Page 86 of Introducing Mrs. Collins
Mr Noakes frowned, pausing before saying, ‘It led me to think you did not receive the letter from me. That is why I am here.’
‘Oh, did you send a reply? It did not reach me?’
‘Er, it was not a reply, but I sent it, er, around 16th September.’
Charlotte blinked, taken by surprise. ‘Oh. But that was so soon after—’
‘Indeed. I was informed by Dr Barton about Mr Collins’s tragic end, and so I acted quickly, assuming you would want to know where you stood as soon as might be.’
‘That was even before the funeral. I was in rather a stupor, as you can imagine.’
‘Oh, of course, I understand,’ said Mr Noakes, looking very uncomfortable with the conversation veering into the emotional. ‘If it has been lost…’
‘Oh, one moment,’ cried Charlotte.
She quickly rose and went to Mr Collins’s study, finding the pile of letters she had had abandoned days after his funeral. She leafed through them now, spotting one – poorly written – that was addressed not to Mr Collins but to Mrs Collins.
Taking it, she returned to the sitting room, tearing the envelope open. ‘Found it! My apologies. Shall I read it now?’
Mr Noakes craned over to look at the two sheets she had in her hand, then pointed at one of them. ‘This one, if you please.’
25th March 1813
My dear Charlotte,
I have instructed my attorney, Mr Noakes, to keep this and give it to you in the event of my passing – which, by God’s grace, will be many years from now.
It is a good time to put my affairs in order; there is a great deal of decision-making to undertake now Longbourn has passed to me, and you will receive from Noakes the particulars of all that in due course. (By due course, I mean instantly, alongside this letter – it should all be within the same envelope, God willing.) These affairs turn my thoughts to you and your future – both the one shared with me and that which you may live after I have gone – for that is the very foundation upon which all these decisions rest, the reason for their being.
If I am gone – as I must presume I am, should you now be reading this (what a curious enterprise this is!) – then I will take the opportunity to say what I, alas, could never say to you in person.
When first we met, I confess I took considerable pride in my powers of expression – in having just the right thing to say to the right person, and in my studied aptitude for giving small compliments. Since our marriage, I have come to realise that I do not have the gift for flattery that I thought I possessed, and in your company, I have more than once been lost for words. I should like to explain the reason for this, which is, in fact, twofold.
Firstly, because you see me with an insight that is both piercing and rare. I have felt your cool eyes appraising me – not always fondly, I have been aware, but always fairly. Of all things, you take the time to see me and know me, and I have felt grateful for it but unable to put on any pretence. I have felt, at times, unequal to you: your wisdom, your eloquence and your grace. But then, I knew I had uncovered a hiddenjewel almost as soon as when we first met. (I am sure you are sighing at such an artful phrase even as you read this.)
I have also been struck dumb, because how can I give you small, trivial compliments when the entirety of what you mean to me is so vast? How can I extol the particular shade of your hair, when your company brightens all my days? How can I compare your eyes to the colour of sea, when your counsel has led my life to be a better one? Flattery has become purposeless in the wake of what you have given me.
I know not yet whether we will be granted children in time to come. But, from where we presently stand in life, it seems not unlikely that we shall remain without. God saw fit to take one from us before it even drew breath, and He has not, as yet, seen fit to bless us with another. But I look at how good He has been to me, to bring me you, and I cannot make any complaint. I wish for your sake that I could have given you a family, but I thank you for carrying the child we had. And I pray for our future.
Longbourn is ours now, according to the entail, and I look forward to many happy years in it, by your side. If by some unhappy circumstance, those years are curtailed, I do not wish you to meet the same unhappy fate as Mrs Bennet and her daughters. Fortunately, it is within my power to ensure it does not. Mr Noakes will explain the details, but let me assure you, you will have a home here for your life.
For as much of that time as is with me, I will endeavour to make your life one of contentment and to keep you in comfort and at peace. For any years that remain after I am gone, I hope you find happiness.
I am more proud than I can tell you to have you as my wife, Mrs Collins.
Your most loving husband,
William
CHAPTER IX
Tears fell onto the page Charlotte was holding, causing the ink to run. Mr Noakes was rather alarmed by this, quickly fetching a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at the letter. ‘We, er, we do have a copy, but it would be better if, er—’
But Charlotte held the letter to her heart, ushering Mr Noakes away. She suddenly wished he were not here in this moment – such a message should have been received in private.
Her grief at Mr Collins’s passing had been accompanied by several smaller sorrows: for his suffering, for the swiftness of his decline, for the home they had created and would now lose, and for all that had gone unsaid. The manner of his death had robbed him of the chance to speak to her before he passed and left her no time to make her peace with him. But, with this, she had something like a goodbye from him – and she treasured it.
Mr Noakes’s hand was hovering near her letter, desperate to return it to a place of safety – a wallet or a folder of some sort. She would not hand it over, but she did dry her eyes. She read it again, this time with greater concentration on its substance and less shock at hearing from its author.
