Chapter VII
It was on Easter day – or rather, that evening – that they were next to dine at Rosings. It was apparent that Lady Catherine had no other options, for she invited the Hunsford party only that morning, to fill up her table.
It being Rosings, and Easter, Charlotte felt justified in wearing one of her best dresses and doing her hair finely.
She sat at her dressing table in the late afternoon light, looking in the mirror – a rare activity for her – scrutinising her face and her body.
She wore a blue-grey gown that matched her eyes, cut low and tightly laced.
It suited her well. She had a tall, slim figure, a thin waist, strong shoulders, slender arms, and she could afford a low neckline without, as her mother would say, putting on an exhibition.
She looked at her face: not much changed in the last few years.
Not many lines around her eyes and mouth.
Perhaps she had not laughed much lately, she pondered.
Her hair was prettily arranged, with a few heat-curled strands hanging down that softened her features.
Her pale face was not pretty, she knew. She knew this from evidence – from the lack of interest in it.
As a child, of course, her mother and her aunt had made the usual cooing remarks, ‘adorable’, ‘delightful’, ‘sweet’, but from the age a girl starts to care about her looks, the word ‘beautiful’ was never once ascribed to her and she noticed the omission.
She was never called pretty, nor handsome, and had more than once overheard herself described as plain.
More often than that, her appearance had solicited no remark at all.
But her face should have garnered interest, because it was interesting: eyes that wandered from blue to grey depending on the light, a long narrow nose, a mouth too wide for the fashion, a smile too broad when it was employed.
She sat awkwardly between men’s fantasies: a face neither plump nor delicate, a body neither luxurious nor petite.
Charlotte looked down at her flat stomach.
It was early in her marriage but she still wondered when she might expect a change.
She did not know how often the act must be performed to make a child, but she supposed it was more often than the three or four times they had managed. She must remember to ask her mother.
Part of her longed to be with child, to feel absolutely sure of her purpose – to be the most important person in someone’s life and to feel a pull, an undeniable tie, to someone else – that would be something.
Still, she thought, there was plenty of time. And until such time, she could wear this dress, pulled tight. And she felt good in it. Special.
The smooth, translucent skin of her décolletage was striking.
She touched her pale neck and her collarbone, imagined feeling somebody else touching them.
It brought a flush to her cheeks, which she caught in the mirror.
She had a pretty white ribbon threaded through her hair, which made her feel like a débutante.
She smiled broadly, at herself. In that moment, she felt she should be desirable.
She pictured herself in a moment of passion, envisioned a life in which someone might crave her.
She imagined being kissed by someone who knew how and who could not wait to kiss her.
She pressed two fingers hard onto her lips, leaving them ruddy and pink.
She tasted for a moment what it was like to feel womanly, to feel attractive.
‘My dear, make haste – the carriage is here!’ called Mr Collins up the stairs.
She let her lips fall straight. ‘Foolish,’ she said out loud, shaking herself out of the pretence.
She tucked the strands of hair tightly behind her ears, pinning them in place, with more vigour than was necessary.
She looked again at herself in the low blue dress, sighed, and hastily began to make alterations.
She added a white chemisette underneath the dress, rendering its deep neckline redundant.
Before she left her bedroom for Rosings, she was transformed.
Now fully covered from the top of her blue dress to the middle of her neck, her entire front was safely concealed in white lace.
She placed an embroidered cap over her dark hair.
She pulled the frilled collar tight around her neck.
She would be the very picture of a vicar’s wife.
She would be seen as modest. She would hardly be seen.
That evening, she was placed between Lady Catherine’s daughter, Anne, and her companion, Mrs Jenkinson, whose conversation was limited, requiring great effort on Charlotte’s part.
Meanwhile, Mr Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam vied over the attentions of Elizabeth, who was resplendent in peach satin and looked prettier than ever.
Elizabeth was dared to play the piano and did so faux-reluctantly and, in Charlotte’s opinion, poorly.
It did not diminish her in the eyes of both gentlemen – it seemed to add to her charms somehow.
Charlotte longed to be asked to play. She was a good pianist and could roll out some Clementi that would stun them all as easily as she could butter her bread.
But she was not asked, and she was not a part of that lively gathering.
She watched Elizabeth and Darcy and Fitzwilliam and Maria even, chatting loudly and moving about the room, doing what they pleased, and she felt more detached from that world than ever.
She had wanted a settled life, hadn’t she? But how she longed to throw off her cap, drink too much wine, smash out a sonata and laugh and laugh with Eliza and be flirted with by a soldier and shock the lady of the house and be looked at, and be looked at.
The day after the Rosings dinner was Easter Monday and Charlotte was to make her duty-bound visits to parishioners in need.
On this occasion, she took her sister with her.
Maria had always been light-hearted, a good foil for Charlotte as a sibling.
She had none of Charlotte’s seriousness, and she did not overthink.
At eighteen, she was pretty: not just with a clear, rosy complexion, wide eyes and golden hair that curled naturally, but also with good health and openness and a ready smile and a near-constant amazement with what she saw.
It had occasionally irritated Charlotte how she seemed to dance through life without a single vexation.
But on this trip, she saw how her sister glowed.
She seemed to shine on the people they visited; her positivity, her smiles and her light step were infectious.
And this generous cheering of spirits was not an accident but applied deliberately.
Charlotte knew this only after leaving the last house.
This had been that of Colonel Raeworth, who had lost a leg in the battles in Spain and lived alone.
He said Maria reminded him of his daughter and had let her open his dusty curtains to the spring sun, something he had not allowed anyone else to do.
As the sisters left, Charlotte saw the moment Maria’s seemingly boundless smile fell, her step gain a little weight and her chatter cease.
‘Are you well?’ asked Charlotte.
‘Oh, yes!’ Maria tried to reinvigorate herself. ‘I am a little tired. I do not know why, though; I did not do anything, not like you.’
Charlotte smiled and linked arms with her sister, pulling her close.
‘You did. You must know you did. You gave them all the smiles you have to give today. You beamed your sunshine on them until it dimmed. I think it is a wonderful gift to have, but it is tiring to maintain such a light. You need not smile with me, sister; be at peace.’
The pair ambled home, a journey of a mile or so, in step with each other.
As they entered the parsonage, ready to flop into chairs, they were both shocked to discover Mr Darcy there, talking to Elizabeth alone.
He was embarrassed and explained that when he set out, he had assumed a full party would be in the house.
Did you indeed? thought Charlotte, looking at his flustered face. They were all now standing, and Elizabeth was making eyes at Charlotte – raised eyebrows and a slight head shake to convey that she was as baffled by the visit as anyone.
Darcy made no eye contact, hastily made his excuses and left, leaving the three ladies to ruthlessly pick over every word and gesture of the visit. It was so very unlike him, Elizabeth ventured, to make a visit purely out of politeness and with no object.
Charlotte suggested that he must indeed have an object and that it was clear what it was. ‘My dear Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he would never have called on us in this familiar way.’
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘I know you think that, but it cannot be. He has no compliments for me; he is not gentle in his words and remains as awkward and unrelenting as ever.’
‘I think he does not know how to make his suit. Just because he is a handsome, wealthy gentleman—’
‘And tall!’ added Maria breathlessly.
‘And tall,’ agreed Charlotte, ‘it does not follow that he is practised at wooing. Why else would he pay you such attention?’
‘He did not come to pay me attention; he came to visit all of us. It was bad luck for him that you were out.’
‘Yes, I’m sure Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy was desperate to talk to the vicar’s wife about the weather or discuss a passage of scripture with Maria here.’
‘Indeed!’ Maria began indignantly.
‘Sorry, Maria. But he did not come for us.’
Eliza sighed. ‘Well, you will not be persuaded otherwise, but in any case, his overtures would be of no use while I think so ill of him. I should do much better with Colonel Fitzwilliam!’ She said this with a laugh, but Charlotte did not join her.
‘You would.’ She had turned very serious suddenly. ‘He is a fine match. I am not sure he has much money to keep a household, but he is a very good man, I think. Will you return his interest? He certainly likes you.’
Eliza caught her friend’s odd tone and looked at her appraisingly. ‘I was only joking, really.’
‘Why would it be a joke to you? He is a good match and worthy of your serious consideration.’
In the pause after Charlotte spoke, Elizabeth was trying to read her – the conversation felt suddenly precarious, and she was not sure why.
‘Has he mentioned something to you, about me? Last night?’ asked Elizabeth, trying in vain to piece together her friend’s sudden investment in this scheme.
‘When might he have done that? He did not speak three words to me all evening, and neither did you.’
Maria wordlessly slipped out of the parlour at this point, but only to listen to the exchange more comfortably from outside the door.
‘You seem angry,’ said Elizabeth warily. ‘Is it something I have done?’
‘No, I am not angry,’ said Charlotte, angrily.
‘I just hope that your eyes are open, Eliza, to the opportunities before you. As I see it, Darcy’s cards are almost laid on the table.
And the colonel is very obviously interested in you, and yet you laugh at the idea of him as a suitor.
If he is a joke to you, you should not have acted as you did with him last night.
You encouraged him. Either that or you used him to spark interest in Darcy, which, if that was your goal, worked very well. I congratulate you on the scheme.’
This was shot with a cold venom at Elizabeth, who was hurt but, moreover, dumbfounded. She was not used to such cool hostility from her friend – or such judgement.
Charlotte felt a flush in her face and realised her fists were clenched. Yes, she was angry. Why? She began hurriedly unfastening the lace around her neck.
Elizabeth did not match her friend’s anger with a fire of her own; she was too occupied in trying to understand her friend, trying to solve her reaction like a puzzle.
‘I think,’ she began haltingly, ‘that you want me to be more grateful for the attentions I receive.’
Charlotte thought about that for a minute.
Her first instinct was, Yes, precisely! but upon further reflection, she did not like its implications.
Why should her friend be grateful for something she had not asked for?
Lady Catherine had seemed irked by Elizabeth’s prettiness, which was absurd.
Was Charlotte not behaving similarly in blaming her friend for being charming?
Yes, she returned the lively conversation she received, but so would Charlotte if she were single and being pursued.
She imagined she would, anyway – for her, it would always be a hypothetical.
Elizabeth had had interest in the past from many quarters, all of them unworthy, and Charlotte had never examined her response to them or thought she should behave differently. Why did she feel so now?
Her breathing had slowed. She removed her cap from her head and found herself able to meet Elizabeth’s eyes. ‘I am sorry. I do not think that. I did not enjoy last night. I suppose I am getting used to being just a wife – and an unimportant one – in a gathering such as that.’
Instead of instantly contradicting her, Elizabeth took a moment to consider what she was saying and took her hand. ‘I am sorry I was so distracted. For what it is worth, you are the most important person in my life. You and Jane.’
Charlotte smiled at the sentiment but said knowingly, ‘But I think not for long, Eliza. Let us see.’
Elizabeth, relieved that the storm seemed to be over, laughed and said, ‘You sound like a fortune-teller.’
Charlotte sat, relaxing a little. ‘Cross my palm with silver then, I would take it.’
‘No. You would only give it to the poor.’
‘Eliza! You are godless. And I would not, actually. I would buy a new apron.’
‘Such indulgence! She is as hedonistic as Prinny!’ cried Elizabeth, and Charlotte cackled at her and at herself.
Deeming it safe, Maria entered the room again, with biscuits – medicine for the former tension. Charlotte pulled her sister to her side and squeezed her. She must appreciate her time with them both, in such close company. It would not last much longer.