Chapter III
‘I can only apologise for surprising you in this way, Mrs Collins; it was not my intention.’
Colonel Fitzwilliam sat back, his shoulders braced against the plush burgundy fabric of the interior, attempting to occupy as little space in the coach as he could.
Charlotte was sitting formally and stiffly, as if her stillness could render her invisible.
In both cases, it was a futile exercise: each of them was acutely aware of the other’s presence.
Charlotte wilfully ignored how close her legs were to his, while he tried not to notice how her hem had ridden up to show a glimpse of her ankle. He looked anywhere but at her ankle.
She replied in a manner that betrayed nothing of her private thoughts.
‘Please do not make yourself uneasy – a quirk of the post, or an oversight on Elizabeth’s part.
She may have thought that my husband and I were both travelling together, in which case the need to inform us of a companion would have been less pressing. ’
‘I see. Were you both intending to attend originally, then?’ asked the colonel curiously.
Charlotte went red. ‘I kept our response a little vague, being unsure how matters would fall out.’
Fitzwilliam nodded, sensing that she did not wish to explain herself. ‘I attempted some discretion myself, when it came to leaving Rosings. But the fact of my going could not escape the ever-vigilant attention of my aunt.’
Charlotte grinned. ‘Is she furious?’
‘She is. But I am sure it will pass. It will have to – she will want to be involved with any children Elizabeth might have – a potential heir to Pemberley! – so she will have to make it up with them before that happens.’
His countenance sobered, and there was a certain intent in his manner – as though he sought to leave the present subject behind and venture into more personal territory. Charlotte knew why he was discomforted but did not have the words either.
Taking a deep breath, Fitzwilliam said, ‘I have not seen you since’ – he hesitated again – ‘since you were with child. I have been wanting to tell you that I am very sorry for what has happened – and to know whether you are well, or well enough. I have thought of you often. It is not a gentleman’s place to enquire, but I have wanted to. ’ He looked pained but genuine.
Charlotte took a moment. Knowing the frankness that had played out between herself and Fitzwilliam previously, she had wondered if he might mention this, and she was not averse to it. In fact, she thought it was brave.
‘Thank you.’ She rearranged her skirts distractedly. ‘I was not well, or happy. But I am “well enough”, now, as you have put it: well enough to travel, well enough to partake in other people’s joys, which is my hope for this trip.’
He did not attempt to move on but looked at her still, in case she should say more.
Charlotte made a show of being stoic. ‘I am told to look to the future, not dwell too long on the past.’
‘I have heard such things said,’ replied Colonel Fitzwilliam earnestly. ‘It is not always possible.’
‘No,’ said Charlotte, meeting his eyes in understanding. ‘Not always.’
A good deal of their journey was spent in companiable silence, looking out of the window at the sights as their surroundings changed from the countryside of Kent to the pretty villages on the outskirts of London, and then through the loud bustling streets of the capital itself.
Fitzwilliam was used to travel, but he found new joy in it upon seeing Charlotte’s delight.
Her face was craned around, staring out, her eyes hungry for new sights.
While she was so happily occupied, Fitzwilliam was able to observe her at leisure, without causing discomfort.
Her enthusiasm for these passing scenes came from a curious mind, but he speculated that it also spoke of what her life had been lately.
She has been bored, he thought. The first time he met her he had recognised someone with a superior mind, and from talking with her since then, he knew she had a lively spirit, needed diverting conversation and new things to learn.
Her eager eyes looking out at the mundanity of life – cows, farmers, trees, bridges – spoke of someone who was starving for new experiences.
As he watched her, her hand folded over the top of the window, her dark hair blowing onto her face, Charlotte shut her eyes and took a deep breath in, then released it slowly. She looked happy.
He was reminded of something she had once said to him at Rosings: that she wanted a peaceful life, but that peace must include passion.
He understood that sentiment now, as he looked at her.
Amid the noise of the wheels rattling and the bumps of the road jolting her, with the cool autumn wind flying in her face, unsettling her bonnet and her hair, she looked entirely at peace.
He was struck by an urge to reach out to her, to cup her wind-beaten cheek in his hands, to turn her face towards him, to kiss her.
It felt more possible here, in this moment, loud and blustering, than it ever had.
But he knew now was not the time. Such a time probably did not exist. Of course it does not exist, he thought.
‘You are a fool,’ he muttered to himself, the words lost against the clamour around them.
But then she turned to him. Had she heard? He was not sure. Her head was still at the window but looking at him very directly. She held his gaze and smiled so warmly, so broadly, at him that he felt a lightness in his chest.
He could not smile back, so surprised was he by how much he felt for her in that moment. He had not expected it. He held her eyes, and his seriousness did not dim her expression. She did not seem to be asking anything of him in return. She offered her smile to him as a gift, with no expectations.
Just when he thought he could stay still no longer and would rise from his seat, it was she who was launched at him, as the carriage jolted, passing over a bump, and she hurtled forward. His rescue was ungainly; he caught her fall by her arm on one side, and her hand on the other.
Once the carriage was steady, he helped her into her seat, holding both her hands, arguably a moment longer than necessary. Once she was settled, Colonel Fitzwilliam pushed his back hard into the seat, dropped his shoulders and closed his eyes.
Had he known what Charlotte was feeling on that journey, he would not have been so restrained. The touch of his hand had kindled a fire in her that had been long dormant. She was feeling truly alive for the first time in months.
They reached Lucas Lodge early that afternoon, as Charlotte had hoped.
Fitzwilliam, before the surprises of the morning, had intended to find an inn in Dunstable, but Charlotte now invited him to stay with her family in Meryton, and he gratefully accepted.
He wanted to prolong their time together by whatever means possible.
When the carriage arrived outside the house, her mother and Maria came out to greet her. Charlotte climbed out, and as she did so, her family saw, to their surprise, another figure in the carriage. They looked a little quizzical until Maria exclaimed, ‘Colonel Fitzwilliam!’ in delight.
Charlotte met her mother’s enquiring eye with an expression that indicated I will explain later. And Lady Lucas, excellent host that she was, welcomed the unexpected guest into her home with great warmth, holding back her many questions.
Luncheon was waiting for them, and they were a merry party: Sir William and Lady Lucas, Charlotte, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Maria and Edward, the youngest of the Lucas children – who, at fourteen, was in awe of being at a table with a ‘real’ colonel from the regulars.
He peppered Fitzwilliam with questions, which he answered as best he could.
Every member of the Lucas family had questions for the colonel, and Charlotte was nervous for him, imagining he would be exhausted by the interrogation.
But he answered them all with enthusiasm and as much truth as could be borne at a mealtime.
‘May I ask about your injury, sir?’ ventured Sir William Lucas.
‘Father—’ Charlotte began to interrupt.
But Fitzwilliam shook his head, content to answer. ‘I was shot in the leg at Salamanca, sir.’
‘I read a little about Salamanca in The Times. A great victory; you must be very proud.’
Colonel Fitzwilliam poked at his meal, considering what to reply. ‘I am proud of my men, whatever the outcome. The battles drawn up as victories are not always as victorious as they sound.’
Sir William looked a little confused. ‘Ah – but we won, yes?’
The colonel glanced briefly at Charlotte, trying to convey a question with his eyes – the question being, Ought I to continue? – and she gave him a small nod of encouragement.
‘What I mean to say, sir, is that we are advancing well, but each battle or siege must be chalked up to one side in the newspapers and reports. But that is not always an indication of triumph. Salamanca was more reasonably hailed as a win, even though we lost thousands. But the reason I was able to meet your daughters in the spring was because I was sent back home with what remained of my regiment after Albuera. Did you hear of that battle?’
Sir William nodded, tentatively saying, ‘I believe I did. Hard fought?’
‘Hard fought indeed, on both sides.’
This got a frown from young Edward, incensed that the French might be considered for praise in any circumstance.
As he appeared to have the attention of the table, Colonel Fitzwilliam continued, ‘It was hard fought but not well fought. It was a mess. We were led by fools, generals replacing generals even while we were fighting. Our orders changed throughout, and no man knew what was happening. We didn’t have enough guns or a clear line of sight.
We lost as many as the French, and that was a great many, and it was needless. No side won that day.’
The table was quiet. Charlotte wanted to meet his eye, but he looked down.