Holding Mr. Basford’s glove in both hands, she stood in front of the fire and watched as it died slowly, the embers glowing and banking. In and out. In and out.
The embers should have been peaceful, and she had expected to feel relief when the glove had turned to ash, but she felt neither peace nor relief. Realizing that her back and legs ached, Charlotte turned to go to her bed chamber and discovered Edward watching her through the open door. She quickly hid Mr. Basford’s glove behind her back.
“Are you well, Mrs. Collins?”
She cleared her throat. Why was she suddenly nervous? Edward was her sweet but muddle-minded servant and probably comprehended little of the intricacies of society. “Yes, why do you ask?”
“I called your name over and over.”
“Oh.” How could she not have heard him? She wondered how long he had been observing her. Had he seen her burn that glove? Had he seen Mr. Basford’s glove?
“I am fine. Go to bed, Edward.”
He studied her with steady eyes, and she thought he might speak again, but he only nodded and left the chamber.
Charlotte also went to her bed chamber, where she tucked away Mr. Basford’s glove in the small wooden box that housed her hair ornaments and jewelry—some inexpensive earrings, a string of pearls from her father, and a cross pendant—and placed it in the cupboard. She would return it to him at an opportune moment.
Satisfied that Mr. Basford’s glove would remain safely hidden, she removed her gown and draped it over a chair. She had barely prevented herself from throwing it onto the floor in disgust. It was a good gown, and she would not allow the memories of Mr. Edgington ruin it for her.
When she had finally laid down to rest, sleep had eluded her, and when it did claim her, she found herself dreaming of gloves and fires and dances and Mr. Basford. Sounds began to drift in and out of Charlotte’s dreams, and they became even more confused. She heard Mrs. Eff and Edward about their morning chores: the sounds of fresh coals hitting the kitchen grate and the clatter of breakfast dishes. Could it be morning already? Usually, Charlotte went down to greet them and discuss the news from town with Mrs. Eff, but instead, she turned onto her left side and pulled the covers over her head to block out the sounds from below.
Hours later—or perhaps only minutes, Charlotte could not be certain—she heard Maria moving about below stairs and snippets of her voice as she told Mrs. Eff about the ball. Charlotte knew they would be expecting her, but still, she could not manage to arise and face the day. At any moment the news of her scandal would become public, and the happy sounds of her household would disappear. She would be ostracized from her friends and family, leaving her with little choice but to take in a dozen stray cats for company.
More bewildering than the taunting sounds of normalcy that could not last was the fact that Charlotte’s mind continued to stray to Mr. Basford. Each time she closed her eyes, she was on the balcony again. Mr. Edgington was gone, and Charlotte would turn and watch as Mr. Basford emerged tall and strong from the darkness. She saw the concern in his eyes and her heart began to flutter just as it had the night before.
Charlotte threw her arm over her head, trying to block out her thoughts but seeing only Mr. Basford in the crook of her elbow. He had promised to help her, but he could not possibly be able to do so. What could be done after all? Mr. Edgington had her glove, and he would not hesitate to use it against her now that she had rejected his vile offer. There was nothing to be done but wait for the inevitable to occur.
Charlotte closed her eyes and managed to doze for several more hours, experiencing dark nightmares of Mr. Edgington. His red hair had turned to flames, and he advanced on her, but Charlotte could not run. Just as he reached for her gloved hands, she would awake with a start.
Once awake, she contemplated Mr. Basford. A much pleasanter topic, but inappropriate nonetheless.
She knew that she could not stay in bed forever, and even if she were to attempt such a feat, her blankets would not shield her from the coldness of society once the scandal became known. She pushed away the linens and threw her legs over the side of the bed. The planks of the wooden floor felt cool beneath her bare feet as she washed at the washstand, did her morning ablutions, and put on her plainest morning gown. She then gathered her courage and went downstairs.
Mrs. Eff was dusting the small table in the hallway, and she looked up from her work and concern crossed her once delicate face. “I was beginning to worry about you, my dear, are you well?” She dropped the dust cloth onto the table and assisted Charlotte down the remaining steps.
Charlotte attempted a reassuring smile but failed miserably.
Mrs. Eff patted her hand. “Do I need to consult the apothecary?”
Charlotte walked with ginger steps toward the sitting room. “I do feel rather weak, but I think a cup of tea will be all I require.”
“Rosehip tea then, my dear, made from your own garden. It is just the thing for an aching head. Why do you not go to the sitting room and rest a bit more?” With a kind smile, she led her to the settee. “Back in my dancing days, before our family lost its holdings, such as they were, I never felt worse than the day after a spectacular ball.”
Charlotte sat down and tucked her legs under her in a comfortable yet thoroughly undignified fashion. She might as well be comfortable if she could not be proper.
Mrs. Eff arranged cushions around her. “I suppose you do not feel like talking just yet. Let me bring you some tea and toast.”
Charlotte nodded at Mrs. Eff, grateful that she had suggested food. She had not realized how hungry she had become, and it was much later in the day than she had anticipated. From her seat, she craned her head to look out the open window. The sun was high in the sky, beaming on Edward who toiled in the garden. His face was content but smeared with dirt. Charlotte envied him. He truly had a simple life and took pleasure in small things. He did not have to worry over the words and deeds of unscrupulous people. He only had to tend to the rosemary.
She turned away from the pastoral scene, and her mind began to bounce from one thought to another like a young debutante in a room full of potential beaux. The news must soon become public. She must formulate a rebuttal. She must see to Maria. She must protect her assets. If only she had the energy.
A sound in the hallway caused her to jump in the anticipation that it would be a neighbor coming to confirm Mr. Edgington’s story. She sat bolt upright when a knock sounded at the sitting room door. Her nerves hummed as she rearranged her skirt. “Come in.”
It was Mrs. Eff. God bless Mrs. Eff, for she carried a pot of tea and a plate of toast and jam, and not the ill news she expected. The smells of food surrounded her, making her stomach clench in anticipation. Mrs. Eff offered her a cup of rosehip tea, and Charlotte sipped it, letting the warmth and sweetness of the liquid give her strength.
“Miss Maria asked me to tell you that she has gone for a turn about the garden. She was all a-twitter this morning. I suppose balls take more out of us as we age.”
Charlotte wished that age were the cause of her morning depression. She said nothing, took up her plate, and selected a piece of toast. Mrs. Eff chatted about some matters of the cottage and their upcoming meals and then launched into the news from town. With the introduction of each new tidbit of information, Charlotte became anxious and then felt relief wash over her when it became apparent that she was not the focus of the gossip. Why had she ever found gossip to be an agreeable pastime?
Fortunately, there was no mention of Mr. Edgington, only of the general pleasure everyone experienced at the ball. General pleasure. Ha! Charlotte thought. It had caused her acute pain. And strangely, Mr. Basford had provided acute joy. How, she wondered, could joy and pain coexist in the same evening?
But why did not Mrs. Eff speak of Mr. Edgington and the glove? Perhaps she had heard but was too timid to speak of it. No. That could not be the case, for Mrs. Eff was always very forthcoming. Perhaps the news had not yet gotten out. Perhaps
Mr. Edgington had been killed in a tragic hunting accident early this morning before he could ruin her reputation. Perhaps a wild boar had mauled him. Were boars even in season? She doubted a pheasant could do sufficient damage. A sudden mauling was too good—and too horrid—a circumstance to contemplate.
Still, Charlotte was beginning to feel a bit of relief and had almost finished eating an entire piece of toast when Mrs. Eff produced a letter from her apron pocket. Her relief was instantly shattered into splinters of fear. “This arrived this morning while you were still in your chamber. Now that you’ve had some nourishment, I expect you are ready for a word from the outside world.”
She held out the paper to her, and Charlotte stared at it, still chewing on her last bite of toast. Was this ill news? Had the knowledge of the glove become known? She stared at the direction, but she did not recognize the handwriting. Slowly, she put down her plate and took the letter from Mrs. Eff’s hands. “Thank you.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Eff. You have been a great help already.”
“I shall leave you to your letter then.”
Charlotte watched as Mrs. Eff exited the sitting room, her skirt trailing behind her. She looked down at the letter again, and drawing in a deep breath, she opened the seal. Quickly, she checked the signature first.
Mr. Basford.
Relief raced through her and a silly smile reached her lips. She was too pleased that it was not a threat from Mr. Edgington that she did not contemplate the breach of etiquette he had committed in writing her. But the smile fell from her lips. Perhaps he had come to his senses and was writing to withdraw his support. She took a deep breath and began to read.
My dear Mrs. Collins,
I hope you will not think this letter is inappropriate, for I’m writing it with the best of intentions. Before you begin to panic, let me to assuage your fear. Don’t trouble yourself. Nothing has occurred to ruin you. I’m merely writing on behalf of Mr. Westfield and myself to solidify our appointment with you and Miss Lucas. My nephew is eager to speak to your sister. I hope it will be acceptable for us to call on you both tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, Mrs. Collins, do not trouble yourself. All will be well.
B. B.
Charlotte carefully refolded the letter and set it in her lap. She stared down at it, occasionally repositioning it on the fabric of her dress. Her heart was torn with hope and doubt. Why was he so kind? How could he possibly benefit from helping her?
Certainly he had already proven himself to be an upstanding man and very much unlike what she had expected upon their first meeting. His letter had soothed her in a manner that nothing—neither the rosehip tea and toast nor Mrs. Eff’s conversation—had managed.
~**~
Maria returned inside and sank ungracefully onto the settee beside Charlotte. She looked fresh and excited, her blue eyes shining. Charlotte felt like a storm cloud—a woman of dark and changeable moods—and probably resembled one as well.
“Did you enjoy your walk?”
“I would have much rather talked to you, but you refused to get out of bed at a reasonable hour. I suppose you felt ill?”
“I had a dreadful headache this morning, but I am feeling better now.”
“I am glad to hear it.” Maria took Charlotte’s hand. “I do not say it often enough, but I do not know what I would do without you. You have given me a home and a chance to enjoy society. If it had not been for you, I would never have met Mr. Westfield.”
Guilt raced through Charlotte. Maria’s happiness was indeed attached to hers. And how tenuous was Charlotte’s happiness! Unsure of whether she should break the bad news to her sister, she hugged Maria tight, looking down at her blond head where it rested against her shoulder. The poor girl had already been the target of the sharp arrows of gossip, but still she managed to retain her innocence and optimism. Her good nature had seen her through the loss of her friendship with Miss Farmington and Mr. Card. Perhaps Charlotte ought to rank optimism a little higher in her list of virtues.
Charlotte sighed. She feared that her brush with the slings of society would not leave her as innocent. The horrid tale would become public eventually, and it would be better to tell Maria beforehand. But Charlotte could not bear to ruin her sister’s elevated mood, and there was Mr. Westfield’s impending visit to consider.
Perhaps tomorrow he would propose, and engaged to the man she loved, Maria would be safe from partaking in Charlotte’s ruin.
~**~
Mr. Basford and Mr. Westfield arrived at the cottage the next day in the early afternoon. In the sitting room, Maria sat in a chair appearing completely composed while Charlotte fidgeted on the settee.
“Mr. Basford and Mr. Westfield.” Mrs. Eff announced them at the door. Charlotte imagined that her voice held a note of finality.
The sisters stood and turned to greet them.
“Good day,” Charlotte said. She tried not to seek reassurance from Mr. Basford that the news had not yet spread, but she could not help herself. Her eyes sought his.
He smiled, his lips drawing into a subtle U-shape, and she knew her secret remained safe.
She released the breath she had been holding. His smile deepened, revealing a row of nicely formed teeth. Charlotte dragged her gaze away from him and focused on Maria, who was blushing prettily as Mr. Westfield greeted her.
Charlotte forced herself to remember her role as hostess. “Please, do sit down.”
“That is very kind of you, Mrs. Collins,” Mr. Westfield said, “but I was hoping to have the pleasure of taking a turn about the garden with Miss Lucas. Would you grant us your permission?”
If it were possible to shout inwardly, Charlotte did so. Outwardly, she remained composed. There could be no doubt but that Mr. Westfield was going to propose! Charlotte would convey her parent’s blessing forthwith, and perhaps the marriage would occur before Mr. Edgington’s news could do damage. At the very least, her sister would be securely engaged when the dreadful news became available to the public.
“Certainly, Mr. Westfield. It is a fine day for walking.” Charlotte had to restrain herself from pushing them out the door. Instead, she kept her seat as Mr. Westfield escorted Maria from the room, but she did wink at her sister when she turned back in the doorway and smiled hugely.
Once the door had been shut behind them, Mr. Basford said, “That was a very cheeky gesture for so refined a woman.”
Charlotte elected to reply in a similarly cheeky manner. She actually felt a bit cheeky just now. “You forget, Mr. Basford, that I am—or very soon will be—a woman with a reputation. It is expected that I would behave in such a shocking fashion.”
He sobered. “You don’t believe that, do you?” he asked, leaning forward in his seat.
“What? That soon society in general will believe me to be only slightly better than a harlot and that they will expect me to behave accordingly? I cannot help but believe it.”
“Surely no one will believe you capable of what Mr. Edgington will assert.”
“I wish that were true.” She looked down at her skirt. “But in my experience, people are eager to believe the worst in others.”
A pause.
“What about you, Charlotte, are you inclined to believe the worst in others?”
Charlotte considered. She had believed the worst of Mr. Basford, and in reality, he was the best of men, but she had believed the best of Mr. Edgington, and he had turned out to be a pig. A serpent. A demon! She stopped her litany of insults. “It appears that I always believe the opposite of what is true. I find that I cannot read the character of others at all.”
“First impressions can be deceiving.”
“Indeed.”
Although the conversation dwindled, the two sat comfortably together for a time. Then, Mr. Basford shifted in his chair. “My nephew is proposing to Maria.”
Charlotte’s head snapped up. More inward rejoicing. “I am so pleased, and I know my
sister will be pleased as well. She has developed deep feelings for your nephew.”
“James is quite fond of her too. He needed only a little encouragement from me to make his proposal.”
“Encouragement was required?”
“Oh, no, do not misunderstand. The boy wanted to propose. He told me so himself. He simply needed a little nudge to overcome his initial hesitancy.”
She was somewhat relieved. “I see. And you merely nudged him.”
“I thought the timing was right.”
He meant, of course, that the timing would prevent his young charge from caving in to societal pressure once Charlotte’s disparaging story was known. She dropped her eyes, ashamed that she had the potential to affect her sister’s life negatively. But if it resulted in an engagement, the circumstance could not be entirely bad.
“I did not tell him your situation.”
“I greatly appreciate that.”
He stood, crossed the room, and joined Charlotte on the settee. He sat at a respectable distance, but Charlotte slid further toward the armrest. She made a great pretense of rearranging her skirt. And then, realizing that she was preening like Maria in a room of eligible gentlemen, she took a fortifying breath and looked at Mr. Basford.
He was lounging against the back of the settee, looking calm and relaxed indeed. How could he manage to be so calm when she felt so nervous? His legs were stretched in front of him in a very inelegant position that somehow managed to suit him quite well.
Her eyes moved up past his deep blue frock coat, his loosely tied white cravat, and his neck to his face. Slowly, she met his eyes, and the events that had concerned her only moments ago seemed to disappear into insignificance. What cared she about Maria and Mr. Westfield when she felt such a pull toward Mr. Basford?
Charlotte did not know exactly what to do next, but she could not force herself to remove her gaze from his. She clasped and unclasped her hands in her lap several times before she realized she was fidgeting. How inexperienced she must appear. She dropped her hands beside her, allowing them to rest on the settee. Finally, she sat, unmoving.
Charlotte Collins: A Continuation of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice Page 16