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

by Jennifer Becton

  “What did I say of her that was untrue? I spoke the unmitigated truth when I said that she insulted me and that she loved that dreadful American Mr. Westfield. Do you deny that I spoke only what Maria said herself?”

  “No, I cannot deny it. I wish…” She paused. “I only wish that you would find it in your heart to forgive her—”

  “—I have no heart left.”

  She pushed on. “And I also wish that you would help alleviate the gossip against her. She is a sensitive young woman, and she will certainly be crushed by what is being said about her.”

  “And I wish she had accepted my proposal, but we cannot always get what we desire, Mrs. Collins. Good day.”

  Mr. Card turned on his boot heel and stalked down the street, leaving Charlotte standing with her mouth agape.

  She did not know how long she stood in such an undignified posture when she heard a voice behind her say, “Excuse me, Mrs. Collins.”

  Charlotte turned to find Mr. Edgington leaning against the corner of the building. He bowed to her politely, and she returned a curtsey.

  “Good morning, Mr. Edgington.” She wondered if he had witnessed her ordeal with Mr. Card.

  “Forgive me, but I could not help overhearing.”

  Oh dear. So much for discretion.

  “I suppose it does not matter. The damage has already been done.”

  “I confess that your sister has been the main topic of conversation about town all morning.”

  “That has been my unfortunate experience as well.”

  “Shall we walk?” He offered his arm, and Charlotte took it gratefully.

  They continued along the sidewalk, and Charlotte found she rather enjoyed having someone in whom to confide. “My poor sister will not be able to bear this. She has always been such a social creature, and she had just found herself back in society.”

  “It is sad that she is so affected by what is said about her.”

  “I suppose that is the trouble with living amongst people. It would be so much pleasanter to be a hermit.”

  He laughed and then turned contemplative. “I am also sorry to see what effect this situation is having on you, but I hope it does not cause you to turn into a hermit.

  “It has not affected me half so much as it has Maria.”

  “Oh, but it has.”

  “I am afraid I do not follow your logic, sir.”

  “I have noticed that no one has spoken to you all morning, and I have heard what they said about you after you pass by. Does not that concern you at all?”

  “Of course it does, but I must think of Maria.”

  They walked along and Charlotte fancied that she could feel the stares of people on her.

  “Have you considered taking a holiday?”

  “A holiday?”

  “Yes. Perhaps a trip to London for a few weeks will allow the storm clouds to pass.”

  “I do not know, Mr. Edgington. I do not relish the idea of retreating and retrenching.”

  “Nonsense. You know the nature of society. Your current trouble will dissipate upon the occurrence of the next event worthy of salacious gossip. I simply believe that there is no reason to witness the slander of your family firsthand.”

  Charlotte considered for a moment. She had advised her sister only this morning to go out and face her trouble, but having witnessed the magnitude of the situation for herself, having spoken to poor Mr. Card, she could well see the advantage of waiting out the storm in London.

  “Do you have relatives or friends whom you could visit?”

  “Yes, I do have some cousins in London whom I have not seen in quite some time.”

  “Well, perhaps now is the time to renew your acquaintance,” he suggested. “And London has many pleasant distractions for ladies.”

  They lapsed into silence, and Charlotte spent the remainder of her walk with Mr. Edgington considering her options. She took her leave of him, completely forgetting to purchase cream cakes for which she had ventured out, and returned home to discover that Maria was not downstairs. As Charlotte ascended the steps, she began to hear the sounds of sobbing.

  She knocked on the door to Maria’s bed chamber and found her sister sitting in the middle of the bed dressed in her favorite gown of a white fabric patterned with blue stripes and medallions. Her hair had been done, but it had slipped its hold and now strands hung around her face. Her eyes looked defeated, and Charlotte immediately felt compassion for her.

  “Oh, Charlotte.”

  She sat on the rumpled bed beside her. The same position she had taken that morning.“What has happened?”

  Maria held up a letter. “This was delivered an hour ago. From Miss Farmington. She says…she says…here, read it for yourself.”

  Charlotte opened the letter, which was written in a looping, exaggerated hand, a silly choice of script.

  My dear Maria—

  I know that you must be having a difficult time at present and are probably not anxious to venture out amongst our acquaintance. However, I know you are too polite to rescind your acceptance to our picnic next week. I will save you the pain of disappointing us by telling you are no longer required to attend.

  It was signed in exaggerated swirls that Charlotte imagined was her name.

  The situation was utterly ridiculous, and Miss Farmington’s behavior only served to convince Charlotte that she was not like her old red roan pony at all. She more closely resembled a mule.

  “Is it not awful?”

  “Yes, it is.” She patted her sister’s arm. “What would you think of a holiday?”

  Maria’s face lit. “Holiday?”

  “Yes, to London to visit our cousins the Emersons for a time.”

  Hope lit Maria’s eyes, then suspicion. “But you said I must face society and not run away.”

  “Forget what I said this morning. Perhaps this is the best way. What do you think? Shall we go?”

  “Could we?”

  “I believe we should.”

  Maria, whose eyes had brightened despite their red rims, smiled for the first time that morning. “I must admit that a holiday would be welcome. I will prepare my trunk straightaway…after I ring for tea. I could certainly do with a fresh cream cake.”

  Eight

  Westerham was twenty-five miles from London, an easy distance by most standards. Those standards had obviously been set by those who could afford to keep comfortable travelling coaches and horses of their own. Charlotte and Maria could afford only to purchase space on the stagecoach, and the accompanying horses, though large and undoubtedly powerful, looked like they deserved a respite in a grassy pasture.

  They stopped briefly in Bromley to acquire fresh horses. The passengers disembarked while the new steeds, which looked only slightly more energetic than those they had left behind, were hitched to the coach.

  Charlotte watched the slow, metered steps of the first team of horses as they were led to the paddock for rest, and she felt very much like them. Stiff and weary from travel. Though she had been sitting and not pulling, she had still been bruised by the jerking impacts of the coach’s wheels through the rutted and hole-riddled roads. Travel, though necessary, had its own variety of unpleasantness.

  Upon the coachman’s call, Charlotte reluctantly took her seat, wishing she had brought a cushion, and continued the dusty journey toward London through the gathering warmth of spring.

  Soon, the countryside was exchanged for the crush of the city. Buildings filled the horizon and the road became crowded with horses, wagons, and people on foot. The stage arrived at a coaching inn, which was fairly bustling with activity. Grooms dashed to care for the horses of the incoming stages, and passengers disembarked and milled about, searching for a hackney or seeing to their trunks.

  Charlotte stepped into the busy yard and looked around. She wondered briefly if she and Maria would ever manage to find their cousin Harold Emerson amidst all the activity. Maria must have had similar thoughts, for she leaned to Charlotte and ask
ed, “Will Mr. Emerson be able to find us, do you think? I am so weary and wish to be alone.”

  Charlotte patted her hand. She also wished to be alone. Maria had not been a pleasant traveling companion. She had complained nearly the entire duration of the journey. The coach was hot, the roads were dreadful, it was too crowded. All were valid complaints, but speaking them aloud would do no good.

  Before Charlotte could reply, she spied Harold Emerson, who had appeared on the fringes of the crowd. Mr. Emerson was a pleasant gentleman of careful manners and curly auburn hair who had earned a substantial living in the practice of law, and he bowed before them. “Welcome, cousins.”

  The ladies curtseyed, and Charlotte spoke for them both. “Mr. Emerson, we feared we would never find you in such a throng of people. We are ever so glad that you have spotted us.”

  Maria nodded. “Yes, it is dreadfully crowded and hot.”

  He glanced between the sisters. Charlotte wondered if they appeared as dusty and bruised as they felt.

  He said, “Allow me to see to your belongings, and we will be away as soon as is possible. I have already arranged for a hackney to take us to St. Paul’s. Mrs. Emerson will be pleased to see you both.”

  Mr. Emerson disappeared briefly to look after their trunks and then he escorted Charlotte and Maria to the waiting conveyance. Charlotte was loath to sit once again, but she was eager to see her cousin Mary, and she took her place next to Maria and settled herself gingerly on the seat.

  Mr. Emerson joined them forthwith and began a pleasant conversation. “How does your family do? Your parents, are they well?”

  Charlotte responded to his polite inquiries while Maria sullenly studied the surrounding buildings.

  Mr. Emerson then inquired after the comforts of their journey, a question to which Charlotte hoped Maria would not respond.

  She did not.

  And though it was not the precise truth, Charlotte said that their journey was most pleasant.

  Here, Maria had uttered a sound of mild disagreement, which Charlotte attempted to conceal by asking, “And how does my cousin do?”

  Mr. Emerson had been studying Maria, but he turned his attention back to Charlotte. “Mrs. Emerson has been anticipating your arrival most heartily. She is probably at the window even now, waiting for your appearance.”

  “My sister and I are eager to see her as well. How far are we from your home?”

  “It is but a short drive.”

  “Oh, good!” Maria said, emitting the first genuine smile of the day. “I am quite ready to be situated in a solid structure that does not move or smell of horse.”

  Mr. Emerson seemed slightly taken aback by Maria’s words, but his good nature would not allow him to think ill of her, and he assured her that their home neither moved nor smelled of horse.

  For the remainder of their ride in the hackney, Mr. Emerson pointed out the sights, and soon, he gestured proudly toward his home. “We have arrived!”

  While it was hardly the most fashionable London neighborhood, their home was clean and well-maintained, and it overlooked other similarly kept homes. Cousin Mary, a doe-eyed young woman with dark hair, greeted them at the door and ushered them immediately to the sitting room, while simultaneously managing to order some refreshments and see that their luggage was brought to their rooms.

  Maria immediately made her excuses and disappeared into her chamber, but Charlotte stayed below stairs and enjoyed tea with the Emersons, who sat together on the settee. Charlotte observed the looks that passed between them with interest. It was clear that their marriage was founded on love, for Mary looked upon her husband with something akin to adoration, and Mr. Emerson, though much more reserved in his bearing, returned her affection with subtle glances of his own.

  Though the couple had been married for very nearly five years, Charlotte could tell that they still enjoyed each other’s company very much indeed, and she was quite certain that while not in company, they often sat much more closely.

  Charlotte’s observations were both encouraging and somewhat depressing, for she had never experienced such things. She had always sat as far from Mr. Collins as propriety would allow and looked on him as little as possible. Despite the jealousy that stung her as she watched her cousins, she was heartened to confirm once more that marital bliss was possible, and, quite likely, more common than she had thought.

  “Thank you so much for opening your home to us. My sister was in very great need of an escape, and I confess that I too needed to leave Westerham for a time. As much as I love the country, it can become rather confining.”

  “We are happy to help you and poor Maria.” Mary patted Mr. Emerson on the thigh, “Are we not, dear?”

  “Indeed we are.” Mr. Emerson sounded sincere but confused.

  Charlotte shifted in her chair and appealed to Mr. Emerson. “I feel I must apologize for Maria’s abrupt disappearance. She is still at sixes and sevens over the circumstances in Westerham.”

  “Do not trouble yourself.” Mary waved her hand as if to dismiss the problem with a mere gesture. “We understand completely. As long as you are here, you must consider our home to be your home. Behave just as you would in Westerham. If Maria needs solitude, then she shall find it here.”

  “You are very kind.”

  “And you, my dear cousin, must get out and enjoy the atmosphere of London.”

  “Must I?”

  Mr. Emerson cleared his throat and said, “Certainly. There is a great deal to be experienced, and now that you are here, you must experience it. It would not do for both of you to remain locked away in the tower, so to speak.”

  “Yes, allow Maria to heal in solitude. In the meantime, we will enjoy London, and when Maria is ready, she shall join us.”

  “I would not know which of the city’s entertainments to select.”

  Mr. Emerson volunteered his services. “Allow me to arrange things. Shall we not begin with an evening at the theater?”

  “Oh yes, dear, the theater.”

  “Then I shall arrange it.”

  ~**~

  The very next night, the three of them left Maria to her bed and her biscuits and endured the changeable April weather to attend a performance of The Inn-Keeper’s Daughter at the Theatre Royal at Drury Lane.

  Mary’s excitement over the evening’s outing was infectious, and Charlotte was swept along in her tide of giddiness. The cousins spent the day preparing their outfits. Charlotte selected a short-sleeved dove gray gown, and when she saw Mary’s gown of fine white muslin, for the first time, she regretted her own gown’s black mourning trim.

  Mary and Charlotte prepared for the theater together, and when the hour of their departure drew near, Mr. Emerson began to pace at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Do not mind him, Charlotte,” said Mary, as she held out two necklaces for Charlotte’s opinion. “He would arrive a quarter hour early for every occasion if he could. It is up to us women to prevent the blunder of early arrival.”

  Though Charlotte was prepared to depart, she laughed at Mary, who was still a bit scattered. She pointed to the simple cross necklace. “I believe that will do your gown justice.”

  Mary hooked it around her neck and then regarded herself in the mirror. “Yes, I believe you are right. And now we may relieve Mr. Emerson’s suffering.”

  They left the room and descended the stairs. Mr. Emerson paid them efficient compliments and then ushered them to the hackney.

  Soon, the Theatre Royal at Drury Lane loomed before them. They had arrived a bit late, though Mr. Emerson said not a word of it as he escorted them quickly to their seats. Charlotte had hardly a moment to take in the edifice or the interior of the theater before she found herself seated in the balcony beside her cousin and her husband.

  The production had already begun, but she easily slipped into the action of the play. Though she found herself enjoying the production, she felt rather like an interloper. The intimate ambiance of the balcony seats seemed to have
relaxed Mr. Emerson, and the couple frequently glanced at each other throughout the performance and shared little comments and jokes that she could not hear. They passed Mr. Emerson’s monocular opera glass between them, offering it occasionally to Charlotte, but she declined. She wanted to allow them privacy and interacted as little as possible, for they seemed to be enjoying each other so immensely. In fact, the Emersons soon seemed to forget her presence completely.

  During the intermission, Charlotte took her leave of her cousins, descended the stone staircase, and strolled in solitude around the theater admiring the architecture and décor. She was well acquainted with the finer things. After all, she had been in Rosings, the great house of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, many times, but the sheer opulence of the theater filled her with awe. The sumptuous fabrics encouraged her to run her fingers across them, though she dared not, and the gilding made the room appear to glow golden. While Charlotte enjoyed a simpler style, the colors and textures of the rotunda caused her to fancy herself as a grand dame, whose closets were filled with gowns for every hour of the day, whose companions were always witty, and whose dance card was always filled.

  “I thank you, but no,” she would say to the wealthy baron, “I may not dance this set with you, for I am promised to the earl.”

  Charlotte smiled at her thoughts, knowing fully that she would never share them with anyone, for they were foolish and impractical, and they would never come to fruition. But what harm was it to imagine such affaires de coeur?

  As she walked and dreamed, she became conscious of a familiar figure standing under an archway near one of the entrances to the rotunda. At first, she thought her mind was playing her for a fool and believed herself to be imagining the shock of red hair on his head, but as she ventured closer, she saw that it was indeed Mr. Edgington. Although not the baron or the earl of her daydreams, Charlotte was pleased to see him, especially so handsomely attired in a fine black suit coat and breeches and an intricately tied white cravat. She stopped before him and watched as his eyes lit with recognition.