Charlotte

by Helen Moffett

‘What makes you say such a thing?’ said Charlotte.

  ‘Ma’am, it is common knowledge that you lost your little boy but a few months past. Besides, I saw the stone in the graveyard last week. I was visiting the grave of my granddaughter. We buried her there three autumns ago; she took ill and died when we were here to pick the hops. Your husband agreed to our burying her in the churchyard, and read the service himself. It’s better to think of her here, lying under fair winds and stars, than if she were in a city cemetery in all the press of crowds and smoke.’

  ‘But does it not grieve your family that you cannot visit or tend her grave?’ Charlotte asked.

  ‘We come by twice a year, for the hops-twiddling, then the picking. And sometimes we stay on to pick up potatoes. I visit her resting-place then. It’s not a bad place to lie, out in the country, with all the birds and blooms around. Besides, I help the sexton with draughts for his gout each time we come, and he keeps an eye on our Annie’s grave for us. Yes, m’lady,’ nodding at Anne, ‘she was also Anne. Ma’am, I would take it very kindly if, when you visit your son’s grave, you would say a prayer for my granddaughter too. It helps if we can think of her lying among friends.’

  Charlotte agreed without hesitation, and threw Miss de Bourgh a glance: was this why she had been brought here? It seemed not; the gypsy woman called over her shoulder, and a slighter, shyer woman emerged from the mouth of one of the caravans. Her tale, while similar, was an even sadder one, and it took the coaxing of the older gypsy, along with Mrs Talbot’s comforting ministrations, to extract the entire sorrowful story, with no small amount of tears shed.

  Her little girl, killed in a fall from a wagon, had lain in unconsecrated ground for seven years because Mr Collins’s predecessor had refused to accept that the child had been correctly baptised.

  ‘Ma’am, I baptised her myself, when I was first delivered.’ The woman hung her head. ‘I knew it might not be proper, but I wanted her little soul to be safe. And then when we were up Northumbria-way for the eel-picking, we had her christened again in the parish church. But we had no way of proving it. We didn’t ask for a paper. My man went all the way back there to see if the vicar might write a note or some such, but he had died, and the church was all shut up. Can you help us? We have no education, we can write no letters. We are properly heartscalded, ma’am.’

  Charlotte was first horrified, then incensed, to hear of such unnecessarily protracted misery. She gave every assurance of assistance she could, taking careful note of all the particulars. The grateful women in turn pressed a new-woven rush-basket on her, and refused to take any coin for it. At last the thick, smoky tea was drunk, Mrs Talbot disappeared into a caravan with her patient, and the others took their leave. As they proceeded home, Charlotte felt her rage growing, mounting to fury at the pettiness of such cruelty.

  She rarely gave her husband direct instructions, preferring to hint and persuade until he fell in line with her suggestions, but as soon as she gained her front door, she went in search of him, and did not mince her words: ‘Mr Collins, I require you to write at once to whoever is in charge of—diocese, the Bishop himself if need be. There is a child who lies outside the boundaries of our Christian graveyard, denied the dignity and sanctity of decent burial because at the time of her unfortunate passing, there was no proof that she had been baptised. That proof must exist, and I must insist that you find it. There is a family grieving because no proper prayers were ever said over the body of their baby. I should also like you to conduct a Christian ceremony over the grave at your earliest convenience.’

  Mr Collins was immensely surprised, even alarmed, especially when he found out that the family of which his wife spoke were tinkers, although he was somewhat mollified by the fact that they were encamped at the distant edges of the Rosings property and could therefore be considered to be under the protection of Lady Catherine. However, he looked at Charlotte’s set jaw and, with uncharacteristic perspicacity, knew better than to demur or argue.

  The necessary letters were written, responses sent, and permissions gained; and within less than a fortnight, a small party gathered to consecrate the little patch of earth that held the remains of the gypsy child. All the women and children of the camp attended, as well as those men whose employers allowed them time away from the pressing demands of the agricultural season. They formed a ring, hats in hand, weather-bitten faces softened. A hymn was sung, to the accompaniment of a fiddle, in spontaneous harmonies that wrung tears from Charlotte. Dry-eyed at her own son’s funeral, she now wept copiously for a child she had never known, in company with most of the women present, who made no effort to mute their expressions of grief. Mr Collins, as the presiding officer of the Church, remained solemn and composed throughout, although his voice shook once or twice.

  That night as husband and wife sat by the fire, respectively reading and stitching, they did not speak of Charlotte’s unusual display of emotion earlier that day; but she took Mr Collins’s hand and squeezed it with more than usual fervour, before kissing the knuckles.

  CHAPTER VIII

  LATER THAT SPRING, A LETTER for Mr Collins arrived from Pemberley, from Mr Darcy. He did not wish to inconvenience the Collins family, but his wife was low in spirits after illness, and he believed she would benefit from feminine company, especially as matters of business required him to travel away from home a great deal during the coming summer. Mrs Darcy had no appetite for London at present, and had expressed a wish that either Mrs Bingley or Mrs Collins might visit her, but Jane was approaching a confinement. Could Mr Collins spare his wife for some weeks or longer, if convenient? The girls would of course also be welcomed, nursemaids provided for them, and Mr Darcy would send a carriage and horses to make the journey as comfortable as possible.

  There was little chance of Mr Collins refusing the master of Pemberley anything, and a reply was soon dispatched agreeing to the plan. This was in turn met by a letter from Elizabeth to Charlotte closer in tone to her old playfulness, anticipating her visit with great pleasure, and planning sorties and games for her friend and her children.

  Charlotte welcomed the invitation. She was finding the burgeoning march of spring surprisingly painful. The sombreness of winter had matched and kept pace with her mourning. While the lengthening days had at first brought a measure of relief, watching lambs waggling their snowy tails under their mother’s stomachs, and the daffodils nodding along in concert, it seemed that all she saw conspired to suggest new life and growth. From ducklings in the pond to the sugar-sprinkle of blossom on tender grass, she kept noticing things that would have given Tom innocent joy. Easter and Mr Collins’s sermons on the hope of the Resurrection, spiked with the bright light falling through the chancel windows, had stabbed at her. She knew that Derbyshire was not immune to the seasons, but it would present new scenes, a change of pace, and the journey would provide an object to weeks that trudged past, offering no respite from loss. She would regret leaving her potager so soon after setting out the lettuces and sowing lovage and fennel seeds, but Mr Collins promised not to let it become overwhelmed by weeds, and to guard it from rabbits. They were to leave after Whitsun.

  A few days before their departure, Miss de Bourgh once again stopped her phaeton outside the Parsonage gate, and a servant came running to inform Charlotte that she was wanted. Anne was alone at the reins: ‘Mrs Collins, may I once again discommode you by begging you to climb into my conveyance? I wish to take you for a spin around the lanes. The trip will be brief; I have sent my maid back to Rosings, and must return home before it is discovered that I am unaccompanied.’

  Charlotte hastened into her house to let its occupants know she would be unavailable for a short while, and sped back down the driveway before her husband could speak too long on such mysterious graciousness. She scrambled into the phaeton as he waved and bowed from the front door and, with a clicking of Miss de Bourgh’s tongue, they bowled away.

  Charlotte had never been in such a sleek and small carriage before, and
was alarmed at how vulnerable it felt, like perching in a very large eggshell. She clung to the sides as Anne’s ponies whipped round the corner of the lane without any loss of pace.

  ‘I am sorry to carry you away without ceremony, Mrs Collins,’ said her driver. ‘But I wished to tell you that you will be missed while you are in Derbyshire. I am not one for performances of gratitude; I have witnessed too many to trust their sincerity. But I want you to know that I appreciate the rectitude and discretion you have shown this past winter – and at a time that has been one of deep grief and difficulty for you.

  ‘I have not yet decided whether to write to you while you are at Pemberley. As you know by now, I do not dissemble. I am either frank in my speech and recounting, or silent – mostly the latter. If I do write, I will be as straightforward as in our other dealings, even in the discussion of intimate matters. But I am well aware that to write things down for others is to put ourselves in their power. I also know that letters from Rosings will be a matter of interest – even if that interest is slight – at the Pemberley breakfast table. I have no wish for my communications to be circulated, other than in the form of spoken summaries in the broadest and mildest of terms.’ She raised her voice above the sound of trotting hooves and whirring wheels. ‘Do you understand, Mrs Collins?’

  Charlotte made noises of assent as she held white-knuckled to the edge of the fragile, bouncing carriage, hoping that they would circumnavigate without incident the cart pulled by plodding Clydesdales ahead.

  ‘The same applies to any letters you may send in return. Their arrival will be a topic of conversation, and there will be open curiosity as to their contents. My mother will demand such a full accounting of any news you impart that letters to myself will constitute letters to her as well. You will bear this in mind, should you write. Which you are under no obligation to do. I shall leave it up to your judgement. Which, I might add, I trust.’ She shot her companion a look.

  Charlotte was both mindful of, and touched by, the compliment, but said nothing beyond a murmured ‘Thank you.’ She knew that her ability to curb her curiosity made her valuable to Miss de Bourgh, but she could not restrain herself: ‘Might I ask—? Colonel Fitzwilliam?’

  Anne laughed. ‘I am delighted, for his sake, as well as my own, to report that he seems to be on the verge of making an excellent match. And no, not to Miss Darcy, who remains free to wait and look around and take her pick, marry for affection, should she so choose. The Colonel has long been friends with a widowed French aristocrat, a Madame Fauré, who lost her husband in the Terrors abroad. With the cessation of the wars in Europe, and by dint of diligent legal pursuit, her family lands have been restored to her, and she is once more a woman of fortune. They are at last able to marry. I wish him happy, and wish him well. I am sure he will bring his bride to visit Rosings in due course.’

  They were trotting briskly around the edge of the park, and a long straight stretch of road had the ponies frisking, then breaking into a gallop. The wind whistled through Charlotte’s hair, and any further words were torn from their mouths.

  A few minutes later, they were back at the Parsonage, and Charlotte climbed down, grateful to be in one piece, but also exhilarated. The burst of speed they had shared confirmed her new insights into the character of her neighbour, and she could not help mulling over the strangeness of the fact that the loss of her son had delivered to her a new friend – or rather, drawn friendship from the thin soil of distant acquaintance. For surely she could now count Miss de Bourgh a friend.

  CHAPTER IX

  AFTER THE OBLIGATORY AND OFFICIAL farewell visit to Rosings, on which occasion they were lectured on every aspect of their impending travels, from the packing of their trunks to the perils of hostelry salads, the journey was at last underway. Mr Darcy sent an excellent coachman and a sensible nursemaid, arranged for inns known for their wholesomeness, and the journey proceeded smoothly. Charlotte’s daughters were in high spirits throughout and fortunately, neither were sickened by the motion of the carriage. Charlotte herself had never before travelled so far, and was as much caught up in the novelty of all that they saw as her children. All three of them enjoyed observing and even counting the different buildings and properties they passed, from the oast houses of their native Kent, to ancient crooked and timbered alehouses, to handsome modern houses of stone set in parkland adorned with herds of deer. Charlotte was caught by the sense of time rolling backwards as they headed northwards, the signs of lush spring constantly freshening around them and the hawthorn hedges frothing more lavishly the further they travelled.

  After three days of travel, excitement mounted as they entered Derbyshire, with the girls demanding to know if each moderately sized property was their destination. At last they were on the Pemberley estate – first climbing a slow incline, passing a handsome church, then winding their way down and across a shallow valley until the carriage rumbled across the bridge spanning the river in which the reflection of the house hung golden in the afternoon light.

  It was indeed a sight to behold: a building of great size and elegance, constructed from stone the colour of glazed scones, it hid its history from the onlooker behind a modern façade, windows and pediments, but sculptural ornamentation from past centuries attested to its antiquity. The ground behind it rose steeply to a hanging wood, and to the east lay a lake that anticipated the curving river below. All was verdant and serene.

  The Darcys met their small party with every evidence of pleasure, and Charlotte was relieved to see that her friend, although perhaps a little thin and pale, did not seem unwell. A private interview between the two women revealed that Elizabeth had suffered another miscarriage, although an early one. While her physical recovery had been swift, her spirits had plummeted, and her husband was loath to leave her without company for any part of the summer. His sister Georgiana would be returning from a visit to an old school friend in Switzerland in the latter part of the summer, but Mr Darcy felt that a married woman – and perhaps one who had herself recently lost a child – might be a companion in whom his wife might more comfortably confide her feelings.

  Mr Darcy departed on his travels, and those who remained soon settled into a routine. Charlotte discovered that the absence of their menfolk lent an informality to daily life that was refreshing. Meals were much less elaborate, and sometimes replaced entirely by a tray in the nursery, or a picnic outdoors. On rare rainy days, the girls had the contents of the Pemberley nursery to entertain them, including a most superior rocking-horse that soon became a favourite friend. But the early summer weather was mostly fine, and the girls ran about the grounds and gardens whooping like wild creatures, growing rosy and brown.

  Lizzy tactfully had her housekeeper unearth clothing from Georgiana’s girlhood trunks to supplement their wardrobes, for which Charlotte was grateful: romping round the grounds of Pemberley, and especially the tree-climbing to which Laura was partial, proved hard on the children’s garments, even if there was an army of servants to launder them and sew up the rents and tears.

  At first, Charlotte had many anxieties on account of the grottos, wildernesses, underground structures, river, lakes, ponds, and other bodies of water for which Pemberley was known – there was even a maze in which to get lost – but her daughters were old enough to exhibit sense, and invariably guarded by reliable servants. Here they were indulged and protected, and there was always someone to watch them as they climbed and clambered, set up camp in the various stone structures, or sailed boats constructed from leaves and twigs on the pond where the mallards had their nests.

  Soon she herself was able to relax and enjoy an unfamiliar sense of freedom, a respite from her usual responsibilities – even though she missed her hens and ducks, and had some doubts as to whether Katie would remember not to feed them apple peelings.

  She also found growing pleasure in exploring the grounds and gardens of Pemberley, with its grand avenues, woods, and grounds set with mature oaks, beeches, and Spanish chestnuts
. Although their garden at Hunsford was a source of pride, occupation, and healthy exertion for Mr Collins in particular, Charlotte herself did not give its beauties too much thought, especially as her husband was more fond of enumerating its contents and excavations than contemplating it in any aesthetic sense. For her, the kitchen garden, herb beds, and orchards were what mattered, and it was these which she was determined to bend to her will. If that took manure in spring and sacking in autumn, hers was always a pragmatic response.

  So it was a gradual revelation to stroll around the estate of Pemberley and find that her eye was drawn in certain directions, her perspective and focus coaxed by sightlines and horizons, sweeping lawns, copses, and streams that first looked as if nature alone had sited them, but which blended harmony and proportion in pleasing fashion, sometimes soothing, sometimes stimulating. A climb up the slope behind the house to the top of the stone cascade down which water tumbled soon became a favourite goal of most rambles. With long, fine days, the sunshine persisting long after dinner, she grew into the habit of walking further and further into the long golden evenings, the air heavy with fine dust and the scent of warm grass.

  Charlotte’s visit also yielded the pleasure of companionable chat with her old friend, whose wit required an audience. At times, Lizzy’s tendency to jest bordered on impropriety, but there was no doubting the liveliness of such conversations, something Charlotte missed sorely as a clergyman’s wife, who had to consider the possible interpretations and misinterpretations of every word she uttered in company. Moreover, she considered it an excellent thing that they could reminisce about the events of their past – the ‘follies of youth’, as Elizabeth put it – with only the gentle tax of amusement to pay.

  ‘Oh my dear Charlotte! Can we ever forget that ball at Netherfield all those years ago, when we were still unmarried women? How Mr Darcy grew stiffer and colder, stalking about as if his boots were pinching him? My sister Mary would not stop singing, my mother would not stop boasting to all who would hear about Jane’s conquest of Mr Bingley—’