Chapter I
‘I will go if I am invited, William.’
‘But, my dear, please consider,’ began Mr Collins desperately, ‘We owe a great deal to her ladyship, and she has made her feelings very clear—’
‘And I am making my own feelings clear,’ replied Charlotte, her knitting needles striking one another with some fervour. Knitting was a rare discipline which Charlote did not excel at, and it was not soothing her mood.
Mr Collins involuntarily leant away from her.
He was in some turmoil. He had never before had so stark a choice to make between his patroness and his wife.
But while he was used to Lady Catherine being forthright and obstinate (which he rather considered her natural right), he had not come to expect it from Charlotte.
Something had shifted in their relationship since their loss a few weeks earlier.
Sometimes, when trouble strikes in a marriage, there is an opportunity for a couple to grow closer from it, in the shared task of holding their grief and their disappointment together.
But for Mr and Mrs Collins, the chance to truly share that loss passed them by.
Charlotte often thought about Lady Catherine’s advice, but although she tried to act upon it, she could somehow never find the right words or the appropriate moment.
Mr Collins had, in those first few days, keenly wished to be a support for Charlotte, but as it was, she had been quite apart from him, surrounded by women, tended by Mrs Brooke, protected by her mother.
When Lady Lucas left, he had seen a chance to swoop in, in her absence, to be Charlotte’s protector and comforter.
He had rather looked forward to the opportunity to be so.
But it was at that very moment that Charlotte had seemed to strengthen, or harden, and she had had no need of tending or consolation.
She had started to dress differently; her tone was slightly sharper, her movements brisker.
She seemed filled with a vigorous energy, to which he did not know how to respond.
He did not want to upset her and was largely glad to see that her spirits seemed recovered, but he feared this change; he felt more than ever that he did not know how to reach her, and certainly not how to influence her.
In truth, he had received little word of consolation himself for the loss of his expected child.
He had been much on his own and, apart from a few kind words from Mrs Brooke or the occasional holding of hands from his wife, he had not had any comfort.
He was not adept at guessing other people’s thoughts, but even he sensed well enough that his wife was not able to talk to him about it yet.
Perhaps she never would. But while Charlotte had spoken about it to her mother, and to Mrs Brooke, he had not a soul he felt he could mention it to, and so it remained trapped within him: not only an unspoken sadness but one about which he had absolutely no understanding.
The way in which he had been raised by his father, and the dearth of women close to him in his life, meant that he did not know how often this happened, or why it happened or what it meant for the future.
With his wife seeming so far away from him, his chief anchor in life was in the form of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. And to threaten that accord, as odd a connection as it was, was a grave concern for him.
The afternoon had grown dark, yet Charlotte seemed resolved to keep knitting in the dim light.
Her hands moved as determinedly as she spoke.
‘I will not be dictated to by Lady Catherine, William. She is kind to us in many ways, but in this matter, she is displaying a profound lack of rationality, and I will not bow to it.’
Charlotte did not appear to require a response, and Mr Collins felt unwilling to proffer one, particularly while his wife was armed.
He slipped out of the room and found refuge in his study, consulting the Bible on what best to do.