Chapter XI
Charlotte would read the letter several times. The first was on the doorstep of Longbourn, after snatching it from the postmaster’s grip. She had consumed it quickly, hungrily, her eyes only truly absorbing the words: I know where he is, and Pemberley.
Charlotte retreated to the hall, pacing quickly, and called out for Brooke.
Her immediate future was clear to her: she would have the carriage readied and her trunk packed.
She would wear her old green dress and the emerald ring with the ouroboros and style her hair loosely as she knew he liked it.
She would get into the carriage and order the coachman to drive fast, and they would rattle down the country roads, heading towards Pemberley, and the beginning of something new.
‘Yes, madam?’
As Brooke stood in front of her in the hall, Charlotte hesitated before issuing her instructions.
‘Are you well, madam? Is that news of your friend?’
Mrs Brooke observed her mistress now, the letter clutched in her hand, and wondered at what it contained.
She had a clearer idea of its subject than Charlotte might have guessed – servants often possess a knack for learning things that would surprise their employers.
Of course, Mrs Brooke had met the colonel before on his visits to Hunsford, and she was aware that Charlotte and he had taken a carriage together to Pemberley.
On their return, she had noticed Charlotte’s frequent absences from the house – curiously long walks on such cold days.
She had noticed Charlotte’s mood change during those months, how her tastes were bolder, her steps lighter.
And then, she had seen the letter, tucked into a poetry book – seen and read it, before carefully replacing it.
She was not the sort to judge; she had seen enough of life to know that you cannot understand other people’s hearts. But she had been relieved when they moved, and with everything Charlotte had faced since, Brooke had felt proud of how she had handled it all.
When the bundle of letters from Lady Catherine had arrived, Charlotte had confided in Mrs Brooke only that they were from an old friend fighting in the war and that she was concerned for him.
Brooke, rather daringly, had asked her if they were from Colonel Fitzwilliam – and that, with surprise at her intuition, Charlotte had confirmed.
‘Is it good news, madam?’ Brooke pressed her now.
Charlotte made as if to answer in the affirmative but then stopped. ‘Not entirely,’ she offered in its stead.
Brooke waited while Charlotte read the letter again, this time more slowly. Careful consideration – that is what was Darcy had asked of her. That was something she was able to give.
Folding the letter, she said, ‘He is not dead. So that is something.’
Brooke nodded. ‘Do you need me for anything, madam?’
Charlotte paused. ‘Forgive me – I think I will retire to my room.’
Sitting on her bed, she read the letter a third time – and she would read it again by dim candlelight before bed – the implications of it turning new cogs in her brain each time.
Her happiness at his survival was quickly surpassed by her grief at what had befallen him.
At first, she resisted Darcy’s advice to leave him be; after all, he did not know the depth of their connection, nor did he understand Fitzwilliam as she did.
How could he be sure what would be to his benefit?
Surely, Fitzwilliam would improve upon seeing Charlotte.
Surely, she was exactly the tonic he needed.
But as she thought more and reread the letter, she began to concede. It was Darcy, after all, who had known his cousin all his life, and it was Darcy who had seen his current state.
She cast her mind to the lowest point in her own life – when she’d lost her baby and, with it, some part of herself.
In the aftermath, she had wanted nothing but space to grieve and to recover.
She’d had no space in her mind for complicated feelings, not even for her husband, whom she could not comfort; she had shied away from a constricting sense of obligation and guilt at having denied him a child.
She had not wished to see Elizabeth, disliking her own feelings of envy for her friend’s happy situation, and scorning any unwanted pity.
And she had certainly had not a thought of seeing Fitzwilliam.
The idea of romance, of love, of deception or regret, would have been all too, too complicated.
It was not what she had needed. What she had needed was to find her way back to herself, on her own. And she had.
She pictured Fitzwilliam as Darcy described him: scarred, dishevelled, unsmiling.
She then thought of Pemberley, vast and quiet, offering him space and refuge.
She imagined him there, among the grounds he had loved, with his oldest friend and hers – with the cheerful company of Kitty, Georgiana and Eliza’s delightful baby.
She thought and thought until her brain ached and sleep overtook her, the letter still clutched in her hand.
By morning, when she awoke, the candle had burnt down to the quick, and she was still in her day dress.
She rose, folded the letter and placed it carefully in her drawer.
She splashed her face, smartened her hair, adjusted her black dress, made her way to the study, and wrote a reply – after careful consideration.