1822 Longbourn
LONGBOURN
Longbourn was full. Mrs Brooke and all the staff were busier than ever, for every bedroom was in use and the nursery bursting at the seams. But in truth, the housekeeper was rather enjoying having a full house to serve, and the guests were almost as well known to her as her master and mistress.
It was a languid summer’s day, and the hazy yellow afternoon light shone through the windows of the drawing room.
Mrs Brooke served tea to the assembled party, bending to pour for Mrs Thacker and Lady Lucas, who were settled on the chaise-longue, each with an embroidery in their hand, relaxed in each other’s quiet company.
Mrs Thacker looked through the window to check on her son, who had fallen rather under the power of Sofia Darcy – who, at three years his junior, was quite the one in charge.
They were both climbing what looked, to Brooke, like a dangerously tall tree, though their parents seemed unperturbed.
Mr Thacker, looking older these days, sat heavily on a settee, deep in conversation with Mr Denny about some financial interest that sounded tedious to her ears.
Lady Catherine was positioned on the grandest chair available to her and was enjoying the attentions of Sir William Lucas.
Of all the assembled party, he was the one most uniquely qualified to deal with her, being both an endlessly patient man and genuinely delighted by acquaintance with the aristocracy. Mrs Brooke was very fond of him.
Meanwhile, her mistress sat with Elizabeth, the two of them rolling with laughter as usual, while Charlotte’s sister Maria was out on the terrace with the two littlest children, James and Harriet, both four years old and both fond of trouble.
Brooke allowed herself a moment to regard them affectionately.
The little boy came running in and threw himself at his mother, with the abandon only an infant can muster, unsettling her tea. ‘Mama, Harrie pushed me over.’
Charlotte picked him up, a groan escaping her at the effort, setting him on her knee. ‘Are you hurt?’
His bottom lip protruded, and he nodded, nestling his face into her bosom.
She kissed the top of his head. ‘Oh dear. Where does it hurt?’
He pointed at his knee.
Charlotte examined it – it was untouched. She kissed it. ‘Is that better?’
He nodded.
‘Do you want to go back and play with your cousin or stay here with me?’
He deliberated for some time. ‘Go back.’
‘Very well.’
She kissed him again and set him down, then watched as he bounded back outside, very nearly knocking over Harriet in the process.
Charlotte looked across the room to where Richard stood at the mantelpiece, talking to Darcy – his eyes were already on her, and he had clearly observed the little drama with their son.
Charlotte raised her eyebrows at him, and they smiled warmly at each other, Richard shaking his head and chuckling, before turning back to his cousin.
Charlotte let her eyes rest on him a moment, as he stood at the mantelpiece, in their sage-green drawing room, surrounded by a family whom he never thought he would have.
Elizabeth saw her looking and poked her gently. ‘Stop fixing eyes on your own husband – it is unseemly.’
Charlotte laughed. ‘How do you know I was not looking at yours?’
Elizabeth smiled, and then, turning to look again at the two cousins, spoke more seriously. ‘We chose wisely.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Charlotte, an irreverent smile playing on her face.
Elizabeth made a show of being shocked. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance.’
‘You said that before you married Mr Collins…’
‘Well, I stand by it.’
Elizabeth made a face of incredulity.
‘I do,’ continued Charlotte. ‘No choice is guaranteed to make one happy. Darcy improved between your first meeting and your engagement, but he might have turned out to be very dull.’
‘That outcome remains unclear.’
Charlotte grinned. ‘And dear Collins was… priggish, but ultimately, he looked after me very well. And as for Richard… it was a risk, was it not? A troubled, wounded soldier on half-pay? Hardly a sure bet.’
‘So, you take no credit for the choices you have made?’
‘I made some terrible choices,’ said Charlotte, ‘and some wise ones.’ She looked once more at her husband, who was idly brushing his grey-streaked hair from his forehead.
‘Then it would seem fortune has smiled on us both.’
Charlotte could not disagree with that. She looked around the room at the familiar faces she held dear and sipped her tea, smiling. She sat back, convinced that, whether by choice or by luck, she had found her peace.