Charlotte

by Helen Moffett

  Anne’s face cracked into one of her rare grins: ‘Do you know to whom I am indebted for all these bold proposals, Mrs Collins? It is Colonel Fitzwilliam himself. Oh, not that I have mentioned any word of this to him, never fear. But it was he who first unwittingly instigated the idea, when he proposed fostering a son, should we marry. And it then occurred to me that I need not marry in order to foster or even adopt a son. I could have my cake and eat it, as the saying goes.

  ‘But I think I have caused enough alarm and shock for the day. Speaking of cake, let us go and drink tea in the house, and ensure that you eat something fortifying. My mother will be glad to see you, and will find some matter of importance to instruct you on, I am sure. And then we shall call the carriage so that you may go home in comfort. I have an interest beyond the usual in the safe delivery of this child.’

  Back at home, where all was routine and predictable, Charlotte reclined on a chaise-longue and tried to disentangle all she had heard and felt. The room still rocked a little whenever she tried to imagine her child – Mr Collins’s son? Jacob’s son? – as the future master of Rosings. But hard as it was to resist wild surmise, she could not anticipate too much: the child right now thudding its feet inside the drum of her belly might well be a girl. She focused on the real miracle the morning had vouchsafed: her girls – including this coming child – would be provided for, and while she did not dare to quite believe Anne’s munificent promises just yet, she had no doubt of their sincerity. This brought on such fervent gratitude and relief as to occasion both tears and prayers of thanks: only her bulk prevented her sinking to her knees.

  She was glad to be distracted from all that overwhelmed her by the arrival of another letter from Lizzy, and opened it anticipating news of glamorous far-off events – evenings at the theatre in town, balls at court, mingled with accounts of less exciting but more interesting events among their mutual acquaintance – but the contents were of a different order entirely.

  Mrs Darcy wrote to announce that she was also expecting a child and, like Charlotte, would soon approach a confinement. She and Mr Darcy had not bruited the news abroad for fear of another disappointment, but the doctors were optimistic, the child was kicking lustily, and there was every reason to hope for the best possible outcome.

  Lizzy wrote: ‘Just think, my dear Charlotte, our children may one day be friends, so close in age as they will be. I certainly hope so. I regret not telling you of this before, especially after receiving your happy news, but I know you will understand the reasons for my reticence, and share in our joy and anxious hopes. I shall pray for you as you approach your delivery, and beg you to do the same for me.’

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  SOMEWHERE DEEP IN LABOUR, HER body as burdened as a pack animal’s, Charlotte faced that moment of believing she could not go on; that something was wrong, that she was facing imminent death, that the child struggling to exit her body would kill her, or she it; above all, that she was too tired to continue. She wanted it all to stop, the possession of her vast and heaving body, the pains that both convulsed and pinned her down with weighted claws, the rusty smell of blood and vinegar. She wanted to escape, to flee, to be a narrow-waisted girl again, walking in the fresh air, not to be trapped on this bed, the linen sodden with sweat and other fluids.

  But, she remembered, she had felt this pitch of terror and exhaustion during every other one of her labours, even though (according to Mrs Talbot) the births of her girls had been easy. And then the moment passed as another contraction clamped down and around and through and in and on her, and she became once again a groaning beast on an arduous journey that had to be completed.

  It was hours later, with a weak dawn filtering through the curtains, that she gave a final heave. Mrs Talbot, red-faced with exertion, tugged – there was a slither, a gush, and the first angry snuffles and squeaks could be heard as the midwife said, ‘It’s a lass. A bonny girl.’

  Charlotte, exhausted, was amazed at the clarity and strength of the emotions that ran through her. Joy, but also relief. There was no decision to make: this child was hers. And if Anne de Bourgh stood by her promise, this little girl was safe. No one person could guarantee any child happiness, although she, Charlotte, would move mountains to make it so; but dignity and security lay in her new daughter’s future.

  Mrs Talbot put a practised hand on Charlotte’s distended abdomen, then bent to peer between her thighs. ‘Mrs Collins, we must go back to work. I do believe there is another infant coming.’

  All was rush and flurry; the housekeeper was called to hold the first blotchy red and white bundle still squalling with indignation at being forced to breathe spring air, and it was not long before the second infant breached the barrier from inner to outer life. ‘A boy,’ said Mrs Talbot, and Charlotte gasped with more than joy.

  The afterbirth was delivered, the fire stoked, the two women helping her shadowy figures against its mobile light as they worked to clean and comfort her newborn babies, sounds of water in ewer and basin – and here they were at last, swaddled, in her arms, on her breast.

  The little girl, the elder, was given to her first; as tightly furled as a bud, with a sprinkling of nutmeg freckles across her button nose. ‘Pandora,’ said Charlotte, touching the nose with a finger, ‘you shall be called Pandora,’ and her daughter opened eyes a lighter shade of blue than was usual in a newborn. ‘Her eyes will probably stay that colour,’ said Mrs Talbot as she handed her charge the second infant.

  Both babies looked like wrapped parcels at this stage, but like any fond new parent, Charlotte traced their minute features with fascination, seeing beauty and hunting for resemblances in features as yet clay. Her son was quieter than his squeaking sister, a starfish hand reaching for his mother’s breast. His eyes were the deep blue of kittens, his squashed features topped by a quiff of dark hair. Charlotte peered; it was hard to tell, and perhaps it was wishful thinking, but his nose seemed to beak slightly from his face. None of the names she and Mr Collins had chosen for a boy quite fitted this exquisite creature; perhaps Anne de Bourgh might like to suggest one. Or she would reread the Old Testament, and choose the name of one of its heroes or prophets.

  For now, it was enough that both infants were safely arrived; they were here, whole and healthy, a largesse she could never have anticipated. It might not have any basis in science, but a deep conviction took hold of her: that both her husband and her lover had become fathers that day. She would love, protect and cherish their offspring; it would be a way of honouring one man – loving him at a distance – and making reparations to the other. The last remnants of guilt and anxiety fell away from her; lulled by exhaustion and deep satisfaction, she cradled both babies more closely, turned her head on the pillow, and fell asleep.

  1839

  EPILOGUE

  IN THE GRAVEYARD, CHARLOTTE SANK down on a raised bank, after first spreading her shawl to protect against chill and damp. Plagued as she was by rheumatism, today she was grateful that Sarah was undertaking the loving labour of tending that small piece of earth where Tom’s bones rested.

  While nibbling sheep and the sexton together kept the turf around the grave neat, it was time for prepare for the following spring. Charlotte watched as her daughter took a digger and knife out of the pocket of her apron, and worked her way around the small rectangle, nipping back any unruly grass blades and pulling out weeds. Then she dug a dozen holes in the earth, and reached into a basket for the papery bulbs that would in time explode into colour and scent. Each was tucked in, their tips just cresting the soil.

  Next, Sarah made a trip to the trough in the corner of the field alongside, using a beaker to scoop water. Lithe as she was, it was still clearly a tricky business negotiating the stile while carrying the container, and it took her several journeys and some spilling, but at last each bulb swam in a little pool of mud with creamy scum on top.

  Charlotte smiled in approbation, and closed her eyes to say a prayer not only for her son, but all the other
children buried in this tranquil spot, within sight of the spire of the church where her late husband had once presided in the pulpit and before the altar.

  When she opened her eyes again, it was to see Sarah sinking down, setting her feet wide apart, and spreading her skirt and shift around her before she urinated into the soft soil. Charlotte called out in reprimand, but her daughter was unperturbed: ‘You know our own water is good for plants, Mama. I am merely nourishing these bulbs.’ She gave her hips a brisk shake as she rose to her feet. ‘Ha! Another reason I am glad I have not succumbed to this modern fad of drawers.’

  Although Sarah also had her knife and a polishing cloth in her apron pocket, and offered to clean the headstone, Charlotte, rising stiffly to her feet, decided to leave the Tom’s stone, decorated by orange and sea-green rosettes of lichen, untouched. The two women each took it in turn to run their finger over the unoriginal but no less sincere words carved into the stone:

  In memory of Thomas William Collins: 5th February 1815–7th November 1818. Gone to the angels. Beloved son of Revd & Mrs William Collins.

  ‘I sometimes feel badly that I remember so little of my brother,’ said Sarah. ‘But you loved him so much, Mama, and that love was as much part of our childhood as food on the table and books on the shelves. It was like being haunted by a ghost, but such a beloved one; indeed, a friend.’

  ‘Yes,’ Charlotte agreed, leaning on her daughter’s strong arm as they turned to begin the short walk home. ‘I promised myself, and him, he would never be forgotten. He would – will – always be my son. Some forms of love never die. That is their burden and their blessing.’

  They strolled at a gentle pace, and in every direction, the view was as pleasing as it was familiar. They stopped twice – once to admire the profile of the house and the towering chestnut trees on either side, the second time to watch a distant hawk circling over barley stubble, bracing against thermals invisible to them except in the taut span of its wings.

  Approaching via the west entrance, they saw two sparring figures and heard faint cries: Laura and her husband were fencing on the greensward. It was typical of Laura to insist on fencing lessons, and then to fall in love with her master. When the dazed and dazzled man had dared to reflect the glory of her affection back to her, she had married him forthwith. They seemed never to stop laughing, and for that Charlotte was more than grateful, remembering the mirth that marked her continuing friendship with Mrs Darcy. Mutual amusement was an excellent basis for lasting intimacy.

  The twins were watching from the stone terrace, or at least one of them was; Pandora, as always, had a book in her hand, and was in that tranquil trance into which she invariably fell when reading. Jonathan, down from his college at Oxford, was cheering on the duelling couple, offering encouragement without partisanship to both parties.

  Charlotte waved at the cheerful group, smiling yet again at how apt the fanciful names she had insisted on for her youngest children had proved to be. Lady Catherine had scolded in vain, especially at Charlotte’s obdurate insistence on Jonathan’s name when a plain old-fashioned English ‘John’ would have sufficed. Today, her son was as beloved and admired by all who knew him as his Old Testament counterpart, while Pandora had signified hope from the very first day she had lain in her mother’s arms.

  Sarah escorted her to the corner of the terrace that acted as a sun-trap, and which still held the warmth of the day. Here there hung in the air the faint but familiar tang of tobacco, and a figure awaited them, attired in a pair of men’s breeches, along with a man’s shirt and hunting jacket: Anne de Bourgh.

  ‘Ah, here you are! I was beginning to wonder if I would have to ride out alone,’ she said, one thin arm extended beyond the embrasure, a cheroot curling smoke lodged between two fingers. She was as skinny and knotted as ever, but with a face now tanned and lined from winters spent travelling abroad.

  Although she had ascended to the title Lady Anne when Lady Catherine died (of an apoplexy, nearly ten years ago), all the Collins offspring referred to her ladyship as their aunt, choosing sentiment over accuracy. It gave Charlotte great joy and some amusement to witness how Anne, who had never wanted children of her own, was considered a third parent, and treated as such, by her brood.

  Jonathan, upon achieving double figures in age, had moved to Rosings to enjoy a more formal programme of education than his parents, by then settled at Longbourn, could offer. The problem was that he and Pandora were inseparable; and the deep unhappiness both children evinced at the idea of being parted was so palpable that Lady Anne had offered the same facilities and opportunities to both. As Jonathan was her purported heir, he began to refer to his benefactress as his aunt; a term of address his twin sister promptly adopted, the elder girls soon following.

  Meanwhile, Charlotte, no matter how engrossed in the domestic opportunities that running Longbourn afforded, and while taking great pleasure in rejoining the society of her youth, found that she could never be parted from any of her children for long. The result was that she, as well as her two elder daughters, regularly visited Rosings for such long periods as to render it effectively their second home, and Lady Anne the honorary guardian of all four siblings. The continuing presence of four lively young people and their friends transformed the atmosphere of Rosings. While becoming a little less grand, it also became truly comfortable, possibly for the first time in its history.

  Sarah had soon become enamoured of Lady Anne’s pastime of riding; the pair of them would gallop for miles up the gently sloping hills, crossing acres dear to them both, speed and wind tearing at their hair. Moreover, she emulated her honorary aunt’s habit of wearing men’s clothing on these and other occasions.

  This decision cost Charlotte some consternation, but she held her peace. There was no doubt that the outfits Anne and Sarah wore for riding were practical indeed; they greatly facilitated their comfort and their ability to control their mounts, and thus the pleasure they took in the exercise. The scandal caused when they had first started going about on horseback in men’s clothing had galvanised the neighbourhood for months, but as it slowly became clear that the pair of them were impervious to public opinion, and therefore could not be punished for their eccentricity, the grumbling had died down to a resigned mutter.

  Charlotte gave thanks yet again for the latitude offered by independent means: that her daughters were sufficiently secure in terms of home and income not to have to live in fear of the strictures of society and its wagging tongues – that their reputations as unconventional, bookish, and daring could do them so little harm.

  Now, having found and placed a cushion behind Charlotte’s back, Sarah left them to change into her masculine costume, which was the work of a minute. As she never left anyone in doubt, she deplored the fashionable stays and corsetry into which so many of her peers laced themselves, which (apart from interfering with the ability to breathe deeply) rendered them dependent on maids to dress and undress. She soon padded back in stockinged feet and sat with her mother and aunt for a minute as she tugged on her boots.

  ‘Where shall you ride this afternoon?’ Charlotte asked.

  ‘If my aunt is agreeable, I thought we might try jumping the log fences out of the woods. And then make our way back home via the old pilgrims’ way along the spine of the Weald.’

  ‘I hope you fly,’ Charlotte smiled; an old family joke, stemming from her habit of stopping to shade her eyes and gaze upwards whenever she saw a bird hovering.

  ‘We shall, Mama. We shall indeed,’ her daughter promised.

  Her companions departed in the direction of the stables, and Pandora, alert to the needs of others even when deep in dream or book, rose to see if she could be of any service to her mother.

  ‘Simply bring your book here, my love. That is, if your sparring sister can spare you as a spectator. I shall sit and warm myself in the last of the sun while you read.’

  As Pandora settled beside her, imparting an affectionate squeeze to her hand, Charlotte watched
the willowy form of her second daughter darting and parrying, advancing towards her husband, then dancing out of his reach before returning. It was no bad analogy for courtship; and as starlings massed in the trees beyond and the light thickened to honey, she thought back to her own courtship – the day she became an affianced woman – and the cautious composure she had felt on that occasion. How little she had dared hope for! And how little she had understood of love. She had felt none for the man who would become her husband; and yet how much had unrolled at her feet, how many objects of affection, planned and unplanned, had been granted her.

  Although seldom contemplated, her second, secret courtship could not be forgotten either, and indeed, it had remained a source of private joy as letters had crossed, not often, but regularly, between Kent and Austria. In writing to her husband, Herr Rosenstein always included her and never failed to encompass her in his warm wishes. This was not an unalloyed bliss – the missive containing news of his betrothal had cost her some pangs until she could scold herself into reason. Yet she still treasured the kindness of his letter of condolence after Mr Collins had failed to wake from a nap in the orchard grass one late-summer afternoon. By then, no thought of reunion crossed her mind; her path was both fixed and infinitely dear to her. Thinking back, she felt no regret either. His friendship, and their secret history, had vouchsafed rich and unexpected gifts, including a path into a future that would outlast her.

  She would always grieve Tom, but that grief had become as ornamented and enwreathed as the headstone on his grave, an object of both veneration and beauty, softened by the lichens that clung to it, the gentle abrasion of rain and frost. Her first son was beyond help, beyond anything she could offer, beyond the reach of her love, which could now be demonstrated only by tending that piece of earth in which his mortal remains lay. But keeping faith with the dead was the last honour she was able to pay his short life, and the blessing it had been to her.