“All eager to curry favour with an earl’s family,” Charlotte observed without malice. “Though I suppose we cannot blame them for that.”
They stood in companionable silence for a moment before Charlotte spoke again, her voice taking on an odd quality Elizabeth could not quite identify.
“Your Mr Collins approached me earlier this evening.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose. “Did he indeed? And what wisdom did our illustrious cousin impart?”
“He was most complimentary about my deportment and conversation.” Charlotte’s fingers worried the ribbon at her waist. “Said I possessed exactly the sort of steady character Lady Catherine would approve in a clergyman’s wife.”
“Good heavens!” Elizabeth turned to study her friend’s profile in the dim light. “How presumptuous of him to speak of Lady Catherine’s approval when addressing you. Surely you do not take such observations seriously?”
Charlotte remained quiet, her gaze fixed on the darkened gardens below. When she finally spoke, her words carried a weight that made Elizabeth’s stomach clench with foreboding.
“Perhaps I do, rather more than I ought.”
“Charlotte!” Elizabeth grasped her friend’s arm. “You cannot mean it. Mr Collins is tedious beyond all bearing. His constant references to his patroness would drive any sensible woman to distraction within a fortnight.”
“Would they?” Charlotte turned to face her directly, moonlight revealing the lines of strain around her eyes. “Or might a sensible woman recognise the security such a connexion offers? I am seven-and-twenty, Eliza. My father’s estate is modest, my portion smaller still. How many more seasons can I endure before I must accept that matrimony has passed me by entirely?”
The pain in Charlotte’s voice struck Elizabeth with unexpected force. She had never considered her friend’s circumstances with such stark clarity—the gradual narrowing of options that accompanied each passing year, the growing desperation that might make even Mr Collins seem preferable to spinsterhood.
“You speak as though you are already resigned to the shelf,” Elizabeth said gently. “Seven-and-twenty is not so very advanced.”
“Is it not?” Charlotte’s smile held bitter acknowledgement. “When was the last time a gentleman under forty requested my hand for dancing? When has any man of property shown the slightest interest in my conversation beyond mere politeness?”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. The truth was uncomfortable but undeniable—Charlotte’s opportunities had indeed grown limited, her chances for advantageous marriage diminishing with each season.
“At least Mr Collins seemed genuinely engaged by what I had to say,” Charlotte continued with forced lightness. “Though I should not raise my hopes too high. He made it quite clear his attentions lie elsewhere. He spoke most particularly of one of Lord Hartford’s daughters—though he was too much the gentleman to specify which.”
They both understood. Elizabeth felt her stomach tighten with dread even as Charlotte pressed on.
“I merely observe that should his current hopes prove fruitless, he might look more favourably upon a practical arrangement with someone of lesser expectations.”
“Charlotte, you deserve far better than a practical arrangement.”
“Do I? Or do I deserve whatever happiness I can secure for myself?” Charlotte moved closer to the balustrade. “Not all of us can afford the luxury of romantic sentiment, Eliza.”
“I should hardly describe myself as given to romantic sentiment,” Elizabeth protested.
“Should you not?” Charlotte’s eyes held sudden mischief despite the melancholy of their conversation. “Then pray tell me—who has caught your attention this evening? Mr Wickham seemed quite particular in his attentions during your dance.”
Heat rose in Elizabeth’s cheeks despite the cool air. “Mr Wickham is handsome and charming, certainly.”
“But?”
“But charm can be learnt, practised, employed for calculated effect. I find myself preferring substance beneath the surface pleasantries.” Elizabeth paused. “There is something about his manner that feels rehearsed, as though each compliment has been measured for maximum impact.”
“How very philosophical of you,” Charlotte observed with a knowing smile. “Then who has earned your admiration for possessing this mysterious substance you value so highly?”
Before Elizabeth could formulate a response that would not reveal more than she intended, Lady Lucas’s voice rang across the terrace with maternal authority.
“Charlotte! Charlotte, where have you got to? Mrs Phillips wishes to speak with you about the harvest festival arrangements.”
Charlotte sighed, squeezing Elizabeth’s hand with sisterly affection. “I must go, but this conversation is far from finished, Eliza. I shall extract a proper answer from you before the evening ends, mark my words.”
Elizabeth watched her friend disappear through the ballroom doors, leaving her alone with thoughts that refused to settle into any comfortable pattern. She pulled her silk shawl closer, though whether against the chill or her own unsettled reflections, she could not say.
“Lady Elizabeth.”
