Charlotte pressed Juliet’s hand, and Mr. Darcy handed over his semi-restored daughter to the eager attentions of Colin Knightley. Juliet clung to Colin’s arm in a manner very pleasing to him. He felt strong and protective. Excitement had taken its toll and his quiet voice and deferential manner were exactly what Juliet needed. Colin led her to the refreshment table and plied her with fruit cup. Juliet, still somewhat dizzy with the concentration of events, was yet able to notice that the cup tasted quite different from that urged upon her by Walter Elliot. She was spoiled, but not a fool when not ruled by her vanity. She began to understand that she had been artfully encouraged in a certain line of conduct. The cure had been drastic indeed, but the need had been dire. And there was a brighter side. Though in a rather different way than she had hoped, she was indeed ending the ball as a heroine.
Some fifteen minutes later, whirling demurely in Colin Knightley’s arms, Juliet came face to face with Henry and Eliza. Her eyes met Eliza’s, and she smiled. It was a small smile; when she thought of what Eliza had done, she still felt an icy finger stirring the hairs on the back of her neck. But she was beginning to be grateful. It was a new sensation for Juliet Darcy.
Chapter Thirteen
Charlotte
Charlotte herself was tolerably composed...
“I am not romantic you know. I never was. I ask only a comfortable
home.”
Jane Austen
Sitting by Elizabeth Darcy, Charlotte pulled from her reticule yet again the note received from the hands of the Longbourn groom, though already she knew it by heart. Mrs. Spong, her housekeeper, wrote in considerable dismay; her handwriting, used more often to inventory linen or jam, was difficult to decipher. But the content was only too plain. Mr. Collins was dead of a heart attack.
“I took him his supper,” wrote Mrs. Spong in a hand that wobbled across the page. “Nothing inflammatory, nothing rich—just a poached sole with parsley sauce and a nice baked apple—he was so fond of a nice baked apple, with honey and a squeeze of lemon juice, the way Cook does them. He was reading earnestly. I put his tray down on the commode and coughed to attract his attention. He started, pulled his eyes from the page and looked up at me. ‘Mrs. Spong,’ he cried. ‘Little Nell is dead!’ And then he clutched his chest, gave a series of deep groans, doubled over—and he died. Oh, Ma’am, I dispatched Reuben at once for Mr. Merryweather, but there was nothing he could do.”
Into Charlotte’s mind came the picture of her husband as she had last seen him, sitting comfortably in bed, propped up by pillows. He had not seemed ill, once the pain in his foot was relieved. But he had seemed somewhat unlike himself. A little forlorn, perhaps? She remembered returning to his bedside to smooth his sheet and pat his hand, as if he were one of the children. Ah, well. Ah, well.
Charlotte broke the news to Elizabeth at supper. “I have not yet told the children. I want them to have this evening as a keepsake, a special memory for them both. I will tell them in the morning. And then we must leave as soon as possible, Elizabeth.”
“Of course, my dear, everything shall be as you wish. But, oh, Charlotte!”
Charlotte felt deeply her wrongdoing both in keeping this shocking news from her children, and in not setting out at once for Longbourn, but she did not want to spoil this rare evening. It meant so much to Eliza, and perhaps (and this was a source of wonder) to Jonathan. “I broke the rules once before, when I set out to catch Mr. Collins; I can do so now, in good cause. We act as we think we must, and have little idea of any but the short-term consequences,” she murmured, her marriage on her mind. “But I should do it again.”
There were no tears in her eyes. She had not wept for her husband’s passing, and this she considered a failing. She felt, she thought, not so much sorrow as a sensation that the ground had rolled out from under her. And her feet were still unsteady. But her children were foremost in her mind.
Charlotte had always done her duty by Mr. Collins. She had given him a comfortable, well-ordered home, such as he had never known. But she had also felt it part of her duty to balance his needs and wishes against those of her children. Always she had given him the respect she felt his due, as her husband and as a clergyman. Mr. Collins was not a man of intelligence or education; at best his temper might be said to be resentful or even sullen, but he was not abusive. He was easily jealous of the children, whose lives were so much happier than his own childhood had been, but he had never struck them, though beatings were commonplace enough in family life. And he was persuadable. Charlotte had learned how best to divert any harshness or injustice to the children that might arise; she cushioned the abrasion between man and child. One by one, she considered her children.
William had not been a problem. He was very much his father’s son. When he was young, he had been something of a bully, but Charlotte had worked to keep that side of his nature in check. With his father’s example before him, he always wished for the instant authority offered by the Church and the opportunity for public display vested in the pulpit. He attended a minor college at Oxford, as his father had done before him, kept the necessary terms, obtained a mediocre degree, was promptly ordained, and had been lucky enough to find a good living, at Highbury.
Mr. Collins saw no reason for Jonathan, who had no turn for the Church, to attend Cambridge as he wished. But Charlotte, recognizing Jonathan’s lively intelligence and knowing it would be good for him to widen his acquaintance and meet men of a different stamp from his father, had fought for him, persuading the father that two college-educated sons would be something of which to boast. Jonathan had done well, and now had friends among many learned biologists, botanists, and geologists, and would soon be working in London as secretary to a professor at the Royal Society.
The only problem with Catherine and Anne was to find them husbands. Mr. Collins thought all women should be married. He saw no purpose for them on earth other than as handmaidens to men; this, he said, was the Will of the Lord. But he disliked the necessary preliminaries, finding the idea of courtship somewhat distasteful when applied to his own daughters, though he could not have explained why. Explanation was not in fact his strong suit; he preferred deferential unquestioning acceptance of his pronouncements. But it was not too difficult for Charlotte to persuade him to allow them to attend assembles and private dances with their Lucas cousins, and to visit with new friends. Catherine was engaged to a very correct young man she met while on holiday at Sanditon; Charlotte encouraged Anne, the less confident of the two, to accompany her sister when she could.
And then there was Eliza. Charlotte smiled to herself as she thought of this particular daughter. Eliza, holding Henry’s hand, had come to her earlier to whisper of their engagement. Then Henry had departed to find his own mother and father. There would be no public declaration at this time, no intrusion on Fitz and Amabel’s glory, but later it would come. Consent had been given. Henry was quietly determined, and his happiness was tangible. And since then Charlotte had spoken with the Darcys, and found them both accepting of this outcome. Mr. Darcy went as far as to say, unexpectedly, that he thought Eliza was a young lady of infinite resource who would be a refreshing addition to the Darcy family. A year’s engagement was suggested, to allow Henry to find his feet, and this was acceptable to all.
What a triumph for Eliza to marry Henry Darcy. How Mr. Collins would have pranced! Charlotte felt a rueful compunction that he should have missed the chance, even as she thought how insufferable he would have made himself to Mr. Darcy. And for Eliza to marry for love, not just for advantage! “I have always had a taste for consequence,” Charlotte admitted to herself. “It is a weakness.” And she remembered advising Elizabeth, at the Netherfield ball all those years ago, not to be a simpleton and allow her liking for Mr.Wickham to make her appear unpleasant in the eyes of Mr. Darcy, a man of ten times his consequence. Her advice would not have changed. How right she had been although, she now admitted, perhaps for the wrong reasons. Elizabeth had fallen in love w
ith Mr. Darcy and married him; her life was a success. Charlotte’s heart was glad for her friend. She herself had never been in love, and her marriage of convenience had served her purpose. But Eliza, her precious Eliza, like Elizabeth before her, had a chance of achieving not just security, but great position and prosperity, with the lasting blessing of true affection.
Elizabeth was speaking to her again. She collected her thoughts.
“You must go tomorrow, of course. But why not leave the children here? Henry will not wish to part with Eliza so soon, and Jonathan has proved so good with Lucy Baluster (such a shy child). They could follow in a day or so, for the funeral.”
Charlotte looked with gratitude at her friend. “That would indeed be acceptable, Elizabeth. There would be no public impropriety. William and Eugenia will have to travel from Highbury; my elder daughters are visiting at Sanditon. They must all be sent for, and it will be quite suitable if they all arrive at much the same time.”
They sat in silence for some moments, watching the dancers circle in front of them.
“Forgive me if I invade your privacy, but have you ever regretted your marriage?” asked Elizabeth.
Charlotte looked down at her hands, folded in her lap.
“No,” she said, after a moment. “No.When I have been tempted to repine—and oh, Elizabeth, I must confess there were times—I have reminded myself of what my life should have been if I had never married. I think of poor Maria—and remember that that would have been me—and I know what I did was for the best.” (Maria Lucas had not married, and now lived with her widowed mother in a small house owned by one of her brothers. Lady Lucas was in her late seventies; her wits were wandering and she was very difficult to manage. Maria was some seven years younger than Charlotte, but looked far older.)
Miss Bingley passed by at that moment, all nodding plumes like a carriage horse, parading with Mrs. Yates, in puce satin, and Lady Bertram, in an unfortunate olive green. Charlotte took note. That was the other alternative to Maria, she thought. If I had never married, I might have been like Caroline Bingley. Bitter and resentful. Miss Bingley at least had money of her own, but Society and her own conventionality had allowed her no house, and of course she had no children. Something tight and hard within Charlotte’s bosom expanded and softened.Without thinking highly either of men or matrimony, as a young woman marriage had always been her object; it was the only honorable provision for well-educated young women of small fortune, however uncertain of giving happiness. She had not loved her husband, poor Mr. Collins, blighted from childhood, but she could be grateful to him. He had given her what she had wanted most in life.
“What will you do now?” asked Elizabeth, remembering her own mother’s fears, and her determined incomprehension of the entail of Longbourn.
“For the moment, I do not see my way,” said Charlotte. Her forehead was creased with worry but her hands stayed quietly in her lap. “William and his wife will move into Longbourn with all due speed, and I fear I cannot like Eugenia. I do not think we shall deal well together.” William Collins’s wife, the former Eugenia Elton, was a disagreeable young woman, snobbish and pretentious, with a sharp tongue.
“My dear, I wish to make a suggestion. I am sure Mr. Darcy will agree. Come to Pemberley and live in the Dower House. It is empty, since the death of Great-Aunt Ernestine, and needs a tenant to maintain its well-being. And if the time comes that I need it for myself (and I hope and pray Mr. Darcy and I expire together, and burst into heaven arm in arm), I am sure you and I will happily share it.”
Charlotte found herself moved to tears. What her husband’s death could not bring about, this unexpected kindness achieved. Her friendship with Elizabeth Bennet had been one of the rewards of her life. Charlotte had known Elizabeth since childhood—the families had always been close—but Charlotte was seven years older than Elizabeth, and until Elizabeth reached fifteen, they had not been much together. Then they had begun to find pleasure in each other’s company. Both were intelligent, thoughtful, fond of long walks and the observation of humanity in the form of their neighbors. The quiet, self-possessed Charlotte had watched with admiration the development of the younger girl, with her vivid face, amusing tongue, and love of life and laughter. She had always felt Elizabeth was bound for great things, a fine position—and so it had proved. The admiration Charlotte felt for Elizabeth Bennet was surpassed only by her admiration for Mrs. Darcy! And there had been more than passive admiration; there had been true friendship and enjoyment of each other’s company, despite differences of opinion and judgment. Going away from Elizabeth had been one of the drawbacks to her marriage. Their steady correspondence, recording the small events of their daily lives, had been a welcome compensation.
Sitting in the ballroom through the long and glittering evening, burdened by her secret, Charlotte had thought long and hard. Distracted briefly by the excitement of Juliet’s escapade, and then the joy of her best-loved daughter’s engagement, she had retreated once more into reflections that weighed heavily on her heart.What was she to do? Where was she to live? There was some money saved; she had always been a careful housekeeper, and had kept in mind her daughters’ need for dowries. But she would not be allowed to live alone. Convention demanded that William and Eugenia offer her a home with them at Longbourn, but she could think of such an arrangement only with repugnance. Now this unexpected kindness, from Elizabeth, on top of all else, was almost too much for her. She was used to bearing her burdens alone and silently. To be offered help—and such help—was overwhelming.
She blotted the moisture from her eyes surreptitiously, and straightened her spine. The Dower House. All her life Charlotte had loved houses. Living at home in her mother’s shadow, as the years passed and her youth receded, she had longed for a free hand, the right to make decisions and arrange her rooms, order her servants, plan her days as she wished. She had won that right and, despite the presence of Mr. Collins and the interference of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, had enjoyed her home at Hunsford Parsonage (and Rosings, after all, detached from Lady Catherine, was a handsome building). Then had come the move to Longbourn, back to the neighborhood she knew and loved, and the house that had once sheltered her friend.With the greater elegance of the country house and the security of a comfortable income not dependent upon Lady Catherine’s good will, Charlotte had been most content. She had never imagined anything more to her liking, and the thought of living at Longbourn under the patronage of Eugenia Elton, or leaving it for a small house in Meryton, was deeply dismaying.
To move to Pemberley, to live near Elizabeth and possibly Eliza and Henry (and without Mr. Collins), in the elegance of the Dower House, was as near to perfect happiness as she could wish. She had done her duty by the marriage bed, enduring Mr. Collins’s sticky fumblings while planning her menus for the next day; but now, to sleep alone would be a great comfort. What had she done, she wondered, to deserve such bounty?
Thinking back on the order of her life, she recalled the circumstances of her marriage, her unmaidenly behavior in taking it upon herself to seek out Mr. Collins and thrust herself before his eyes, her deliberate extraction (there was no other word) of a proposal from him. Where had the courage come from? At no other time in her young life had she so asserted herself. She had kept her composure in the face of Elizabeth’s huge surprise and dismay, but she had felt her friend’s disapproval strongly. Later, she had learned to deal with the intimacies of marriage, to command her feelings and make her own way, despite Lady Catherine’s attempts at interference and her husband’s toad-eating ways. Her child-bearing years had been difficult; she had badly missed Elizabeth; she had felt the need of a confidant, an understanding friend with whom to talk openly, as she struggled to carry out her household duties after her miscarriages. And then Eliza, so small, so frail at birth, and she herself not strong. But she was determined to rear the tiny child. And the two little boys, such little, little boys, who died—and Mr. Collins, talking with his mouth full, saying they had
gone to God and were better out of this sinful world, and then asking for a second helping of roast pork—no, not all life was easy.There had been times of despair, of deep unhappiness. But Eliza had thriven, and Jonathan had grown to be her dear companion. And now here she was.
She sat back, tired but almost content as the long evening came to an end, and she watched the dancers. The consequences of her unconventional acquisition of a husband were there before her: Eliza dancing so happily in Henry Darcy’s arms, and Jonathan, proud and tender, looking down at Lucy Baluster—that was an unexpected happening. And there were Amabel Bingley and Fitzwilliam Darcy, Catriona Fitzwilliam with dashing Alexander Wentworth, Anthony Bingley with Nell Ferrars, lovely Dorothea Brandon with quiet Kit Knightley. Not all these pairings would come to anything, but it was a pleasure to see how these nice young people came together. Even Juliet, pretty, spoiled Juliet, seemed content in the trustworthy arms of Colin Knightley.
Sitting next to Charlotte, Elizabeth Darcy too watched her children dance round the ballroom, then found her view was blocked. Her husband stood before her.
“My dear,” said Mr. Darcy, extending his hand. “Will you waltz with me?”
Elizabeth held up her arms. They took to the floor, joining the throng, which fell back a little as they were recognized. The shimmering light from the candelabra was reflected on Elizabeth’s elegant cheekbones and the Darcy diamonds at her throat. Gravely and beautifully, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy waltzed round the floor.
“Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth,” said Fitzwilliam Darcy to his wife of twenty-five years, and he drew her a little closer.
And Charlotte Collins, widow, watched with pleasure. Some things work out well, she thought. One must accept the consequences. She sighed, and closed her eyes. She was very tired. There was a great deal on her mind, but for the moment she could rest.
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