Page 92 of Introducing Mrs. Collins
She was not the sort to judge; she had seen enough of life to know that you cannot understand other people’s hearts. But she had been relieved when they moved, and with everything Charlotte had faced since, Brooke had felt proud of how she had handled it all.
When the bundle of letters from Lady Catherine had arrived, Charlotte had confided in Mrs Brooke only that they were from an old friend fighting in the war and that she was concerned for him. Brooke, rather daringly, had asked her if they were from Colonel Fitzwilliam – and that, with surprise at her intuition, Charlotte had confirmed.
‘Is it good news, madam?’ Brooke pressed her now.
Charlotte made as if to answer in the affirmative but then stopped. ‘Not entirely,’ she offered in its stead.
Brooke waited while Charlotte read the letter again, this time more slowly.Careful consideration– that is what was Darcy had asked of her. That was something she was able to give.
Folding the letter, she said, ‘He is not dead. So that is something.’
Brooke nodded. ‘Do you need me for anything, madam?’
Charlotte paused. ‘Forgive me – I think I will retire to my room.’
Sitting on her bed, she read the letter a third time – and she would read it again by dim candlelight before bed – the implications of it turning new cogs in her brain each time.
Her happiness at his survival was quickly surpassed by her grief at what had befallen him. At first, she resisted Darcy’s advice to leave him be; after all, he did not know the depth of their connection, nor did he understand Fitzwilliam as she did. How could he be sure what would be to his benefit? Surely, Fitzwilliam wouldimprove upon seeing Charlotte. Surely, she was exactly the tonic he needed.
But as she thought more and reread the letter, she began to concede. It was Darcy, after all, who had known his cousin all his life, and it was Darcy who had seen his current state.
She cast her mind to the lowest point in her own life – when she’d lost her baby and, with it, some part of herself. In the aftermath, she had wanted nothing but space to grieve and to recover. She’d had no space in her mind for complicated feelings, not even for her husband, whom she could not comfort; she had shied away from a constricting sense of obligation and guilt at having denied him a child. She had not wished to see Elizabeth, disliking her own feelings of envy for her friend’s happy situation, and scorning any unwanted pity. And she had certainly had not a thought of seeing Fitzwilliam. The idea of romance, of love, of deception or regret, would have been all too, too complicated. It was not what she had needed. What she had needed was to find her way back to herself, on her own. And she had.
She pictured Fitzwilliam as Darcy described him: scarred, dishevelled, unsmiling. She then thought of Pemberley, vast and quiet, offering him space and refuge. She imagined him there, among the grounds he had loved, with his oldest friend and hers – with the cheerful company of Kitty, Georgiana and Eliza’s delightful baby. She thought and thought until her brain ached and sleep overtook her, the letter still clutched in her hand.
By morning, when she awoke, the candle had burnt down to the quick, and she was still in her day dress. She rose, folded the letter and placed it carefully in her drawer. She splashed her face, smartened her hair, adjusted her black dress, made her way to the study, and wrote a reply – aftercareful consideration.
CHAPTER XII
‘Beware, beware – Mr Cardew approaches,’ Mrs Thacker whispered into Charlotte’s ear.
They stood together in one corner of the assembly room in Meryton, Mrs Thacker in a vibrant blue dress and Charlotte in her black. She had been a widow for nearly six months and had become rather comfortable in her mourning attire. She held up her fan to hide her smile and shushed her companion.
A confident, dark-haired man of around thirty stopped in front of them – tall, thin and very well dressed. He bowed low and for too long – long enough that Charlotte almost asked if he were quite well.
As he rose, he set his eyes squarely on Charlotte. ‘A pleasure to see you again, Mrs Collins.’
‘And you, sir. Pray, how are you settling in?’
‘Very well, I thank you. Meryton has much to offer, and business is brisk, but the change of pace from London is welcome. I must say, you are looking very well indeed, Mrs Collins.’
Both Charlotte and her companion’s eyebrows rose at this impertinence, given her situation.
But the truth was, Charlotte had never looked better.
In the last few months, once recovered from the first sharp shock of loss, Charlotte had steadily bloomed. It seemed, even to her, rather inappropriate, but it was hard to deny. Her complexion had evened, her hair grown fuller, and a little added weightgave her a softer, more becoming shape; her countenance, too, was calm and content. Combined with her new position as the mistress of Longbourn, this made her a most eligible prospect for marriage among the gentry of Hertfordshire – and any man of sense would not wait until her mourning period had ended to start paying court.
Mr Cardew was such a one: an ambitious barrister, recently moved to town. With his eyes on a good prospect, he had met Charlotte before – and seemed rather taken.
‘I hope I may tempt you to dance the next?’ he asked.
‘A rather bold hope, Mr Cardew. I am sure you know that it would not be proper for me to dance. But, considering the number of young ladies here, I am sure you will not have to look far for a partner.’
‘I will settle for an inferior partner for now, Mrs Collins, but I must say that I look forward to dancing with you on a future date.’
Charlotte could think of little to say that was not blatantly rude. She had no intention of promising him any future dances, so she settled for: ‘The future is such a long way away.’
He looked a little confused, it not occurring to him that he was being rejected. Instead, he took his leave and made his way across the room to a Miss Long, who had no idea she was a consolation prize.
