The Lovesick Maid

by Mark Brownlow

  “You trouble yourself without cause,” said Mr Collins, each word fighting to get past a mouthful of vegetable. “You say yourself there is no fever and we need fear no poisonous concoctions from Westerham. It would be wise to direct your attentions elsewhere. Let it not be said that the rector’s wife has her favourites in the village. And there are other tasks at hand. The Harvest Festival approaches, and the villagers insist on celebrating on the square, no doubt encouraged by that godless man, Mr Wilson. But I have spoken with Lady Catherine and we will at least ensure the church is suitably decorated. Let the people recall that the fruits of the field are a blessing from the Lord and not from the Bear Inn.”

  Declining Prospects

  With company at the house, Lady Catherine could not spare any servants, so it was their families that helped carry the best of the Rosings orchards and farmlands across to the church—sheaves of wheat sculpted by dexterous hands into the shape of animals, crates of cabbages, cauliflowers, and small apples, baskets of onions, bundles of carrots, and more.

  Charlotte had hoped to see Mrs Booth and Mary, but they were not among the women and children streaming into the church, which was now a confusion of people and produce. A stray cabbage rolled its way down the aisle and met Mr Collins hurrying the other way. The rector held his hat in one hand, a note in the other.

  “We must return home immediately, my dear.” The words slipped through the gaps between ragged breaths. “It is as I expected on your informing me of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s arrival. We are invited to dine at Rosings; Lady Catherine does us great honour as always. We have little time to prepare. Come, my dear, at once!” Mr Collins stooped to retrieve the cabbage, holding it like a man holds a newborn baby, quite unsure what to do. “We cannot delay!” He marched away with the strange hopping walk he adopted whenever excited, then came to an abrupt halt at the final pillar before the western door. “And what is this?” he said.

  Charlotte followed his gaze to an unusually large turnip, propped up beneath one of the clerical hats Mr Collins kept in the vestry. The vegetable bore an uncanny resemblance to the hat’s owner, but no muted giggles or sly glances revealed a culprit among those nearby.

  “A reminder that all of God’s riches are subject to the authority of the church?” Charlotte plucked the hat from its vegetable stand. “But perhaps the message is lost on those with less education than has been our privilege.”

  “Harrumph!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Charlotte was conscious of the favour Lady Catherine did her and her husband with each invite to Rosings. They were, if truth be told, sometimes there for her ladyship’s convenience, to make up the numbers at cards at short notice. However, it was not always so, and no obligation existed to honour a local clergyman with such frequency. The rector’s gratitude at the attention knew no bounds—for Mr Collins, a visit to Rosings was an experience as holy as any church service.

  As for Charlotte, she had soon discovered that both the dinners and the diners required her presence but not her conversation. She spent most meals listening politely to Lady Catherine’s sermons, delivered with zeal under the watchful eye of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose grim portrait hung above the fireplace. On this occasion, though, she hoped Colonel Fitzwilliam would dare raise the subject of the Darcys, so she might learn more of her friend and the new baby. The colonel sat on Charlotte’s right, opposite Mr Collins, the two gentlemen flanking Lady Catherine at the head of the table. Five footmen, including Adam Booth, saw to their needs.

  “How goes Mary?” whispered Charlotte, as Mr Booth appeared beside her to serve the cod in oyster sauce. His pained look was all the answer she needed. “But I thought she was recovered? I am sorry to hear otherwise.”

  “What are you sorry about, Mrs Collins?” came the cry from Lady Catherine, ears alert as a fox’s. “I hope you are not troubled by the affairs of the servants. Explain yourself.”

  “It is nothing, Lady Catherine. I was merely asking after Mr Booth’s family.”

  “Are they unwell? I cannot abide sickness. It pleases me that Anne is so improved, though I cannot think why with the disappointment she has had. When you are done, Mr Booth, take yourself down to the still room and avail yourself of whatever you need. I cannot have Mrs Collins distracted when at my table.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam leant toward Charlotte, lowering his voice beyond even Lady Catherine’s hearing. “Perhaps she can give him a brandy. Poor fellow looks like he might need it.”

  “Speak up, Fitzwilliam, won’t you,” said Lady Catherine. “What can you be talking about?”

  “I was merely remarking to Mrs Collins how true it is that Miss de Bourgh looks well. I find her quite transformed from my last visit.”

  Across the table, Miss de Bourgh busied herself with her cod, cutting the fish into ever smaller pieces.

  “Anne masks her disappointment well,” said Lady Catherine. “As do I. You will not find me passing comment on the inconstancy of family and the foolishness of youth. Ungrateful nephew that he is.”

  “The last time I was in the north, Aunt, the ungrateful nephew was asking after you.” The colonel glanced up at his host. “He seemed most concerned for your welfare.”

  “Did he indeed? A shame, then, that neither he nor Mrs Darcy gave thought to that welfare last year. When I think of the conversation in Hertfordshire—a lesser woman than myself might have fainted at the violence of Miss Bennet’s words.”

  “Your disapprobation is entirely warranted,” said Mr Collins. “Does the Bible not teach us to honour our elders?”

  “Though tell me, Fitzwilliam, how does Pemberley look?” Lady Catherine dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “I have not seen it in many years now. Not that I wish to honour that den of treachery with a visit.”

  “Still very grand. They are rearranging the front gardens in the French style—”

  “The shame!” Lady Catherine held the napkin against her nose, as if seeking to avoid the stench of Paris.

  “Ah, but this is the regal French style, that of Versailles before the revolution. It is the talk of the north and of London.”

  “It is?” said Lady Catherine. “Well, I cannot say such talk has reached us at Rosings.” She began eating again.

  “I barely saw Darcy on my last visit, inundated as he was with visiting dignitaries and so many lords and ladies that the stables could barely cope. It is fortunate the house itself is so large and able to accommodate so many honoured guests. It seems all of society craves the company of Mr and Mrs Darcy. The poor man is quite driven to distraction.” Colonel Fitzwilliam waved his fork.

  “Is that so?” Lady Catherine’s own fork stopped halfway to her mouth. “Then he must travel, leave Pemberley.”

  “But where would he go, dear Aunt? Where could he be assured of a little peace?” The colonel looked about the table as he spoke, the hint of a smile gracing his face as he caught Charlotte’s eye. “They follow him everywhere and when he stays at another’s house, the host is sure to have invited half the court of St. James to join him.”

  “There is one place he might find refuge, Mama,” said Miss de Bourgh, without looking up.

  Mr Collins’s chewing filled the silence that followed, the sound ending with an apologetic swallow.

  “Are you suggesting Rosings?” said Lady Catherine, leaving a tremulous gap between each word. “The very idea.”

  “I…” began Miss de Bourgh, but she proved unable to meet her mother’s stare, finishing with a barely audible, “No.”

  “Although,” said the colonel, leaning forward, “such an offer would reflect well on the character of the de Bourgh family. Many would speak of your wisdom and kindness, how you overlooked the unfortunate decision taken by your nephew.” His air of innocence held steady under his aunt’s long and accusing gaze.

  “Perhaps there is some sense to your words,” said Lady Catherine, eventually. “Let none suggest that the de Bourghs lack wisdom or kindness, though the latter quality is much overrat
ed. Rosings was not built on kindness but on firmness of purpose. But family is family, after all. If I was to act out of clemency, out of sympathy…”

  “You are truly the wisest of hosts, Lady Catherine,” said Mr Collins. “The Bible is most clear on the importance of compassion. We have the parable of the prodigal son—”

  “The prodigal nephew has not seen the error of his ways, Mr Collins. Yet I will think on it.” After a few moments of silence, Lady Catherine looked over at Charlotte. “You are very quiet on this matter, Mrs Collins. No doubt you would be pleased if I were to forgive my nephew? I believe Mrs Darcy to be a particular friend of yours.”

  “She is,” said Charlotte. “Though we have not always seen eye to eye on the issue of marriage.” Mr Collins nodded his head at the answer, eyes darting between his wife and Lady Catherine. “I do know she yearns for amiable relations between Pemberley and Rosings. She has great respect for the latter and its occupants.”

  “That is not my recollection,” said Lady Catherine.

  “She writes occasionally, and always expresses her high regard for the ‘grand estate’ as she calls it, hopes the differences between the two families might be resolved soon. She speaks warmly of Miss de Bourgh, in particular.”

  “I see you would all have me throw open the doors of Rosings to the Darcys. What about you, Mr Collins? You spoke of prodigal sons—what does the Bible say on the matter of forgiveness?”

  Mr Collins’s voice grew a little shrill, as it always did when he was obliged to express his opinion to Lady Catherine without being sure of her own. He found relief in a quotation. “Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamour, and evil speaking, be put away from you, with all malice. And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you. So it is written in Ephesians. Though, as with so many passages, one might argue its interpretation. Indeed, Fordyce—”

  “Is not here, Mr Collins, so you may spare me his opinion,” said Lady Catherine. “Does anyone else care to advise me on this matter? Do you all speak with one voice? Anne?”

  “He is family, Mama.”

  “But she is not.”

  Miss de Bourgh’s knuckles were almost white where she gripped the edge of the table. “For my part, I bear her no ill will.” She turned to face Charlotte. “And I cannot imagine a friend of Mrs Collins could be anything but agreeable.”

  “I call myself a friend of Darcy, as well as a cousin, but a true friend must be honest,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Given how he set about the whole business of marriage, I wonder if he was the right choice to safeguard the future of such an estate as Rosings. I would put my hand in the fire for him, but perhaps it is for the best that he remains master of Pemberley alone.”

  “Are you suggesting I was wrong to bind him to Anne?”

  Although the fire continued to burn, the room seemed decidedly colder. The sound of eating had, again, almost stopped.

  “Not at all, dear Aunt.” The colonel showed no sign of discomfort. “His true character only revealed itself after his stay in Hertfordshire. We are none of us soothsayers able to predict how a pair of fine eyes may change a man.”

  Lady Catherine looked from Miss de Bourgh to Colonel Fitzwilliam, then to Mr Collins and, finally, to Charlotte. “Do you have anything further to say, Mrs Collins? I can normally rely on you for a sensible view.”

  “My wife and I speak as one mind on all things,” said Mr Collins.

  “Of that I am fully aware,” said Lady Catherine. Charlotte’s husband coloured. “It is right and proper that you follow your husband in such matters, Mrs Collins, but I still insist on an answer to my question. You may speak freely with me. I am not one to begrudge a guest an opinion, even one contrary to my own.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam’s sudden cough prevented Charlotte’s immediate reply. He took a draught of wine and waved a hand in apology.

  “It is right to grieve for unfulfilled expectations,” said Charlotte. “And personal slights—whether true or merely perceived—should not be ignored.”

  “Yet I sense there is more to your opinion.” Lady Catherine arched an eyebrow. “Do continue.”

  “There comes a time when grief and punishment have served their purpose, when to continue with either may in fact hinder the standing and future prospects of a family or estate. When it suits the interests of the country, does our government not ally with those we once warred with?” Across the table, Mr Collins shifted in his seat. “But I am just a rector’s wife and know little of such matters. They are for greater minds to judge, like my husband’s.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam stilled another bout of coughing with the rest of his wine. “A dry throat. Must be all the travelling.”

  Lady Catherine returned to her food without a word. Chicken and mushroom fricassée, quail, roast beef, and any number of vegetables came and went without divisive conversation. The colonel was attentive to all those present, soliciting advice from Mr Collins on the care of laurel hedges and steering conversation away from talk of any accomplishment not possessed by Miss de Bourgh on account of her former poor health.

  “I understand Miss Lacey is engaged to Lord Davenport’s son,” said the colonel. “The number of eligible ladies diminishes daily.”

  “You are a third son. You will not find it so easy as the future Lord Davenport to obtain a good match,” said Lady Catherine. “You are wealthy, true, but not rich. Well connected, but with poor prospects. Anne, however…there are many great houses that would rejoice at a union with Rosings.”

  “Miss de Bourgh is indeed the prettiest flower in the garden of English youth.” Mr Collins’s face assumed a look of religious devotion.

  “With so much choice, perhaps she will be at liberty to pick a husband for herself.” Colonel Fitzwilliam did not look up from his plate.

  “We are none of us at liberty to evade the rules of society. Not at Rosings. Anne will marry the man I choose for her.”

  A plate clattered as Miss de Bourgh rose from her chair, placing a hand on its back as if to steady herself. “I am not well. You will excuse me.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam stood in alarm. “Perhaps I might—”

  “Mrs Collins,” said Lady Catherine. “You will escort Anne to her room and see to her?”

  It was not really a question.

  ~ ~ ~

  “I am quite well, I assure you.” Once beyond the dining room, Miss de Bourgh had let go of Charlotte and walked through to the staircase hall and up the stairs without a word. She now stood with a hand on the door to her room.

  “Are you sure? I can stay with you for a while. Or shall I call Miss Inglis?”

  “Thank you, but no.” Miss de Bourgh stared at Charlotte’s hand, which had reached out to rest on the younger woman’s bare arm. Eventually, her face softened. “You are a kind lady, Mrs Collins. And a good one. I am not ill, not in the way people think.”

  “I know that.”

  “Yes, you of all people must sympathise. I simply have no wish to marry someone chosen by my mother for his name and the size of his estate.” A single tear traced its way down a flushed cheek. “I so envy my cousin and your friend. What does the displeasure of Lady Catherine mean to Mr and Mrs Darcy? They have each other. They married for love and I would do the same.”

  “As would we all, Miss de Bourgh.” Charlotte urged her companion into the privacy of the chamber, closing the door behind them. “It is a blessing often denied women and a matter I have sometimes given thought to; I need not say why.” Miss de Bourgh perched on the bed, dabbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. Charlotte found a seat at the dressing table. “In those circles a de Bourgh must move in, many marriages are arrangements founded on convenience and tradition. There seems little chance for love. This we both know. Yet we do not see so much unhappiness among husbands and wives. This must tell us that while we desire love, we do not always need it. Respect, companionship, comfort, even shared interests and—mo
st importantly—the security that marriage brings may be perfectly adequate. My marriage to Mr Collins is evidence of precisely that.”

  “It made you happy, then?”

  “It did not make me unhappy. Lady Catherine has your interests at heart, Miss de Bourgh. I cannot believe she would choose someone you could not grow to love or at least cherish.”

  “My mother has the interests of Rosings at heart.”

  “And who is to say the two cannot be one and the same?”

  “I thought you would share my understanding, Mrs Collins.”

  “I do,” said Charlotte, more strongly than she intended. She softened her voice. “Do not imagine I have not dreamt of more than fate has given me. We all wish to be loved—truly loved. I share your understanding, Miss de Bourgh, but society does not. So we must be practical.”

  “You cannot know what it has been like for me.” Miss de Bourgh lifted a hand to her neck. “Caged at Rosings all my life. Never considered well enough to travel any further than Westerham. You have been to London?”

  “With my father, yes.”

  “I have not, though it is not much over twenty miles. But I am well now. And I do not wish to stay always in a cage. There are maids who have seen more of this world than I have.”

  The dressing table mirror showed little of Charlotte’s face, half-cloaked as it was in darkness. Perhaps it was no bad thing her features were disguised in that moment—she was thinking of one maid in particular. Mary Booth had likely seen little beyond the borders of Hunsford and her cage was less gilded than Miss de Bourgh’s. The Booths’ cottage was not much larger than a single drawing room at Rosings.

  “Let us not dwell on this now.” Charlotte stood. “Allow me to at least fetch something from the still room to ease your mind.”

  “A small glass of wine would be welcome.”

  “I was thinking more of one of Sarah’s infusions,” said Charlotte.

  “And then a glass of wine?”

  “Very well. An infusion with a glass of wine to follow.”