The two women fumbled in an uneven parody of an embrace, Charlotte hanging onto the horse’s reins with one hand, and trying to raise Anne with her other arm. The velvet coat worn by the younger woman smelled musty, and very slightly of cigars. More startling curses ensued as the two women hopped and staggered. Anne sucked in air. ‘It is no good. I doubt anything is broken, but I cannot yet walk. Mrs Collins, do you think you can boost me back onto Bruno? And then I fear I must ask you to come back to the stables with me and help me dismount.’
It took them a quarter of an hour, and some moments of pure despair, before Anne was on horseback again, sitting astride. The horse was spooked and skittish, and would not stand still to be mounted; and although it was fortunate that one of them was so slight and one tall – they would not have managed otherwise – it was still only by supreme effort that Charlotte managed at last to heave Anne back into the saddle. In spite of the iron chill of the night, she was sweating like Bruno himself by the time it was done.
Then came the journey back to the stables, Charlotte’s hand on the reins, Anne occasionally speaking from above to navigate. There was something bizarre about her conversational tone, given the shocking nature of their situation. Neither mentioned Lady Catherine, but both knew that discovery – of either of their transgressions – by her ladyship was not to be contemplated.
As they approached the stables, Charlotte realised a fresh bout of difficulties was about to begin. They had to get the horse unsaddled, currycombed, and stabled without discovery. ‘Walter is a very reliable fellow, but porter keeps him sleeping soundly at nights – plus he is partly deaf, which aids my cause,’ Anne explained. Charlotte realised, with a jolt, that this midnight ride was not Miss de Bourgh’s first such excursion and, as if reading her thoughts, the younger woman said: ‘At night, galloping across the Weald – Mrs Collins, it feels as if I can fly – am flying. I cannot live as a caged bird every hour of every day. It cannot be borne.’
Charlotte shook herself back to their current dilemma. She had to help Anne slide from the horse, then attend to the animal. Everything took longer because of the need for quiet and darkness; they dared not light a lantern, and every clatter of Bruno’s hooves brought fresh fright of stirring from the groom’s cottage nearby. But if Walter did wake, he had the sense to lie quiet; and agonisingly slowly, task after task was completed.
At last the animal and his accoutrements were safely stowed; the next challenge was to get Anne back to the house. But first it was time for some nursemaiding. The eldest of six children, Charlotte was an old hand at sprains and bruises. She forced Miss de Bourgh to remove one boot, itself a production, as the ankle had swelled, and could be released only by strenuous efforts that left tears freezing like diamonds on Anne’s cheeks. Then Charlotte made her sit with her injured foot in the water trough – where first they had to break a crackling skin of ice. She hunted around in the dark for a handful of dock leaves spared by the frost – she was lucky to find a rosette of them close to the muck-heap – and something she could use as a bandage. It was only in story-books that heroines ripped strips from their clothing, she thought, contemplating the unassailable thick cotton of her nightdress under her outer layers. She was perishingly cold, and could only imagine what Anne, one bare leg in ice-water, must be feeling, but there was no help for it.
Her treatment, though brutal, did the trick, and her patient, leaning heavily on Charlotte’s shoulder, was able to shuffle back towards the house. After an interminable journey, they slid into the kitchen quarters, the comparative warmth of the house offering relief as solid as any embrace. Here, too, they dared not light a candle, but the fires, though banked, gave off a faint coral and gold glow, as well as blessed, glorious heat. At last Charlotte could treat Miss de Bourgh’s injured ankle by wrapping it first in the leaves she had picked, and then in a cloth girth purloined from the tack room.
The dim light meant that Charlotte could take in Anne’s appearance more thoroughly, and the younger woman saw herself scrutinised; once again, with her uncanny knack of answering Charlotte’s unasked questions, she said, ‘These are my father’s hunting clothes, made at least thirty years ago. I took them from his quarters after his death, and stored them in a trunk in my dressing room. Thank heavens he was a small man! I am very like him in appearance, you know.’
Charlotte thought it wisest not to comment on the matter. ‘Can you get upstairs undetected, do you think?’
Anne grinned, something Charlotte had never before seen, and it transformed her narrow face: ‘My co-conspirator! Yes, I am sure I can return to my chambers now. I thank you for your assistance, Mrs Collins. I spoke harshly when first I took my tumble, but you understand how necessary it is to evade discovery, especially in what sometimes feels like a court of Jacobean spies. How lucky it was you I encountered; you I know I can rely upon.’
Charlotte nodded at the unspoken pact: they would keep each other’s secrets. She said only, ‘I shall send over some comfrey for the bruising tomorrow. I have some dried leaves in stock, and you can ask your maidservant to prepare a tea.’
It felt like a blow to step back out into the bitter cold of the night, and she hurried home as fast as she could, driven by both the lateness of the hour and the need to keep moving against the blood-slowing chill. Safely back indoors at the Parsonage, no sound in the house, itself an innocently slumbering creature, she heated milk on the range, grated a little sugar into it and, as a special treat, broke off the end of a rare vanilla pod and stirred it in. The hot drink ran through her veins like brandy without the burn, and she was aware that sleep was no longer refusing its gifts, but beckoning seductively. She barely made it back to bed before slipping under its sway.
CHAPTER VII
THE WINTER DRAGGED ON, ONE day after another which Charlotte endured by the simple expedient of putting one foot in front of the other. Not once did Miss de Bourgh allude to their extraordinary midnight encounter, although considerable fuss was made over the ankle injury she had sustained in a night-time ‘slip on the stairs’, with a surgeon summoned from London to pronounce what was already known – that nothing more than time was required for healing. Charlotte knew it was the only cure for what ailed her too, but the hours passed so slowly. There were still nights that lasted centuries, although sometimes, as she lay in bed listening to the drumming of her own pulses, she wondered if she was indeed hearing hooves again.
The next painful milestone came in early February, on what would have been Tom’s fourth birthday. It was that time of year when all patience with winter was at an end; lanes full of slush, perpetually lowered iron-grey skies, chilblained fingers and dripping noses – these were no longer endurable, and yet spring still seemed dispiritingly distant. At family prayers that morning, Mr Collins spoke words expected of a clergyman, of a beloved son and brother gone to a better place among the heavenly choir of angels, precepts of love and gratitude, faith and fortitude, along with exhortations to accept the will of the Almighty and look to the day of reunion. But then his voice faltered.
Charlotte opened her eyes to see her husband’s head sunk in his hands and his shoulders shaking. When he finally revealed his face, it was wet. Sarah and Laura, their small fingers still steepled, began to cry as well, more from confusion and distress at seeing their parent stricken than with real grief. Charlotte, herself deeply affected, realised they were but moments away from communal collapse into sorrow, and called out, ‘Let us sing! We shall sing Tom’s favourite hymn to remember him by!’ She raised her voice before it could be overtaken by tears, and Mr Collins’s thin baritone soon quavered along beside:
Praise God, from whom all blessings flow;
Praise Him, all creatures here below;
Praise Him above, ye heav’nly host;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
The children joined in with gusto and their parents split their voices on the second verse to sing it in the form of a round. This was what Tom, too young to appreci
ate the finer theological points, had so loved; it had had him waving his arms enthusiastically whenever they sang it in church, no matter how beadily Lady Catherine might peer at him from her raised pew.
A few days later, Charlotte found the first snowdrops trembling in the woods, proof that the year was tilting timidly back towards the sun at last. Time, both her friend and enemy, was indeed passing.
March marked the ‘hungry gap’, that period of the year when the poor were winter-gaunt, but the first spring crops were still seeded or sprouting in the soil. The old and the infirm were easily carried off, and Mr Collins buried more than the usual numbers of his flock at this time. Charlotte was, as usual during Lent, rationing the bacon, using chunks of smoked and salted fat to season the leeks and kales that formed a staple at table for rich and poor alike at this time.
And yet the hedgerows and gardens were burgeoning with buds and glimpses of green. The lanes, fields, and farms saw not only the return of growth both fresh and familiar, but faces as well: the first showing of the gypsies and other workers on whom the hop-growers and other farmers depended.
One blustery morning soon after the arrival of gypsies in the neighbourhood, Miss de Bourgh drew her phaeton to a halt outside the Parsonage in a spray of mud, Mrs Jenkinson clutching her side of the conveyance for dear life. Charlotte slipped on her pattens and ran down to the gate to discover the purpose of this stop.
Miss de Bourgh, holding the reins taut as her ponies fretted, leaned towards her and spoke without preamble: ‘Mrs Collins, would you be prepared to ride out tomorrow morning with Walter and myself to visit the tinkers in the pasture up by Dingle Wood? There is a matter to be taken care of there that will benefit from your understanding and advice.’ She barely waited for Charlotte’s nod before giving her ponies their heads with a snap of the reins, and speeding off.
Charlotte was quite willing to accompany Anne on her errand, but was perplexed by the novelty of the request, especially considering its source. As the resident clergyman’s wife, she had infrequent but regular dealings with the itinerant gypsies who flooded into Kent twice a year, in straggles in spring, then in much greater numbers when the time came to harvest the hops in September.
They brought with them a swelling in the problems of indigence, as well as other small upheavals; petty theft, poaching, the occasional chicken disappearing in the night, quarrels when liquor had been taken, but they were a mostly welcome and accepted part of country life in that corner of England; they made, mended, and sold trinkets and household goods, and Charlotte was able to set aside a good sum each autumn through selling them cider and perry. She did not romanticise their colourful kerchiefs and beads, or their musicality and dancing, but neither was she dismayed by the dirt and dismal ignorance of their children, who, although treasured and petted, mostly remained unlettered; and when called upon to offer what relief or comfort was in her power, she did so without fuss.
Charlotte explained the morrow’s errand to her husband, who fortunately ascribed it to the bountifulness of the ladies of Rosings, and who was in any case accustomed to the local women sometimes preferring to approach his wife for aid rather than deal with him directly, especially where feminine mishaps and misfortunes were involved. Ever-practical, she packed up a pot with a handle that needed mending and checked her purse in case the visit was productive of something useful to purchase.
The next day, their party met at the stableyard, Anne dressed in a sober black riding habit. Walter did not lead out Bruno; instead he saddled the quiet grey mare, foal still circling its dam, for his mistress to mount. Charlotte had her trusty Dobbin, who whickered a welcome at the sight of her. They set off across the park, the foal cantering in wide circles around their little cavalcade, its ears like furred lilies pricked and broom-brush tail straight up in the air. Once they reached a fairly broad track, Anne held her horse back, letting Walter go ahead and opening up a small distance between them. Once she was sure she could not be overheard, she said quietly to Charlotte: ‘They know about my riding. At night, that is.’
She swiftly related the facts of the case: a few years ago, she was returning home late one night under a bright moon, her reins and body loose after a refreshing gallop, when she met a gypsy woman coming stealthily along the path in her direction, two fat hares flopping limp from her hand. Both froze, their minds instantly flying in terror to the consequences of this mutual discovery: Anne seized by the possibility of being unmasked; the woman by the thought of gaol, a transport ship, or worse.
At first, the gypsy’s terror was the greater, confronted as she was by a young gentleman on horseback; but as luck or misfortune would have it, she had presented her rushwork to the ladies of Rosings only the week before, and her eyes fastened onto her interlocutor’s face with shock, then comprehension, exclaiming in recognition as she identified Anne by name.
Words then flew, made harsh by mutual misunderstanding and fear, culminating in Miss de Bourgh demanding that the woman say nothing of their meeting, or face the most dire consequences. The gypsy, with remarkable quickness of mind, seized the opportunity for mutual negotiation. She gave her promise of silence with alacrity, but then announced her intention to beg a boon in return. Would her ladyship return with her to their encampment?
It took some time for the two to come to terms; Anne dreaded further exposure, but in the end she reasoned that the contraband hares condemned not just the gypsy but all her fellows, who would require a cloak of secrecy even more urgently than she did. Suspicious but curious, she followed the woman back to the site where a small cluster of wagons and tents stood, a cheerless spot in the middle of a muddy strip of land squeezed between a track and a still-bare wood. A fire smouldered, and a child could be heard coughing.
A half-circle of faces pale in the moonlight turned towards them, and there was a quick and low ripple of Romany; then two men approached with offers to care for Bruno while his rider rested and took some refreshment. Their soft words and pats to her horse’s neck reassured her almost as much as they soothed her mount, inspiring her to leave the height and safety of his back. There was relief in finding that no one seemed scandalised by her dress or unorthodox midnight appearance; if anything, they were relieved to be dealing with a woman, however she might be attired.
Over mugs of strong black tea, she established what the tinkers’ needs were, and these were indeed simple: a dry bit of pasture where they could make camp unharassed, with a good source of clean water and firewood nearby. She promised to make the necessary arrangements and, while their reciprocal agreement of utmost secrecy remained unspoken, it was clearly understood by all.
It took several days, meetings with the estate managers, and a steady refusal to engage with her mother’s expostulations and objections, but in the end, no one could dispute the charity of her wishes, however much it might baffle them. Anne was thus able to arrange that this particular troupe should, on all their visits to the district, be given the use of a field on Rosings land, with access to a stream and copses holding plentiful dead wood.
‘Since then, I have visited them during their sojourns here – not often, as my mother will not hear of my going unaccompanied, and Mrs Jenkinson deplores the very idea, anticipating squalor and smells,’ she told Charlotte. ‘But Walter sometimes rides over with me, when he can be spared. I think he quite enjoys it – he slopes off to look at the ponies and talk horseflesh with the men, assuming that I am there because I wish my palm read or my fortune told.’
She nodded at Walter’s stolid back ahead of them. ‘I do not correct this misapprehension; if the district thinks I am in search of some sort of scrying, no doubt a matter of beaus and balls, that is to my advantage.’ She shot Charlotte a sidelong glance: ‘And sometimes at night, the camp makes an object to my rides. It is no bad thing to pause for something to drink, to have company by firelight or starlight, to hear singing or stories. We are part-outlaws together, held equal in a strange comradeship of mutual blackmail; I ignore the
contents of their stewpots, and they do not remark on my breeches.’
Charlotte could not help smiling at this, and said: ‘I understand what you relate, unorthodox as it may be, but I am curious as to why I have been invited to join you today.’
‘Mrs Collins, I do not offer myself as a benefactor or advisor to these people. It is mere chance and circumstance that has brought about our current relationship. As I have told you before, I am in truth a selfish creature: both parties in this case benefit from our understanding, but I have little interest in providing further forms of aid. However, I am not unfeeling, and there are circumstances of sorrow and suffering I would like to see alleviated. More recently, the women have told me of a specific situation that requires your advice and intervention. I will allow them to explain to you in person.’
They picked their way up the sloping and freshening fields until a shrill whinny from the foal, scenting potential friends, alerted them that they were arriving at the encampment: a small circle of wagons, with a midden set a sensible distance from the stream, and smoke rising into the sky. They were not the only visitors: Mrs Talbot, who had come to purchase wild herbs and examine one of the women who was expecting, was already seated by the fire. The new arrivals handed their horses over to Walter, who led them down to graze by the stream with the gypsy ponies, and joined the midwife, settling on rough stools around the fire. Mutual greetings and enquiries were made, and Miss de Bourgh handed over a screw of tea supplied by the Rosings housekeeper, which was promptly set to brew.
An older woman, with a rusty-red scarf bound around her tresses, leaned towards Charlotte and offered to read her palm. When Charlotte demurred, the gypsy said, ‘No palm is required, ma’am. You have the face and form of one who has recently suffered grievous loss.’
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