Chapter VI
Charlotte sat down heavily, her stays suffocating her.
Her dress felt too hot, too tight, for the warmth of the room.
September was unseasonably, unreasonably warm.
In any other circumstance, she should be in a light petticoat, outside, not entombed in layers of heavy fabric, sitting in a stifling drawing room, surrounded by so many people, all of their chatter making the air even hotter.
She feared she might faint, so she pulled at the ribbons of her bonnet and removed it hurriedly.
She wished her mother were next to her, but Lady Lucas had taken charge and was greeting people and directing the staff in Charlotte’s stead.
Maria was too overcome to be of comfort, and Elizabeth had not been able to attend, having only recently given birth.
Jane Bingley entered the room and, seeing Charlotte, came to sit beside her. Jane was perhaps the perfect friend at this moment: calm, patient, but strong. She was stronger than people gave her credit for. She took Charlotte’s hand in hers and held it, saying nothing.
Two weeks earlier, Charlotte had been at breakfast with her husband, discussing their trip to Bath. ‘If it is only my mother and Edward, then we should share the carriage; it will be easier travelling as one.’
‘As you wish, my dear,’ confirmed Collins, smiling but then wincing.
Seeing this, Charlotte enquired if he were quite well.
‘Just a pain I have had in my side since last night. I am sure it will dissipate.’ He smoothed his countenance and lifted his toast, but she noted that he didn’t take a bite. ‘I have had a letter back from Mr Smithson,’ he informed her, as cheerily as his discomfort would allow.
‘Oh, I am glad!’ said Charlotte. ‘What is his news?’
‘I have not yet opened it; it arrived this morning.’
He grimaced again. She supposed that what ailed him might be indigestion or perhaps a gastric complaint, and she did not wish to embarrass him by questioning him further.
But that afternoon, upon returning from a walk into Meryton, she discovered that he had taken to his bed. She entered their bedroom quietly, finding him lying on top of the bedsheets, fully clothed, gripping his right side as he had at breakfast.
He smiled tightly at her. ‘It has not dissipated. It is a little worse.’
Charlotte sat on the bed and put her hand tenderly on his arm. ‘What can it be? Is it an ache?’
‘It is’ – he winced – ‘a sharp pain.’
‘Could you have broken a rib?’
He only shook his head; speaking seemed to be difficult. Instead, he groaned again, loudly, and clutched his side.
Charlotte went downstairs and asked Mrs Brooke to fetch the doctor. Brooke prepared to leave immediately, and as she turned to go, Charlotte grabbed her arm and said, in a panic, ‘I do not know what to do. What can I do?’
Brooke took her hand and said, ‘Just be with him, madam.’
Now, Mrs Bennet had found a comfortable seat for herself next to her sister, Mrs Philips, and was eating a sandwich and cheerily discussing how the decoration of the room had changed since she had quitted Longbourn.
Lady Catherine was present, too, occupying a corner seat, sitting with an ashen-faced Maria.
For the first time in all of their acquaintance, Lady Catherine looked truly grieved.
Mr Bingley stood by the fireplace, speaking seriously with an older man whom Charlotte did not recognise. She asked if Jane knew who the gentleman was but, on receiving a negative, returned to silence. She had said very little in the last few days.
But a few moments later, she was forced to engage when Mr Bingley approached her to introduce that very man as a Mr Poulteney.
The gentleman gave Charlotte a soft, kind smile, sitting down in the vacant seat next her. ‘I knew your husband quite well, Mrs Collins. I was very fond of him.’
Charlotte felt tears in her eyes then, because she had not heard that sentiment expressed by anyone in the last week, and she had mourned for the lack of it. Mr Collins deserved better.
‘So was I, Mr Poulteney. So was I. Tell me, how did you know him?’
She sat for half an hour, listening to the man’s stories of William Collins’s quirks and misfortunes, talents and gifts.
It was a gift to her to receive them. If she gained a better understanding of her husband from this, it came too late to be useful in their marriage, but she was grateful all the same.
Across those next two days, Mr Collins’s pains became far worse, and he had a high fever.
The doctor spoke with great authority, but it was clear to Charlotte that he no more knew what to do than anyone else.
He recommended cooling cloths and opening the window, both of which she and Brooke had already done.
Brooke was her usual self – calm and resourceful – but even she was helpless in the face of this malady.
At points, Mr Collins was delirious and became agitated by the thought that Charlotte was not with him, even though she was; she always was.
When his body was taken by dramatic tremors that seemed ungodly, she tried still to hold him.
When his hair was matted to his face with sweat, she gently combed it to one side.
He was bled by the surgeon, but this did not ease him. By the fifth day, Charlotte could not help but be grateful when he seemed to be taken into sleep. His breathing was greatly laboured, so it was not the rest she would hope for him – but at least he was still.
She decided to try reading to him, in the hope he might hear her. She chose a sermon by Fordyce, passages that were written for the death of a friend, which offered words of comfort – at least, words she believed her husband would find comforting.
‘The beginnings of piety are often scarcely discernible; but being kindled by the breath of God, that spark of divinity is by degrees blown into a flame, which mounts upward, and upward, and still upward, till it reacheth to the throne of the Eternal.’
She looked keenly at his face, but it showed no sign of understanding.
Turning the page, she continued, ‘Under the righteous reign of Jesus, that “everlasting righteousness” which he defended, must prevail; and neither death, nor life, shall be able to separate the pious and the just, from the love of God.’
She closed the book and took his hand, pressing her cheek to it.
‘He was not the most accomplished of dancers,’ admitted Charlotte, smiling gently at her husband’s childhood tutor, ‘and now I understand why.’
‘Curiously, while he could not retain the fixed moves of a country dance, I would, at times, observe him dancing, in his own particular mode, very happily and rather creatively, when my wife was playing the piano and he thought he was unobserved.’
‘Indeed? I wonder what other talents he was hiding.’
‘I would not call it a talent,’ chuckled Mr Poulteney, ‘but William learnt his own way of doing things. I could not be happier that he found someone like you, Mrs Collins. I was not sure that he would.’
Charlotte felt a deep stab of remorse. She felt oddly inclined to be open with this stranger, almost more than anyone else in the room. ‘I have not been the wife I should have been, sir.’
Mr Poulteney did not enquire what she meant but only nodded, saying, ‘None of us is perfect in our marriage. I doubt he was the perfect husband.’
Charlotte looked down but did not respond. She was shaking her head, tears in her eyes, ‘But I – I was not…’ She struggled to continue.
Mr Poulteney took her hands then and said, ‘Try not to dwell on what you were not, my dear, but on what you were. What I see from those here today is that you were loved by him. Do not underestimate the joy that can be found in bestowing your love on another. The boy I knew would never have expected such riches. It seems that he found happiness. That is no small thing. Perhaps you took longer to reach it. But were you able to find it, in the end?’
Through tears, she looked up at him and replied, truthfully, ‘I was.’
It was the middle of the night. The doctor had gone home earlier that day, when Mr Collins had fallen into unconsciousness, but before he left, he had indicated to Charlotte what she already knew: that there was nothing to be done.
Charlotte had managed to fall into an uneasy sleep, kneeling on the wooden floor beside her husband’s bed, her upper body slumped forward, with her head and arms resting on the mattress. The book she was reading to him had slipped from her hands and now lay open on the blanket.
Collins stirred a little, murmuring, waking her with a start. For the first time in two days, he opened his eyes a crack and appeared to show signs of understanding.
‘William?’ She raised herself up to sit on the edge of the bed, and took his hand, mindful that in his delirium of the last two days, his only fear had been that she was not with him. She leant over so he could see her more clearly and, through tears, smiled at him.
He attempted to return it and gave her hand the gentlest squeeze – just enough to show he was still there. He only looked at her; speech seemed beyond him. But she knew that he saw her and heard her.
She said, ‘I am here.’
With that reassurance, he closed his eyes, as if satisfied, and his breathing became at first more laboured, and then lighter and lighter until she could hardly detect it.
And then it came no more.