Epilogue
EPILOGUE
April 1830
“ M other, they are come!” Henry Collins, now a nearly grown young gentleman of seventeen years, called into the parlour.
“Who is come, my dear?” Charlotte looked up from her mending to respond to her son.
“The entire Easter party. I saw their carriages proceeding through the village on my way home!”
Charlotte set her mending down on the table beside her and quietly responded, “Let us not inform your father just yet.”
Her son leaned down to place a kiss on her cheek and nodded his acquiescence. “Of course. I shall change now. I long to see Bennet.”
Charlotte looked wistfully at her son and remembered the joy of spending time with her friends during her formative years. Henry had long developed a friendship with Bennet Darcy, the eldest of Elizabeth’s five children, and she was relieved for it. The connexion alone would benefit her son’s future, but thankfully, the family had many times invited Henry to visit Pemberley for long periods in the summer, where Mr Darcy spent countless hours with both his own son and Henry, preparing them to be landowners as their futures dictated. As long as Mr Bennet still lived, this was the only first-hand experience Henry would attain, and she was grateful for it.
Charlotte had no desire to bring their arrival to her husband’s attention, though they visited each Easter, and her husband was well acquainted with the church calendar. She dreaded the particular agitation which afflicted her husband when the Darcys were near; one might have believed the passing of the years would have dimmed his fury, but somehow it had not.
This time of year found him prone to violent outbursts, which included the throwing of objects at the wall or spending hours scribbling down his discontent in his journals. He still claimed that his deceitful cousin had usurped Anne de Bourgh’s place in the world—though Anne’s happiness in her own marriage seemed pleasing enough to the lady herself.
Mrs Anne Fitzwilliam, née de Bourgh, married her husband some two months after the Darcys were wed. Once called Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mr Fitzwilliam was now simply their landlord, and a friendly one at that. The Fitzwilliams had two sons who were of an age with Henry, named Paul and Owen. The three boys had grown up together, and the Fitzwilliams allowed for a close relationship, as they were aware that Henry’s inheritance would raise his position in society one day .
Also presumably in the entourage of carriages that rolled into Kent that day would be the Baldwins, Jane Bennet’s large brood. If she recollected correctly, Charlotte would say the Baldwins married in early 1813, but she was never good with dates—and of course, she had not been in attendance for their nuptials. Charlotte allowed herself a small smile, imagining that her son would be eager to see Beth Baldwin, Jane’s eldest and most beautiful daughter. Henry is much too young to think of marriage, and I should not be thinking of matchmaking!
A thud in the next room chased Charlotte’s brief smile away. Was it her husband? Had Mr Collins heard the news already? Though the man had not spoken in eighteen years, he had found other ways in which to communicate, mostly through his extensive collection of journals. Charlotte found that living with him and enduring his vile temper was best met by turning her attention to other employment, pretending she did not feel the bruises he inflicted upon her, and adding a few drops of laudanum to his tea.
This had kept his anger at bay for some years, but his growing desire for the sluggish effects of the bitter-tasting medicine had taken hold of her husband some time ago, and now the tincture was kept under lock and key, administered only by Charlotte. Of course, this too had its challenges, as he would write abusive notes demanding laudanum, notes which decried her stupidity and emphasised her worthlessness.
The last occasion that necessitated he be medically subdued were the weeks that followed the death of Lady Catherine. Had he a voice, his mourning wails would have been heard by all and sundry, likely two counties over.
She rose and went to the window, spotting her husband in their modest garden; she decided to make herself scarce above stairs. Sheets of paper and journals littered the corner of their bedchamber that Mr Collins called his ‘study’ and signalled to Charlotte that the impending arrival of guests at Rosings was not lost on her husband.
Bending to pick up the crumpled papers and place some of his old journals back onto his desk, Charlotte could not help but feel pulled to glance at his recent journal entry, laid open for anyone to find.
April 6, 1830
My cousins from the North will soon enter our fair county once again, bringing with them their shame and disgrace. If Lady Catherine were still living it would be a burden to her as well, I am certain. The dower house now sits empty of her authority and good sense, and I find myself once again mourning our society's great loss.
If I were still installed in the pulpit, I would rejoice in providing much-needed guidance to our esteemed visitors—for direction, they certainly all require, I am sure. But God has deemed me unfit for that position, halting my tongue for all time.
I am certain God removed my ability to speak as a small penance for my not preventing Elizabeth’s treachery. As I see it now, I should have been struck down just then, but God showed me mercy, and I shall rely on the senses he has allowed me to retain to properly atone for my sins.
He that committeth sin is of the devil, and I believe God will call in my cousin for her sins in due time—her first: denying me her hand. Perhaps He shall use me as an instrument to bring about her punishment. I shall be watchful in the coming days for a sign to make good on God’s promises.
Wide eyed, Charlotte dropped the journal where she had found it, as if it had been a snake come up through the grass to bite her. She had known their visit would make him restless, but she had not comprehended the depth of his resentment and obsession. The serpent in the grass was certainly not Elizabeth, and she felt it was to her to ensure her friend had a safe visit to Kent.
Charlotte rushed downstairs and called for some fresh tea, while she quietly retrieved the last of the laudanum from her stores. Patting the small phial in her pocket, Charlotte felt certain God would forgive her for helping her husband rest.
By dinner, the tea was finding its purpose, making her husband lethargic and crippling his motor skills. Henry called out with concern when his father dropped his spoon of soup into his lap due to nodding off at the table.
Charlotte ushered him up to bed and came back to the table, where she found her distraught son.
“I do not understand what comes over him each year when the Darcys and Baldwins visit,” Henry murmured with concern. “He is not fit to be seen!”
“Yes, I know. Let him find some rest, and perhaps he will feel more fit tomorrow,” Charlotte answered gently.
“I have turned the other cheek for many years, Mother, but this year I believe I shall say something. They accept me but snub my own father—and it pains him deeply! And for what? A defect that was derived from a riding accident? Would they snub me as well if I too were injured by a horse?”
Charlotte smiled. He was a good boy, even if he did try to defend a monster. “There is more to it than that, Henry—and you know it.”
“I know our place in society is a fickle one, but my father shall be the master of Longbourn one day—a gentleman—a landowner. Is he not their own cousin?”
“He is their cousin, but it is a complicated history. It is not by accident that you are summoned to Rosings alone during their visits.”
“And what of the history?”
Charlotte felt unprepared to share such an account with her son. It did not paint her in the best light, and she sought, above all, to ensure that her part in their shared history did not affect her son’s prospects.
“I had imagined we would be settled at Longbourn by the time you came of age. I—I imagined you entering university the son of a landowner. That will likely not be. Mr Bennet is as hale as ever and—never mind, I only mean that you will encounter many people in society who will judge you for your parentage, so you must prepare yourself for that truth; however, this is not one of those times. You have ever been accepted by the Fitzwilliams, Darcys, and Baldwins. And I am thankful for it—more grateful than I can express. The ill will towards your father is not because of our place in society. You can be certain of that.”
“You are not answering my question.” Henry stood from the table and began to pace the room.
“You have seen how close Marjorie and Margaret Darcy are to their cousin, Beth Baldwin?”
“Of course.”
“That is how close I once was to Mrs Darcy and Mrs Baldwin, although we were not separated by twenty miles as they are. We could walk to one anothers’ houses every day. We could send notes and expect a response within the hour,” she said wistfully. “They were my closest friends.”
Henry sat down, his eyebrows raised in question. “But you never call on them when they visit.”
“No. I do not. Though, I do occasionally exchange letters with Mrs Darcy.”
Henry was deep in thought, the wheels turning in his mind. With Elizabeth, Charlotte was able to be frank and honest in a way she was unable to be with any other living being. Their correspondence had often felt an escape to Charlotte. Elizabeth knew enough of Mr Collins and their lives that Charlotte was not required to hide the truth nor embellish it. It was by design that they kept their letter writing private. Charlotte did not mind that their friendship was not publicly recognised.
Charlotte could not resist the pleading look of curiosity in her child’s eyes and sighed her acquiescence. “Before your father offered for me, he first offered for his cousin, Mrs Darcy. He was humiliated by her refusal, even after our marriage. In the spring of 1812, just before you were born, Mrs Darcy came to stay with us in the parsonage, while your father was still rector. While she was visiting, she and Mr Darcy began to fall in love, and they would sometimes meet secretly for walks in the groves. Your father and I were unhappy when we discovered it, because Lady Catherine was convinced that Mr Darcy should marry her daughter, Mrs Fitzwilliam. And we greatly believed that her happiness, and that of her daughter, was tied to our own contentment.”
Charlotte trailed off, and her son nudged her to go on. “Your father and I—we made her miserable. He, because he was still humiliated by her very public rejection, and myself, because I thought her usurping the heiress of Rosings would bring shame upon our household. Not to mention—well, I was terribly envious of the attentions she was receiving from such a wealthy man after her rejection of the man I accepted. Does that make sense?”
Henry nodded in response.
“For your father, I believe his hatred runs even deeper. I think it best we not mention this conversation to him. Their very presence in Kent is upsetting to him, as you saw for yourself.”
Henry nodded in agreement and responded quietly, “Why do they accept me?”
“Well, Henry, I believe that has more to do with Longbourn,” she said with a smile. “And I am grateful for the attention and education they have provided you over the years. I am truly undeserving of their kindness—but you, my boy, you are.” Charlotte smiled and, kissing her dear son on his head, excused herself to retire early.
At sunrise, Charlotte was startled awake by the sound of approaching horses and the voices of shouting men. Turning over to see if the noise had woken her husband, she was surprised to find him missing from their bed. She quickly donned a simple morning dress and pulled a heavy shawl around her shoulders before making her way outside.
“Mrs Collins!” She opened the door to find Mr Fitzwilliam astride a large, black stallion, nearly upon her doorstep. The gentleman dismounted, tipped his hat to her, and gestured something to the men behind him. Mr Darcy and some servants began to approach.
“Mrs Collins,” Mr Darcy said, removing his hat and nodding politely. His expression was grave, and Charlotte felt her stomach spin in anticipation of the news they carried .
“Good morning,” Charlotte began hesitantly. “I hope all is well—”
Mr Fitzwilliam stepped forward. “Pardon me, madam. We bring sad tidings to you this morning.”
Charlotte’s fear began to creep up from her stomach to her throat, squeezing off her ability to breathe. Was it Henry?
“Your husband has been in an accident,” Mr Fitzwilliam said gently, reaching out to take her shaking hand.
“George here,” he gestured to a young servant in Rosings livery who had stepped forward, “was doing his morning rounds and discovered your husband in the bushes that line the south wing. We are yet uncertain what he was doing there, but at first glance, we think your husband took a fall into the hedge…and we summoned a physician, but he did not arrive in time. I am sorry to tell you, Mrs Collins, that your husband is dead.”
The breath she was holding released like a strong current, unravelling through her and forcibly making her sway on her feet. She strengthened her grip on Mr Fitzwilliam’s hand to gain her composure.
“We have laid him out at Rosings, and we would be more than happy to have him brought here today—or to have a physician examine him—whatever you wish.”
“He fell? Into the bushes?” Charlotte was unable to exert energy into a more thoughtful question.
Mr Fitzwilliam looked warily at Mr Darcy before responding. “Yes, ma’am. We believe he might have been attempting to gain entry to the house—to reach one of the lower balconies of the guest wing. We are not certain why he did not approach one of the doors. It was likely dark. No one saw anything. It was not the fall that harmed him, but a large kitchen knife he carried in his jacket. It was unsheathed. We believe it cut his leg when he fell. The gash was deep. ”
Perhaps He shall use me as an instrument to bring about her punishment. I shall be watchful in the coming days for a sign to make good on God’s promises. Charlotte remembered her husband’s dreadful remarks in his journal and lost command of her balance. Relief and fear poured through her in rapid succession. Had he attempted to harm Elizabeth?
Charlotte had to be helped into the house while the gentlemen went to wake Henry. Her maid of all work, Rosie, arrived some time later and put a kettle on, providing refreshment for the gentlemen who were gathered with Henry, making arrangements for her husband.
Charlotte sat in a haze of disbelief before she finally rose to make herself a cup of tea, allowing herself a few drops of laudanum. And while the morning had only just begun, she took her bitter beverage to her bedchamber and retired for the day.
Not two weeks later found Charlotte alone in the churchyard, wearing black from head to toe, staring at the heap of dirt that lay above the remains of her husband.
She knew a tumult of feelings when she thought of their life together and his impact on her own. She knelt to lay down a cutting of roses and stood quickly, tears blurring the edge of her eyesight. She was being such a ninny! Why was she weeping? Theirs had been a hard and complicated marriage, but he was still her husband—the only one she would ever know, and now she was alone in the world.
Suddenly, a small, dainty, gloved hand grasped hers and held tight, causing a gasp to escape Charlotte’s lips. She turned to take in the form of Elizabeth Darcy. Lips puckered in her frustration for her outburst and unrelenting tears, she merely nodded at her friend, who responded by squeezing her hand.
Charlotte looked over her shoulder and saw two carriages with the Darcy crest stopped just past the hedge.
“We were on our way to London, and I saw you here. I could not leave before expressing my condolences for your loss once again,” Elizabeth told her gently, and wiped a tear from Charlotte’s cheek with her handkerchief.
“Thank you, Mrs Darcy.”
Charlotte watched as Elizabeth turned to look at her husband, who seemed a bit overrun by their youngest boys who had exited the carriages and were now running about in the churchyard. A glance passed between them, and Charlotte saw a hint of a smile on the man’s usually grave face. The exchange, wordless as it was, had clearly communicated much between the two and pulled at Charlotte’s heart. What would it have been like to have a marriage of such understanding? To perceive another’s thoughts as they had in a mere glance?
“Do not worry for yourself or Henry.” Elizabeth turned back to her, looking her in the eye. “I have spoken to the Fitzwilliams, and they would be pleased if you kept on as a tenant until Henry has completed university. Should you not wish to remove to Lucas Lodge—”
“Thank you, but it is all arranged. We leave for Hertfordshire at the end of the month. John and Mary have been very obliging. Besides, it will be good for Henry to spend some time in Meryton society.” Charlotte hoped her voice did not betray her nerves about the changes soon to occur in her life. She turned back to view the newly placed marker at her husband’s grave. Mr William Collins. She hoped that he would appreciate that his final resting place was so near to Lady Catherine’s .
Squeezing her hand once again to gain her attention, Elizabeth added, “I am happy to hear it. And I will look forward to your letters.”
“Of course,” Charlotte responded. “Always.”
Elizabeth nodded and once again looked back to her husband and gave a nod. He was soon ushering their children and nannies back into their carriages.
Charlotte watched as Elizabeth approached her husband. Mr Darcy’s hand came to rest softly at the small of her back, guiding her to the road. He bent to say something to her, and was rewarded by Elizabeth shifting to lean herself into his shoulder, as they approached their carriage. Elizabeth turned to wave at Charlotte, Mr Darcy tipped his hat to her, and they were off.
Watching the dust cloud that followed their carriages down the lane, Charlotte found herself overwhelmed by the feeling that she was ending a season of her life—once again finding herself standing on the precipice of what was before and what would come after. The unknown provided her some apprehension, but she felt hopeful all the same. She had completed her task as a wife, and what stood before her held the promise of being a life of her own.
Elizabeth leaned into her husband, grateful they had a conveyance to themselves. Bennet and Marjorie rode on horseback alongside the carriages, and Margaret would assist the nannies with the younger boys in the carriage that followed.
“Is it strange that I am relieved now that Mr Collins is gone?” Elizabeth asked quietly.
“No, my dear. He brought naught but chaos over the years. Besides, now we can look forward to Henry’s keen oversight of Longbourn. We no longer require all the legal documentation we put in place to protect the estate from your cousin’s destruction. Henry will be an ideal custodian of the land and of your childhood home.”
Elizabeth squeezed his hand. “I know it is too soon, but I would wager that Beth will one day be mistress of Longbourn.”
“Come, Elizabeth! Beth will not be out for at least three years. And you know better than to be the meddling aunt.” He offered her a sly grin that told her he did not exactly disagree with her presumption.
She laughed, and he kissed her forehead.
She snuggled in a bit closer, and at length, he asked her, “Would Ben and Jane approve of the match?”
“Of course! Henry is nothing like his father…besides which, we must start thinking about the prospects of all of Jane’s daughters, or she will turn into my mother, despairing of their futures and calling for her salts to calm her nerves.”
“Surely between all your sisters and my own, we can find enough strapping and industrious sons to take on each of the Baldwin girls,” he said with a chuckle.
She smiled, imagining their progeny all lined up in a row. Besides Jane’s four daughters, the Bennet sisters had proudly produced far more sons than they ever thought possible, though none of them feared an entailment tied to their homes.
All of the Bennet sisters had married, with the exception of Lydia. True to her promise those many years ago, she spent her time travelling between Longbourn and the homes of her sisters. She spoiled her many nephews and nieces and spent much of her time writing. She had dreams of being an author—always writing fanciful, romantic stories that Mr Collins would never have approved of, but Elizabeth had copied a scene or two into letters for Charlotte over the years.
She had recently written a tale with a vain, red-headed villainess named Caroline Bington that had brought tears of laughter to even Jane’s eyes. Though so many years had passed, Elizabeth was relieved that the reminder did not bring pain to her elder sister.
She should not have been surprised. The Bingleys were of a different time—a time before Mrs Darcy and Mrs Baldwin—and both sisters would agree that the best of their lives had come decidedly after . Jane was happy in her marriage, and Elizabeth could not imagine their lives otherwise. It did pain her to know that Darcy’s old friend did not enjoy the same happiness. His wife and sister devoted most of their time to entertaining in town, while he spent his time alone at his estate in Surrey. Elizabeth was happy that her husband continued the acquaintance when time allowed, though it was never what it had been before their marriage.
Darcy released another chuckle, and Elizabeth was brought back to the present, looking at him curiously. “And what, pray, has you so amused, my dear?” she asked.
He leaned in to whisper in her ear, “I was thinking of this morning.”
She blushed at the memory, and he smiled smugly, continuing to chuckle.
Elizabeth reached for his hand and wound her fingers in his grasp, enjoying her own recollection of their morning. It was long a tradition of theirs to sneak off into the forest and revisit the glade from their courtship during their visits to Kent. But this particular morning had felt wildly reminiscent of their first, tortuous kisses shared in that space—needy and longing and fervent kisses that had left her speechless and her appearance in a state of disarray. Even after nearly eighteen years, her husband could make her heart pound and her breath quicken with anticipation.
“I never would have thought I would long for visits to Rosings,” she whispered back, arching an eyebrow in his direction. She too could be smug.
He laughed, “That is the truth.”
“Mmm. I shall look forward to our return.” Elizabeth pulled the curtains to assure their privacy and settled more deeply against her husband.
“As shall I.”
Theirs had not always been an easy life, but their shared affection was steady and constant and sound. And if one were to peel back the layers of all they had learned and accomplished together, they would find at the centre, an unexpected but beautiful friendship that began in the early morning hours of a shared springtime in Kent.