The Lovesick Maid

by Mark Brownlow

  “Mrs Collins?” There was a quaver in Jenny Wilson’s voice.

  “Might I speak with your father, Jenny? All is well; it is a small matter of parish business for Mr Collins.”

  George Wilson was an honour to his profession, built as an innkeeper should be: portly, quick to laugh, and possessing more hair in his beard than on his head. He came through the doorway that led to the barrels, wiping his hands with a cloth.

  After exchanging polite enquiries about each other’s health and that of their families, Charlotte caught the landlord’s eye before moving up toward the end of the counter, where no customers or maids might hear them.

  “I was hoping you might be able to help me, Mr Wilson. My question is unusual, but your answer may be of value regarding the health of the village.” He dipped his head but did not speak. As an innkeeper, he knew when not to be curious. “You provide rooms for passing tradesmen, merchants, and the like?” Charlotte pointed to the wooden stairs leading up to the second floor of the Bear.

  “We do. Some like to get a head start out of Westerham on their way down to the coast. Travel here in the late afternoon, you see, so they can get off early the next day. Dinner and bed is a small price to pay for a few hours extra in Tunbridge.”

  “In the last week or two, did anyone stay here by the name of Ferrell? A travelling merchant, selling medicinal brews most likely.”

  “I’ll take a look for you, Mrs Collins.” Mr Wilson reached under the counter and retrieved a huge ledger, cover scuffed and stained with age. After a minute reading through the last two or three pages, his grimace and slow shake of the head gave Charlotte the answer to her question. “Nothing here, Mrs Collins, and nothing I recall. A few fellows with carts passed through, but none by the name of Ferrell. Couldn’t say what any might have sold. Like I said, they mostly arrive late and leave early. Not enough business in Hunsford for them to stay longer, not unless they’re supplying our own stores, but Mussell’s has no call for medicinal wares. Mr Hayward might, but he makes most of his own and the rest he hauls down himself, so I believe. Sorry I cannot be more helpful.”

  “On the contrary, Mr Wilson, I could not have asked for a better answer. It seems likely this man’s wares do more harm than good. If such a merchant should appear at your doorstep, I recommend you send him on his way.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind, Mrs Collins. I’d like to be certain of my answer, though. My son, Frank, is over at the brewery—if he’s going to take on my inn, he needs to learn the business from top to bottom. He returns soon, and I will be sure to ask him about recent trade. If he knows anything of this Ferrell, he’ll come down the parsonage.”

  ~ ~ ~

  After leaving the square by Chalk Hill Lane, Charlotte stopped at the last house before the path up to the hamlet. Only the mortar and pestle sign hanging by the front door gave any indication of the business conducted within. Mrs Hayward had never been happy with her husband’s choice of profession. Although she enjoyed the proceeds of a thriving apothecary, it was dried flowers and ornaments that decorated the window ledges, not flasks and jars.

  A maid answered Charlotte’s knock.

  “Ah, Lyddy, is Mr Hayward at home? I do not wish to disturb him so late, but I was in the square…”

  “Please come in, Mrs Collins. Master is still in the front room. I’ll announce you.”

  “I saw your brother at Rosings. He looked well. He has a good position there; your parents must be very proud.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. They are. We all are. He is the first Calker to work up at the house. I hope he keeps the position.”

  “Why ever should he not?” said Charlotte. “He works hard and that is all that is required of a footman.”

  “He’s a hard worker alright, Mrs Collins. But, well…last half-day off he had, he was down the inn drinking more than he should instead of visiting his ma. Looked as glum as an old sow, folk tell me. That’s not like Tom.”

  “I hope he is not troubled?”

  “Can’t say. Don’t see him much to talk to. They work ’em up at Rosings, but Lady Catherine is fair. If he thinks a footman has it hard, he should…well…there are far worse places to be.”

  A bellowed “Lyddy!” from the nearest doorway ended further conversation.

  “Coming, Mr Hayward.” After an apologetic curtsy, Lyddy hurried into the other room. There was a murmured conversation, then she returned. “If you please, Mrs Collins.”

  Mr Hayward stood off to one side of his apothecary, away from the table for serving customers, where row after row of small drawers adjoined shelves brimming with those flasks and jars Mrs Hayward so disliked. Strangers to Hunsford often mistook him for a kindly old schoolteacher with his greying sideburns and unkempt hair, puffed-out cheeks, and round glasses that seemed ready to fall off at any moment.

  “I am sorry to receive you so, Mrs Collins, but my wife is not at home and I cannot leave this brew for even one moment. It is a delicate mixture.” A pot of liquid was warming on a small stove, surrounded by vials and bottles. “I thought it better to have you come in here than make you wait.”

  “The apology is all mine, Mr Hayward. The hour is late and there is no true urgency to my visit. There is, however, a question I would ask of you.”

  A loud bubbling erupted from the stove, filling the room with a pungent smell. Charlotte stepped back as Mr Hayward disappeared behind a white cloud. “Ask away, Mrs Collins,” came a voice from beyond the smoke.

  “Mary Booth has come down with stomach cramps and sweating. I wondered if you knew of any other villagers similarly afflicted?”

  The smoke cleared to reveal Mr Hayward cleaning his spectacles on a stained cloth while casting a forlorn look at the stove. “I had high hopes for this one. Do forgive me, Mrs Collins. My wife says I spend too much time with my work. She is right. Now, about your question—let me think a while.” He tapped his spectacles against his head, then put them on, stabbing them into place with a finger. “Saltpetre, of course!”

  “Mr Hayward?”

  “Saltpetre might make all the difference. I shall try again tomorrow. I will not give up, Mrs Collins. Now, cramps and sweating…none of my professional acquaintance share those symptoms. There is always one malaise or another in Hunsford, but happily none of that nature. Has Mary eaten rotten food? You would be surprised what people will eat. Of course, I cannot speak for all the village since few can afford an apothecary. If you are worried, you might address your question to those who dabble in herbs. You know of whom I speak.”

  “Sarah Littleworth?”

  “Yes.” There was no disapproval in his voice. Mr Hayward had no objection to herbalists or anyone else for that matter, provided they left him in peace to work on his infusions and treat his patients. “I do not believe the nonsense that some talk of her.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Long shadows and a chill wind greeted Charlotte as she left the apothecary. The Booths would have to wait until the next day. By the time she reached the High Lane, dusk gave the glare of the stone lions a harsh turn, though the roof of the parsonage in the distance promised warmth and refuge. As she walked on toward her home, a neigh from further ahead told her she was not alone. The horse slowed as it neared, but Charlotte could not recognise the figure in the saddle, bundled up as he was in a greatcoat, face covered against the cold air. Stopping but three yards from her, the rider landed smartly on his feet and unbuttoned his high collar to reveal thin lips on a sculpted jaw.

  “Mrs Collins, I do believe.” He had the poise of a man used to command and exercise, albeit with a slight stoop of the shoulders.

  “Colonel Fitzwilliam!”

  “On your way home, I take it? Then will you allow me to escort you through the dangers of Hunsford’s High Lane?” It took the colonel but a moment to tie his horse to the gatepost by the lions.

  “It is good to see you, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Hunsford will be the better for your presence. I did not expect to see you down again so soon given
that, well…”

  “Yes, still condemned by association with that rascal Darcy. Lady Catherine always has some words for me. Something about failing in my duty by not discouraging him from his choice. Though as you will recall, Mrs Collins, I hardly helped his cause. You know what Darcy feels about a ‘good opinion’? I was in grave danger of losing his after that visit. I have seen disappointment in men, but, well, Darcy was so consumed by Elizabeth’s rejection that he was quite incapable of thrashing me for half causing it with my tale of the Bingley affair. Though if his beloved had not changed her mind, I would be a stranger to Pemberley by now.”

  “How fortunate for us that you are no stranger to Rosings.”

  “Lady Catherine relies on me for news of her nephew, forcing her to tolerate, even accept, my company. And I am glad to visit. There are few parks so conducive to a brisk morning ride, and the dinner conversation is welcome.” He did not notice Charlotte’s look of curiosity at his last statement.

  “Have you seen Mr and Mrs Darcy of late?”

  “I come from them directly—they are both well. Mrs Darcy sends her particular love to you and looks forward to the day when you might both meet again. The separation does not sit well with Elizabeth.”

  “Nor with me, Colonel—there are so many things I would talk of with her and there is never enough space in a letter. But Mr Collins will not undertake a visit without the approval of Lady Catherine, and we know that is not to be forthcoming. So letters must suffice. I don’t suppose…?”

  “My apologies. In my haste I left one in Pemberley. The letter should follow me down by more conventional means. It is high time its author accompanied it.” The colonel rubbed his hands together as if readying himself for a challenging piece on the pianoforte. “To effect just such a change is one of my reasons for this visit. I believe Lady Catherine’s animosity towards Darcy and Elizabeth is now no more than show. All my aunt needs is an excuse to allow a peaceful reconciliation.”

  “You really think so?” Charlotte stopped, searching the colonel’s face in the half-light.

  “I do think so.”

  “That would be most welcome.” Charlotte moved on again. “You know, I cannot imagine Eliza as a mother.”

  “And an excellent one she is, too. I hope to be there for young James’s first birthday. He has his mother’s spirit and his father’s obstinacy. Or is it the other way around? Regardless, he torments Darcy and delights Elizabeth—delights us all. A family is a fine thing, Mrs Collins. Ah, I spy the parsonage ahead. Tell me, will I see you at Rosings during my stay? Do you still spend much time there?”

  “You will, and I do. I am urged on all sides to improve my playing and find myself as much in Mrs Jenkinson’s room as my own parlour.”

  “And how is Miss de Bourgh’s companion—still as attentive as ever?”

  “Less attentive than before, since Miss de Bourgh continues to improve.”

  Now it was the colonel’s turn to stop still. “Does she?”

  “She is…very much improved.”

  “She has fully recovered from her disappointment?”

  “That is not for me to say.”

  “No, of course. I did not intend…I mean to say, I merely, well…” The colonel continued walking, head down, some confidence gone from his stride.

  “I believe she feels something like relief,” said Charlotte.

  Colonel Fitzwilliam’s head shot up. “Relief?”

  “Yes. No doubt Lady Catherine will find another suitable match for her sometime soon.”

  “Of course. I am surprised she has not done so already. Enough time has passed. Though perhaps Miss de Bourgh…well, as you say, it is not for us to discuss such matters.”

  By now they had reached the gate to the parsonage. “Will you come in, Colonel? I am sure Mr Collins would enjoy welcoming you to Hunsford with a glass of port.”

  “The offer is most kind, but it is late and Rosings expects me. After disappointing Lady Catherine enough in the past, I should like to retain her reluctant approval for a day or two longer. We shall meet again soon.”

  A Fine Lady

  “She is asleep in her bed, but she took some bread and water and kept it down. We are sure she will soon be back to normal.” Mrs Booth’s smile could not disguise the worry that was visible in her face, even in the shadows of the cottage. The fire, slowly dying now that Mary no longer needed its succour, sent patterns of light dancing along the floor.

  “Has your husband spoken to Sarah Littleworth about some kind of curative?”

  “Seemed little point while she was sick—she could not even take Sarah’s infusion. And now it appears she is better, I cannot be wasting anyone’s time.”

  Pride was a powerful force among the Hunsford villagers.

  “May I see the infusion?” said Charlotte.

  Mrs Booth reached across to the small table next to the armchair. “The bottle is almost empty. Hopefully Adam will bring more down to us soon.”

  There were no markings on the glass, no label that might tell of its provenance. “Have you given her anything else? Perhaps something from Mr Hayward?” They could not afford the apothecary, but Mrs Booth needed the honour of the question.

  “Goodness, no. Though it would be fine if we had the coin for such a thing. No, only what Adam brought from Rosings.” Despite the statements of Mr Wilson and Mr Hayward, some part of Charlotte had still harboured concerns that fate might have led the Westerham merchant to her small village. Mrs Booth’s words soothed her worries. “There’s nothing Sarah can’t do in that still room of hers. It is not just jams and jellies. Lady Catherine insists on rosewater and oils from Rosings flowers. And when Sarah has time, so I hear, she makes ointments and infusions for the servants to keep their aches and pains at bay. I’ll not have a word said against her, whatever others might think.”

  “And what do others think?” said Charlotte.

  “Just village talk, Mrs Collins. Sarah Littleworth has a sharp tongue and her own ways, as you know. You also know how folk can be. Different is different. But Lady Catherine has the right of it; you cannot trust anything not made at home or by one of your own. Leastways not when it comes to your health. And Sarah herself suggested an infusion, so Adam told me. Insisted on brewing one for Mary.”

  “Did she indeed? How…kind. It must be a worry for your husband, though—long hours at the house with a sick daughter at the cottage. I know he dotes on Mary.”

  “That he does. She’s all we have left now. It is strange, Mrs Collins. Seemed like that winter were nothing special. Then the fever came. A house full of children, and then…” A shower of sparks from a burning log marked the short silence. “Always thought such things were for northern folk on their cold moors. You never forget them, you know. You move on. A lot of people lose children—it is the way of things. But you never forget them, though there is little left to remind you.”

  “You still have Mary,” said Charlotte.

  “And for how long? She is of an age now where she might soon be married and gone.”

  “That, too, is the way of things, Mrs Booth.”

  “It is. And I shall be glad when she has a good man to provide for her. But Adam will find it hard. If the Prince Regent himself came on bended knee, my husband would think twice before giving his consent. I pity the poor lad who has to get past him to Mary.”

  “A poor lad like Tom Calker?”

  “You know?” Mrs Booth scowled. “No doubt they’ve been talking up at Rosings. Yes, it is true he has paid Mary attention and she likes him well enough. So do I, as it happens. But you know fathers, Mrs Collins. When I married Adam, my family were happier than a pig in mud. A footman was a step up. Now look at us. But supposing Adam does not become butler? What if a footman’s all Mary can hope for and nothing better comes along? Then we’ll be a sorry sight when my husband’s too old to work.” The older woman’s chest heaved in agitation. “Oh, but look at me troubling you so, Mrs Collins. You bear the burdens of th
e whole village, you do. When you first came to Hunsford, I said to Adam, now that there is a fine lady for our parsonage. A fine lady for Hunsford. Mr Collins could not have done better. It is no wonder his eye fell on you above others. For an outsider, you have been a blessing for us all.”

  Charlotte let the words pass with a resigned smile, though she found her nails digging into her palm.

  ~ ~ ~

  At supper that evening, no paper and a view darkened by an approaching storm encouraged Mr Collins into conversation.

  “What news of the Booths, my dear? Is young Betty well?”

  “Mary is a little improved. It is certainly no fever.”

  “I am relieved. They shall have no excuse on Sunday now. And what of the infusion? Must we be alarmed? Is there a snake of commerce in Hunsford, spreading his injurious wares?”

  “No, dear, of that I am quite sure. Mary’s infusion did indeed come from Rosings, there are no reports of a Mr Ferrell in the village, and no suggestion that others might have similar symptoms to those suffered in Westerham. We may attribute Mary’s sickness to poor food or poorer spirits.”

  “That is a relief. We must thank the Lord for his kindness.” As Mr Collins raised his hands in supplication, he sent a piece of meat spinning across to his wife’s side of the table.

  “Although…” Charlotte speared the stray meat with her fork.

  “My dear?”

  “I have seen many young girls and women sicken in their spirits over some boy or another. Highborn or low makes no difference. And we are none of us strangers to the consequences of food that has turned.”

  “No,” said Mr Collins. “We are not. And I will never take table at the Scrotes again. Though it was such terrible misfortune that only I should be so affected. Perhaps spirituality leads to a certain delicacy of the stomach.” He thrust a whole boiled potato into his mouth.

  “Perhaps. But there is something about Mary’s sickness that still does not sit well with me.”