Page 78 of Introducing Mrs. Collins
Charlotte thought about Mr Smithson’s time at Hunsford. Although she had disliked him, he had invigorated Mr Collins’s spirits. He was the only person she had ever known who had called on her husband at home, for no special reason beyond the social. ‘He was your friend,’ she said simply.
Mr Collins considered this, not sure whether he approved of it. ‘He was my curate,’ he corrected.
‘Might he have been both?’
After a moment of deliberation, Mr Collins nodded. ‘Yes. He might have been.’
‘And you miss him.’ Charlotte was treading carefully.
‘I merely wish to know whether he is well and how he takes care of the church.’
‘William, you should write to him.’
‘Perhaps. I suppose I could enquire about some clerical matters?’
‘You could, but you can also write to him purely to maintain the friendship. I would not like you to lose a friend.’
She did not sayyour first friend, although that is what she imagined he was. If Mr Collins had ever enjoyed a lasting friendship, he had never mentioned it. So while Mr Smithson was not the company she would have chosen for her husband, she would far rather he had a friend than not.
The next day, as she passed the study, she saw Mr Collins writing diligently and asked him what his business was.
‘I am writing to Mr Smithson,’ he replied with a sheepish smile.
She walked behind his desk and, placing her hands on his shoulders, gently kissed the top of his head. He reached up to put his hand atop hers and gave it a squeeze.
By the summer, Charlotte felt, as several people had commented,settled.
She had never had cause to so examine a word before. She had now heard it so many times and from so many different quarters that it had almost ceased to hold any meaning. But it was the right word. She had settled; but also, perhaps, she was settling.
Her decision to halt contact with Fitzwilliam had been supported in every way by the events that occurred around it – which, she reflected, rather lessened her achievement in doing the right thing. She hoped that she would have acted the same, no matter how things had fallen, but as it was, the death of Mr Bennet, coming so soon after their farewell, removed her from temptation. The inheritance and the business of moving to a new home was a useful distraction and a welcome one. It also felt like a sign; it seemed that she was always fated to be parted from him.
On her first night at Longbourn, she had been hit with a wave of grief: grief for the love she would not have, for the regret she held. She felt all the unfairness of not having met Fitzwilliam a year sooner, that she might have had a very different choice to make.
Also, simply, she missed him. She had not been able to conceal her sadness, but she could not reveal to anyone the reason for it. Elizabeth had comforted her, putting it down to the emotion of being once again removed from a home and starting anew. Darcy had noticed Charlotte’s red-rimmed eyes and, having some idea of their cause, been gentle with her.
And yet, after a little time, Charlotte strived to embrace those qualities that she had always prized in herself: stoicism, pragmatism, steadiness. She set about making Longbourn her home – an occupation she greatly enjoyed. She resumed her involvement with the church, this time free from the obligations and expectations that had accompanied her role as the rector’s wife. She was also pleased to learn about some aspects of managing the estate alongside her husband.
Charlotte was, she hoped, a determined person. And she had determined – resolutely – to shut off the part of herself that had been set alight in the last few months. That flickering, reckless flame, once welcomed, must now be extinguished, or at least carefully smothered beneath routine, propriety and purpose. She determined to keep herself from dwelling on that time or that man – or on the person she had then become. She determined to remember who she had been when she married, because that person had been grateful. That person had been content. That person hadsettled.
So, she now lived her life at a lower temperature and a slower rate. If she lacked fire, then she could be thankful not to be burnt. If she lacked speed, she was grateful never to trip. She saw her mother and her siblings with welcome regularity. She spent time with her friends. She embraced her new home. She cultivated hergarden. And she tended to her marriage, which was in great need of nurture. She turned her face fully towards Mr Collins for the first time in a long time and allowed him to truly see her.
She reminded herself that she had not chosen badly in accepting him. He was a good man, a gentle man, who worked hard and loved her. These things she held to – and week by week, month by month, she settled.
CHAPTER IV
‘She is here! Rouse yourself, Charlotte, she is here!’
Mr Collins was even more at sea than he usually was in the anticipation of Lady Catherine. For her to honour them with a visit, now that they lived so far from Kent, showed an unprecedented level of condescension that Charlotte found puzzling and Mr Collins found thrilling. They had received the letter two weeks prior, reporting her plans to visit her nephew in Derbyshire and to call on them en route. (Fortunately, her chaise, Mr Collins assured Charlotte, had such excellent suspension as to make the journey comfortable enough.)
That great lady arrived promptly in the early afternoon, and Charlotte and Mr Collins, in their best dress, stood outside to greet her. Unsmiling, as she always was, Lady Catherine descended from the carriage, looking up at Longbourn as if it were an old enemy come back to challenge her. She wore an expensive-looking but heavy gown, bordered with an immaculate lace trim.
They took her into the sitting room and Mrs Brooke brought in tea.
‘Good day, Brooke,’ said Lady Catherine, exhibiting her unparalleled memory for names – a skill she quite regularly, and audibly, congratulated herself on.
‘Good afternoon, my lady.’
Lady Catherine proceeded to make herself entirely at home, dismissing Brooke with a regal wave and assuming command ofthe tea-tray as if it were her birthright. The moment she had poured she took a sip of tea, though it must have still been boiling hot. She didn’t flinch as she swallowed. Charlotte wondered, not for the first time, what this woman was made of. Literally.
