Chapter XI
Charlotte sat with her mouth open. This was shocking indeed, and she grieved for her friend’s prospects – but then she also was astounded at the revelation of Darcy’s proposal.
When I was staying with you, the letter said.
But how? Where? Was it here, under this roof?
Charlotte had guessed at an attachment on his part but not that he would go so far, and with so little encouragement.
But now, she feared such an advantageous match would be impossible.
If Lydia truly was lost – if she did not marry Wickham – it would bring the whole family down.
Bingley would not be allowed near Jane; nor would any other gentleman of good standing.
And she felt, too, her friend’s anger at Lydia.
She had always thought Lydia foolish – she had even said so to Mr Collins once.
But in the moment, now, she had the distance to feel sorry for her.
Wickham, it seemed, was practised at this – Lydia had not stood a chance against his persuasion.
He would have chosen a vulnerable animal for his prey and recognised such a one in Lydia.
She might not have been weak in body or in spirit, but she was vulnerable to flattery and to desire.
Charlotte wished to reply immediately, so she left her sitting room to look for a pen in the study, taking the letter with her.
She returned to her sitting room with a clean sheet and a pen and began her response. It took over an hour, on and off; the balance of reassurance and honesty was difficult to get right.
When the letter was nearly complete, she heard the front door open and close and stood up to see whom it was. As she passed into the hall, she saw Mr Collins through the open doorway to his study, reading something and making small exclamations.
Curious, she went over and asked, ‘Mr Collins? What is it you are—’
And then she paused, for she saw that it was her letter from Elizabeth.
‘How did you get that?’ she asked crossly.
‘Why, I found it here on my desk, my dear. I assumed it must be intended for me, and then, after reading a very little, I considered it my duty to continue – this is, after all, my family.’
Charlotte must have left it on the desk when she had been searching for a pen, but it should have been obvious that an opened, crumpled letter was not for him. She was incensed.
‘That is private correspondence, Mr Collins – it is for my eyes only.’
‘I’m afraid news such as this will not long be concealed.’
She looked at him very sternly. ‘That is private – please stop reading it.’
‘I’m afraid it is too late for that, my dear; this is my second perusal, and I assure you, what it relates is even more shocking the second time.’
‘Then, I ask you this, very seriously: if you value me, do not act on this. Tell no one, I beg you. It is not finished yet – we do not know the outcome. The Bennets’ reputation will be harmed, yes, but more grievously if news gets out prematurely.’
‘But I must console with them, as a minister! I must help them in their hour of need.’
‘I promise you that your consolation will not be welcome.’
He lay down the letter, and she walked over and picked it up, folding it roughly, anxious that she get control of the situation.
‘I have already written to Mr Bennet.’
Charlotte was puzzled. ‘… When?’
‘I wrote to them within this hour, as soon as I read of their predicament. The balm of ministerly concern cannot be delayed. I sent Brooke out with the letter a few minutes ago.’
Charlotte’s face flushed with anger. He had schemed to accomplish this quickly, before she could stop him.
It was a deception, and a deliberate one.
This was a side of Collins which was mercifully rare but which she detested.
She did not trust him to have written a good letter.
She felt sure, in fact, that it would have been at worst hurtful and at best absurd.
She saw in his face that he revelled in the downfall of a family who, as he saw it, had rejected him.
He believed that Elizabeth had thought herself above him, and now, with this, the opposite was true, or so he would see it.
Charlotte walked out of the room and went to their bedroom, not trusting herself to say anything to him.
All she could do was hope that the letter was taken as a curio and not as an affront, and she hoped she would not be tainted by the words written by her husband.
This was not a position she wished to be in, as a wife.
She felt suddenly nauseous and faint, and she lay on the bed until dusk, when she realised she was ravenous and made her way downstairs to supper, sitting opposite a quiet, guilty-looking husband.
Charlotte felt unwell for the next few days and put it down to the shock of Elizabeth’s news and the argument with Collins.
But when she had to leave the Sunday church service in the middle of a hymn to expel the entire contents of her stomach on somebody’s unfortunate grave, she started to take more notice.
It was not her favourite hymn, but it did not merit quite this reaction.
The whole congregation had seen her squeeze out from the front pews and run down the aisle.
And so, to avoid the pointed enquiries from parishioners, she did not return to the service but walked home, appreciating the fresh air.
Mrs Brooke was surprised to see her back early and enquired if she was well. Upon discovering what had happened, she raised her eyebrows and cast her eyes down to Charlotte’s belly.
Charlotte paused, accepting it herself for the first time, and gave a rueful smile. ‘Yes, I think it must be that. I am… rather late,’ she said with a meaningful look.
Brooke nodded, understanding, and smiled warmly. ‘Oh, I am happy, Mrs Collins. A little one in the house! I have been hoping! Shall you inform Mr Collins?’
‘No!’ Charlotte replied sharply. She softened herself, smiling. ‘I would rather wait until the outcome is more certain. I do not want to disappoint him.’
‘Of course, Mrs Collins. I will say nothing. May I bring you something to eat and some water?’
‘Thank you. I will go to my bedroom; I am still a little unsteady.’
Charlotte lay on the bed, her hands on her stomach.
It was, of course, still perfectly flat, but she noted that – yes, her breasts were very tender, and her stomach still roiled.
This must be it, she thought. There was no official moment to know for certain – merely the collection of signs and feelings put together to form a good guess.
A baby. She would have a baby. How tiny it must be, she thought.
The size of a walnut, perhaps, or maybe even smaller. Her baby. All of her own. Well…
Her mind clouded a little as she thought with whom she would share it. But the doubt passed quickly. This was a new start for her. Her body would change; her thinking would change. She already felt protective of her little walnut, a feeling she had never experienced before.
She felt instinctively that she would have a girl – she could only picture a girl.
What might she show her? What stories might she tell her?
What songs might she sing her? Hmm. I do not have a voice for lullabies, thought Charlotte, wondering if such a skill was a key part of motherhood.
Her mind rested on a happy thought: I will play for her.
Over the weeks that followed, Charlotte continued her visits through the gate, down the drive, across the lawn, into the back door of Rosings and to the grand piano that awaited her. She played sonatas and waltzes and scherzos and preludes and bagatelles – all the music she could find.
She played with joy, with abandon, and she played for her. She did not know whether her baby could hear her yet, but she played all for her.