A Chance at Happiness

by Meg Osborne

  A Chance at Happiness

  Meg Osborne

  Published by Meg Osborne, 2018.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  A CHANCE AT HAPPINESS

  First edition. May 11, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Meg Osborne.

  ISBN: 978-1386688341

  Written by Meg Osborne.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By Meg Osborne

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Also By Meg Osborne

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  “Of course, Lady Catherine, it is no trouble whatsoever!” Mr William Collins smiled obsequiously at his patroness before turning an identical expression on his wife. Where his sycophancy won him the reluctant affection of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, such bowing and scraping did little to endear him to his wife.

  Must he nod his head quite so frantically in agreement with Lady Catherine’s every word? Charlotte Collins - nee Lucas - thought, striving to keep her expression blandly agreeable and her true feelings hidden. He looks like a demented marionette!

  This picture struck Charlotte as amusing and almost before she could prevent it, a snort of laughter escaped her lips. The gathered party - Mr Collins, Lady Catherine and her daughter Anne, who Charlotte had hoped for a deepening friendship with, but as yet rarely secured time with her without her mother in tow - turned to look at her curiously.

  “Is something the matter, Mrs Collins?” Lady Catherine asked, peering at her through a pair of elegant, but decidedly impractical, spectacles. “You are not sickening for anything, I hope?”

  This whisper was accompanied by a distasteful sneer and the hurried movement to put some distance between Lady Catherine and her hosts.

  An idea sparked in Charlotte’s brain, and she turned the corners of her lips down, fishing in her sleeve for a handkerchief, which she theatrically lifted to her nose.

  “Alas, I fear I may be, Lady Catherine.” She sniffed and was rewarded with the sight of her guest flinch and attempt to back away still further.

  For good measure, Charlotte engineered a sneeze.

  “Dear me! I seem to be worsening with every passing moment! Do not fear, though, I am sure this is nothing so contag-ag-agious!”

  A quite spectacular sneeze made every person present jump, and Mr Collins turned towards his wife with something resembling interest, if not quite concern.

  “Ought you to remain here in the parlour with us, my dear, if you are....” He pursed his lips. “Indisposed?”

  “Perhaps you are right, husband,” Charlotte said, making a show of dabbing at her eyes. “I do not wish to share my ill health with everybody in the whole house! I could not abide our guests becoming unwell...”

  This suggestion was all that was required for Lady Catherin to rise swiftly to her feet and tug a reluctant Anne after her.

  “Good afternoon!” she called, practically running from the small parsonage. “We will call again once you are fully recovered, Mrs Collins. Do take care, now!”

  “Oh, Lady Catherine!” Mr Collins hastened after her, waving his own, unsoiled, handkerchief as if to provide evidence that he, unlike his wife, was quite hale and hearty and might indeed wish to retreat with them from a house of sickness and continue their visit at Rosings. The carriage was closed and ordered on its way with such haste, however, that Mr Collins’ shoulders sank and he returned quite dejectedly to his wife’s side, surprised to find her health rather restored, and frowning with suspicion at the shaking of her shoulders that seemed, to him, to suggest amusement, rather than feverishness.

  “Perhaps I ought to repair to my study,” he suggested, after a moment of consideration. “If you are unwell, doubtless you would not care for my company.”

  “As you wish,” Charlotte said, scarcely able to prevent a sigh from escaping her lips. It was not that she particularly cared for her husband’s company, for he was neither intelligent nor interesting, and rather more capable of irritating than engaging his wife in conversation. Not for the first time she wondered at her own wisdom in securing this particular match. You knew who it was you married, she reminded herself, drawing her shoulders up and refusing to give in to despair. Such a claim cannot be made by many a bride. Yes, she had known Mr Collins’ flaws in advance of his virtues, which, were there any, he continued to keep hidden beneath several layers of silliness that his new wife had only just begun to uncover. But she had not quite understood how challenging she would find them to live with. No, she did not long for her husband’s company in the parlour that afternoon, any more than she had longed for that of Lady Catherine de Bourgh and her daughter’s. But she longed for...someone. Poor Charlotte was lonely, which fact had never entered her calculations for marriage. She had wished for independence from her father’s house, and becoming Mrs Collins had enabled that, but she had never realised just how greatly she would miss her family or her friends. In Hertfordshire, she knew many acquaintances and was known, equally. She might run along to Longbourn and visit with Lizzy and Jane, or make the journey to Meryton just as easily. Here, despite being married to a Curate and thus central to life in Hunsford, she felt friendless, and even the promise of a new home was hollow with nobody to share its pleasures with.

  A sigh must have escaped her lips, for she found herself under scrutiny once more from her husband. This time his simpering smile was gone, and instead of suspicion, there was a glimmer of concern. Before she could wonder at its existence, however, William Collins opened his lips and spoke. He was himself once more.

  “Did not Miss Anne speak well this afternoon? I dare say the two of you are fast becoming close confidants.” He beamed. “And such affection can only raise us in dear Lady Catherine’s estimation.”

  “I recall her speaking but half a dozen words, and even then not altogether,” Charlotte said, unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice. “And as for us being good friends, if you think that, Mr Collins, I fear you do not understand friendship at all.”

  If he took some offence at this, her husband at least had the grace not to act upon it, and she was quite surprised to hear his voice soften as he spoke again.

  “You are homesick,” he mused. “Of course, I ought to have recognised it before now. It is quite a change for you, to live in the shadow of so great an estate as Rosings, and to associate so often with such an elevated figure as Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” He clapped his hands, as if applauding himself for having a great thought, and leaned forward to impart his wisdom. “Perhaps, my dear, you might care to invite a friend to stay with us. Surely there is one lady -”

  “Elizabeth Bennet.”

  Charlotte’s answer had been given even before her husband had finished making his offer. His eyebrows raised at both her eagerness and her suggestion.

  “Elizabeth Bennet! Really?” He laughed a silly, affected little laugh that ordinarily grated on Charlotte’s nerves, but that afternoon, with the promise of guests she actually desired to see, she scarcely heard him. “My cousin Elizabeth. Well...” He seemed poised to refuse, and Charlotte leaned forward, clasping hold of one of her husband’s hands with both of hers.

  “My dear husband, I have asked so little of you since our marri
age. Please do not deny me the chance to see my dearest friend once more. I know that you have had your differences in the past, but is it not important to forgive one another?”

  Mr Collins drew himself up, smarting at the notion that his wife felt the need to offer him spiritual direction. The words had had their desired effect, though, and he awkwardly patted her hands with his free one.

  “Quite, quite. No doubt she will be eager to see you, too, for I have always thought her to be quite sparing with her affections. No doubt she is bereft without you, and I fancy a visit to Hunsford would be quite restorative to both of you. Elizabeth, then. You must write at once and invite her.” He paused, eyeing his wife carefully. “But only if you are sure her presence will not cause your condition to worsen. Perhaps you ought to take some air, for I wager you appear rather flushed at spending so much of the day close to the fire.”

  She was so delighted at his agreement, and at the promise of a visit from her dearest friend, that Charlotte leapt to her feet immediately, intent on obeying his suggestion. It was even on the tip of her tongue to invite him to join her until she managed to stay the impulse.

  “I will go now,” she said, retrieving her shawl. “And leave you to your sermon, husband. I wager you will be so occupied that you will scarcely notice my absence.” And I shall be so happy to write to Hertfordshire that I will not even care to notice yours!

  AND RAM BEGAT AMMINADAB; and Amminadab begat Nahshon, prince of the children of Judah...

  The long list of genealogies blurred before Mr William Collins’ eyes, so that he could scarcely tell who begat whom and cared still less. With a sigh, he pushed the large, elegantly lettered bible away, pausing just a moment to rest his fingertips upon the gold-edged pages in reverence. He ought to attend with all faithfulness to his sermon, he knew, for it would be heard by a small but worthy parish, and reflected upon at length by Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Yet it did not seem to matter how much or how little attention he gave to the preparation of his sermons, or their delivery. His patroness was always poised to find fault.

  And should such fault-finding surprise you? A familiar voice echoed in his head. This was the voice that had plagued him at Cambridge and taunted him when his suits had been rejected out of hand by his cousins at Longbourn. It was in this voice that Lady Catherine’s criticisms repeated themselves to him, often in the early hours of the morning, when he lay awake, or on afternoons such as this, when his work was dull or dreary or otherwise difficult. It was his father’s voice, and it seemed to him a cruel twist of fate that even once the elder Mr Collins departed this earth for his future glory, his voice remained behind, an everlasting reminder to his only son of how far he had fallen short of his father’s hopes in almost every respect.

  Shaking his head, as if doing so would shake off the invisible critic that lurked within his own mind, William looked back over his notes, re-reading them and ordering them into some sort of structure upon which he might hang the meat of his preaching. He could admire the orderliness of his annotations, which was something, at least. And his penmanship! Why, he had toiled many hours to improve his penmanship and now, when he took the time to concentrate upon it, it was quite neat indeed.

  The disembodied voice of his father had opinions enough about pride in such abilities, and in frustration, William laid down his work, and rose from his desk, striding towards the window. He would return to his work later when he was better suited to focus on it and less prone to distraction.

  Idly, he watched the path of the wind through the trees that bordered his land, and at length, his eyes rested upon the figure of his wife as she set out on her walk, a course that was becoming habitual, now that the weather began to turn a little away from the worst of winter. He felt the fleeting urge to rap sharply on the window and arrest her progress, to call after her and ask if she desired some company upon her walk, to offer himself as an escort. He did not do any of these things, however, and as Charlotte turned a corner, fading from view, he let out a small sigh, wondering what her answer might have been, had he been brave enough to ask whether she wished to spend a little time together. They had known each other but a short time, and been married still less, so that he quite often felt as if the new Mrs Collins was still a stranger to him. He wondered if she felt so uneasy around him. Certainly, she never appeared so. In fact, her quiet confidence had been the first thing that had endeared Charlotte to him. She had intimated, when he had chanced to call upon her father, that, should he consider her worthy of marriage, she would not reject such a suit. It had seemed providential to him, that, after failing so completely to secure a wife from amongst his cousins, another amiable young lady would appear almost out of nowhere. And, intent on proving to both himself and his cousins that he cared little for Elizabeth Bennet’s good opinion, he had been more than happy to propose marriage to her friend. It was his responsibility, after all, to marry, as Lady Catherine de Bourgh had made quite clear prior to his visiting Hertfordshire, to begin with. As a lady, she clearly understood these matters far better than he might, and he certainly had not been looking forward to returning to Hunsford and confessing that her one directive had not been achieved. How happy she had been, then, to hear upon his return that he had secured an engagement to the elder daughter of Sir William Lucas! No, not happy. Lady Catherine was rarely happy, but certainly, William dared to think she approved of his changed status, and when his patroness had called on the newly-weds, soon after he had brought Charlotte home to Hunsford, she had been suitably charmed by his sensible, neat little wife. She is no feather-brain, sir! Lady Catherine had remarked, upon leaving. At the time he had taken the words for a compliment, but upon reflection, he wondered if there was more to her comment than mere observation. He had known Charlotte to be sensible, but might she be clever also?

  Turning away from the window, he regarded his book-cases, which groaned under the weight of many worthy volumes. He had constrained his library to books that might be useful, for education or correction. He sighed. Fordyce’s many lectures might be some help in counselling his parishioners onwards in the way everlasting, but the man could offer little advice in how to win the affections of one’s wife, was she predisposed against one.

  “It matters little,” he remarked aloud, and the sound of his own voice, against so much silence as had become oppressive, deterred him from melancholy. What did it matter if his wife tolerated, rather than adored him? Was it not better to be joined thus, so as to better work out one’s salvation with fear and trembling and without the distraction of affection? He turned back to his bible once more, flipping away from the interminable list of Israel’s kings. Lady Catherine’s suggestions were only that, after all. She did not demand he preach precisely upon the passages she highlighted. He would find something a little simpler for that particular Sunday. Perhaps one of St Paul’s epistles, for that great man’s words were far easier to apply directly to his parishioner’s experiences...and to his own...

  Humming an off-key rendition of one of the good old hymns his dear patroness preferred, he lost himself once more to his work, and all considerations of his wife, happy or not, flew from his mind. His father’s voice was not quite so easy to dispel, but, with concentration upon a greater voice than even the dear departed Mr Collins’, he found that even the habitual narrative of criticism and contempt receded into the background.

  Chapter Two

  Fitzwilliam Darcy was not fond of London. Indeed, he remained in that loud, bustling city only at the behest of his old friend, Charles Bingley. Or, rather, at the behest of Bingley’s sister. Caroline was fretful for her brother’s health, and when Darcy had raised the suggestion of returning to Pemberley, she had grabbed hold of his arm, digging her fingers in like claws, and pleaded with him to remain.

  “I dread to think what poor Charles will come to without you here, Mr Darcy! Please, you cannot think to leave us!”

  Darcy opened his mouth to say that he certainly could think of it, and afforded his
friend a little more credit than the notion, pushed by Caroline Bingley, that poor Charles would go to pieces at the news that his friend wished to return home. Something in Caroline’s manner stilled his tongue, however, so that all he could bring himself to do was to pat her, awkwardly, on the arm, and strive to extricate himself from her grasp. He might content himself to remain a little longer, he promised, until he could be assured of both Mr and Miss Bingley’s comfort and adjustment from their sojourn in Hertfordshire.

  Hertfordshire. Therein lay the problem, after all. If only Charles Bingley had not taken possession of Netherfield Park. If only his sister had not pushed him into it! If only none of them had crossed paths with anybody named Bennet. Darcy scowled. If only, if only.

  There was a knock at the door to his study, startling him from his reverie.

  “Yes?” he barked, with more ferocity than was necessary.

  His butler stepped lightly into the study, well used to Darcy’s moods and manners, and no more cowed by the abrupt summons than if his master had bid him enter with warmth and affection. The man did not press him into conversation, merely presented a note for Darcy’s consideration, before nodding politely and retreating, with nary a comment.

  Darcy glanced at the note, half-expecting to see the flowery script of Caroline Bingley herself upon the missive, for since their joint visit to Hertfordshire, and their conspiracy to extract Charles from Hertfordshire before he did something they would all come to regret, Caroline had begun to act as if she and Darcy were more than mere acquaintances. Her admiration for him had never been particularly well hidden, but lately, her words seemed forever tinged with meaning as if she were playing some game with him to which he did not know the rules.

  Writing to him unbidden, however, would have been a step too far, even for the most brazen young Miss, and Caroline Bingley had sense enough to restrain herself from acting in any way improperly. This hand was not hers, although it was familiar. Turning the letter over, he squinted at the seal, his heart sinking as he recognised his Aunt Catherine’s signature. True enough, as he smoothed the letter out, the letter’s author was evident from the very first address.