Chapter 13
Charlotte was enjoying her morning walk when a sight in the distance stopped her in her tracks. It was a man on a horse coming toward her.
The sight was a normal enough occurrence in the country.
There was no need for it to stop her from walking, but Charlotte was becoming quite familiar with that particular horse and that particular man, enough so that she recognized them as soon as she saw them, though they were still a quarter mile away, so far that she couldn’t even hear the horse yet.
For a moment, she thought she might change paths or even hide. Perhaps he hadn’t seen her or perhaps he wouldn’t notice or care if she turned away from him. Perhaps it was just a coincidence that he was here…again…for the fifth day in a row.
All hope that she could avoid detection flew away the moment he waved to her.
Charlotte was honest with herself, at least as much as any human can be. She knew she could have set off across the fields and avoided him, but the truth was that she wanted to be seen. She wanted to be seen by him.
She shouldn’t want it. It was wrong. She was engaged. Even so, she could not truly avoid him when he was right there in front of her. It would have taken superhuman strength to turn away from him, and Charlotte was only human.
As Colonel Fitzwilliam approached, Charlotte curtseyed and said, “Good morning, Colonel.”
“Good morning, Miss Lucas,” he replied as he dismounted his horse. “It is quite a coincidence that we keep meeting like this every day.” There was humor in his eyes, and the hint of a sly grin curled one side of his lips. Charlotte’s gaze lingered on his lips just a bit longer than was appropriate.
Her attention was broken when he said, “May I accompany you on your walk, since we are going the same way?”
Charlotte couldn’t help giggling, and the sound grated on her ears. Charlotte didn’t giggle. It was an immature sound that only nervous young ladies who know nothing about anything made. Even so, she couldn’t help it.
“Are we going the same way?” she asked. “It seemed to me as if we were going in opposite directions, since we met face to face.”
“Ah, but you didn’t take my intentions into account,” he said. “I was just about to turn around when I saw you.”
Charlotte stopped herself from giggling again, though she did smile. “Very well, Colonel. Shall we walk?”
As he had done every day for the last four days, Colonel Fitzwilliam led his horse with his right hand while Charlotte walked on his left side. They easily fell into conversation.
Conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam was the strangest Charlotte had ever experienced.
While they were talking, it was as if everything they said was of the utmost importance, and the words and ideas flowed like water.
But when she thought of it afterward, she could never truly remember what they said or how they meandered from one subject to another.
Still, for these few minutes on this particular day, Charlotte was content to simply exist, to allow herself this one small, last pleasure before she was taken to Kent to live as the wife of a less than sensible clergyman.
They walked in a large, gentle circle, one which wound through several neighboring estates, since that was the path she usually took for her exercise.
When she could once again see her home, the sight reminded her of who she was, of the limitations she had and the obligations that were hers.
The small bubble of paradise they had built burst.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she said, “I am afraid I must ask you to refrain from seeking me out in this way in the future. I am betrothed, you know.”
“I am aware, Miss Lucas,” he said, and she heard the note of pain this admission caused him. “Even so, I cannot be so near you, living in the same neighborhood, and ignore your existence. I cannot promise that this will not happen again.”
The admission, so close to an admission of love, halted her thinking for a few brief, wild moments. Had she truly inspired such attraction in a man as worldly as Colonel Fitzwilliam? Did he return her feelings, feelings she should not be experiencing in the first place?
She wanted to turn to him, tell him how she felt, how she loved him, how she felt torn between her attraction and her duty. She wanted to kiss him, to cry on his shoulder, to simply be held by him.
She could do none of these things. She couldn’t even take his arm.
Instead, she sighed and said, “Then I am afraid I must curtail my walk from now on to avoid a recurrence. My betrothed will be visiting in two days, and he expects me to name our wedding date once he gets here. He is adamant that we marry as soon as possible, and I doubt I will be able to convince him to wait more than three or four weeks. I was planning to name the ninth of January.”
There was silence for a time. Then he said, “Will you tell me of your future husband?” The words sound strange coming from him, as though he strained to even say them.
“He is a parson in Kent as well as the heir to Longbourn. In fact, we met when he was visiting his family a few weeks ago. Now that I think on it, I believe his patroness is your aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
“You can’t be serious,” he said. “He is Lady Catherine’s parson?”
“Yes, he is,” she said, calmly.
“You can’t marry him!” he cried. “I visit my aunt every year at Easter. How can I possibly do that if I have to see you married to another man, giving birth to his children, growing old with him?”
The anguish in his voice pierced Charlotte’s soul and tears sprang to her eyes and began to fall. She stopped walking and turned toward him.
“Do you think it will be any easier for me? Someday, you will get married as well, and I will have to watch as you bring your wife to visit my husband’s patroness. I will have to smile and flatter her while I secretly will wish to tear out her hair.”
Charlotte had never had such an emotional outburst, had never simply spoken words as they occurred to her. It was both freeing and painful.
They were standing still now, facing each other. There was a fire in his eyes, a mixture of anger, anguish, and passion. Charlotte suspected there was a matching fire in her own eyes.
He moved toward her and leaned down. For a brief moment, she was certain he would kiss her. And she absolutely would have let him, despite the fact that they were out in the open, despite the fact she was betrothed. She would have welcomed it.
He paused when his face was mere inches from her own. His gaze flew back and forth between her eyes and her lips.
Silence.
Then he sighed and stood back up. “I think you are right,” he said. “I should do my best to not attempt to meet you on your walks again.”
Still looking at her, still meeting her gaze, he removed the glove from his right hand. He lifted that hand and rested it on her cheek, brushing away a fallen tear with his thumb.
Time stood still, and Charlotte allowed it to do so.
Colonel Fitzwilliam deliberately removed his hand from her face, put his glove back on, and mounted his horse. “Goodbye, Charlotte,” he said.
“Goodbye, Colonel,” she said. She would have used his given name as he did hers, but she did not know it.
He left. And she watched him leave. Then, she turned toward home.
Apparently, when it was necessary, she had superhuman strength after all. If that was the case, however, why did she feel so weak?