Chapter XIII
It was a few days after that – in the first week of September, with the air still warm – that Charlotte headed to the ‘big house next door’, as she and Brooke called it.
Charlotte felt like quite the regular at Rosings.
Between social occasions and her piano practise, and now with the addition of her first pastoral visit, she almost felt she ought to start paying rent.
As she walked down the beech-lined drive, she considered what might await her upon her arrival.
She not only wondered what might have befallen Colonel Fitzwilliam, but could not help recalling their last meeting.
In the days after he left in the spring, she had, in her modesty, persuaded herself that she had imagined any provocation or suggestion from him that was out of the ordinary.
She first told herself that she was a married woman, and any gentleman of sound mind would see she was unavailable.
She also reminded herself that she was plain.
She was not likely to be the object of an inconvenient lust or a wanton frisson – it was fantastical. Such was what her modesty told her.
But as well as being modest, Charlotte was also logical, and when her brain took inventory of his actions and words, she decided that, yes, there had been something.
What it amounted to was probably very little, but it was not nothing – he had alluded to something more than ordinary acquaintance.
But, she comforted herself, it was a fancy of his, and it was fleeting.
She had no doubt it would have been forgotten, swept away by his experiences since then.
As for her own feelings – well, her mind was now set on the future: her tiny bump and how her life was soon to change.
She needed no other intrigue to occupy her.
She trusted her emotions would not betray her.
She did not slip in the back door, as she did on her piano practice days, for this was a different kind of visit, the rules of which she did not know.
She was shown into the morning room by Figgis and found Lady Catherine in her usual chair, with a recumbent Colonel Fitzwilliam on a large chaise-longue near the fire, a blanket over his lower body.
His face was worn, tanned and leathery, and there were hard lines and small scars where there had been none before. His hair was shorter than the last time she had seen him, roughly cut. Instead of wearing his uniform, he was now clad in a crumpled banyan, wrapped tightly about him.
Her first feeling upon setting eyes on him was a fierce protectiveness. She fought an urge to go straight to him, to tend him. But as she watched him closer, she came to suspect that such feelings from her would not have been welcome.
When Charlotte had been announced, he had smiled politely, but as she drew nearer, she saw a look of disquiet in his face.
Charlotte was invited by Lady Catherine to sit on a chair nearby; she did so, placing the basket she carried to one side.
Not knowing what might greet her, she had brought some scones and a tincture for fever – items she might take on her other visits – but she did not feel inclined to offer up anything here and now.
The atmosphere was awkward; she felt she was intruding on what should be private.
‘Good day, Lady Catherine,’ she said and, turning to him, ‘Colonel Fitzwilliam.’
He cleared his throat, ‘Good day, Mrs Collins. My aunt told me you might visit us one day this week. I hope you will forgive my appearance.’
‘Of course. I am sorry you are in discomfort.’
‘Discomfort is a luxury I now enjoy, following its predecessor – bloody agony.’
Charlotte was shocked at his language and visibly so; this was rather rough talk that she had not been used to – common among soldiers in barracks perhaps but not in a morning room, to a lady. He did not retract it or apologise, however, but stared into the fire, troubled.
‘My nephew has been poor company in the last few weeks, Mrs Collins – I am hopeful you might improve his mood.’
‘Quite a task to set her, Aunt.’
‘It is, but I know she does such things for others who are embittered by their circumstances; I have seen it in the village. You, nephew, might begin by asking Mrs Collins how she is. Though you are injured, you are not the only person in the world with news to tell.’
Colonel Fitzwilliam looked chastened and sat up a little more. ‘Forgive me, Mrs Collins. It is good of you to come. I did not want to receive you in such a state, but my aunt insisted.’
‘Please, do not make yourself uneasy on that score. I have seen people in worse states than yours.’
Fitzwilliam nodded graciously but remained a little detached.
‘May I ask,’ Charlotte began, then hesitated, glancing at Lady Catherine, as if seeking permission to ask, before continuing, ‘what has happened to you?’
Colonel Fitzwilliam looked surprised. ‘I thought my aunt would have told you. Shot in the leg.’
‘I am sure Mrs Collins need not know the details of your injury, Nephew. You forget you are not in company with your men now,’ warned Lady Catherine sternly.
Charlotte dared not reply after witnessing such a rebuke, but Colonel Fitzwilliam, visibly irritated by this, said tersely to his aunt, ‘I can hardly forget that.’ He then turned to Charlotte. ‘Are you shocked, Mrs Collins?’ he asked roughly.
‘I am not.’ She looked apologetically at Lady Catherine at this minor betrayal. ‘I have seen all kinds of injuries on my visits, so I am unlikely to swoon from mere words.’
Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded, as if he had won an argument. ‘I expected as much.’
Charlotte dared to ask, ‘Is it healing well?’
‘It got the bone. It’s not shattered, thank God, but it’s… I know not – they know not the extent of the damage, for sure. But there’s a break of some sort, and it will take its time to heal. I cannot walk on it, which is galling.’
He rambled this off while not looking at her, as if ranting to himself.
It was clear to her that he was in very poor spirits, and she was silent, allowing him to rail against his condition.
She knew not what he had suffered through, and it seemed fair to her that he would be agitated.
But it troubled her that she did not wholly recognise him.
He fell quiet then, taking a breath, said, ‘It has robbed me of my manners, Mrs Collins. How are you?’
‘I am well, thank you,’ Charlotte replied. ‘I have not been shot in the leg.’
Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed at this, then winced, the movement evidently triggering a pain somewhere.
Lady Catherine looked unhappy at the levity.
‘I am glad to hear it,’ he answered, then asked, with visible effort, ‘Your husband is well?’
The door opened at that moment, and Figgis walked in and whispered something to Lady Catherine.
The great lady rolled her eyes and sighed with exaggerated exasperation. ‘Can not Mrs Jenkinson deal with such things?’ she said, in what seemed as quiet a voice as she could muster, which was loud.
Figgis replied again, close to her ear; his ability to convey a message soundlessly was a marvel.
Lady Catherine gave another large sigh and heaved herself from her chair. ‘I must attend to something, Mrs Collins. Pray do not leave; I will return shortly. Figgis, it is very stuffy in here; please open a window – Mrs Collins will be hot.’
Figgis did so, before both he and Lady Catherine left the room. Fitzwilliam and Charlotte looked at each other, smiled awkwardly and looked away again.
It was only now, when they were alone, that the memory of their last meeting rose briefly as a spectre between them.
But, as Charlotte had predicted, something had shifted since then.
His injury – or rather, his incapacity due to it – had altered him, and it loomed in the room.
It was as if he was still at battle, and she could not get near him.
She, of course, had her own reason to feel distanced from him, but she would keep it to herself for now.
‘I am glad to be alone with you,’ the colonel started.
Charlotte flushed, thinking that surely he would not now continue in that vein.
Fitzwilliam, seeing her expression, realised how it sounded, and hurriedly continued, ‘That is, I am glad to spend time with someone other than my aunt.’
Charlotte breathed out with relief; she had assigned great effort to putting that intrigue firmly away, for her own well-being, and was not prepared to unearth it.
‘Lady Catherine has been so good as to allow me to convalesce here. She has brought in her doctor and keeps me company daily. But, I confess, to be this often in her company is—’ He struggled for the word.
‘Character-building?’ offered Charlotte.
He smiled with gratitude. ‘Yes,’ he affirmed, with a wry grin, ‘character-building.’
Charlotte looked around the large, ornate room. ‘This is a grand place to convalesce. How is it you are here and not at your family home?’
‘This is by far the better option – the only one, really – so I am grateful to Lady Catherine for taking me in; she does me a great service. Rosings is an easy distance from the port – they brought me to Dover – whereas Tolbrooke Hall is exceedingly far north; I would not have withstood the journey.’
‘Ah, I see. A shame for you, though, not to be at home.’
He hesitated before replying, then shook his head.
‘My home is not… Tolbrooke is not as it should be. It was never a grand house, nothing like this.’ He gestured at the majestic room around him.
‘But as things are now, I am not even convinced of it having the fires lit, nor would I expect an entirely warm welcome.’
Charlotte was intrigued. ‘Why not?’