“I think you know for what. I stand accused of the same foolishness as those two footmen.”
Charlotte smiled. “One advantage of men’s ignorance of our sex is that we may appear frail and unsteady at will and they will think nothing of it.” Then she noticed Miss de Bourgh did not meet her gaze. “You know, it is not foolish to seek love. I do wonder, though, how you came upon this Smith’s wares?”
“I will spare you the details. Suffice to say Miss Inglis was kind enough to arrange everything.”
Charlotte recalled her chance encounter with the lady’s maid on East Street. “Ah, of course.”
Miss de Bourgh’s head dropped even further. “I wish I had more certainty.”
“Love is rarely something to be certain of,” said Charlotte. “At least not the love of another. Which is why we must encourage it—just not with infusions, draughts, and other such tricks.” Their laughter echoed that of the children outside and seemed to chase away Miss de Bourgh’s embarrassment. “I wish you luck in the endeavour.”
“And I would wish you love, too, Mrs Collins.”
“Oh, I do not think that will be my fate.” Charlotte brushed dust from her dress. “But I am not one of those women whose happiness demands that form of love.” The two ladies began to walk back up the aisle.
“Friendship may offer some substitute for love. Might we call ourselves friends?”
“I should like that, Miss de Bourgh.”
“Please—if we are to be friends, then you must call me Anne. At least when we are alone.”
“I should like that…Anne.”
“As should I…Charlotte.”
They were almost out of the church when the door opened.
“Oh, Miss de Bourgh, Mrs Collins. Begging your pardon, I did not see you.”
“It is quite alright, Mary. It is wonderful to see you so well again,” said Charlotte.
“She does look fine, my Mary.” Mrs Booth came in behind her daughter. “All thanks to your good self, Mrs Collins. As I say, you have been a blessing for us all.”
For an outsider. The words rose unbidden in Charlotte’s mind.
“We thought we’d take some apples and ale up to Rosings.” Mary clutched a hand to her mouth briefly. “With your permission, of course.”
“You have it. Most willingly,” said Miss de Bourgh, before moving outside, pausing only to shade her eyes from the low autumn sun.
“The apples and ale are for your husband, Mrs Booth?” said Charlotte.
“And for Tom.” A touch of colour reached Mary’s cheeks.
“So they are both forgiven?”
“They are long forgiven, Mrs Collins, though they do not know that yet,” said Mrs Booth. “We let them stew a few days, so the lesson sits deeper.”
“Very wise,” said Charlotte. “Men can be forgetful when it comes to their own failings.” She watched in silence as the two women retrieved the apples and left the church, chatting gaily, comfortable in their familiarity. A few moments later, she followed them outside.
The celebrations had moved nearer to the square and inn, but a few villagers remained in the churchyard, mostly old women too deep in gossip to move. A gravel path led to the gate onto Church Street. Leaning on iron railings was a figure Charlotte recognised, immaculate in his uniform.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam. Still enjoying a little sun?”
“I am. You are continuing to the square?”
“To the parsonage.”
“Then might I accompany you?”
They took the short cut through East Street to avoid the festival crowd, then along the wooded part of the High Lane, and on past the Rosings lions.
“I believe you and I have something in common, Mrs Collins.”
“A love of walking, perhaps?”
“There is that. But I believe we are also both more alone than we might wish.”
“Colonel?”
“Do not misunderstand me. I did not mean we lack for companionship. You are, after all, married to my aunt’s esteemed rector. But neither of us truly belong. Not here in Hunsford, at any rate. Is that not so? You must pardon my impertinence. I merely wonder why the rector’s wife should seek the sanctuary of her home on a day such as today. Is your place not among the villagers?”
“There is some truth to your words, Colonel. But I would ask whether we need to belong to be happy. If we have friends, spouses, those who love us, however far away, then we are entitled to be content with our lot—in Hunsford or anywhere.”
“Perhaps you are right, Mrs Collins, but I am not sure there are any who truly love me.”
“Come now,” said Charlotte, frowning. “Let us not spoil the day with such a thought. Besides, we have reached the parsonage, which is where I belong. Thank you, Colonel Fitzwilliam, for your company.” As the officer set off back toward the square, Charlotte called after him. “You know, you may be more loved than you think. It is often so.” The colonel did not turn, but lifted his cane in acknowledgement before the curve and the trees swallowed him up.
Charlotte rested a hand on the gate and left it there. A gust of wind caught the leaves on the ivy, sending a wave of red and a rustle across the front of the parsonage. Then the door opened to reveal Mr Collins in his long coat.
“Ah, my dear, I have been searching for you. Where have you been? I have had quite enough ale for one day. And a rector should not be without his wife at such a festivity. What would Lady Catherine think?”
“I was detained at the church by Miss de Bourgh.”
“Miss de Bourgh? Well, then, of course, your absence is entirely understandable.” He fumbled with one hand in his pocket. “I had forgotten to give you this. It arrived a day or two ago. He pulled an object out of his deep pockets, a puzzled look growing on his face. “What…how…what is this?”
“My dear, how kind. A potato to remember the day by.”
“No, my dear it is not this…vegetable. A letter. From Derbyshire.” He rummaged through his other pocket. “From my cousin, Elizabeth—Mrs Darcy. Here.”
“From Eliza?” Charlotte took the missive from his outstretched hand and broke the seal immediately.
“And how are dear Mr and Mrs Darcy?” Since the prospect of reconciliation, their names could once again be spoken without fear of disapproval.
“They are well. They are very well.” Charlotte held the letter against her chest with one hand; with the other, she reached out and took the potato from her husband. “No doubt some child slipped it into your coat. I will give it to Molly. Perhaps we will have potato soup. You know how much you enjoy it. Soup for supper with a glass of wine to celebrate.”
“Celebrate, my dear?”
“The harvest, Lady Catherine’s goodwill, and the news this letter brings: the Darcys are coming south.”
THE END
Author’s note:
Thank you for reading The Lovesick Maid. If you’ve enjoyed the book, please consider leaving a review at Amazon, Goodreads, or elsewhere. Mr Collins would be so pleased, he would volunteer to read Fordyce’s sermons to you.
Preview of Book Two
Charlotte Collins is finally reunited with Mr and Mrs Darcy, but a theft at Rosings casts a shadow over the occasion. Blame soon falls on an obvious suspect, but is the allegation true? And is there more to this theft than greed alone? Needless to say, it falls to Charlotte to discover the truth of the matter.
Fiction by Mark Brownlow
Charlotte Collins Mysteries
The Lovesick Maid
The Darcy Ring
Mr Bennet’s Memoirs
Cake and Courtship
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Acknowledgements
No man (and no author) is an island. I bow deeply in gratitude before the following fine people…
Sarah, my editor, for making me a better writer and storyteller. Edwin, for his companionship along the highway of authorship. All those who c
heer me on from the sidelines, offering inspiration, support and alcoholic beverages when needed, particularly Tom, Alex, Rose, Sis and the online Jane Austen community (with a big wave in the direction of the Irish contingent). Most importantly, Renate, Michael and Patrick for their understanding, support and chocolate – I love you all.
About the Author
Mark Brownlow is a British-born writer and humourist living in Vienna, Austria. “The Lovesick Maid” is his second work of fiction after “Cake and Courtship”. He is also known for his reimagining of classic stories as email inboxes. When not writing or teaching, he watches costume dramas and football, though not at the same time.
Follow Mark on Twitter (@markbrownlow), Facebook (facebook.com/lostopinions/) or at the LostOpinions.com website.
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