Sir Francis looked even more nervous, grabbing his glass to take several big gulps of it.
There was a sudden awkward and unpleasant silence. I sought frantically for a topic of conversation to pass over the moment, but my mind remained blank. My husband galloped in to fill it, as he always did, remarking that it looked like it might snow tomorrow, and adding thathehad always thought snow at Rosing was much more of an exemplary sight than anywhere else in all the land.
I felt the collective breath let out at the table as the awkward moment was passed over. Actually, therewerebenefits to my husband’s loquaciousness!
After dinner, Anne came up beside me.
“What did you think of Mr. Crawford?” she squeaked.
“I liked him very well,” I said. “What do you think of him?”
“Oh, I like him very well too,” she said, still holding onto me, her face aglow.
My heart fell. I was sensible. I should tell Anne that Lady Catherine would never approve. I should tell Anne to put it out of her mind and think about whether she would rather spend her life with Mr. Radcliffe or Sir Francis. But I couldn’t. It was all very well for me. I was not of a romantic disposition. I had no use for love. But, somehow, I couldn’t wipe that glowing look from Anne’s face, so I only tightened my hands on hers and gave her an encouraging smile.
Then my husband was beside me, holding out his big arm to me. “I must get my dear Mrs. Collins home,” he said jovially, sweeping me out the door. “She likes a spot of warm tea before bed.”
Even after the cup of tea, I fell asleep frustrated. I was no closer to solving the mystery, and the Darcys and Bingleys would be arriving tomorrow. I did not know what motivation either Mr. Radcliffe or Sir Francis would have for letting Wilberforce the pig out. Sir Francis had admitted to finding the loss of the pig amusing, but that was hardly evidence. What ifMr. Radcliffe had gaming debts and needed Lady Catherine’s acrostic necklace to pay for them? What if he had released the pig to make Sir Francis look bad? What if Sir Francis was an amiable madman?
None of these theories were very satisfying.
I shook my head of such fanciful thoughts and tried to fall asleep. It was a bit chilly and I turned to snuggle into my husband’s warm side. It didn’t matter what time of the year it was, or what temperature it was in the room. William always ran as hot as a furnace. It was very cozy. As I tucked in beside him, in his sleep he put one big hand on my side and I felt its comforting warmth.
4
“Excessive sentimentalism is by no means a trait to be encouraged in an upright husband.”
-Lady Catherine de Bourgh
The next day, I was just finishing up a cup of tea after breakfast, when we saw a carriage drive up and stop by our house. It was the Bingleys.
Mr. Collins popped up and hurried out to greet them, while I quickly threw on a wrap and joined him, the December wind feeling crisp and chill today.
Mr. Charles Bingley was a well-made, cheerful man with blond hair, twinkling blue eyes, and a handsome face, and his wife Jane was transcendently pretty, her curly blonde hair framing a heart-shaped face with vivid green eyes and full pink lips.
I loved both of them very much and was happy to see them. This would be Mr. and Mrs. Darcy’s first trip to Rosings after their marriage and after Lizzy had persuaded her husband toreconcile with his aunt. I knew the awkwardness of this visit would be mitigated by the kind amiability of Mr. and Mrs. Bingley. I also knew my husband had first wanted to marry Jane and her sister Lizzy, and I did not blame him. They were both radiantly beautiful. I sometimes wondered if he still wished he had married them. But such maudlin and sentimental thoughts were unnecessary in a woman who had sworn to treat her marriage with practicality and sense. I felt an unwelcome zing of jealousy, but my husband greeted the Bingleys both in equally bluff and unromantic fashion.
“What an elegant carriage,” he said, bowing so low that his hat swept the ground. “Rarely have I ever seen its equal, except maybe in the case of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who hasthreesuch carriages.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Bingley, twinkling at Mr. Collins. “She is a very fortunate woman.”
“Congratulations,” I said softly to Jane, who I knew from Lizzy’s letters was recently with child.
“Ah, yes,” my husband said. “I heard you were soon to be expecting an interesting event, Mrs. Bingley. Many many congratulations,” he said, grabbing Mr. Bingley’s cultured hand in his big paw, and shaking it happily.
Mr. Bingley looked a bit startled to be so jostled about, and his own hat was knocked off with the enthusiasm with which my husband pumped his arm.
“William, dear,” I said, gently touching him, “Mr. Bingley’s hat has flown out of the carriage and is heading for the duck pond.”
“Oho! My greatest apologies!” he yelped, then bounded down the hill to retrieve it.
“How are you, Charlotte?” Jane asked me.
“Doing very well,” I said brightly.
Jealous.
Wishing I was expecting an interesting event, too.
