Charlotte blinked. She had never considered this an option. “Do not you think they would disown me?”
“Lord and Lady Lucas? Never,” Mrs Waites scoffed. “They are sweet people, and they have raised a sweet daughter. You might think a little higher of them than that. They may notunderstand, but I am certain that they will at least try to. Look, ma’am, I’ve found that happiness lives in many places, not just the land of love. It’s an old saying worth thinking about. Though if it be the land of love, well…that is not never a bad thing, ma’am, no matter what anyone says.”
“Does happiness live in the grocer’s shop?” Charlotte muttered, unable to help herself from teasing, and was rewarded with a blush and a splutter.
“Out! Out of my kitchen!” Mrs Waites ordered, though she was laughing, and Charlotte couldn’t help a small smile of her own.
In her bedroom, she lay face down on the sheets while hot tears leaked down her cheeks, her chest tight with a deep blue grief that refused to release its stranglehold. She loved Mary, of course she did—that had never been in question. Everything had gone so wrong, so quickly, that Charlotte had acted like a wounded animal in a trap, struggling to get free at any cost. It wasn’t as if she actually wanted to go back to Hertfordshire and live as she once had, filling her weeks with dull visits, occasional balls, and the ever-present expectation that she ought to pursue every available bachelor within reach. Quite the opposite, in fact; now that she knew that more options were available to her, it would be nigh impossible to ignore those open doors.
She could never feel about anyone the way she felt about Mary, rendering any marriage no better than a prison sentence. Nor could she spend the rest of her life pottering around in a single garden, knowing she had turned down the chance to work on the most incredible collection she had ever seen, and to spend every day surrounded by more happiness than she had known in all her first thirty years of life combined. If there was a path to joy, its only route lay through the valley of truth. Was she brave enough to journey there? Was the risk worth the reward?
It would have to be, Charlotte decided.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
My dear Maria,
I have long wondered how to answer your last letter. I am surprised that you think so little of my tolerance for difference in others, however, I understand that given to whom I was married, you may have had a particular preconception of my attitude on the subject. In truth, I hardly knew the subject existed, far less that people were open about it. Armed with this new knowledge, it may surprise you, therefore, that I have had similar inclinations all my life.
Lately, I have been
My feelings on the matter
I hope this does not change the way you see me or love me. Your answer led me to believe that would not be the case, but even so I cannot help but worry. Having lived so long with these thoughts hidden in the darkness of my heart, it is proving extremely difficult to drag them into the light.
Whatever kindness you can offer will be extremely appreciated. And please do not breathe a word of this to anyone yet.
Your loving sister,
Charlotte
It had taken Charlotte eight attempts to write a letter which managed to both invite her parents to Hunsford and give them enough of an idea why she was asking so that, if they found the idea intolerable, they could all avoid a scene. In the end, she was still not sure she had managed it, but she could do no better; passing the letters to Bessie, she sank back into her chair, exhausted. Regret was a blistering ache which throbbed scarlet in her chest. She ought not to have rejected the idea outright. She ought to have listened to Mary, and made Mary listen to her in turn.How different things could have been, if I were not so afraid of everything all the time,she thought, filled with self-loathing.Cowardly little mouse, always running, always hiding.
It was time to show her true self, at least a little.
She got up from her chair and wandered into the parlor. The windows had been pushed open, letting the musty air out and replacing it with the fresh scent of flowers, bathed in golden sunshine. Charlotte leaned on the windowsill and breathed deeply, allowing the air to revive her. Even if she managed to get her parents to approve of her new position as head gardener for Mr Mellor—and that was no certain thing—then she could not hope for additional felicity. It would be better, in fact, if she did not mention Mary much at all, and focused on Mr Mellor; no matter how much she desperately missed Mary, or ached to hear her voice again, or yearned to read even a single word which would give her hope that Mary did not loathe her entirely.It is sensible to take one thing at a time, she told herself.
And what if she is finished with you entirely?the little voice in her head suggested.You wounded her deeply. She asked if you loved her and you did not even answer. No wonder she threw you out. What makes you think she would ever take you back, even as a friend?
Charlotte had no answer for that. All she could do was wait and worry and weep.
* * *
Anne de Bourgh sent a breakfast invitation over from Rosings around six on the clock, despite the fact that Charlotte hadonly returned that afternoon. The very last thing she wanted was to spend time with company who would want some account of her time in Canterbury, as well as details of her future plans, but one did not simply turn down a de Bourgh. “Tell your mistress I will gladly come tomorrow,” she said to the footman, who bowed and trotted away down the garden path. “How on earth does she know these things?” she muttered, and closed the door.
Bessie returned to the parsonage around five to assist with dinner. At Mrs Waites’ request, the maid had also brought boxes with which Charlotte could begin packing up her possessions. It was a thoughtful and practical gesture, though Charlotte wished she did not have the reminder of her departure. She wanted to be alone, to sit in her garden and soak up all that had once been before she had to deal with everything that would come afterwards. Change was a complicated thing; one could not live in a constant state of tumult, but needed time to adjust to every new stage of life. She had barely become a widow before Mary’s arrival, and then she’d had something entirely new to occupy her. Vowing to pack at a later date, she spent the rest of the day sitting in the garden, doing nothing more taxing than watching the flowers and letting her tears wet the grass where they fell.
Charlotte awoke the next morning, still exhausted, still prone to spontaneous fits of weeping. She washed and dressed in black, remembering the beautiful blue dress that Mary had bought for her, and which she would now never see again.Might Mary wear it herself?she wondered.Might she have it tailored to fit some new woman, who would be less of a coward?The awful thought plagued her all morning, and lingered while she walked over to Rosings. The short journey seemed longer than usual, and Charlotte found it hard to take comfort in the beauty of her surroundings. Not even wild daisies growing in the lane gave her the usual frisson of pleasure, nor the pretty flower-beds infull bloom. The world still turned, still rolled headlong into summer, no matter how much she wished it to stop spinning.
Anne de Bourgh greeted her with more joy than Charlotte had expected, and she did her best to match her host’s exuberance. “I am so glad you are back,” said Anne, beaming as she led Charlotte into the sunroom, where a lovely spread had been laid on the low table. A silver teapot steamed next to a pile of scones, jams, and an inviting array of biscuits. “Mr Innes is away on business, but he mentioned to me that he would be back in town in three or four weeks. I do think he has designs on you, my dear Mrs Collins. What say you to that?”
She hadn’t even sat down and already she was being plagued with talk of marriage. It would never end, unless she put a stop to it in a manner which brooked no argument. “Miss de Bourgh,” said she, choosing her words very carefully, while the footman poured their tea. Bergamot drifted through the air, undercutting the fresh smell of the scones and the tart scent of the strawberry jam. “Please know that I am exceedingly grateful to you and your mother for all the great kindnesses you bestowed upon me and my late husband. But I must confess to you that it would be impossible for me to marry again. I simply cannot.”
“Cannot?” cried Anne. “Whyever not?”
It was one thing to admit her desires to her sister, a trusted confidante, and quite another to even hint at them to Anne. Charlotte sighed. Some white lies were necessary to preserve her standing in society, and if a single carefully chosen lie snipped the rope of marriage from winding its way around her neck again, then snip she must. “You see, I was so very fond of my husband. I wish to keep the memories of Mr Collins fresh in my mind. He was—” she clasped her hands together, hoping that God would not strike her down for such a weaselly sentiment, even if it was technically the truth “—the only man for me.”
“Oh!” Anne’s eyes filled with tears. “How romantic! Why, Mrs Collins, I had not known your river ran so deep. I ought tohave noticed it sooner.” She spread a scone with clotted cream and jam, then studied Charlotte, frowning. “But you did like Mr Innes, did you not? He liked you very well indeed.”
