Like desire.
Do you really think that anyone could see beauty in plain old Charlotte Lucas?the little voice asked.Even your husband did not think you so. You put away that sort of girlish foolishness a long time ago; do not seek to resurrect it now.
Charlotte pulled away like she had been scalded. Mary lifted her hands as if to catch Charlotte’s retreating ones, but Charlotte shifted backwards on the couch, hearing one of the floorboards in the hallway creak. A moment later Bessie entered, bearing a tea tray and two thick slices of rum cake. After the maid had left, Mary sought to take up her drawing again. Charlotte entreated her not to do so, a plea which was reluctantly agreed to, and instead guided the conversation towards Mary’s travel plans for the following day. She would miss the company, and had already grown rather fond of her guest, but the danger of saying or doing something very stupid increased every moment.
A few days and some distance would put everything right again, Charlotte decided, and all would be as it once was.
Chapter Six
Dearest daughter,
Our deepest condolences for your loss—Mr Collins was, we believe, a good husband to you these past few years.
Though we have taken heart that one of the Miss Bennets has kept our dear Charlotte company in this time of tragedy.
We strongly encourage you to return to Hertfordshire as soon as you please so that we may comfort you too.
With fondest regards,
Mama and Papa
Charlotte’s parents often wrote their letters to her together. One sentence in a looping hand, the words leaning backwards as if facing a heavy gale, was both preceded and followed by a smaller, less neat hand, though the words were far more upright, as if they’d taken brief shelter from the storm. Charlotte folded the letter up with a heavy sigh. She would reply later, though her own letter would not reach them until after they’d heard of Mary’s arrival at Longbourne. They might even visit the Bennets, and then Mary could put them quite at ease about how well their daughter was faring.
Mary had departed so early the next morning that, by thetime Charlotte had awoken, her guest was already gone, though she had left the bulk of her luggage in the spare room, so that her journey to Meryton was made a little easier. Seeing the rumpled bedsheets through the open doorway and a scarf casually strewn over the headboard had given Charlotte a pleasant feeling in the pit of her stomach which she had refused to examine further.
Less than an hour after she had breakfasted that morning, and halfway through said pile of letters, Charlotte received a lunch invitation from Rosings. She’d never been able to work out how Lady Catherine had known everything that went on in the parsonage—even news Mr Collins hadn’t yet had the opportunity to convey to his benefactress—and apparently Anne was using the same gambit, whatever that might be. After casting suspicious glances at both Bessie and Mrs Waites, who were shelling peas together at the kitchen table in companionable silence, Charlotte set off for Rosings.
She had hoped to have a quiet, brief luncheon with Anne and afterwards spend some time in solitude in the parsonage garden putting her thoughts in order, and was therefore surprised to find an even larger party than before in attendance. Anne introduced Charlotte to Mr Humphries, Mr Fitzherbert, and Lord Barrington, and added with an arch smile that of course Charlotte already knew Mr Innes.
“Of course,” Charlotte said, and was gratified when Mr Innes bowed deeply, his wide smile showing every evidence of being pleased to see her again.
“Sir George has left on business,” Mr Innes informed Charlotte, as they seated themselves at the long table in the great hall, “and has promised me he will return in a week or two with his wife. She is a very kind soul. I am sure you would like her very much, Mrs Collins.”
“I am sure that I would.” Charlotte hesitated. “But I am togo to Canterbury with Miss Bennet next week. I fear I shall miss their visit entirely.”
“Why, that is a shame indeed,” said he. “But no matter, we are all often in London and I believe you have an aunt there, do you not? How often do you—”
Before Charlotte could answer, Mr Humphries let out a great guffaw which drew the interest of everyone at the table. “No, do not repeat the jest,” he scolded Mr Fitzherbert, when the latter began to explain their conversation, “for it is only funny to those who have visited that particular region of France.”
“Which region do you speak of?” Anne inquired, and the conversation swiftly turned from recollections of pleasant holidays to matters of French politics.
Charlotte knew enough to follow, but not to make any particular opinion of her own felt, and so remained quiet, observing the rest of the party. Mr Humphries had a rebuttal for every point, though his companions did not seem to mind too hard. Charlotte thought that if one had to spend more than an hour in the presence of a man whose every comment was intended to disparage one’s own, even if he had been espousing a similar view only moments before, she would go quite mad. Anne presided over the table with the air of a queen whose mind was on other, more distant matters, and more than once Charlotte caught her staring out of the window at the fluffy white clouds beyond.
“I say, that is a very pretty dress, Mrs Collins,” Mr Humphries said unexpectedly, his eyes sliding down Charlotte’s curves.
Surprised, Charlotte could not quell a blush. “Thank you.”
Mr Innes cleared his throat. “Did Mrs Darcy help you pick it out?”
“No, I’m afraid she did not.” Charlotte repressed a smile. Lizzie had never been the type to fuss over a dress; everything she’d worn had always suited her well, though it frequently lacked in adornments or embellishments. Mary had quite a differentstyle, and Charlotte had noticed the inclusion of small details on her outfits which, although subtle, were evidently the consequence of some care. “It was not always black, I must admit. I rather miss the colour it once was.”
“Mrs Collins’ husband passed away recently,” Anne added, shooting Mr Humphries an odd, inscrutable glance.
“Well,” said Mr Humphries, leaning over the table a little and lowering his voice, “sometimes things which begin one way often end up another entirely, and much for the better. Is that not so, Mrs Collins?”
“It may be so, sir.” Charlotte fumbled with her fork. Was he flirting with her or was this some jest at her expense? “Anne is wearing a very pretty dress today too, I see,” she said, keen to divert the attention onto a far more deserving party.
It was true—Anne’s dress was the colour of a pale summer morning, with all the promise of brilliance ahead. “I quite agree. Why, I saw the very same colour when I was sailing along the coast last year,” Lord Barrington said, stroking his whiskers. “My father had business in Germany, you see, and when I took over the management of the country estates I quite—”
