Once arrived at our lodgings in Paris, it was a moment’s work to release the jewels and gold. Then came the more delicate business of finding a buyer or pawnbroker to receive them. I had no choice but to enlist the aid of the proprietor and staff – but with the strictest of injunctions to secrecy. I made it clear I was prepared to pay handsomely for discretion, and indeed the French are accustomed to such requests – in the turbulence following the Terrors, many distressed gentlefolk had to parlay small items of value into the means of keeping a roof over their heads.
Mrs Jenkinson, who was still recovering from seasickness, further aggravated by the motion of our fast coach, lay prostrate in our quarters, unaware of my machinations. The next day, I suggested she rest still further, and solicitously plied her with the laudanum the new physician had prescribed for me. She was soon all but insensible, and I was able to sally forth to the addresses procured for me by our host, accompanied by a stout young man for my protection – robbery at such a juncture would have spelled disaster.
At the first establishment for the sale and exchange of jewellery, the proprietor looked me up and down, and thought he had an easy mark; he offered me a ludicrously small sum. I did not waste time in argument; I refused it, and left at once, even as he ran after me in some surprise and agitation. I had better luck at our next stop, a small, dimly lit shop in the Marais district. The elderly man who pored over my rather dull emerald and ruby rings with a loupe screwed into his eye wore his hair in the strangest style – ringlets curled like a woman’s descending on either side of his face. But he was courteous, and offered a reasonable sum, which I accepted without demurral. I slipped my escort a coin, with the promise of another once we were safely back at our lodgings, and it was as easy as that.
I am a bullock with a needle, but soon transferred the money back into the hems of my garments. Meanwhile, Mrs Jenkinson still pays, with notes of credit provided by my mother, for our daily needs, and writes it all up in her account book at the end of each day, knowing that our expenditure will be scrutinised on our return, and that each penny will have to be answered for. I finger the folded notes and solid coins in the linings of my skirts, and remain quiet. They feel like largesse, and they are.
The heat here is so extreme, it should be enervating; it is a solid thing, the sun beating down like a drum. It even has a sound: the air vibrates with the scream of insects. But I find it invigorating. Our hostess, a local woman who rules her large family with an iron hand, has placed her grown sons and daughter at my disposal. None of them speak English, but I spell out my wishes in my rudimentary French, and have made it clear that handsome gratuities will be paid for indulging my whims.
Each day, as the sun reaches its zenith, and Mrs Jenkinson, like most sensible creatures in this region, retires to observe the siesta custom, I venture forth, accompanied by one of Madame’s sons, who provides a donkey to convey me. Armed with a vast bonnet and veil against the ferocious light, I explore the hills and scrub, the crumbling ruins of castles and keeps, my tiny steed picking her way delicately up and down apparently impassable trails and slopes.
After the first such outing, when my dark English riding habit all but roasted me alive, I decided that more sensible attire was required if I was to survive my forays. I made a withdrawal from my skirt lining, and approached Marie, the daughter of the house and a very sharp-witted young woman. After some initial confusion, she took my meaning and set to work adapting a pair of lightweight breeches for me; she also purchased several muslin blouses for my use. This costume I now wear when out exploring, and indeed it is most comfortable and convenient. I make a strange spectacle as I go about the hills with my patient steed and equally patient (if puzzled) escort: dressed in the trews and blouson of the local peasantry, which costume is topped by the aforementioned straw bonnet. But English eccentricity warrants little more than a shrug here, and few see me on my explorations. By the time the tiny village is stirring again as much-needed breaths of cooler air waft in from the sea, and Mrs J has roused herself, I am once again languid Miss de Bourgh, reclining in a loose afternoon dress and fanning myself with a book.
I shall write again soon – who knows what surprising adventures I may yet embark on? I might embrace life as a Barbary pirate or take up my path as a purported artist. If truth be told, I am as clumsy with a paintbrush as I am with a needle, which, for once, I regret, as every other vista here demands to be immortalised.
I have no news of Kent to report, I fear – although everyone was well when we left Rosings what feels a lifetime ago, but was indeed less than a fortnight since. The mails from Paris are indeed regular, but here in the more distant reaches of the country, news travels slowly, if at all. It is most restful.
I send my compliments to all at Pemberley, and wish you in particular, Mrs Collins, a summer of repose and restoration. Heaven knows you deserve it.
Yours, etc.,
Anne de Bourgh
As Charlotte looked up from this letter, Lizzy said: ‘I must confess, I am surprised that Miss de Bourgh is such a regular correspondent. I do not mean that I am surprised she has chosen and values you as an intimate, dear Charlotte. But she seemed so – faint – to me, almost a ghost of a woman. I can make no claim to know her on the basis of a few visits to Rosings, but she seemed more of an absence than a presence. I cannot imagine what she might have to relate, much less at length.’
Charlotte had to suppress a smile at these words. If you only knew, Eliza. Aloud she said, ‘Miss de Bourgh is an enlightening correspondent, and she has indeed news of interest to impart – she is travelling abroad, in the South of France at present. For her health, of course. She sends you her compliments.’
‘Heavens! The South of France in midsummer? The heat will be scorching. She must indeed be unwell if her doctors believe such a course of action is necessary.’
The musician looked up from his coddled eggs. ‘I should be sorry to hear that any one of your friends is experiencing ill-health, Frau Collins. But I am sure that the warmth of which Mrs Darcy speaks will be beneficial. What I remember of Provence is that the heat, while stupefying, is a dry heat, one that penetrates the bones, opens the chest, and relaxes the body.’
Elizabeth was full of lively interest: ‘You have travelled in France, Herr Rosenstein? Pray tell us more. It is a country I would love to visit, but of course the last few years have not been conducive, what with the Terrors and that wretched Bonaparte – himself not even a Frenchman, I believe – harassing us like a terrier. Thank heavens he has now been confined to a far more distant island – a rock somewhere near the South Pole, I believe.’
‘I have been fortunate, Frau Darcy,’ replied the musician. ‘My father and I travel regularly to Paris for purposes of our business, of course, although the wars did indeed disrupt these trips. But it is the journeys of leisure to the southern parts of that country that I remember with the most pleasure. The cities of Nice and Avignon – with its famous truncated bridge – the walled towns perched on rocks, the brazen glitter of the sea, the mountains shouldering into the sky – I am lucky to have seen all this.’
He went on to describe ancient Roman ruins and aqueducts, marshes rustling with blond grasses and populated by wild horses, mule-tracks clinging to dry and peppery coastal cliffs where tideless waves washed far below, seaside promenades made exotic by the planting of tropic palms, palaces jealously guarded by apostate Popes, fields of sunflowers turning their heads to follow their parent orb.
Listening to him speak the names of unfamiliar rivers, mountains and villages, Charlotte almost shivered with pleasure. ‘Herr Rosenstein, I swear listening to you speak is like taking a trip on a magic carpet, such as are found in the fairy tales my daughters enjoy. As you speak, these vistas unfold before my very eyes. Pray go on,’ she said.
Lizzy laughed at her friend. ‘It is not like you to be so fanciful, my dear Charlotte! You sound like your children begging for stories at bedtime.’ She turned to the musician: ‘This i
s all very poetic, sir, but your travels cannot only have been a matter of picturesque ruins and cathedrals. Your life cannot have been one long Grand Tour.’
‘Indeed, Frau Darcy. I have experienced all the perils of bad alehouses and worse victuals, and as a musician, I have seen my share of revelry and dancing girls. The revues of the Quartier Pigalle in Paris require that their instruments be properly strung and tuned as much as does the orchestra of the Académie Royale de Musique.’ He added more seriously, ‘And there have indeed been journeys through forests or mountains when the howling of wolves has chilled my blood – when I have wondered if I would ever safely reach my destination.’
‘Well, I hope the woods of Pemberley are not too dull for you,’ said Lizzy. ‘We have no wolves here. Or bandits.’
Jacob smiled across at Charlotte. ‘And I have discovered no bears, or trolls, or hobgoblins in these grounds. Only a pair of mischievous elves. I am deprived of my regular dose of terror.’
‘Well, perhaps you can entertain us all with additional tales of monsters and savage creatures,’ teased Charlotte. ‘My daughters would enjoy it: I fear they are at that age where the bloodthirstier the story, the better.’
‘That sounds like a delightful project, Frau Collins,’ said the musician. ‘I am accustomed to spending my breath and effort performing on the sterner mistresses of strings and keys, wood and ivory. This is a holiday for me, to entertain you with my memories and words only.’
The following day was one of those almost unpleasantly soft grey ones peculiar to English summers, in which green foliage and grass shone with an almost unearthly light. Laura was engrossed by a new project in the garden: the construction of a fort made from rocks found in the underground caves that ran below one of the garden grottos. Here she commanded a valiant battalion, and her military duties demanded for the time being the sacrifice of such gentler interests as music, and even the excitements of aquatic activity.
Charlotte was reluctant to allow her daughter to undertake such an enterprise unless she personally kept watch over her, in case of crushed fingers or toes, and she took up her sewing basket, along with some cushions, and settled herself nearby, after Laura had first shooed her away from what was apparently a potential battlefield, with bees and starlings on aerial patrol.
Sarah went along with her sister’s scheme good-naturedly enough, but then spied a nearby ants’ nest, and became absorbed by the traffic of its tiny denizens. She duplicated her sister’s efforts in miniature by constructing the ants a new home made of leaves, and then attempting to divert them in its direction by placing obstacles such as fences (made of twigs) and walls (made of gravel) in their path. Upon finding her new friends obstinately unwilling to change their routes, she found a dimpled stone that held water in one of its hollows and used it to create a lake – which led to the further discovery that ants could travel underwater as long as their almost invisible feet maintained a purchase on the surface below. These zoological exploits kept her content while her sister presided over her more elevated and martial post.
The doves throbbed in the trees that forested the upper part of the gardens, and the air was heavy with pollen, heat, and somnolence. Charlotte abandoned her stitching and stretched her legs out on the grass. Gazing down the slopes of the sheep-nibbled lawn, she saw Herr Rosenstein out strolling, and beckoned to him to join her and the girls. He climbed the hill towards them willingly enough, and after commending Laura on her fortification skills, and suggesting that she turn a cannon made of bark to face possible raiders from the valley, he took his place beside Charlotte and Sarah.
‘I see we have here an incipient Duke of Wellington and a naturalist,’ he said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. ‘And how wise they are to seek outdoor pursuits! The atmosphere inside the house is close today, and I suspect a storm is brewing. I find myself in need of fresh air. The odours of the glue I have been applying have my head swimming.’
He leaned back on his hands. ‘I require diversion, Frau Collins. I am tired of strings and tuning forks and varnish. At this moment, I am more interested in the daily round of a clergyman’s wife. If you are willing, I should like to hear more of your life in Kent. So many stories stop at the church or chapel door, with the vows said and the rice thrown – as if life did not begin afresh at that point, with new adventures ahead. Pray continue the narrative you were good enough to share the other day – I confess to no small curiosity as to how you managed the formidable-sounding Lady Catherine, for instance.’
Charlotte smiled somewhat wryly, remembering her first encounter with that lady, and indeed her relocation as a bride from Hertfordshire to Kent. ‘Well, Herr Rosenstein, if you insist, I shall not demur. As Mrs Darcy likes to say, I shall save my breath to cool my porridge – or in this case, tell my story.’
1812–1813
CHAPTER XXII
THE WEDDING JOURNEY FROM MERYTON to Hunsford, a distance of close to fifty miles, was tiring and awkward: Charlotte had never yet travelled so far from home, and when they alighted at an inn on the outskirts of London, to refresh themselves and change horses, she was conscious of her bridal costume attracting stares and whispers. Modest and practical as her outfit was (it had been created with the double duty of travelling in mind), it was still finer than her usual garb, although she had left the veil she had worn in church behind with her mother, content with the narrow lace trim on her new bonnet of white straw.
Unaccustomed to travel, she was anxious that her trunks might be left behind, and that she might have to begin her new life sans trousseau or the china and linens she had so carefully packed; a further worry was that her new dove-grey reticule, a carefully stitched gift from the housekeeper at Longbourn, might tear as it dangled from her arm. Moreover, she had the bursts of chatter by her nervous husband to manage. It took all her patience to listen with every evidence of attentiveness to prattle on topics long rehearsed. Luckily, unlike her, he was familiar with the route and all its landmarks, and settled to reciting these to her as assiduously as if she were unable to see out the coach window herself.
She was nevertheless disappointed when dusk robbed them of her first views of Kent, and was entirely reliant on Mr Collins’s excited announcements that they were now in the lane to Hunsford – now travelling beside the Rosings park palings – now approaching the Parsonage – now stopping at their very own gate. Charlotte was unable to gain more than swift impressions in the darkness: looming hedges, the crunch underfoot of a short gravel driveway, a respectable-looking building perhaps not quite as generously proportioned as Mr Collins had described.
But no dwelling looks unappealing when the windows are warm with light, and someone had clearly prepared for their arrival with ample fires and candles. At that point, chilled and tired to the bone, Charlotte was so grateful to Lady Catherine (who had instructed both their and her servants most minutely in every detail of preparation), she would not have cared if that lady was an ogre with two heads. She was more than happy to echo her husband’s praise of her ladyship’s magnanimity, although grateful that the dark and damp precluded her new spouse from dragging her into the garden so that she might admire the aspect of Rosings that could be glimpsed through a gap in the trees, an excursion that would have to wait until the morning.
The trunks were brought in, the postilion tipped, the staff (a respectable-looking married couple and a round-eyed young girl) introduced, and the necessary curtseys and bows made. Charlotte could at last look about her new home, beginning with a narrow entrance hall from which led a somewhat precipitous flight of stairs. Mr Collins ushered his new bride into the front parlour and began to list, yet again, each item of furniture the room contained. Fortunately, he, too, was fatigued by the journey, and cut short the tour to revert to the dining room, where cold meat and cake had been laid out as a wedding supper and the housekeeper was bustling in with hot water for tea.
Charlotte gained the impression that although the rooms were smaller and less grandly appointe
d than Mr Collins had claimed, his representations, allowing for his natural tendency to exaggeration, had been fair nevertheless. She had little doubt that she could be – would be – very comfortable here. And even tired, anxious about what lay ahead, her bones still aching from the jolting of the coach, she felt something like excitement.
This was her home. She was mistress of all she saw, even if that amounted only to these rooms and their appointments. She was already noting that some of the glasses were cloudy, and would need soaking in spirit vinegar; that the dining-room fireplace smoked a little and might require the services of a sweep; that the silver, although old-fashioned and heavy, was of good quality, and would respond to more assiduous polishing.
Her ears hummed with the quiet after the noise of the journey, and she heard an owl hoot, a familiar sound that for an instant transported her back home to the bedchamber she shared with Maria. But no, this was now her home, and she would be sharing sleeping quarters with a husband. A countrywoman to the bone, she knew what this entailed. She felt neither anticipation – beyond a mild curiosity – nor repugnance. During their brief courtship, Mr Collins’s amorous gestures had been restricted to squeezing her hand from time to time and occasionally, very daringly, brushing her fingertips with his lips, but she had felt no desire to draw away from his supporting arm in the walks they had taken. What would be, would be. And in time – the thought made Charlotte glow – there would be children.
She stood at the foot of the stairs, longing for nothing more than sleep. She hoped the mattress and bedding that awaited them had been properly aired. Then she straightened her spine, drew her shoulder-blades together, and began to mount the steps.
The next morning brought a renewal of anticipation for Charlotte. The fatigue of the journey behind her, it offered the first daylight views of her new home, and now it was her turn to be eager to explore all that the house and grounds offered, and Mr Collins who demurred. He was expected to present his new bride at Rosings as soon as breakfast was over, and there could be no delay. His urgings on the subject of Charlotte’s dress, which had to be the best she could manage while also being sufficiently plain to mark the distinction in rank, and repeated strictures on how she might avoid being overwhelmed by all she would see and experience, revealed an almost pitiable state of nerves on his part.
Charlotte Page 14