant stream of inward dialogue over the past few weeks. The guilt was a part of her daily routine now. It was her morning prayer and her afternoon indigestion. It accompanied her on walks, sat next to her at church and invaded her dreams at night. Shame was her solid companion, and she did not wish it gone, because when guilt left, she would know she had truly lost herself. She might not have integrity, she thought, but at least she still knew what it was.
As the Rosings ball wore on, a whirlwind of country dances, gossip and punch, Charlotte found herself standing in a group with her husband, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Anne de Bourgh and Mr Smithson, who had danced all but one of the dances, with an array of ladies. It had not gone unnoticed.
‘You have been lucky to find so many willing partners, Mr Smithson. You must be very persuasive,’ said Miss de Bourgh playfully.
Mr Smithson smiled smoothly, replying, ‘I have no particular ways, madam, but I presume ladies feel that having a man of God as a dance partner renders them relatively safe.’
Charlotte wrinkled her brow. ‘Safe? From what, sir? Being trodden on? Because I have known more than one wrong-footed vicar.’
Smithson did not laugh with her. ‘I meant, safe from any unwelcome attentions and from any questions about her reputation.’
Colonel Fitzwilliam joined the conversation, adding, a little provocatively, ‘I think you do yourself a disservice when it comes to the latter, sir. You are a young, fine-looking man. You are as likely to stir a heart as anyone here tonight, and gossips will find your position in the Church only adds to the intrigue.’
Smithson gave him an odd, piercing look. ‘Perhaps you know more of such matters, Colonel. I would bow to your knowledge. I lead a simple life here in Hunsford. You must be finding yourself quite at home here, by now.’
Colonel Fitzwilliam felt the sting. Smithson certainly knew how to rankle people and he had hit the spot with Fitzwilliam. Since he had been able to walk, albeit still in pain and with an unsteady step, Fitzwilliam had felt the weight of guilt for not having returned to the front. Being practical, he knew that until he could march for miles, every day, there was little purpose in turning his steps in the direction of war. But the shame still weighed on him, and he felt too much, in that moment, to respond to Smithson – Smithson, who had never taken up arms or set foot on foreign soil, whose hands were soft and whose legs were unbroken, able to dance every dance with ease.
‘It has not been his home of late,’ interjected Miss de Bourgh, who seemed oblivious to the tension. ‘It is not so very long ago that we got him back from Derbyshire.’
‘Ah yes,’ replied Smithson, looking now at Charlotte. ‘With Mrs Collins.’
Charlotte glanced at Fitzwilliam briefly, then looked squarely at Smithson, ‘With my friend, Elizabeth Darcy, and Mr Darcy and his sister.’
Mr Smithson nodded. ‘I kept your husband company in your absence, Mrs Collins, and helped with any tasks that might otherwise have gone unattended while you were away, lest you should be concerned.’
Charlotte stared at him, aware that he now seemed to be turning his sharp claws to her. ‘I was not worried. I know my husband to be both capable and understanding.’
‘He is very understanding,’ said Mr Smithson boldly.
Mr Collins was studiously looking into his glass of punch.
‘I thought it a little odd that a wife would go so far away, without her husband,’ continued Mr Smithson, ‘but he has explained to me that you are rather… independently minded.’
Charlotte looked at her husband.
He knew he must say something. ‘I said…’ Mr Collins faltered. ‘I said that you enjoyed your solitude, my dear, and were very adept at taking care of yourself, which I admire.’ He smiled at her, seeking assurance.
‘A very understanding husband. How lucky you are,’ said Smithson to Charlotte. He was relentless.
She regarded him with a cool and measured gaze. ‘I am blessed, sir.’
Miss de Bourgh, who had been rather distracted during the interchange, looking across the room at one of the other gentlemen she had danced with, now re-entered the conversation, saying blithely, ‘Oh, a cotillion is starting! Look, they need a final couple to begin. You must retain your record Mr Smithson – you cannot miss this one!’
‘Gladly, Miss de Bourgh, if you would honour me,’ he said, bowing low.
‘Oh, I had not intended…’ Miss de Bourgh was reluctant – not merely from fatigue but from possessing just enough of her mother’s snobbery to baulk, ever so slightly, at the prospect of dancing with the local curate. ‘I am not well enough to participate at this moment, sir, but I thank you. You danced so well with Mrs Collins earlier; perhaps she will agree?’ She shifted her question from Smithson to Charlotte, expectantly. All eyes were on her.
Charlotte, not wishing to cause a scene after what had already been a needlessly tense conversation, acquiesced. She passed Anne her fan and shawl and began to walk towards the other dancers, bracing herself for further interrogation from her partner.
When she was just a few steps away from the formation, Mr Smithson, who had not moved from his spot, quietly uttered, ‘I will forego this dance. I hope you will forgive me.’
He backed away towards the other end of the room, but Charlotte, not having heard him over the general hubbub of the dancers, was surprised when she looked back and found he had not followed her. She was all confusion and so did not immediately retreat back to her circle. Instead, she looked around the room frantically, eventually spotting him at a distance next to Lady Catherine.
Charlotte became suddenly aware that she was now standing up alone, without a partner, and the sensation of exposure was swift and mortifying. Her cheeks flushed with colour; she saw the other dancers looking at her awkwardly, wondering what she planned to do. Mr Collins was slow to react and, if anything, embarrassed by Charlotte, and he beckoned her back to him like a dog.
Instead, it was Colonel Fitzwilliam who walked forward boldly and took his place proudly next to her, readying himself for the first step. They turned to face one another, and as she curtsied in answer to his bow, she tried to convey gratitude in her eyes. But he either did not see it or did not require it; this was not a favour but, rather, the opportunity he had hoped for all night.
