“Only in spirit,” said Charlotte. “He has been dead these four years.”
“Ah, a condition unsuited to travelling long distances.”
Charlotte cocked her head to one side. “Mr Booth, I do believe you are teasing me.”
“I never tease, Mrs Collins. Lady Catherine disapproves of teasing. As does Mr Hutchins.”
“As her butler, he can hardly do otherwise. You are well?”
“Very well, Mrs Collins.”
“And your family?”
Mr Booth hesitated just a little too long, like his wife the day before. “Quite well, Mrs Collins.”
“Quite well, but not very well. Mary looked somewhat ill yesterday.”
“She is…not her usual self. You know how young girls can be.”
“She is hardly a girl anymore, difficult though that may be for a father to accept. I shall visit her again soon and bring apples from my husband’s orchard.”
“Thank you, Mrs Collins. Will you be going direct to the pianoforte, or should I announce you?”
“There is no need to trouble anyone with my presence. I will see myself through.”
Charlotte still found it hard to cross the entrance hall without casting guarded glances at the portraits adorning the walls. The great de Bourghs of the past kept a stern eye on visitors, lest they steal the valuable artefacts designed to impress—or intimidate—all those who walked the walls of Rosings. A gilt table opposite the entrance bore two giant Meissen vases and a Giambologna bronze of rare quality (as Mr Collins never tired of reminding his wife). A Gheeraerts painting of Sir Henry de Bourgh—an ancestor from the time of Queen Elizabeth—hung above the table. The artist had captured the de Bourgh soul most admirably, his subject’s eyebrows fixed in arches of deep suspicion. Charlotte fought the urge to offer Sir Henry a polite curtsy.
Tom Calker was polishing the newel and tandem caps in the staircase hall that adjoined Mrs Jenkinson’s room, the latter positioned below Miss de Bourgh’s own chamber. His weary demeanour was that of a man who knew when he reached the top of the stairs it would likely be time to start again at the bottom. He straightened at Charlotte’s arrival to stand broad shouldered and over six feet tall. Only a tuft of tawny hair dropping from the top of his forehead spoilt the otherwise perfect image of a Rosings footman.
“A fine job you are doing there, Tom,” said Charlotte as she passed.
“Thank you, Mrs Collins.” Tom’s usual smile was absent, a state of affairs Charlotte blamed on whatever transgression had condemned him to his Sisyphean task.
Mrs Jenkinson’s room was functional, pared down to the necessities of a bed, a chest, and a dressing table with a small mirror, as if its owner’s whole attention was reserved for Miss de Bourgh. The pianoforte was almost an incongruity, a sign that beneath Mrs Jenkinson’s disciplined countenance there might lie something undiscovered. Nevertheless, there was little within the chamber to inspire great musical achievement.
After failing to do justice to Mr Haydn’s intentions, Charlotte was about to step back out into the staircase hall when the sound of an argument outside—the voices too low to distinguish—caused her to pause before the doorway. A battle between propriety and curiosity ensued, lasting long enough for her to catch the conversation.
“You’ll never marry her.”
“We’ll see about that,” said a voice that might have been Tom Calker’s.
“You think her father will change his mind?” said the first voice. “Not likely. She probably forgot you already. There are others likely to catch her eye.”
“Don’t you say that.”
“I might try my luck myself.” There was a brief scuffling noise. “Hey, give over.” The voice of Tom’s adversary was louder this time, though still unidentifiable.
Propriety finally gained the upper hand. Charlotte tiptoed back to the pianoforte, played a loud and ugly chord with a silent apology to Mr Haydn, and gave a determined cough. She waited a moment, then strode out into the hall.
Tom, face as stony as any of the de Bourgh portraits, stood at attention a few yards further up the staircase from where Charlotte had seen him earlier. His gold waistcoat had slipped to one side, as if someone had pulled it roughly. Next to him, equally upright, was another second footman, William Pike.
Charlotte placed one foot on the bottom step of the staircase, folded her arms, and raised an enquiring eyebrow at the two servants above. There was no need for her to speak.
“Mrs Collins,” said William. “If you will excuse me.” He left, casting a look at his colleague as he did, a hint of a curl to his lip.
Tom turned away to work at a bronze cap, his face pink, but Charlotte did not move. “Are you well?” she said. “You seem a little flustered.”
“I am fine, Mrs Collins, thank you. Must be the polishing that warms my cheeks.”
Tom continued rubbing at the cap, so Charlotte waited a little longer. When she had his full attention again, she tapped her chest and gave him an enquiring look. After he adjusted his waistcoat, she made him turn around once before giving a nod of approval and a smile of reassurance.
“I know Mr Hutchins would not want any of his footmen looking less than their best, whatever the explanation. Good day to you, Tom.”
“Mrs Collins?”
Charlotte looked back to see the footman coming down the stairs, glancing around the hall as he did. He stopped before her, chewing his upper lip before eventually speaking. “I…you visit the Booths?”
“I do.”
“How is Mary?” Tom’s tone was soft, the voice of a boy now, despite his twenty years.
“That is a question best asked of her father, no?”
“It is that.” Tom’s gaze dropped. His foot rubbed at some apparent mark on the floor before he lifted his head again. “But if you might say, Mrs Collins, how is she? Is she very unwell?”
“She is not very unwell, but neither is she well. She is sad, lacking in spirit, but in good hands at home. Sarah Littleworth has given her something, so let us hope Mary will be back at Rosings before too long.”
The footman’s smile showed relief, but little joy. “I should get back to work.”
~ ~ ~
Charlotte’s ease with the servants never sat comfortably with Lady Catherine or, by association, with Mr Collins. His patroness was not shy of calling on those lower than herself, but only to berate them for some perceived failing, be it a misaligned window frame or an errant child. But someone had to visit sick villagers or others in need of sympathy, company, or a lift to their pride, and this task often fell to the rector’s wife. Before leaving Rosings, Charlotte sought out Mrs Twitchen in her room below stairs, knowing the housekeeper would welcome a willing ear for news she could not impart to the servants under her command. It was that brief moment of peace after dinner, when the household was at ease.
“What a day, Mrs Collins. You find me quite provoked. The maids, the maids!” It was the housekeeper’s eternal lament. Despite her words, thin lips formed a welcoming smile and the twinkle in Mrs Twitchen’s eyes suggested mirth behind the bluster. A careful observer would not be fooled into thinking her undisciplined, though. Her lace cap reached down almost to her slim eyebrows, not one wisp of grey hair escaping its tight confines. The room matched her cap for tidiness—only the curve of the table broke up the straight lines of the linen, books, and even the weights, the latter standing on parade next to the scales.
“Never a moment’s peace at Rosings,” continued the housekeeper. “At least with autumn here we will not have them all up and going from us. All thinking they might do better with Lord Metcalf or Lady Turner. Though we may lose Grace soon.” Mrs Twitchen took out and filled a second teacup.
“Grace Slade? Has she a new position?” said Charlotte.
“Not a new position, no. But she makes eyes at young Walter Hodge. And he comes around the house more often than he should for a gardener’s assistant. I will see Mr Wilds about that. Gardeners belong in the g
arden.” Mrs Twitchen tapped her forehead with a finger. “It is in the name, Mrs Collins.”
“I have no doubt the cold will blunt his amour,” said Charlotte. “Though they are well suited, if a little young. And there is much to value when mutual affection also makes an appropriate match. With four daughters, the Slades would be happy to lose one in the gardens of Rosings.” She took a sip of tea. “Talking of daughters, I was sorry to see Adam Booth’s Mary is still unwell. You must miss her.”
“I do. She is a good worker. I had hoped that allowing her home would see her recovered sooner. In another house, she might already be gone, but Sir Lewis always had a soft spot for the Booth family. He’d have wanted me to be patient.”
“Although with such a handsome face, nobody need worry about her future,” said Charlotte. “No doubt Mr Booth is a satisfied man.”
“Oh, quite the opposite, Mrs Collins.” The teacups rattled at the vigorous clap of Mrs Twitchen’s hands. “That girl is nothing but trouble for him, sweet though she is. He has aspirations for her, you see, as many fathers would. Some of our junior footmen had hopes, but he won’t have any of them. Not Adam Booth. I will not have a word said against him, but he is blind where that girl is concerned. Blind! He forgets it was not so long ago that he was but a junior footman. He may go to his grave still waiting for the right suitor for Mary.”
“He is not the first father to wish better for his daughter than society might allow,” said Charlotte. “But time will diminish his ambition. He must be practical. Her looks will fade, so he should secure a marriage while the task is easy and the young men still allow themselves to be persuaded by beauty alone.”
“You have the right of it, Mrs Collins. I have said the same to him. Though his hopes are not entirely misplaced. There is talk that he may become butler and a butler’s daughter might attract a tradesman’s interest—someone better than a footman. Even so, I cannot help but feel his pride may cause trouble.”
“All fathers should be proud, Mrs Twitchen, just as long as they do not allow pride to conquer sense.” Charlotte sat back in her chair. The words conjured memories of her own father some two years previously, when Mr Collins had asked for her hand. She had watched guiltily through a window, half hoping Sir William would say no, half hoping he would say yes. She saw again how her father’s face moved from surprise to a thoughtful stare that soon turned into beaming acquiescence.
“Such a shame Sir Lewis passed away when his daughter was so young.” Mrs Twitchen’s voice drew Charlotte back to the present. “He would have insisted on a quick match for Miss Anne and she would have the comfort of a husband by now. Not that I mean anything against Lady Catherine. No mother could be more attentive to her daughter’s needs.”
“No, indeed. And I am sure Lady Catherine is considering the alternatives, given that, well…”
“Mr Darcy, yes. Lady Catherine is still vexed and she makes no secret of it, even when servants are near. Though I have not heard Miss Anne express any disappointment.” Mrs Twitchen dropped her voice and leaned in closer to Charlotte. “Perhaps it is wrong of me, but I do like Mr Darcy, whatever Lady Catherine may say. He was always a true gentleman, Mrs Collins, even helped me up once when I fell on the stairs. Quite set my heart aflutter.” The housekeeper’s girlish giggle contrasted with her aged face. “I wish he would visit once more, and bring his young wife with him.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “But what am I saying? You being a friend of that family and all. You must forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. I am pleased you have such a high opinion of Mr Darcy. I share it.”
~ ~ ~
After she left Mrs Twitchen’s room, Charlotte turned left to continue down the long corridor, rather than return directly to the staircase and upper floors. She could smell the still room before she reached it, the scents announcing themselves one by one—Lady Catherine’s rosewater, the deeper aromas of the herbal draughts and infusions, and the sharper smells of the liniments, able to escape their jars despite the tight lids.
The room shared much in common with the village apothecary, except the bottles, flasks, and other containers were smaller, the iron stove bigger. There were fewer drawers, too. A screen in the corner offered privacy for those impatient to rub ointment on aching parts. Sarah Littleworth sat behind a table beneath the lone window, earnest as ever, her hair hidden under a tight cap, dark eyebrows twisted in concentration, pudgy nose flaring with effort. Although not yet six and twenty, she carried the authority of one much older, having learnt the skills of the still room at her mother’s knee.
Charlotte paused in the doorway, not wishing to startle the maid. The grinding of the pestle and mortar set pimples dancing on her arms.
“Do come in, Mrs Collins,” said Sarah, without looking up from her work.
“You know you scare the villagers enough without playing such tricks,” said Charlotte. The corners of the maid’s mouth twitched upwards. “Did you recognise my footsteps?”
“I did, though I was not sure. But you are also one of the few people polite enough to wait at the door while I work.” Sarah put down her pestle. “The others care nothing for my concentration, so a sour look is their rightful reward.”
“I wondered if you might have more of that liniment for Mr Collins’s knees.” Charlotte entered the room. “The winter always gives him trouble and I would like to be prepared.”
“Of course. If you will give me a moment.”
Sarah’s slim hands moved assuredly as she opened jars and began making up a small package. Wisps of steam rose from a pot bubbling on the stove.
“I saw one of your infusions up at the Booth cottage yesterday. It is kind of you to send something to Mary,” said Charlotte.
“If my help is asked for, I give it willingly.”
“I worry for her.”
“For Mary Booth? Save your sympathy, Mrs Collins. She does not deserve it. Here you go. Goose fat and a little willow bark.” Sarah held onto the package as Charlotte sought to take it from her. “Where there are young maids and footmen in the same house, there will be sickness of the kind Mary claims to suffer from. But she, too, will grow plainer with age and men will see past those simpering eyes of hers.”
“Plain looks are no protection from the pain of love, Sarah,” said Charlotte. “Men treat a plain woman as her character deserves. That is no disadvantage, provided that character is worthy of love. So you do not think Mary truly ill?”
“Perhaps she is, perhaps she is not. But most likely…not.” Sarah released her hold on the liniment.
Charlotte took half a step back. “Then what purpose does your infusion serve?”
“Just a mild restorative to bring some colour to those pretty cheeks.”
“I see. Well, my thanks for the liniment.”
Charlotte had almost reached the doorway when Sarah called out to her. “Of course, I may be wrong about Mary’s illness. Life can be cruel. Even the sweetest rose must wither and die.” The maid glanced over at a small flask of liquid near the stove and smiled to herself. A few moments later, the sound of pestle and mortar began again.
~ ~ ~
It would never do to leave Rosings by the servants’ door, so Charlotte slipped back past Mrs Twitchen’s room, past the wine cellar, past the warm murmur of conversation from the servants’ hall, and past the butler’s pantry to climb the stairs. After crossing the tapestry room, filled with plunder from the late Sir Lewis’s Grand Tours, she hoped to reach the main entrance unobserved.
“Mrs Collins?” A familiar voice called from the doorway to the staircase hall, where Tom Calker had fought with the bronze and William Pike. Miss de Bourgh had already changed for the evening—a simple, short-sleeved muslin gown, finished around the border with strips of red silk and garlands of roses, drawing the eye down away from her face. And yet the neckline was cut just a little lower than was usual for the daughter of the house.
“How wonderful to see you, Miss de Bourgh. I was here to dis
cover if Mrs Twitchen was fully recovered. And to practise.” The fingers on Charlotte’s right hand danced a sonata in the air.
“Mama will be pleased. She does love her Haydn.” Miss de Bourgh seemed to struggle with some decision, then took a step forward. “If you had a moment, Mrs Collins…would you walk with me a little? Outside?”
“The day draws to a close and it is cold. I would not wish—”
“You would not wish to see such a frail lady exposed to inclement weather? Mrs Jenkinson would say no. And Mama, too. But I am not so weak as all still believe. Can nobody see I have grown…quite strong?” Curiously, Miss de Bourgh had gained both weight and colour since the day of her ‘disappointment.’
“But your slippers…” Charlotte found it difficult to escape the shackles of countless dinners where Lady Catherine had bemoaned Miss de Bourgh’s weak constitution.
“It is dry out and we will not go far. Please say yes.” At Charlotte’s sceptical look, Miss de Bourgh turned briefly to speak to someone out of sight. “There, I have asked Miss Inglis for my shawl.” A few moments later, the lady’s maid returned with the required item. “So, Mrs Collins, now there is nothing to prevent us from taking the air.”
~ ~ ~
The two of them drifted across to the southern garden rectangle, the fountains empty and silent given the absence of guests at Rosings. Miss de Bourgh asked about the parsonage and Hunsford, recalling names and details few would have expected a lady in her position to remember. Then she fell into a silence heavy with indecision, sometimes opening her mouth to speak, never actually doing so.
Charlotte took pity on her companion. “Conversation outdoors has an intimate quality, does it not? The certainty of not being overheard allows people to broach subjects rarely discussed around the card table. I find it quite refreshing.” Her face projected innocence and equanimity, a talent she now mastered after almost two years of conversation with Mr Collins.
“It does.” Miss de Bourgh walked for a few more steps before continuing. “You are a married woman, Mrs Collins…and happy with it? You would recommend the state of matrimony?”
The Lovesick Maid Page 2