Page 68 of Introducing Mrs. Collins
The sermon had finished, and after they had sung the final hymn, the congregation began moving towards the door. As she filed out, Charlotte passed the pillar where she and Fitzwilliam had once fallen against each other, and she had first felt his hands on her. She felt a rush of blood surge within her but also the swell of a deeper emotion.
For perhaps the most intimate moment of their union had come not in the heat of passion but afterwards, when they had lain for some minutes on the bed together. Charlotte had felt changed – not by Fitzwilliam but by herself. She had so often felt let down by her body: by its appearance, lean and neat, with nosoft abundance of flesh; by its failure to respond to her husband; by its slowness to carry a child and its readiness to part with it; by its inability to defend itself.
But then – this. How her body had danced. How it had moved, reacted and rejoiced. Her body worked! And how it worked. How it worked with his: in tandem, in harmony. She felt a new understanding of herself, and it was bold, and it was physical. But she wrestled with it. This was new.
They were not able to remain there long; Charlotte’s absence would soon be felt, and they were fearful of rousing suspicion among the staff. Charlotte, suddenly restive, rose and began to dress herself.
The light from the window shone brightly on her, casting her in silhouette before the colonel’s eyes. He gazed lazily at her and she enjoyed his stares.
‘You do not tire of the sight? You have seen it all now,’ she said mischievously.
‘I do not. I never will. You are beautiful.’
Her grin dropped at this. ‘I am not beautiful. You can flatter me without falsehood.’
He frowned, feeling stung. ‘I am not false. Why do you say that?’
‘I must say it, when you say things that do not suit me. To say I am beautiful is not—’ She hesitated as she pulled her dress back on. ‘You must have said that to other women, and perhapstheywere, but I need no such lie. I know you like me for what I am. I need no flowery phrases.’
He sighed gruffly. All had been well, and he did not understand how this outburst had been provoked. ‘Charlotte, I do not like you: I love you. And I do not lie when I say you are beautiful.’
‘I am a fully grown woman—’
‘Do you not think that grown women can be beautiful?’ he asked, exasperated.
‘I mean – this – what we have – is not… it is not because you are so handsome and you think me so beautiful. It ismorethan that; it has to be. It has to be worth more than that.’
For once, he did not understand her, and she didn’t entirely blame him. She was wrestling with her feelings and not conveying them clearly.
‘Are you suggesting,’ he asked, his face contorted in confusion, ‘that as long as you are plain, then our actions are less scandalous somehow? More noble?’
‘No, of course not. It is only… I must know myself, or I am lost! I am plain, and I had found peace with that. I am unromantic, and I had found peace with that!’
He was quiet at first, as though weighing her words. ‘You are neither. And you know it yourself.’
She offered no reply, so he continued, more softly than before, ‘You had not found peace with that. You told me that when we first met. Because you cannot have peace without passion. Some can; you cannot. Because you are passionate. And you are beautiful.’
Charlotte longed to go to him, to let his quiet reassurances wash over her – but she found she could not soften. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head vigorously, as if shaking a thought from her head, and walked swiftly to the door. After listening for a moment, she hurried through it and disappeared down the corridor.
He could not follow her at such speed, for he was not yet dressed. She had left him baffled and hurt. Their time together had been a blend of tenderness and fierceness that seemed to have suited them both. She had been giddy, happy, serene, but this reaction had stirred discord into their alliance. Their first argument, and he did not even understand what it was about.
He watched Charlotte from his window, striding out the back door, now in her coat and gloves, the wind beating against her,the turn of her lip stubborn against the bluster. God but she was beautiful. Why would she not hear it?
Outside the church, as Charlotte stood near Mr Collins, who was greeting the parishioners as they left, she saw Mr Smithson approaching.
‘Did you enjoy the sermon?’ he solicited, ‘It is one I introduced to Mr Collins myself.’
Charlotte answered as diplomatically as she could. ‘It is not a favourite of mine, but then I have never read many novels, old or new.’
‘But the lessons to be learnt from those words apply to the corporal world, not merely the literary.’
‘I am sure.’ Charlotte smiled broadly and excused herself, keen not to be drawn into her second sermon of the day.
She went back inside the church and began gathering up the hymn-books left in the pews, but a moment later, she was surprised by Colonel Fitzwilliam hurriedly stepping back inside.
He moved quickly towards her and handed her his hymn-book. ‘I almost left with it! Foolish! Good day, Mrs Collins.’
His eyes seemed to say more than his words did, and Charlotte, looking down at the book in her hands, saw that it was not closed fully, that some of its pages seeming to be folded. She had the quick sense not to investigate now, so, curtsying to Fitzwilliam and taking her leave, she took it to the vestry. There, she discovered a letter enfolded in the pages. She removed it, folded it tighter still and pushed it up the sleeve of her coat.
