Chapter XV
It was late in September that Lady Catherine next invited Mr and Mrs Collins to dine with her, in a fairly informal setting – or as informal as dinner at Rosings could be.
At the head of table sat Lady Catherine, who, as she often did, invited Mr Collins to sit at the opposite end – a privileged position which he relished.
He did not let her down; before she had taken her seat, he had already remarked upon the grandeur of the table arrangements, the finery of her gown and even how perfectly suited the weather was, as if she might merit praise for having arranged that, too.
Lady Catherine took his flattery in good grace, always appreciative of admiration and deference in equal measure.
Colonel Fitzwilliam sat next to his aunt, with Mrs Jenkinson on his other side, while Charlotte found herself placed between Lady Catherine and her daughter, Miss Anne de Bourgh, whom she had not spoken to for some months.
Charlotte knew her to be about six-and-twenty, but she appeared younger, with fine wispy blonde hair, a thin frame and a very pale complexion – unsurprising for someone who seemed not to have set foot outside for as long as Charlotte had known her.
Charlotte had often found her difficult to converse with, sometimes hardly uttering a word, but this evening, she was determined to bring her out.
She had grown in confidence these last months and felt more able to urge a conversation, even a reluctant one.
But as it turned out, her efforts were not required, as her companion spoke first, albeit very softly.
Charlotte craned to hear her quiet voice over the hubbub of dinner. ‘I’m sorry, Miss de Bourgh, I did not hear you.’
‘I said: you play extremely well, Mrs Collins.’
Charlotte looked puzzled, then said, ‘Oh! The pianoforte? Thank you, that is kind. I am very grateful to play on the instruments here.’
‘You are most welcome. It is a pleasure to hear you – I am in my rooms a good deal, so I heard better when you played on Mrs Jenkinson’s, but I can still make you out a little on the grand downstairs.’
‘You enjoy music?’
‘A great deal. I used to play – very well they told me – but I find it too tiring now.’
Charlotte refrained from asking her what ailed her, but tentatively asked whether it might yet be possible to play if it were for short periods only, urging that it would be a shame to let the talent slip.
‘You sound like my cousin,’ Anne replied, nodding at Fitzwilliam opposite. ‘He is the only person in this house who does not treat me like a flower threatening to wilt at any moment. If there is draught in the hall, Mrs Jenkinson believes it will blow me over.’
Charlotte pondered this for a moment or two. ‘You are – more robust than they think?’
‘Yes,’ said Anne, taking a moment to chew. ‘I will never be hearty, Mrs Collins. I was very ill when I was a child – they tell me I nearly died. But I am not so useless as they believe. My mother has never even let me dance,’ she added quietly.
Hesitatingly, Charlotte asked, ‘Could you dance?’
Anne blinked. ‘I could not dance two fast reels in a row, but I am sure I could walk a quadrille.’
Charlotte could not pair this open young woman with the silent creature she had encountered on previous occasions. She had always assumed that Anne must be very sickly indeed; she kept so much to herself, often not appearing downstairs at all when there was company.
‘You keep to your rooms a great deal,’ Charlotte stated, hoping the observation formed the question she wished to ask.
Anne nodded. ‘That is when my spirits are low. My body, I think, could rally well enough but my spirits are’ – she searched for the word – ‘hard to predict. Some days, I feel very well and full of ideas – and glad of company. Today is such a one.’ She smiled at Charlotte.
‘But at other times, I feel unable to even face the day.’
Charlotte imagined what it might be to feel so utterly desolate but to have to entertain virtual strangers in your home at the invitation of your mother.
She started to have an idea of why she’d had so little conversation from Miss de Bourgh on past occasions.
‘That must be very difficult,’ she said.
‘I am very difficult,’ said Anne, ‘but I have given up trying to be otherwise.’
They sat quietly for a minute or two. Charlotte, at every step, felt the danger of overstepping her place, but Anne seemed willing, on this occasion at least, to talk candidly.
‘Have you… thoughts of marriage?’ she asked softly.
‘I think it is too late for that.’
‘You are but six-and-twenty?’
Anne looked at her, and Charlotte caught a little of her mother’s hauteur in her manner. ‘You know yourself that six-and-twenty is not young, Mrs Collins.’
Charlotte’s cheeks reddened.
Anne continued, ‘My mother still talks of me marrying Fitzwilliam, which is absurd.’
Charlotte frowned. ‘Marrying Colonel Fitzwilliam?’
‘Oh! No! I mean Darcy; he is Fitzwilliam Darcy.’ She chuckled at the error.
Charlotte laughed, too, but thought it rather careless to throw around so many Fitzwilliams in one family.
‘Why is it absurd?’ Charlotte asked carefully, knowing at least one reason why it was; She knew enough of Darcy’s latest ventures to merit caution on the topic.
‘If Fitz—Sorry, if Darcy planned to ask for my hand, he would have done so years ago. He will not do so by choice, and I would not want him forced.’
‘Would you have him if he asked you?’
Anne looked askance at Charlotte, who wondered if she had finally gone too far. Anne thought about it. ‘No. He is too cross and serious. I would need someone more gentle. Like your Mr Collins.’
Charlotte’s fork paused over her plate. She had never heard her husband endorsed as a preferred choice of partner.
She looked over at him. He was spooning some potatoes onto Lady Catherine’s plate.
It was enlightening to think that, from another’s eye, he was worthy of notice.
As she so often did, she questioned her feelings towards her husband: could she yet feel more for him?
Had her feelings from the start been guided only by the judgment of her friends, when first they had met?
There would be many opportunities to know him more, she realised, in the years to come – to know him as a father might alter their relationship altogether.
Feeling confident that they were now conversing as women of a certain age, Charlotte coyly asked, ‘Has there been any man you have liked?’
‘I have hardly met any. I have hardly been out. And here at Rosings, it is nearly always cousins. My cousin Thomas used to visit – Richard’s elder brother.’
Charlotte was confused again. ‘Richard?’ she asked.
‘Fitzwilliam.’
‘Darcy?’
‘No! Colonel Fitzwilliam – Richard.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Charlotte. She had heard the colonel’s first name before in conversation but had never spoken it herself.
‘So, the colonel’s brother used to visit? But not so often now?’ asked Charlotte, determined to keep up with the dialogue.
‘Well, Thomas is the earl now and has a wife and children. Their father died a few years past, and now Thomas has an estate to manage. He struggles to maintain it, in truth. It never had a vast income, as I understand it, and it was fortunate that my mother and her sister married well; my uncle would not have had much spare income to dispose upon his sisters. But the estate has shrunk further since Thomas took it over. But enough of that, Mrs Collins. How is your family?’
Charlotte answered her questions, but she saw Miss de Bourgh’s energy begin to wane, and fortunately it was not long before it was time to retire to the drawing room.
This transition was quite an event, because Colonel Fitzwilliam still could not walk and so it was the work of Mr Collins and Figgis to help him from his seat in the dining room to the room next door.
This required the colonel to stretch out his arms and lean heavily on the shoulders of his two aides, both of whom nearly buckled under his weight.
All observers – for nobody was polite enough not to watch such a sight – were holding their breath for the duration of the process, praying he would not be dropped and break his other leg.
Finally, the colonel was lowered (with not quite enough care) onto a settee, where he could raise and rest his leg.
It was clear from his face that his pride was wounded by the charade.
Charlotte sat herself in the chair next to his.
The evening felt pleasingly relaxed, given the setting, and even egalitarian – an assembly of people of different stations who all now knew each other well enough to dispense with undue formality and reserve.
Lady Catherine asked Mr Collins to pull the fireguard around and then engaged him in conversation, having been parted from her preferred companion for all of dinner.
‘Are you feeling well, Mrs Collins?’ asked the colonel.
Charlotte moved her chair a little so she could address him more easily, as he could hardly turn to her in his position.
‘I am, sir, thank you.’ She guessed at a greater importance behind the question than normal, given her recent revelation.
‘But as I have just seen my husband acting as your sedan chair – and a rather shaky one at that – I will immediately return the question.’
Colonel Fitzwilliam smiled ruefully and looked down at his leg with a sigh. ‘I am as well as can be expected.’
‘As well as can be expected is the answer people give when they are not well at all. Now I think on it, the question in your situation is not a good fit. I can see you are not “well”– you are not healed, but… I would ask, are you in good spirits? You may be frank.’