Chapter IX
‘Your modesty does you credit, sir, but I must be allowed to offer what I consider a well-deserved compliment on your execution of the cotillion. A fine example of precision, while wholly devoid of undue flamboyance. As clergymen, we are tasked with a role that is, at times, a difficult one to balance, but I congratulate you on treading that line between what is diverting and what is dutiful with uncommon finesse. Or, if I may use the word, with elan.’
‘I thank you, Mr Collins. It must be said that one could not dance finely without a fine dance partner.’ At this, Mr Smithson gave Charlotte a rather obsequious little bow.
She had in fact found the dance rather exhausting, due to Mr Smithson’s incessant questions.
He had asked about Mr Collins, about how they had met, about her family, about Lady Catherine and Anne de Bourgh and the Darcy connection and her friendship with Elizabeth.
One would think he were writing a chapter in Debrett’s, and Charlotte bet to herself that he wished he could note some of it down with a pen.
What an odd character he was turning out to be, she thought: well-liked, seemingly, in the village, harmless enough perhaps, but she could not make him out.
He seemed to indulge her husband excessively, which, though obviously not an evil in itself, led her to wonder at his motives, for it was not only her husband that he indulged.
Mr Smithson was already crossing the room to linger close to Lady Catherine, who soon bestowed her attention on him.
They had quite a rapport, those two, which made Charlotte nervous somehow.
Was it that he seemed to be replacing her husband in Lady Catherine’s affections and that Charlotte feared how such a loss would affect her husband?
That was part of it perhaps, but not the whole.
Lady Catherine’s decision to hold a ball for the New Year had been a highly surprising decision; she had not thrown such an event for many years and disliked large crowds of people, especially when they might disturb the order of her house.
This much Charlotte knew. She also knew that, a few weeks prior, Mr Smithson had mentioned to Lady Catherine that he had never been to a ball before.
He had spoken also of the grandeur of Rosings and what a shame it was that such a pearl was left unseen by so many who might admire it.
His sycophancy hit its mark, and Lady Catherine sent out invitations within the week.
Charlotte realised that her husband had unwittingly taught his curate a great many lessons – and not all of them liturgical.
Rosings looked splendid, decked out in all its finery for the occasion.
The cavernous rooms, which Charlotte had always thought rather gloomy and foreboding, were now transformed.
Enormous chandeliers blazed with light overhead, and candles set in gleaming wall sconces brightened every corridor.
Tonight, the house had taken on a dreamlike softness; white fabric was swathed across mirrors, and giant urns filled with greenery and trailing ivy sat in the corners of every room.
The musicians, seated at the far end of the ballroom, were attired in coats richly embroidered with gold, while many of the guests had chosen to dress in jewel tones in keeping with the season.
Charlotte marvelled at the gowns of emerald, sapphire and rich ruby red.
Charlotte herself was in white; she had chosen it in the hope of blending in, white usually being such a popular choice for a ball. But she had not anticipated that so many other guests would wear such vivid colours. For once, quite unintentionally, she stood out.
She loitered now, on the side of the room, watching Colonel Fitzwilliam talk to Anne de Bourgh.
Miss de Bourgh’s presence had caused something of a stir.
She was so rarely seen in society that even a ball thrown in her own house had not guaranteed her attendance.
Yet here she was, looking more at ease than ever.
She and Colonel Fitzwilliam were fitting dance partners; Anne could not manage a fast reel, for she would soon be out of breath, but she could move steadily through the more sedate dances.
Fitzwilliam, for his part, could step with care, but his leg would not permit him to jump or skip.
They had therefore stood up together more than once, grateful for the other’s limitations.
Charlotte felt a little jealous. She would have liked to dance with Fitzwilliam, but they were both aware of the risks; while it would not be improper to dance with him, she feared their mutual regard would somehow be noticed.
Presumably because of the same caution, he had not asked her.
Which is wise, she convinced herself; in this of all places, she should look to her husband.
She observed Mr Collins now, queuing for a glass of punch. He was humming along to the tune of a jig, tapping his foot and glancing around the room, an idle smile on his face.
Charlotte berated herself, not for the first time. What sort of woman are you, that you can betray him like this?
She found it impossible to reconcile the person she had always believed herself to be with the one who was now acting so recklessly, so selfishly.
When she reflected on how cursed she must be for her actions – when she allowed herself the indulgence of self-censure – she saw Collins in her mind, as he appeared before her now: a blameless innocent.
That was not a true depiction of him – he, like anyone, was capable of hurting others – but no matter his faults, Charlotte knew for certain he would never betray her in the way she was betraying him.
Yet she had not stopped. She had continued to meet Fitzwilliam whenever she could these last few weeks: a snatched hour here, a moment in the street, a shared look across the church.
Christmas had come and gone, and at a time when others pulled their family closer, she had pulled away from her husband and even been disappointed that the festive period limited her freedom to roam. There was no defending it.
And yet, she knew why she was doing it: because it hurt not to.
Because she felt like she had unlocked a part of herself that had been buried.
Because she felt, after years of duty and modesty and sense, an irresistible desire to be a little daring.
Because, after months that had encompassed trauma and loss and shock, it felt like a kindness to herself.
But what of all that? She was an adulteress.
She did not think too deeply about the sin of it or of going to hell; her faith was not so dramatic.
But she did think of Mr Collins, who had pulled her from an unwanted spinsterhood, who had arranged his home for her, made room in his life for her, and who loved her as well as he could, even though she could not love him.
It was not a passing thought but had been a constant stream of inward dialogue over the past few weeks.
The guilt was a part of her daily routine now.
It was her morning prayer and her afternoon indigestion.
It accompanied her on walks, sat next to her at church and invaded her dreams at night.
Shame was her solid companion, and she did not wish it gone, because when guilt left, she would know she had truly lost herself.
She might not have integrity, she thought, but at least she still knew what it was.
As the Rosings ball wore on, a whirlwind of country dances, gossip and punch, Charlotte found herself standing in a group with her husband, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Anne de Bourgh and Mr Smithson, who had danced all but one of the dances, with an array of ladies. It had not gone unnoticed.
‘You have been lucky to find so many willing partners, Mr Smithson. You must be very persuasive,’ said Miss de Bourgh playfully.
Mr Smithson smiled smoothly, replying, ‘I have no particular ways, madam, but I presume ladies feel that having a man of God as a dance partner renders them relatively safe.’
Charlotte wrinkled her brow. ‘Safe? From what, sir? Being trodden on? Because I have known more than one wrong-footed vicar.’
Smithson did not laugh with her. ‘I meant, safe from any unwelcome attentions and from any questions about her reputation.’
Colonel Fitzwilliam joined the conversation, adding, a little provocatively, ‘I think you do yourself a disservice when it comes to the latter, sir. You are a young, fine-looking man. You are as likely to stir a heart as anyone here tonight, and gossips will find your position in the Church only adds to the intrigue.’
Smithson gave him an odd, piercing look. ‘Perhaps you know more of such matters, Colonel. I would bow to your knowledge. I lead a simple life here in Hunsford. You must be finding yourself quite at home here, by now.’
Colonel Fitzwilliam felt the sting. Smithson certainly knew how to rankle people and he had hit the spot with Fitzwilliam.
Since he had been able to walk, albeit still in pain and with an unsteady step, Fitzwilliam had felt the weight of guilt for not having returned to the front.
Being practical, he knew that until he could march for miles, every day, there was little purpose in turning his steps in the direction of war.
But the shame still weighed on him, and he felt too much, in that moment, to respond to Smithson – Smithson, who had never taken up arms or set foot on foreign soil, whose hands were soft and whose legs were unbroken, able to dance every dance with ease.
‘It has not been his home of late,’ interjected Miss de Bourgh, who seemed oblivious to the tension. ‘It is not so very long ago that we got him back from Derbyshire.’
‘Ah yes,’ replied Smithson, looking now at Charlotte. ‘With Mrs Collins.’
Charlotte glanced at Fitzwilliam briefly, then looked squarely at Smithson, ‘With my friend, Elizabeth Darcy, and Mr Darcy and his sister.’