The Lovesick Maid

by Mark Brownlow

  “One question has little to do with the other. Marriage sees a lady assume the role of wife and mother. In doing so, it offers relief to her friends and relatives. It releases them from their concerns and obligations.”

  “Wife and mother, yes.” Miss de Bourgh seated herself on a stone bench in the shadow of a sculpted hedge, pulling her cashmere shawl tighter around the shoulders and over her arms. “Have you ever wondered, though, Mrs Collins, whether we might aspire to, well, more?” The last word was almost a whisper. She held Charlotte’s gaze only fleetingly, azure eyes bright with enquiry.

  “I cannot say I have.”

  “The events of last year—what Mama calls my ‘great disappointment’—have led me to give thought to my future. I know what is expected of me and wish to do what is right. But I also wonder what advantage my position as heiress of Rosings truly offers. Is my ambition no more than that of any scullery maid? To be a wife and mother? To marry and give birth?” This time, Miss de Bourgh met Charlotte’s gaze for a few moments longer.

  “It is the way of things,” said Charlotte, still standing. “Obligations do not cease simply because we might wish them away. We have our duty.”

  “Duty? Is duty alone all that speaks for marriage? It cannot be so. Surely there are more…blessings?”

  “Marriage offers women every advantage, Miss de Bourgh. Companionship. Security. Position.”

  “And if you already have these advantages? What then?”

  “Without marriage there can be no children.” Charlotte stopped a hand as it moved toward her stomach, still flat. “And the companionship of a husband has a different quality to that of friends or other family. Though that quality may depend on shared interests and affection.”

  “You are close to recommending love as a reason to marry. That is something I can understand, though I see precious few marriages founded in love. Your friend, Mrs Darcy, I think?”

  “That is not for me to say.” Charlotte sat down on the bench. “But satisfaction in marriage does not require love.”

  “And we should limit ourselves to mere satisfaction? I do not wish to pry, Mrs Collins; your husband has many admirable qualities and Mama is quite fond of him. I merely find myself…well, it is of no matter.”

  “I live a contented life, Miss de Bourgh, to answer the first question you put to me.”

  “You do, Mrs Collins. And that is what confuses me.” Her hand touched Charlotte’s shoulder, briefly, hesitatingly. “I wonder if men have such conversations?”

  “I think it unlikely.” Charlotte smiled. “Men claim all the benefits of marriage without the restrictions. They have much to gain and little to sacrifice.”

  “And what must we sacrifice? No, do not answer. You must think me quite unladylike, even radical, with my questions. Mama would not like it; she would give me quite a severe look. Besides, it grows chilly, and I should return inside.” Miss de Bourgh stood, fingers and arms rigid where they gripped her shawl. “Have you heard? We expect Colonel Fitzwilliam here very soon.”

  “That is good news. He travels alone?” said Charlotte as the two ladies began the walk back to the house.

  “If you mean, will Mr and Mrs Darcy accompany him, then the answer is no, they will not. Though I believe Colonel Fitzwilliam plays the role of peacemaker, laying a path that might lead to a truce, if not to a wholly happy reunion. I think you would like this, too?”

  “I should like to see Eliza—Mrs Darcy—in Hunsford again.”

  “And you shall. I feel sure my mother will soon forgive my cousin his choice. She will not forgo the Pemberley connection for much longer and we will see the Darcys at Rosings soon enough. And you may be assured of regular invites to tea, dinner, and supper. I shall make sure of it, Mrs Collins. I am fond of Mrs Darcy, even though I only knew her as Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She talked to Mama as I never dared; I quite admired her for it.” Ahead of them, weak candlelight flickered into life in several rooms as the servants began banishing the dark from the house.

  “Eliza talks to everyone as others do not dare.” Charlotte pointed at Rosings, its tower fading into night’s shadows. “But if she lived under that roof, I believe even she would be more circumspect.”

  “Still, Mrs Darcy may be assured of a warm welcome. I owe your friend a debt of gratitude.” Miss de Bourgh lowered her voice. “You may not see love as a requirement of matrimony, Mrs Collins, but I do. Your friend disappointed my mother’s hopes, but not mine. She has saved me for another.”

  Return to the Booths’

  The next day found Charlotte fulfilling her promise to Mr Booth. The large, bright apples in her basket carried few signs of those insects that had Mr Collins cursing Noah for carrying two of every animal on the Ark. “I do not think the Lord would have minded if he had left the wasps and apple worms behind. They test my faith, my dear, and my patience. The fruits of the earth belong to man alone.” Fortunately for Mr Collins, there was a woman to cook them for him. A few blackberries lay scattered among the apples, the rest of them waited in the kitchen for Molly to turn into pies and crumbles.

  Summer and autumn still tussled for primacy over the Hunsford skies, though yellows and russets had already begun to conquer the trees lining the lane up to East Street. Passing villagers greeted Charlotte warmly, answering her enquiries about their families’ health, but rarely returning them and never stopping to talk with her longer. More than once, she was left to cast wistful glances at their retreating backs. At the Booths’ home, Charlotte’s sharp knock brought no response, but she found Mrs Booth in her tiny garden, bent over some blackcurrant bushes, apron flecked with purple.

  “Is Mary not at home?” said Charlotte. “I knocked.”

  Mrs Booth stood to greet her visitor, adding more colour to the apron as she wiped her hands. “You are far too kind to us, Mrs Collins,” she said, taking the proffered basket of fruit. “My husband said you might call, but I was not sure. Can’t always trust a man to remember women’s business, can you? Mary is home, but sleeping. Will you come inside? Have some tea?”

  Charlotte wondered how many times the leaves must have been used before finding their way as far down as a first footman’s family. “Let us not disturb her. Besides, we should enjoy the dry weather while we can.” They sat on a small wooden bench. Charlotte’s fingers glided over a twisted circle of flowers carved at one end. “Your husband has a way with wood.”

  “He does. It is almost a shame he gave up his trade, though we are grateful, of course, for his position at Rosings. He feels he might rise in life there, Mrs Collins. Mr Hutchins is not the youngest and he’s already begun to teach Adam the ways of the butler. Only last week he was telling him about wines. So many sorts! Imagine, Mrs Collins, they are not just red and white. There are all kinds.”

  “Yes, there are,” said Charlotte, with a smile of understanding. “And Mary—how is she?”

  “A little better. Perhaps the infusion has helped; she takes it readily enough.” Mrs Booth picked at a stray thread on her stained apron.

  “You gave the notion no credence before, but are you sure it is just her body that ails her?” said Charlotte. “She is young…and quite handsome. She would not be the first to sicken with love, unrequited or otherwise.” Mrs Booth’s mouth twisted in thought. “There is no shame in it,” added Charlotte.

  “No,” said Mrs Booth. “No, there is no shame in a little lovesickness. And you are right, Mrs Collins. She sickens in her spirits.”

  “Ah. And when a young woman is downhearted, the blame usually lies with young men.”

  “I could not say who is truly to blame. Mary fancies herself in love and that is what breaks her heart.”

  “She cannot force a man to wish to court her.”

  “Oh, she don’t need to force anyone. They come all on their own. One in particular. And right happy she is with him, too. But her father is not. Adam won’t have it. Won’t have a ‘mere footman’ courting his daughter.” Mrs Booth sighed. “So she is forbi
dden from seeing the young man, which is not easy when they both work at the house. And like all children who do not properly know the hardships of life, she thinks her father treats her badly. She seeks to break him with her tears. But he will not break, not my Adam.” Mary’s mother shook her head, both hands lifting toward her face before she returned them to her lap.

  “And what about you? What do you say?” said Charlotte.

  “Me? My opinion has little sway here, Mrs Collins. All this you see around you? You will think it not much, but it is better than most have. Especially when I think of those poor devils up Chalk Hill with their hovels and rags. And we owe it all to Adam’s position at Rosings. A footman’s life did fine by us. It could do fine by Mary. But I know my place. And I know my husband.”

  “Well, it is a relief of sorts to me. Nobody has ever died of a broken heart, Mrs Booth, not outside of a poem. She will recover. Time may be a slow cure for such an ailment, but it is a certain one.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know about all that. But I do know she’s as headstrong as her father. We will sit this one out a while.”

  “Then can I recommend an infusion with rue? The poor taste may encourage a return to good spirits rather more quickly.”

  Pleased to see a mother’s concern fade in shared laughter, Charlotte rose to leave. She froze at a sudden and terrible cry from inside the house.

  “Mary!” Apples and blackberries scattered across the blackcurrant bushes as the basket of fruit tumbled to the ground.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sweat still stained her shift, but Mary was no longer doubled up, hands fixed against her stomach. Her mother teased slick ebony hair back from the young woman’s wan face.

  “The worst seems to have passed,” said Charlotte. Mrs Booth nodded, eyes tinged with tears.

  Charlotte bent down to touch Mary’s arm. “Whatever ails you, child, has seemingly hurt more than just your spirits. But you will soon be on your feet again.” Charlotte did not catch the murmured reply and looked to Mrs Booth for help. She received only a shrug and a shake of the head from the older woman.

  “No more talk now, precious, you must save your strength.” Mrs Booth patted her daughter’s hand. “We will see Mrs Collins again soon. Perhaps in church once you are well again.” Mary struggled to raise herself but slumped back into the armchair with a quiet moan.

  “Well, let me not disturb you both any longer. I will see myself out.”

  As she stood at the front door, pulling her shawl around her, Charlotte caught Mrs Booth’s next words to her daughter. “It is no use fighting it—you know your father. Now, let us see if we can get a few more sips of this infusion in you.”

  Outside, a fresh wind chased away the acrid smell that had lingered around Mary. Charlotte stood among the ragged bushes that lined East Street, revelling in the clear autumn air.

  “Mrs Collins!” The call came from a door opposite, part exclamation, part greeting.

  “Miss Inglis?” said Charlotte, earning a weak smile for her words. The lady’s maid had a small parcel with her, though the cottage she had emerged from was no store. “You have been…shopping?”

  “Something for Miss de Bourgh.” Miss Inglis coloured a little and took a firmer grip on the paper package in her hands. “I must get back to her—she will soon be dressing for dinner.” She walked off with the ungainly half-skip people use when they are in a hurry but have no wish to appear so. The question of her presence in a worker’s cottage hung in the air like a thistle seed on a balmy evening. No obvious explanation sprang to mind as Charlotte walked home, but she resolved to give the matter no further thought—she had no right to pick at a secret when her only motivation was curiosity.

  With Mr Collins at his church, the front windows of the parsonage showed no sign of activity within. As she closed the gate to the lane, Charlotte looked up at the chambers that might house guests or children. They, too, were dark. She stood a while, just staring at the emptiness, until her thoughts returned to Mary. She had understood little of what the young woman had tried to say at their parting, but one word had been clear enough: Tom.

  Mr Collins Makes a Discovery

  Charlotte’s husband always sat on the western side of their dining parlour, allowing him to keep an eye on the windows that looked out onto the lane. Many a hot soup grew cold while the master of the house grew more heated, rushing to admonish a stray parishioner not seen recently in church.

  His wife had learnt to suffer most meals with Mr Collins in silence, because to suffer them in conversation was a less desirable alternative. She always ensured he could read the Chronicle during breakfast and the Westerham Times during dinner. One of her great hopes was that the presses would begin delivering a fresh edition in time for supper. Her husband’s attempts to read, eat, and watch the lane all at the same time also provided her with some rare moments of amusement.

  That afternoon, however, with Mary’s pain still a fresh memory, Charlotte sought comfort in idle chatter. Most of her fish—trout again—stayed on the plate.

  “I visited the Booths today, my dear.” The response was mumbled disinterest. “Mary is still unwell. She has worsened. A poor stomach, cramps, and sweating.” Mr Collins continued to inspect his paper. “I do hope it is not the start of something. With the cold coming, there are few people in Hunsford who would enjoy the ravages of a fever.”

  “Fever?” Her husband looked up. “But you said…I hope you did not stay long or get near to the girl. If it is a fever…”

  “I am likely mistaken. Perhaps it is something she ate. And she has been dispirited of late.”

  “The body is soon influenced by a distressed mind,” said Mr Collins. “And the mind of a woman is—alas—predisposed to such distress. It has neither resilience nor strength. Unlike the male mind, it has not been trained through athletic endeavour, education, and higher discourse.” His attention returned to the newspaper.

  “If you say so, my dear.” Charlotte allowed herself a silent sigh and a shake of her head. There was little point attempting to convince Mr Collins otherwise on such matters. Whatever athletic endeavour, education, and higher discourse his mind had been exposed to, they were insufficient to allow a change of opinion on the nature of women, whatever the evidence presented before him in the form of both Lady Catherine and his wife.

  They continued their meal in silence, the furrows on the rector’s brow rising and falling with the length of the words on the page in front of him.

  “Stomach cramps and sweating?” mumbled Mr Collins. He began to squint and purse his lips. “Hmmm…” After a brief pause, he lowered the Times, pushing aside his plate to lay the newspaper flat, then ran his finger down the lines of print. “Let us pray I am mistaken. I would not wish such devilry in my village. Now where was it?”

  “Is something amiss, husband?”

  “Stomach cramps and sweating,” repeated Mr Collins. “Here, let me read this to you. It is a note in the Times.” He cleared his throat. “Seven townsfolk taken ill…cramps of the stomach…severe and unusual sweating…fears of a more general malaise abated, however, when suspicion fell on diverse medicinal concoctions taken by the afflicted and purchased from a travelling merchant named Ferrell, whose cart was seen leaving Westerham two weeks earlier. This is grievous news.”

  “How extraordinary. Does it say if the victims recovered?”

  “It does and they did, but not before much suffering. Let us hope this is mere coincidence.”

  “I am sure it cannot explain Mary’s sickness.” Charlotte frowned. “The Booths do not go to Westerham. Mary has taken an infusion, but it came from Sarah Littleworth in the Rosings still room. Adam Booth would not allow his daughter to consume any other concoctions, particularly those that do not carry his lady’s implicit approval.”

  “My goodness, no, the very thought of such disloyalty. But what if this Ferrell character did pass through Hunsford? Clever words may easily sway the simple minds of the villagers. These men of commer
ce have serpents’ tongues that might spoil our little garden of Eden. Perhaps, my dear, you might ascertain whether the Booths—or anyone else—have used some brew from town or from this merchant, unlikely though it might be. If they have done so, I must go to Rosings and warn Lady Catherine that mischief is afoot. And I will have to change my sermon; all must know of the dangers of placing one’s trust in merchants and not the Lord.”

  “I am sure we have nothing to fear in Hunsford, my dear. But I will begin enquiries after dinner.”

  ~ ~ ~

  A strong wind had scattered sickly leaves across the turn to East Street, leaving sunlight to shine through exposed twigs on the grand oak. In the distance, smoke came from the Booths’ chimney. It was still early in the year for a fire, but no doubt they wanted to keep Mary warm. Instead of turning off the lane, Charlotte continued towards the village proper, adding briskness to her walk on passing the Scrotes in case the lady of the house was at her window perch. By the time she reached the square, both the Post Office and Mussell’s were closed; the people of Hunsford would have to wait another day for their letters and household purchases.

  Many doors were open to Mrs Collins, but the large door that led into the Bear Inn was not necessarily one of them. Though Mr Collins was partial to the occasional ale, he preferred not to drink in the kind of company found in such an institution. He and Mr Wilson represented different religions—the rector a man of God, the landlord a man of the hop field. The inn sat as much at the centre of village life as the church, though. And, like St Thomas’s, the Bear stood apart from its surroundings, with its all-white façade and pair of bay windows, each topped with small troughs that gave the inn a pair of flower-filled eyebrows in summer.

  Inside, the first of the men had found their way to a mug of ale at the end of another day. Charlotte’s arrival saw them shuffle on their wooden stools with dutiful guilt, though her smile put them at ease.