Chapter V
Charlotte sat up in bed, fiddling idly with her emerald ring, which she had taken to wearing every day since the morning her mother had left Hunsford.
She was still in her nightdress. She looked around the room.
She had been here a few nights now and was growing more used to the grandeur of her surroundings, but it still felt odd.
The four posts of her bed loomed above her, draped in red, matching the vast Persian rug covering the floor, on which sat a mahogany table and four chairs.
Charlotte had laughed at the set-up when she first arrived: who was inviting four people into their bedroom of an evening?
Her eyes fell on the dress that lay over one of the chairs, the one she had worn last night. It would need mending. It had gotten torn a little at the waist and at the neckline. Or rather, he had torn it,’ she thought. It hadn’t torn all by itself.
She looked away from the dress.
Breakfast had been brought to her room at Elizabeth’s suggestion, and she was grateful – not that she had much appetite, but she was glad not to have to face anybody yet, especially those who had witnessed, or knew about, the events of last night.
Those people numbered no more than three, she hoped: Fitzwilliam, Elizabeth and Darcy.
She would certainly not be adding to that.
Alice had brought her breakfast, and as glad as she was to see her, Charlotte counted her as yet another person from whom she must conceal the truth.
She heard a clattering and rumbling outside her window – a carriage arriving? Ah yes, she remembered: the Bennet family were to return to Longbourn after breakfast, having already stayed for a week or so. It brought back to Charlotte the very same sounds she had heard in the early hours.
Charlotte had not been party to all that had occurred after Eliza took her from the music room.
She had brought Charlotte up here to her bedroom and stayed with her a little while before finally leaving her friend to rest. Charlotte had not been able to sleep at first, reliving the scene in her head and wondering where Wickham was now and what was happening downstairs.
But twenty minutes later, alerted by noises outside, Charlotte had watched from the window as a weeping Lydia and the stumbling figure of her husband were put into a carriage and driven away at speed.
After that, Charlotte’s body had surrendered itself to a deep, heavy sleep that had carried her easily into mid-morning the next day.
When she had first woken, she hadn’t recognised where she was and had a pleasant moment or two of recollecting whose house she was in, enjoying the comfort of the bed and the light shining into the room.
And then the memory of the night before descended on her, like a cloud across the sun.
She grew a little colder, and felt a tremble return to her body, and her heart starting to beat faster.
She had managed to calm herself before her body overtook her, but now, a little numb, she was left alone with her feelings.
What consumed her most was anger: anger at him, but also a little at herself.
She berated herself for indulging him as long as she had; why had she not left the room as soon as he entered?
Why had she conversed with him at all? Her cautiousness in not causing offence had played directly against any cautiousness in protecting her person.
Charlotte could not help but think that her experiences of intimacy were cursed: Mr Collins had been her first and only physical encounter with a gentleman, and the attempts in the marital bed had been perfunctory and uninspiring, but they had at least been gentle at every step, even to the point of her frustration.
Her consent had been based on a sense of obligation, but she had, at least, given it.
To go from that to the actions of last night, with no other experience in between, was a bitter revelation.
She knew instinctively that the attack from Wickham was not based on desire for her but a desire to win and to belittle.
And on the other side, she had never even felt much longing from her husband in his overtures, only something closer to a duty well observed.
Therefore, at this moment, she felt entirely unwanted and small and weak.
She had never been truly desired by anyone, she thought, and last night’s act seemed to prove it, though the appearance of it would betray otherwise.
It was as if her view of the world had been a little broken, and she with it.
Her thoughts were interrupted, perhaps fortuitously, by Elizabeth, who knocked and entered, treading softly. ‘You are awake. How do you feel?’
Charlotte considered. ‘I do not know. Not well.’ She shrugged.
Elizabeth nodded. ‘Might you come down? You do not have to, but… a continuing absence will be asked about, and to avoid the effort of lying, it might be easier to…’ Elizabeth struggled to complete her point.
‘I know what you mean. And you are right. I will be down shortly.’
Elizabeth hesitated. Her brow was crinkled, and tears formed in her eyes. ‘I should never have let him in. Darcy warned me. It was my idea to allow it.’
Charlotte shook her head and said, ‘It is not your fault, Eliza.’
Elizabeth looked into her eyes. ‘Nor yours.’
Charlotte didn’t reply.
‘I’ll see you downstairs then. We will be in the parlour.’
‘Yes. I shall not be long.’
Elizabeth, who last night had been swift and certain in her reactions, this morning seemed unsure how to behave.
She would usually have hugged her friend and sat with her, but Charlotte felt that Elizabeth seemed a little afraid of her – afraid to touch her or get too close, perhaps even slightly repulsed, as people often are of things that are wounded.
As it turned out, few questions were asked about Charlotte’s late appearance – it was easily put down to the same headache she had had last night.
Present in the parlour were the only guests remaining at Pemberley: Jane, Mr Bingley and Colonel Fitzwilliam, and its residents: Mr Darcy, Elizabeth and Georgiana.
Charlotte sat next to Jane again and drank tea, careful as she moved her arms not to pull too much on the long sleeves she had worn to conceal the bruises on her wrist. She was determined not to catch the eye of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was, rather unhelpfully, staring at her with a grim, stern look.
An outsider might have thought he was angry at her, but Charlotte guessed at his feelings.
She let her eyes wander around the room, trying to focus on something other than her own thoughts.
She eyed the paintings, the curtains, the fire.
The fire proved a winning option. It held her gaze and her interest. She stood up, and grabbing a poker, she started to stoke the flames, lightly at first, and then, in something of a daze, she began jabbing at the coals harder, until one fell over the grate onto the hearth.
Charlotte, unthinking, went to pick it up with her bare hand, and Fitzwilliam, the only person with eyes directly on her, vaulted forward from his seat and grabbed her other hand, pulling her backwards.
She looked around, shocked, and then seemed to come back to herself.
‘Allow me,’ Fitzwilliam said, and reaching down, he grabbed the pair of tongs and carefully returned the coal.
They both now stood by the mantelpiece, not knowing what to say.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘It is nothing.’
‘It is not nothing. I am grateful,’ she said, turning her face up to finally meet his eyes.
Colonel Fitzwilliam had spent a restless night.
While Charlotte was taken upstairs, he had found Darcy, as instructed, and they had gone together to where Wickham still lay.
Darcy, taking advantage of the man’s inert state, had quickly formulated a plan, giving several directions to his butler and informing Fitzwilliam of his intentions.
When Wickham’s eyes started to open, Darcy and Fitzwilliam pulled him to sitting, which wrenched him into consciousness.
Once Wickham was able to hear and respond, Darcy said simply, ‘You are leaving. Tonight.’
Wickham grinned and then winced; a purple bruise was already forming across one side of his face. ‘Absurd. What a hysterical reaction, Darcy! Why are you involving yourself in this petty argument?’
Darcy certainly did not look hysterical. He was entirely composed and seemingly emotionless. He had been dealing with Wickham his whole life, and it showed; he indulged none of his talk, letting his words slide away into nothing.
Elizabeth entered, soft-footed and efficient, and whispered in Darcy’s ear.
Darcy turned to Wickham and said, ‘Your trunks are loaded. The carriage is ready. Your wife is waiting. Go.’
And after a few spluttered protestations, he did. A wailing, reluctant Lydia accompanied him, and Pemberley was rid of them both before the morning light broke through.
Now, in the parlour, Darcy looked at his cousin, standing by the fireplace next to Charlotte.
He considered the fortune of Fitzwilliam’s presence last night; what luck that he had been near the music room and heard the commotion.
Had he gone looking for Charlotte, he wondered?
He lost the thought, as Bingley asked him a question and he allowed his attention to be drawn.
Fitzwilliam, oblivious to his cousin’s observation, had eyes only for Charlotte, who had taken her place next to Jane once again.
Having been so radiant last night, she now looked pale and drawn.
She had been putting on a show of being only tired, but he saw the effort she was making to keep that up.
Thank you, she had said, but what had she to really thank him for?
For throwing a punch, for losing his temper, for brawling and, in truth, enjoying the win.
He did not feel heroic now. He felt rather dirty and like his old self.
But would he do it again? Of course. He was fighting an instinct, now, to sit with her, to comfort her, to be close to her – which was, he surmised, probably the last thing she would want.
So, he remained standing a while, a safe distance from her, feeling as uncomfortable as he appeared.