Chapter XIV
When it came time for Elizabeth and Sofia to return to Pemberley towards the end of May, Charlotte’s heart was sore; they would leave such a gap, such a silence in her house. Even before they left, with the trunks packed and Sofia’s gurgles quietened with sleep, the air felt cooler, thinner.
While final preparations were made for the journey, Charlotte and Elizabeth sat in the parlour, making idle chat, the way one does when procrastinating before an unwanted farewell.
‘She has turned Georgiana into something of a gossip! But thankfully, they have nothing to gossip about – the county offers them little diversion, I fear,’ said Elizabeth, putting her bonnet on.
‘If Kitty wishes for a change of scene, she is always welcome to stay here,’ offered Charlotte.
‘I would not wish her upon you.’
‘Eliza! You are too cruel!’
‘No, I jest. She is a good girl. I will tell her – thank you.’
‘And please send my best wishes to your husband.’
‘I shall.’
Elizabeth tied her ribbons and stood up, preparing to leave, but Charlotte suddenly put an arm out and grabbed her wrist. Elizabeth looked down in surprise.
Speaking very quickly, as if to get her words out before she changed her mind, Charlotte asked, ‘What of Colonel Fitzwilliam?’
Elizabeth’s face shifted from surprise to resignation, as if she had been wondering if this moment would come. She sat again, carefully untying her bonnet.
‘The coach is ready, madam,’ Brooke called from the hall.
‘We are a little delayed, Brooke. Please ask them to wait,’ Charlotte called back. In the silence that followed, they listened to the sound of the coachman dismounting and muffled conversation in the hall.
‘What do you wish to know?’ Elizabeth asked, sombrely and a little coolly.
‘Anything. Everything?’
Elizabeth’s many thoughts and questions and opinions were visibly competing to be released, but she felt she owed Charlotte an answer at least, so she concentrated on delivering that first. She spoke slowly, choosing her words with deliberate economy.
‘What of Colonel Fitzwilliam?’ she echoed Charlotte’s question.
‘He was in very poor form when he first came to us. I did not know him. He did not speak, did not smile. He mostly stayed in his own quarters, and when he was present, he was… silent or gruff. I suppose we were rather afraid of him. And he saw that, which that made it all worse – made him more reclusive.’
‘Did his injuries ail him still?’
‘Not really. He had been at Tolbrooke two months before coming to us, and physically, he was largely recovered. It was no longer his body that afflicted him. I know from what Darcy relayed that the siege was no ordinary battle. Colonel Fitzwilliam saw British soldiers behaving like animals – some of his own men, even, turned mad with it all – rioting, looting and worse; what some did to the women of the town…’
‘Oh!’ Charlotte muttered in shock.
‘He felt as if his whole life had been for nothing; the army was a thing of disgust to him, so ashamed was he of his men and his part in it all.’
‘Then, of course, he was lost,’ Charlotte said, almost to herself. ‘The army is all he has known since he was sixteen. It has been his home.’
Elizabeth looked at Charlotte curiously.
‘Yes. But then, shortly before Christmas, something changed. He started to make an effort to recover. He began to venture out – into the grounds, attending meals. He cut his hair and, well, washed more – to be frank, the latter was appreciated by us all. It was slow progress, but it was a corner turned. He was trying. He enjoyed listening to the piano a great deal, and Georgiana was happy to oblige him. He would sit quietly, just listening to her play, saying nothing but clearly grateful. At this time, he also started to take an interest in Sofia, which pleased me and Darcy a great deal. He has been lovely with her, and she seems a balm to him. Her squalling has no impact on him, as if he does not hear it. I suppose he has heard much worse.’
As Charlotte considered this account, Elizabeth leant forward towards her greatest friend and asked the question she had longed to for months: ‘Tell me, what was it between you?’
Charlotte blinked several times, trying to form an answer, before saying simply, ‘Love. It was love.’
Elizabeth did not look very surprised, but she fixed her with a considered stare. ‘You could have told me.’
‘You know I could not,’ said Charlotte quickly. ‘I could not, while it was alive, and I would not, after it died – to speak of it would only have stirred the ashes. Why fan the flames of a fire you are trying to put out?’
Elizabeth nodded, as if she understood, albeit a little grudgingly. ‘Of course, I guessed that there was something – some mutual fondness. But I wanted you to tell me yourself.’
‘Did Darcy know?’
‘No more than I. He thought that there had been some attachment. I don’t believe Darcy has spoken of you to his cousin these last months, except to say that you had enquired after him.’
‘And did Fitzwilliam tell Darcy then?’
‘No. Nothing.’
‘He has not spoken of me?’
‘Never,’ said Elizabeth, but seeing Charlotte’s face, she added more gently, ‘But neither had you of him, until just now.’
They sat in silence, both thinking, wondering, hearing the faint scuffles of staff and the whistle of birdsong from the garden.
Charlotte broke it. ‘Tell me how he fares now. Is he well? Is he happy?’
Elizabeth blinked. ‘Oh, I have no idea. I have not seen him for months.’
Charlotte frowned in confusion. ‘He is no longer staying with you?’
‘He left us in March. He was much recovered and felt he had become a burden on the household, despite our protestations to the contrary. His pride would not allow him to stay longer.’
‘But where did he go?’ Charlotte asked, her tone now agitated.
‘I do not know,’ said Elizabeth defensively.
‘He told us he had business to conduct and friends he could stay with. He would not be specific, and we would not push him for a plan; it was his own business. I must say, after months of inaction, we were pleased to see him being so determined and… independent.’
‘Oh.’ Charlotte had a pang of that same feeling she had had after receiving Lady Catherine’s bundle of letters: a feeling of being stopped in her tracks.
‘Is there anything remaining between you?’ asked Elizabeth. ‘Do you still have… feelings for him? Your life already seems so happy and full.’
‘It is,’ Charlotte acknowledged, smiling. She did not add: But a life may become happier and fuller.
As if in confirmation of Charlotte’s thoughts, Sofia’s gurgles could now be heard outside in the hall. Elizabeth rose instinctively to go to her. ‘I must be making my way back,’ she said, walking to the door.
‘Of course.’
Sofia was lying in a cosy bassinet, quite content to be placed in the carriage – Frances, by contrast, was grim-faced, anticipating the gastric horrors that awaited.
Any awkwardness of minutes ago was now forgotten. The women embraced one another before Elizabeth climbed inside – but just before the carriage door shut, she clasped Charlotte’s hand in hers and said, ‘I wish you joy in your life. That is all.’
Smiling back at her, Charlotte said simply, ‘I have had it.’