Charlotte Collins: A Continuation of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice

by Jennifer Becton

  Maria agreed perhaps too wholeheartedly. “Yes, quite handsome. And so tall.”

  “His uncle stands beside him. He is quite old indeed, and his attire is certainly not up to the standard of his nephew. His name, I believe, is Mr. Benjamin Basford.”

  Charlotte looked at the very old Mr. Basford who was probably not more than a few years older than herself, and although his dress portrayed a certain rawness not usually seen in an English ballroom, she found him to be handsome in a rather untraditional way. His hair was stylishly tousled, although she was certain that the wind—and not a valet—had arranged it. He seemed to find the ball to be very amusing and appeared to enjoy the attention he and his nephew had generated. His expression had a rather comical bent, and he did not appear to be a serious person. Charlotte disliked his smirk immediately.

  But Mr. Basford was insignificant. Mr. Westfield was the prize.

  “How charming they look!” exclaimed Maria.

  “Oh, they are!” Miss Farmington said. “Mr. Westfield is said to have a fortune awaiting him in America, and his uncle is apparently of no little means as well, although he certainly does not dress the part.”

  “Oh, how lovely. They are rich as well as handsome.”

  Charlotte too was pleased to hear that Mr. Westfield was of substantial means. If her sister were successful in making a match with him, she would have security, and if the dewy expression in her eyes were any indication, she might have love as well. Indeed, the situation was quite possibly ideal.

  The girls continued to speak about Mr. Westfield and Mr. Basford until Mrs. Farmington became bored and, claiming a parching thirst, bustled her granddaughter away into the crowd toward the refreshment room, where lemonade, negus, and white soup awaited.

  Ever the dutiful chaperone, Charlotte was soon left to stand alone to watch her sister dance with Mr. Jonas Card, an acquaintance she had made on her early visits to Hunsford. He stumbled good-naturedly through the quadrille while Maria laughed.

  Though he was a well-looking gentleman, always polished and elegantly dressed, Mr. Card’s fortune and property caused many of the young ladies of his acquaintance to view him as more handsome than his features warranted. Maria, however, had never looked at him twice, fortune or not, and Charlotte had always been rather sorry for that, for he was a genial sort of man who would tolerate her sister’s frequent flights of fancy and was capable of financing her shopping trips.

  Charlotte was contemplating Mr. Card as a potential suitor for her sister when she felt someone bump into her. Slightly off balance, she reached to steady herself against the side of the mantel and turned, annoyed, to find the offender to be a large gentleman with a shock of red hair and piercing eyes. The gentleman’s gaze was intense, and he offered a slight bow. “Pray excuse me.”

  “It is nothing, sir.” She turned politely away. They had not been properly introduced, and she did not want to invite his acquaintance by meeting his eyes again. But the man continued at her side. She could sense his gaze upon her, and she began to feel slightly uneasy.

  “I do not believe we have been introduced, but I do not see how it is so wrong for an introduction to take place now that I have nearly caused you to fall. I am Lewis Edgington.” He offered a proper bow. “I am an often forgotten relation of the de Bourgh family. A distant cousin actually.”

  Charlotte was reluctant to break with convention, but he was a relation of Lady Catherine, so she curtseyed with extreme decorum and what she hoped was a foreboding expression.

  He continued undeterred by her countenance. “Lady Catherine promised to introduce us. I understand that you rent the old hunting cottage on her property. She said that you are the widow of her former rector.”

  Stubborn man, Charlotte thought as she stared at him. He knew very well that she had no desire to continue the acquaintance, no matter to whom he was related. Her manner exhibited that truth as clearly as if she had spoken the words aloud. She had no chance to generate a reply before he spoke again. “I am sorry to hear of the Reverend Mr. Collins’s death.”

  “Thank you.” It had been two years since he was buried. Why were so many people commenting about him tonight?

  “It is good for you to venture out into society again and to mingle with others now that you are coming out of the mourning period.”

  Well, she was certainly glad he thought so. She often concerned herself with the inappropriate opinions of strange men. She narrowed her eyes. “I still mourn Mr. Collins, sir.”

  “Yes?” He considered her for a moment, and an odd expression came into in his eyes. “Well, I am very sorry to hear that.”

  What precisely did that mean? She did not know quite how to respond to his reply, which had been uttered with an undertone of…of…she knew not what, and could only manage to say a brief “thank you.”

  Relieved when he bowed and left her, she leaned against the wall. She was unused to male attention, and something about Mr. Edgington caused her discomfort. Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to return to the safety of her home.

  Thankfully, the quadrille soon ended and Mr. Card delivered Maria back to her side, bowing to her so deeply Charlotte worried that the seam of his coat would split. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Lucas. May I procure lemonade for you and Mrs. Collins?”

  “How kind—” Charlotte began, but Maria spoke over her.

  “—but we do not require a beverage at the moment. Thank you, Mr. Card.”

  At her dismissal, Mr. Card’s face fell into a downtrodden expression, which he quickly covered with a bright smile. He was an obliging gentleman, and her sister really ought to have a care when dealing with him. She planned to say as much to her when he departed, but the very moment Mr. Card’s coat disappeared into the crowd, Maria demanded, “Will you not go speak to Colonel Armitage now?”

  Charlotte glanced through her eyelashes across the ballroom at the three gentlemen. They finally had managed to divest themselves of the crowd that had been around them all evening. “In a moment.” She searched for an excuse to depart for the evening instead of seeking an introduction.

  Maria was openly staring at the American. Anyone in the room might read her obvious interest. When would her sister learn the art of subtlety? Charlotte reached out to take her hand and divert her attention to a more appropriate object, but Maria spoke. “It is my good fortune, then, that Americans are a brash sort of people, for here they come now.”

  Colonel Armitage led his relations straight toward them, and Charlotte allowed herself only the briefest of glances, but Maria shot them an open, welcoming smile.

  “Mrs. Collins, Miss Lucas, will you allow me to present my long-lost relations from America?” He indicated the older gentleman with entirely too much dark hair for his age and a witty look in his eyes. “This is my nephew Mr. Benjamin Basford, the son of my elder sister who, you will remember, disappeared to the American colonies some years ago to get married. And this is his sister’s son, Mr. James Westfield.”

  The gentlemen bowed.

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Charlotte said with a sedate curtsey and a jaundiced eye.

  She looked to Maria, who had also greeted them with a curtsey, but her eyes were wide and locked with those of Mr. Westfield. They seemed to take no notice of the others around them or to mark the pleasantries they uttered.

  This was trouble indeed.

  The young man spoke first. “May I have the pleasure of the next dance, Miss Lucas?”

  Maria beamed. “You may.”

  And with that, Mr. Westfield offered his arm and led Maria, who practically floated at his side, to her place in the set.

  “What a charming pair,” Colonel Armitage said. “And he is just as taken with Miss Lucas as I predicted.”

  Mr. Basford looked at his uncle. “I heard you make no such prediction.”

  The colonel appeared incredulous, one hairy eyebrow raised. “I said as much just this morning at breakfast. Did you not mark me?”<
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  “I heard you speak only of your eggs and toast, also a charming pair but hardly my nephew and Miss Lucas.”

  Colonel Armitage gave a frustrated snort, and Charlotte wondered that his eyebrows did not flutter in the breeze. “I mentioned Miss Lucas as a possible acquaintance for him, I am sure. Perhaps I only thought it. Ah! The joys of aging. One day you shall understand.”

  Charlotte murmured something polite having to do with maturation bringing wisdom, but she did not quite believe her words applied to the colonel, for tonight he seemed more confused than wise.

  But Mr. Basford only laughed and said, “I hope that I never age so much that I’d begin to confuse people with breakfast items.”

  Colonel Armitage snorted again and turned to Charlotte. He took her hand and patted it. “All this talk of food is making me hungry, and I can take no more of my nephew’s wit on an empty stomach. I must excuse myself for the buffet.”

  Charlotte hoped Mr. Basford might excuse himself as well, but he remained at her side, studying the room with a silent smirk while his uncle squeezed his way through the crowd. She followed Mr. Basford’s gaze, which alighted on a young couple obviously being introduced by an elderly chaperone. He looked back at Charlotte, his dark eyes mischievous. “Don’t you find these English introductory rules to be a little confining?”

  Already shaken by her impromptu conversation with Mr. Edgington and recalling her ruminations on that very subject earlier that evening, Charlotte was taken aback at his selection of topic. She recovered herself quickly and congratulated herself for saying, “Indeed I do not, for they keep one from being thrown into the company of inappropriate, dangerous people.”

  He grinned at her attempt at a cutting remark. “Well, it’s a good thing, then, that we met in the proper way. Since we were introduced by my uncle the colonel, you can be assured that I’m neither inappropriate nor dangerous.”

  Charlotte was fairly certain that he did not present any danger, but she was as yet uncertain about deeming him appropriate. She examined him for a moment. “We shall see.”

  “Then, while you are deciding, shall we have a dance?”

  She stared at him now, mouth agape. “Can you not see that I am in mourning attire, sir?” She gestured to the black trim on her gown.

  “Are you?” He looked her over once. And then once more. “My apologies. I assumed that you wore that shade because it suits you.”

  “I am just coming out of my mourning period, if you must know,” she ground out.

  “Ah, then it’s fortunate that the prescribed attire suits you so well. It brings out the lovely color in your cheeks.”

  Was it possible that he paying her a sincere compliment? She hardly thought so, for she knew very well that she only had color in her cheeks due to embarrassment or as a result of remaining too long out of doors in the summer. He returned her gaze with an open expression, and she wondered if he was awaiting an appropriate feminine response. A swoon perhaps. Well, she certainly did not intend to concede to his expectations.

  “Are all Americans as brash as you?”

  “No, some are as stuffy as you. Are all English bound by pointless manners and meaningless social conventions?”

  “Our manners and customs do not bind us but protect us.”

  “They prevent you from living freely.”

  Charlotte’s teeth clenched momentarily. She was beginning to believe that he was, at the very least, inappropriate if not dangerous as well. She unclamped her jaw. “If living freely means bringing disrespect to Mr. Collins and being ostracized by my friends and family, then I will remain bound by convention, as you say. And while you are in England, it would be better if you followed our customs as well.”

  “Would it?” He spoke as if their conversation was pleasant and not laced with discomfort. “Then I fear I will not make a good impression on Westerham society while I am here.”

  Charlotte decided to turn to a polite subject. “And how long will you be in our town?”

  “Quite some time. My sister wants James to be introduced to your English society. I am to be his chaperone.”

  “Then you will be forced to attend many of our tedious social functions.” She certainly did not relish the prospect of meeting Mr. Basford with any frequency.

  “Yes, I am afraid so, but I do find certain aspects of them rather amusing. I assume you’ll be attending with Miss Lucas.”

  Her reply was a reluctant “yes.”

  He gestured to the dance floor where Maria and Mr. Westfield stood up together. Their two blond heads were easy to view among the other dancers. “My uncle was correct. They do look well together, don’t they?”

  Charlotte was forced to admit that they did make a handsome couple. As she watched their sunny heads bob with the movements of the dance, an imp seized her, and before she could censor herself, she said, “Like eggs and toast.” Mr. Basford leaned back his head and fairly shouted with laughter, causing Charlotte to regret her allusion. She glanced around, thinking to find the entire ballroom focused on them, but no one seemed to notice his outburst or her complexion, which was certainly a ten shades of crimson.

  His laughter abated and he studied her. “I find that I like you, Mrs. Collins. Perhaps at the next assembly, we can see how well we do on the dance floor.”

  Charlotte gawked at him before schooling her features into a mask of impassivity. Mr. Basford did not appear to comprehend the forward nature of his remark, and when she attempted to lance him with a look of disdain, he only smiled, causing her to wonder if a man such as him could possibly be cowed by anyone.

  Mr. Basford bid Charlotte a polite goodbye, bowing, his eyes never leaving her face, and against her will, she noticed that he was a tolerably handsome man.

  Three

  The sisters visited their parents’ home in Hertfordshire for the Yuletide. The journey of fifty miles was cold, and the public coach was cramped and unpleasant. The wet weather turned the roads to mud during the day, and the cold transformed them into a partially frozen slurry at night. The horses labored before the coach, and Charlotte fancied that she could hear their groans of protest at being forced to work in conditions that were not suitable for man or beast.

  If Charlotte had not had a true fondness for her family, she would have never attempted the trip, especially accompanied by a sister who was struck dumb by love. Charlotte wished Maria had been struck mute by love instead, for she spent the duration of the voyage speaking of Mr. Westfield, Mr. Westfield, Mr. Westfield. His hair, his eyes, his wit.

  They had not been enclosed within the carriage for more than half an hour before Charlotte began to fear that one of their fellow travelers might toss her sister out the window at the next mention of Mr. Westfield’s name.

  Briefly, very briefly, Charlotte had considered doing so herself.

  When they had finally arrived at Lucas Lodge, Charlotte pulled Maria aside and said, “Do not overtax Mama and Papa with tales of romance.”

  But Maria had only looked at her and asked, “Why ever not? They will be pleased that I have attracted the attention of a gentleman such as Mr. Westfield.”

  And upon their first moments in the sitting room, which was kept uncomfortably warm to assuage their parents’ fear of drafts, Maria had relayed all the details that she had been able to discern about the gentleman. Beginning with his appearance and finishing a summary of their most intimate discussions, which had apparently focused primarily on fashion.

  And for the next few weeks she had elaborated.

  Between Maria’s discourses on Mr. Westfield, the Lucases managed to celebrate Christmas, relax together en famille, and eat as lavishly as their budget would allow. And Charlotte would have found her time in Hertfordshire to be restful had it not been for Maria’s chatter and the obvious concern it elicited in her parents.

  Aware that she would eventually be asked to account for Maria’s involvement with Mr. Westfield, Charlotte had attempted to avoid the subject altogether when alon
e with her parents. She hardly knew how to convince them that Mr. Westfield was an upstanding gentleman when she was yet unsure.

  One evening shortly before their departure, the subject could not be avoided. A fire roared in the hearth while her parents huddled under heavy blankets to keep out the non-existent drafts and Charlotte perspired.

  “Now my dear,” said her mother. “Do tell me about this gentleman Mr. Westham.”

  “West-field, Mama.” How could she possibly get his name wrong? Maria had only spoken it with shocking regularity for the past five weeks.

  “Yes, yes. Your papa and I are very concerned. He is American, is he not?”

  “Indeed he is.”

  Lady Lucas groaned.

  Sir William raised his eyebrows. “I know we have had our trouble with them in the past, but certainly they cannot be completely disreputable. If he is quite taken with our Maria, he cannot be thoroughly bad, can he?”

  Lady Lucas’s face was drawn into skeptical lines, her mouth pulled downward into a small frown. “But is this gentleman—this American—good enough for our daughter? Surely not.”

  Charlotte had asked herself the same question, but she did not want to worry her parents over much. So she told them the same platitudes she used to reassure herself. “Although we have not long been acquainted with Mr. Westfield, he comes from a well-respected English family and he is traveling Europe with a proper—” she was unsure if proper were the correct word to describe Mr. Basford—“chaperone. I will ensure that nothing untoward occurs.”

  “Yes, yes, but has he any money?”

  “I understand that his family wants for very little. They are travelling our country quite at their leisure.”