Charlotte

by Helen Moffett

  CHAPTER II

  SOME DAYS WERE BETTER THAN others. Somehow, the hours were endured. Letters addressed to the bereaved parents continued to arrive, and responding to these provided some object to each monstrous day. Lady Lucas wrote to her daughter almost daily, not even awaiting any reply, and although each note repeated the substance of the last, Charlotte valued these tokens of her mother’s affection. Lizzy was not the only member of the Bennet family to try to comfort her; she was touched to receive from Mrs Bingley, Elizabeth’s elder sister, a letter of condolence all the more sweet for its evident sincerity. As the mother of two young boys and a by-word for kindness, Jane was deeply affected by Charlotte’s loss and, while she had no remedy to offer for grief, the indication of her care was itself soothing.

  The weeks trudged by. Charlotte found that watching how differently her daughters experienced time to adults was enlightening: there were hours when they ran, played, and whooped as joyously as if nothing more grievous than a grazed knee had ever marred their days. It was their knack for forgetting she marvelled at. There were moments when she envied them this gift; at others, she understood that they might never remember their younger brother, and the very idea made her feel as if her skin had been removed with a paring knife.

  Her memories of Tom were at that stage not yet memories, but as much part of her daily life as rising, dressing, breakfasting, feeding the chickens, and all the routines to which she now clung as a means of passaging through days as thick as treacle and grey as ash. He was with her everywhere, sometimes receding momentarily, but mostly at the edge of her vision, her hearing.

  Katie, the maid, her florid face swollen with tears, and Mrs Brown, the housekeeper, had each offered to pack away his clothing and toys, but Charlotte had refused to allow this. Lady Catherine had, on one of her visits, indicated that she would send over one of her maids to undertake the sad task, but Charlotte, accustomed to acquiescence, along with biting her tongue a hundred times in the presence of her ladyship, had uttered a flat refusal, excused herself, and left the room.

  Normally, such rebellion would have been punished with a withdrawal of attention from Rosings, with no cucumbers from the hothouses or invitations to drink tea after church until Charlotte and her husband had made an adequately fulsome display of regret, but this time, no umbrage was taken. Lady Catherine continued to call on Charlotte in the mornings, on which occasions they spoke of the weather, the health of their respective surviving children, and the prowess of Charlotte’s hens, while acknowledging the superiority of the Rosings poultry. The matter of Tom’s few possessions was not alluded to again.

  So the days were bearable, most of the time, if only just, leavened as they were by the presence and playfulness of her daughters, as well as the attentions of her husband. Charlotte sometimes wondered if he too had felt that shift in the tone of her emotions as they had stood by Tom’s grave. She dreaded his uttering platitudes that might drive away her unexpected new warmth for him, but he was quieter than usual, his customary torrent of wordage muted by real grief.

  Theirs was not a union in which marital candour or intimate communication had ever featured; Charlotte had always considered that part of the bargain she had struck was to withhold, even hide, her true feelings and thoughts. Marriage had required her to become an even more than ordinarily contained person, and she assumed the same held for her spouse. So they had no way in which to find their way towards one another through words; but now Mr Collins would hover over her chair after meals, come and find her at intervals in the day to enquire after her health; he would press her hand, pat her shoulder, or kiss her forehead, gestures she received gratefully.

  The nights were the problem. Charlotte went to her bed the way a witch or heretic went to the pile of faggots: knowing that certain torture lay ahead, but with no avenue of escape. She could have summoned a doctor or apothecary – Lady Catherine would have been delighted to be consulted for advice on such a matter – and asked for a sleeping draught. But she was afraid that after years of sleeping with one ear open, she might, if insensible, somehow miss a sound indicating that Sarah or Laura were in distress or afflicted, that her inability to wake might prove fatal.

  And what she could barely articulate to herself was the hope that if she remained alert, she might hear the familiar chirruping indicating that Tom needed her. That she would take a candle into his nursery to see him light up with smiles at the sight of her, chubby arms windmilling over the edge of the cot, eager to wrap themselves around her neck. That she would scoop him up into her arms, slot him onto her hip and tuck his head into the crook of her neck, the nightmare of the present dissolving, the flow of life reverting to its normal channels, no longer jarringly out of step.

  This meant that she dared not take wine with dinner, not even when Lady Catherine sent over a half-dozen bottles of Constantia wine from her late husband’s cellar, a magnanimous gesture that had required both a full-page letter of thanks and a visit for the sole purpose of expressing gratitude.

  So Charlotte would lie in sheets that would grow rumpled as the hours crawled by, rehearsing that last day of Tom’s life endlessly, wondering if there was a sign she had missed, something she could have done to change the events of the night. Had he been unduly subdued? Had she missed his catching a cold? She should have supervised his supper instead of leaving it to Katie, fed him special treats. Why had she not played with him longer that day? Held him tighter? How could she have kissed him goodnight so lightly, unconcerned, with no sense of the savage beast waiting to snatch him away, to tear her world to pieces? How could she not have known nemesis was waiting, hidden and leering in the shadows, for her to lower him into his cot and walk away, leaving him unguarded?

  Her mind would roam further into thornier fields: should they have consulted more doctors? Heaven knows, Lady Catherine had recommended enough, as well as having so much to say that one might be forgiven for thinking her an expert on water on the brain. Had they accepted too easily the claim that his condition was untreatable, apart from the regular draining of fluid from his poor swollen head? He had always seemed so content, with none of the fretfulness one might expect of a child with such an impairment: he loved his food, the games they played, music … Oh God, she had promised him and his sisters a visit to the piano in the housekeeper’s room at Rosings, for one of their occasional sing-along sorties – why had she postponed an outing he would have enjoyed so much? Why had she trusted that another day would come, another tomorrow, and another? Wait, not yet, not yet, her heart cried. I am not ready. And then, as the clock downstairs chimed away the plodding hours: I shall never be ready.

  She would at last wrench her mind away from such self-flagellation, only to have the fate of her daughters rise like a spectre. Within ten years, Sarah would be sixteen, Laura close to fifteen; precious little time to find a means of securing their futures, if that security was to be provided in the form of a sum sufficient for independence. How could she possibly set by enough? She ran their household with such efficiency, she made a small annual profit; not for nothing was she the child of William Lucas, a merchant before his elevation in society. But she had no illusions of being able to provide substantially for both girls. She would have to find a legal way around the Longbourn entail, and how was she to succeed where Mr Bennet had failed? Lady Catherine might be cultivated as an ally: she who had managed to preserve Rosings for her daughter. But how was she to approach her ladyship on such a matter, and in such a way that Mr Collins – who would most likely be appalled to discover his own wife intended tampering with his inheritance – did not find out?

  She drew up numerous plans, friends who might be prevailed upon to assist, avenues to pursue; but in those bleak midnight hours, she quailed at the enormity of the task and her own ignorance of the law.

  CHAPTER III

  CHARLOTTE FOUND HERSELF AFFLICTED BY a more private matter of bodily health as well. A few days after the funeral, she had begun her monthly courses ear
lier than usual. Charlotte was physically robust, and this was not usually a matter that troubled her, but after more than a week passed with the flow as heavy as ever, she grew alarmed. Visions of a canker or wastage that would render her daughters motherless haunted her already hideous nights. She was tempted to mention the matter to Elizabeth, who, after the early impulse that had led her to share her own sorrows, had shown her old friend nothing but kindness and many attempts at solicitous distraction during the fortnight of her visit. But something held Charlotte back from discussing the vagaries of the female body with a friend who had recently suffered a miscarriage.

  When another week had passed, with no lessening of her problem, she paid a discreet visit to Mrs Talbot, the village midwife, under the guise of dropping off napkins for a parishioner’s laying-in. Mrs Talbot had delivered all three of Charlotte’s children, and the two women were close without the expectations or rituals of friendship. She uttered condolences all the more sincere for being terse, and did not allude to Tom’s condition or suggest that his death had been in any way some sort of merciful release, commenting only on the sweetness of his temper.

  The conversation turned to Charlotte’s weeping body, and the midwife was able to reassure her that such a physical reaction was, if not normal, certainly not unusual in the wake of grief: ‘It is a bodily expression of mourning. I have seen it before in women who are sorrowing. It may persist for a while. In the meantime, take plenty of beef broth, and eat liver if you can.’ She also recommended drinking a tea of raspberry leaves in the mornings, and chamomile before retiring. ‘And you may indeed find wine helpful, but no more than a glass at a time,’ she cautioned.

  Greatly relieved, and with the sense of pleasant exhaustion that often follows relief, Charlotte took Mrs Talbot’s advice and a package of herbs. Whether it was the raspberry-leaf tea or nature taking its course, after a few more weeks, Charlotte’s body settled back into its usual schedule.

  But still she could not sleep. She stumbled through the days red-eyed and frantic for rest, dozing off in her sewing chair or at her household accounts and jerking awake, sweating in panic. To her shame, she found herself snapping at Katie, knocking over her water-glass, breaking crockery, crying out in near-hysteria when Laura slipped while trying to climb a stile into the cow-pasture. She was either weak with fatigue or as restless as a caged animal, desperate to walk for miles, swinging her arms, seeing and speaking to no one. But the deepening winter thwarted her, both with the darkness that settled earlier each day, and with rain and fog that did not invite strolling. Besides, the wife of a clergyman – much less one who had the Hunsford living and the patronage of Rosings – could not roam the lanes and fields at will. She required an object for any journeys she made, and there were only so many parish visits she could make.

  Her husband at least had the usual business of his office, and the winter pruning to attend to – the walnut and mulberry trees had to be cut back while their sap was dormant, to prevent weeping – and he would sally forth with leather gloves, knives and a bullhook, returning hours later with a face red-chapped by cold, exertion, and the private expression of grief. At those moments, his wife almost envied him his labours, even when the east wind nagged with the sting of sleet.

  One evening, Charlotte found herself almost feverish with agitation and exhaustion. Mr Collins, concerned and perplexed as to how best to provide comfort, had finally broached one of Lady Catherine’s bottles at dinner, and the silky red liquor had provided his wife with welcome warmth, colouring her cheeks and easing some of the knots from her neck and shoulders, which, these days, felt permanently crimped.

  But after retiring to bed, she found herself as tense as always. She thrashed for what felt like hours, conscious of a semi-familiar pressure in her lower body she associated with the middle months of pregnancy. The heat of the wine had slid from her throat, chest and fingers to pool in her pelvis, thudding along with her pulse.

  Charlotte did not have the vocabulary to give a name to sexual hunger, but she did know that the sense of urgency and loneliness she felt could no longer be endured. Sitting up in bed and flinging back the quilt, she called, ‘Mr Collins!’ Then, more loudly, ‘William!’ She was about to scramble out of bed to go and wake her husband when she heard footsteps and fumbling at the dressing-room door.

  He stumbled into her bedchamber dishevelled in the dim light, and extremely anxious: ‘My dearest Charlotte, whatever is the matter? Are you taken ill? Must we send to Rosings? Should I wake the servants?’

  By now, she had managed to light her bedside candle, hands shaking, and saw that he had come to her with such alacrity, he had not even put a shawl or gown on over his nightclothes. Unable to speak, but hoping he could see that nothing physical ailed her, she simply stretched out her arms. He bustled to her side and bent to embrace her. She snared him around the waist and lay back, tugging him towards her. At his slight resistance, born of confusion, she urged, ‘Get into bed, William. You’ll freeze to death otherwise.’

  He scrambled under the covers with her, still hugging her awkwardly, still murmuring queries: ‘Are you in distress, my dear? Are you sure you are not ill, or in any pain?’

  ‘I am quite well. But I cannot sleep!’ It came out as a wail that caused Mr Collins to cluck with great tenderness. ‘Here,’ Charlotte added, with a fine disregard for logical sequence, ‘your feet are blocks of ice. Warm them on mine.’

  They lay wordless for a minute, tangling their legs together, panting slightly. Then, with blind instinct, she pushed up the tail of his nightgown and ran her hands up his back, digging her nails into his flesh. He began to kiss her all over her face, and she was overtaken by animal hunger that had her dragging up her own gown, and lunging upwards with her hips.

  He all but fell into her, burying himself in the warmest part of her, and they both groaned. It was usual during their congress for Charlotte to lie still, but this time she bucked under him, unable to stifle her cries. Within seconds, she began to spasm in an agony of relief. He gasped and shuddered in response, and tears welled from Charlotte’s eyes. It was a while before she realised that he too had shed the tears wetting her face.

  Eventually, her grip on her husband slackened. She wriggled in his arms until he rolled alongside her, and then she hugged him again, less forcefully. He cradled her head against his chest, and she began to weep, but quietly. She cried for a long time before detaching herself and sitting up to search for a handkerchief. Stretching brought new awareness of how the wires in her body had uncoiled and loosened, and she took and kissed Mr Collins’s hand gratefully.

  He in turn sat up preparatory to leaving, and began to thank her, as was their usual pattern. Again, she tugged him back down. ‘Stay.’ And at his perplexity, she recited, ‘Ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity.’

  She sensed him smiling at that, as he should, the words coming from the vows in the Book of Common Prayer he read whenever joining in matrimony members of his congregation.

  ‘Perhaps we may be blessed with another child. I had hoped – I did not want to intrude on your grief – is it too soon to speak of such matters, my dear?’ But Charlotte, on the verge of voluptuous sleep, did not answer.

  After that, things were a little better. Whenever she was having an especially bad night, Charlotte would call her husband, and he would hasten into her chamber, making ritual enquiries as to her health. She would reach out to him, they would couple both frantically and slightly furtively, then lie heaving in each other’s arms. Sometimes one or the other would shed tears. Occasionally Mr Collins would express the tentative hope that their nocturnal activities would result in another child. Charlotte understood that this arose from his slight discomfort at the shamelessness of their marital incontinence. Their conjugal relations had indeed become first sporadic, and then rare following Tom’s birth, something Charlotte had not particularly regretted. She did not know if t
his had arisen from reticence on the part of her husband – perhaps in response to her deep preoccupation with her youngest child – or the fact that regardless of his frailty, Tom, as the future heir of Longbourn, provided them all with the semblance of a secure future.

  Neither had she cared to enquire. Having had three children in under five years, while not in the first flush of youth, she had welcomed the respite from pregnancy and child-bearing, the weariness that bit deep to the bone, the combination of hunger and nausea in the early months of carrying a child, the indigestion of the later months, the softening and swelling and leaking of her body. She did not begrudge the physical tax of bringing her beloved children into the world, and had refused the services of a wet nurse for each one, preferring to nourish her infants herself, even as Lady Catherine tutted and scolded; but she had enjoyed having her body to herself once Tom had been weaned. All the satisfaction she needed, she found in the affection of her three children, the physicality of their small bodies, the unselfconsciousness of their caresses.

  While she welcomed the re-entry of Mr Collins to her boudoir, and the embraces that undid the knots in her body, she also knew that Tom could not be replaced, no matter how beloved a new infant would no doubt be. She was not yet ready for there to be another occupant of the cot in the nursery. So after another discreet visit to Mrs Talbot, Charlotte made certain to drink pennyroyal tea for a week each month, an ancient remedy against conception, according to the midwife. Meanwhile, ever-practical, she learned to lay out cloths to protect the bedsheets from undue amounts of laundering. And after these marital encounters, she would sleep.

  She still startled awake with a cry of alarm from dreams of a child calling her, she still woke before dawn, fretting over her daughters, but those few hours of deep physical relaxation and slumber made it possible to taste the toasted bread and bramble jam served at breakfast, to calculate her accounts with her usual accuracy, to adjust the amount of corn fed to the hens to encourage better laying, to smile more widely and curtsey more deeply when Lady Catherine came to call.