Chapter III
This applied not only to his new position but to his marriage.
He fancied that he was, belatedly, learning how to be a good husband – finally understanding Charlotte’s ways and anticipating her needs.
He could not quite term his last year with Charotte tumultuous – the shifting ground of their marriage had not been an earthquake, but it had felt continually rocked by small yet constant tremors.
He had felt, at times, as if her heart were miles from him, and he had worried, on more than one occasion, that she regretted marrying him.
He had wondered if the lack of children was a cause for this.
They had tried again, sporadically, in the months after their loss, but to no avail. He was sorry indeed for that.
But around the time of Mr Bennet’s death, she had started to come back to him.
The timing made him think that perhaps she had been homesick and missing her family and that the move back to Hertfordshire would be a return to familiarity.
Or perhaps she had simply disliked living at Hunsford and needed a fresh start.
But speculation as to the reason was now futile: his wife was more content than he had seen her; he would not waste time wondering why.
One of the lessons he had learnt was that she needed to see her family and friends more often.
Never having had any family whom he would wish to see, he had overlooked that aspect of her life.
He now understood that she needed to visit Lucas Lodge or Netherfield and eventually even Pemberley again – and that, sometimes, he should not be present.
She had told him, one evening, that she did not care for hearing the Bible read aloud, nor even Fordyce’s Sermons.
This had shocked him at first, but when she offered other choices of text – poems and histories – he had been willing to try them.
He found little pleasure in poetry, not understanding its meaning or purpose.
He got on better with her historical texts, which sometimes she would read aloud to him.
He was aware that their interests did not align perfectly, but they had found a middle ground that suited their purpose well enough.
Theirs was not a passionate marriage. Intimacy, in that regard, was always something of an arduous duty.
He had never experienced that act as being comfortable or satisfying, so clouded was it by uncertainty and awkwardness.
He had not had a father, brother or friend to whom he could talk about such matters, so he had no means of comparison and continued in ignorance.
Relations were infrequent – he would not allow them to cease entirely, mindful of his duty as a husband – but his wife neither pressed for more nor seemed discontented by its diminution.
He, for his part, was equally content with their almost platonic day-to-day, and he felt no less intimate with her for it.
‘Have you received word from anyone in Hunsford yet, my dear?’ asked Mr Collins, as they sat in the drawing room one balmy evening in early June.
‘I have. Mrs Taylor sent me news of what the ladies of the church are undertaking and their plans for the summer fair. And I have had a letter from Miss de Bourgh.’
‘Miss Anne de Bourgh?’
‘The very same.’
‘But what can she have to say to you, my dear? I am surprised that, considering matters in her life must be so elevated, she should deign to share them. What condescension!’
‘They are not so elevated, William. She shares some of the same concerns we once did: courtship, a desire to marry… and I believe her desire may be fulfilled before long.’
Collins’s eyes widened further at this. ‘And she has confided this to you?’
Charlotte was not offended at his amazement; it spoke more of his own humility than his opinion of her. ‘She has confided some things. Nothing is certain. We must not speak of it to anyone.’
‘No indeed,’ replied Collins with vigour. He looked briefly down at his book, then ponderously asked, ‘Have you had any correspondence pertaining to Mr Smithson?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Well, I only wondered what news he brought of the church and, well…’ He faltered. ‘I was curious about his affairs.’
Charlotte thought about Mr Smithson’s time at Hunsford. Although she had disliked him, he had invigorated Mr Collins’s spirits. He was the only person she had ever known who had called on her husband at home, for no special reason beyond the social. ‘He was your friend,’ she said simply.
Mr Collins considered this, not sure whether he approved of it. ‘He was my curate,’ he corrected.
‘Might he have been both?’
After a moment of deliberation, Mr Collins nodded. ‘Yes. He might have been.’
‘And you miss him.’ Charlotte was treading carefully.
‘I merely wish to know whether he is well and how he takes care of the church.’
‘William, you should write to him.’
‘Perhaps. I suppose I could enquire about some clerical matters?’
‘You could, but you can also write to him purely to maintain the friendship. I would not like you to lose a friend.’
She did not say your first friend, although that is what she imagined he was. If Mr Collins had ever enjoyed a lasting friendship, he had never mentioned it. So while Mr Smithson was not the company she would have chosen for her husband, she would far rather he had a friend than not.
The next day, as she passed the study, she saw Mr Collins writing diligently and asked him what his business was.
‘I am writing to Mr Smithson,’ he replied with a sheepish smile.
She walked behind his desk and, placing her hands on his shoulders, gently kissed the top of his head. He reached up to put his hand atop hers and gave it a squeeze.
By the summer, Charlotte felt, as several people had commented, settled.
She had never had cause to so examine a word before. She had now heard it so many times and from so many different quarters that it had almost ceased to hold any meaning. But it was the right word. She had settled; but also, perhaps, she was settling.
Her decision to halt contact with Fitzwilliam had been supported in every way by the events that occurred around it – which, she reflected, rather lessened her achievement in doing the right thing.
She hoped that she would have acted the same, no matter how things had fallen, but as it was, the death of Mr Bennet, coming so soon after their farewell, removed her from temptation.
The inheritance and the business of moving to a new home was a useful distraction and a welcome one.
It also felt like a sign; it seemed that she was always fated to be parted from him.
On her first night at Longbourn, she had been hit with a wave of grief: grief for the love she would not have, for the regret she held. She felt all the unfairness of not having met Fitzwilliam a year sooner, that she might have had a very different choice to make.
Also, simply, she missed him. She had not been able to conceal her sadness, but she could not reveal to anyone the reason for it.
Elizabeth had comforted her, putting it down to the emotion of being once again removed from a home and starting anew.
Darcy had noticed Charlotte’s red-rimmed eyes and, having some idea of their cause, been gentle with her.
And yet, after a little time, Charlotte strived to embrace those qualities that she had always prized in herself: stoicism, pragmatism, steadiness.
She set about making Longbourn her home – an occupation she greatly enjoyed.
She resumed her involvement with the church, this time free from the obligations and expectations that had accompanied her role as the rector’s wife.
She was also pleased to learn about some aspects of managing the estate alongside her husband.
Charlotte was, she hoped, a determined person.
And she had determined – resolutely – to shut off the part of herself that had been set alight in the last few months.
That flickering, reckless flame, once welcomed, must now be extinguished, or at least carefully smothered beneath routine, propriety and purpose.
She determined to keep herself from dwelling on that time or that man – or on the person she had then become.
She determined to remember who she had been when she married, because that person had been grateful.
That person had been content. That person had settled.
So, she now lived her life at a lower temperature and a slower rate.
If she lacked fire, then she could be thankful not to be burnt.
If she lacked speed, she was grateful never to trip.
She saw her mother and her siblings with welcome regularity.
She spent time with her friends. She embraced her new home.
She cultivated her garden. And she tended to her marriage, which was in great need of nurture.
She turned her face fully towards Mr Collins for the first time in a long time and allowed him to truly see her.
She reminded herself that she had not chosen badly in accepting him. He was a good man, a gentle man, who worked hard and loved her. These things she held to – and week by week, month by month, she settled.