The Unlikely Pursuit of Mary Bennet (Austentatious #1)
Chapter One
After procuring several fervent assurances that his wife would apologize sincerely and deeply for his absence from Rosings that evening, Mr Collins reluctantly died.
Charlotte sat by the bed for a few minutes, watching his reddened cheeks grow ashen and pale in the light of dawn. He had been a decent husband, by all accounts—never knowingly unkind, ready to please and be pleased by everybody, and his loyalty never in question. All in all, her four-year marriage had been more pleasant than she had expected, and yet less satisfying than she had hoped. Her fingers pressed into the cover of the leather-bound Bible she’d been reading—Mr Collins’ second-favourite, the first being a gift from Lady Catherine de Bourgh which never left his private study at the front of the house—leaving five temporary starbursts, then she leaned over and tucked it under his limp arm.
Swallowing down a lump in her throat, Charlotte rose and regarded the body with consternation. First, she would need to send Bessie to tell the undertaker, but then what ought she do? Though she was one-and-thirty, Charlotte’s experience of managing death so far had been limited to Mr Collins’ parishioners, since both her own parents were still alive and the rest of her relatives in good health. She owned a black dress, which she’d previously worn only to visit bereaved families with Mr Collins, but a single dress would not do. She would be required to mourn in black for a year and a half before she could wear even the slightest hint of colour, and even then she would be limited to dull purples and greys. She considered her range of dresses, none of which she was particularly attached to apart from a lovely blue silk which her mother had presented to her as a special post-wedding gift. Dyeing two dresses would surely be enough.
No, two would not do—Lady Catherine would expect Charlotte to present in a particular way at Rosings, and would not be slow to chide her inferior if she saw any reason to do so. Charlotte’s fingers twitched into fists upon the realisation that even the very smallest of comforts was to be denied her. The blue silk would have to be dyed too. Mr Collins had always paid her an especial compliment when she’d worn it, though the scant pleasure of his attentions in that respect had usually been accompanied by the pain of knowing that she would be expected to join him later in the marital bed.
The maid and the cook were hovering anxiously in the dim hallway outside the door when Charlotte emerged. “Bessie,” she said to the maid, “pray run down to the village with several of my dresses and ask them to dye them black. Take the blue silk, as well as any two others. I must have something decent to mourn in.”
“Oh, ma’am,” Bessie said, her lip wobbling. “I am dreadful sorry. I’d hope he would soon regain—”
“You’ll need to tell the undertaker too,” Charlotte interrupted. A great wave of aching hollowness threatened to overcome her. There was so much to be done, and focusing on the tasks ahead made her feel steadier. “Have his woman come at the earliest opportunity to help us wash Mr Collins and lay him out. And Mrs Waites, would you please fetch me a pair of scissors and a locket? There ought to be one in a drawer in my room.”
They did as they were bid, Bessie disappearing out of the back door with a clatter, and the cook vanishing into the kitchen. Charlotte stepped back into the room and closed the door. The room, which had seemed so normal to her in the many hours she’d sat there tending to her dying husband, now smelled unbearably stale. She crossed to the window and flung it open. Then, thinking of Bessie’s return and how it might look, pulled it demurely half closed. A cool breeze crept in, making her shiver, bringing with it the scent of the garden. Nothing like the smell of wet roses , her husband had used to say, though he’d never cared much for any of the other flowers beyond the ability to show them off at length to visitors. It must have rained in the night, though she scarcely remembered anything but Mr Collins’ wheezing, labored breaths, his muttered prayers, and her own helpless anxiety. Perhaps she should have opened a window before, and let the smell of wet roses guide him into the arms of God.
The cook returned in short order with both items and, after muttering some further words of consolation, left Charlotte alone. Bending over the body, she cut a small lock of dark hair—the curl that had forever hovered over Mr Collins’ left ear and which impishly grew back no matter how she had trimmed it—and placed it in the locket. The pendant seemed much heavier than it had previously, the metal harshly cold against her palm, so she slipped it back into the drawer instead of putting it on. Making her way along the corridor, she knelt and rummaged amongst the cabinets in the dining room, finally finding a box of black china, which had come with the house for just such a purpose and which she’d never had occasion to use before. She unpacked the crockery quickly, laying it out on the dining room table. It was a little dusty, despite its box, but Mrs Waites would take care of such things. Charlotte picked up a plate from the usual set which adorned the dining table—a rather ugly, silver-edged set which Lady Catherine had purchased as a wedding gift without consulting either bride or groom on their preferences—and began to pack it away, the ache in her chest growing. Even the very crockery must mourn Mr Collins’ departure.
Finding herself exhausted after her night’s vigil, Charlotte retired to a small chamber at the back of the house, which had been her preferred abode except for those nights where her husband had been sick or had requested the pleasure of her company with an ardor which had never outgrown an original awkwardness. Despite these not infrequent requests, her marriage had not been blessed with children, so at least there were no young hearts to break with the news.
Wrapping a grey shawl around her shoulders, Charlotte sat down at an old-fashioned oak desk which had once belonged to the great estate at Rosings, and which Lady Catherine had seen fit to bequeath unto them. Mr Collins’ parents were long dead and he had no relations she knew well bar the Bennets. Picking up her quill, she began a quick letter to Longbourne to inform them of the sad occasion, but halted, a sudden realisation sending a shiver down her spine; with Mr Collins dead, another distant male relative of the Bennets would now inherit the Longbourne estate. The future she and Mr Collins had imagined together—and all the financial security that came with it—had been snuffed out the moment her husband had ceased to draw breath.
Pale sunshine crept into the room, as if anxious not to disturb her, though the air grew no warmer. After she had finished her first letter, she took a fresh piece of paper and, with a less-steady hand than before, wrote:
Dearest Lizzie,
Mr Collins passed away last night after a short illness. I am thankful to report that he did not suffer much. I know that your son is still young, but I miss you terribly and it is so quiet here. I wondered if you might visit, if only for a short time.
For the first time, tears blurred her vision, threatening to spill onto the page. Charlotte added a few words and signed her name, hoping this would do. Though she longed to see Lizzie, in truth she would have even welcomed Mrs Bennet’s absurd dramatics at such a time. She had few friends, and those she did have were scattered widely over England. Her parents were miles away in Hertfordshire, her aunt comfortably settled in London. Loneliness made her chest ache, and she cried a little, feeling guilty that her thoughts were all for herself rather than poor Mr Collins.
Overnight, her situation had become precarious. In all truthfulness, it was now barely more or less so than before she married. Lady Catherine would surely wish to install a new parson as soon as possible, and the man would expect the post to come furnished with the parsonage; a home she had adored for the last four years. Charlotte would have to return to her parents’ home, Lucas Lodge, and either content herself with widowhood or be continuously on the prowl for a new match. She dabbed at her cheeks with a handkerchief and picked up a new piece of parchment. This third and final note she wrote to Lady Catherine to inform her of the sad news.
Charlotte left the addressed letters on the small table in the hallway near the front door. The maid would collect them upon her return, but for the moment Charlotte could do no more. She slept fitfully in the back room for an hour or so, dreaming of nothing, until the maid shook her awake with a cup of tea. “Did you deliver the message to Rosings?” she murmured. Mr Collins would have been proud of her attention to her proper duty, though had he been present at the writing of the letters, he probably would have insisted on Lady Catherine being rightfully first.
“Yes ma’am.” Bessie’s pale blue eyes were ringed with red. “They’re all very sorry for you, ma’am, and Lady Catherine desires that you visit as soon as possible. Oh, and the undertaker says he’ll send his woman to you this afternoon. Would you like Mrs Waites to make you a plate?”
Charlotte couldn’t face eating at that moment. Instead, she fell into another sleep and this time a dream, whereupon her legs were bound fast with tangled, knotted vines as thick as men’s fingers. When she cried out in alarm, strange flowers burst from the ground and grew teeth, sinking their fangs into the vines winding around her legs and nibbling her free.
* * *
Charlotte ate alone, staring down the table at the empty chair which had been Mr Collins’ particular favourite. She had not been back into the room which held the body since cutting the lock of his hair. She picked up another piece of toast and buttered it liberally, then cracked the top off a soft-boiled egg, spooning the soft yolk into her mouth without really tasting it. She might not have much appetite, but she would need her strength for what was next; a visit to Rosings. A March breeze, sharp but not cruel, rustled the leaves in the trees overhanging the road, allowing them neither peace nor quiet. Wearing her sole black dress—and hoping that the others were being dyed promptly in the village—Charlotte ventured on foot to Rosings around eleven on the clock, where Lady Catherine offered blunt condolences over tea, fruitcake, and lemon biscuits.
The great lady held court in her favoured sunroom. It was a palatial space only sparsely furnished compared to the rest of the house, yet the sum of the furniture was worth several times Mr Collins’ annual income. The sideboard here had come from India, and Charlotte had heard the story of its voyage so many times she could recite it from memory. The fire was lit in the grate and burned away merrily, though the room was so large that Charlotte did not feel the comfort of its heat at all. Lady Catherine sat in a high, straight-backed blue chair with gilded edges, which always reminded Charlotte of a throne illustrated in one of her childhood fairy tales, and stared sternly out of the window as the servants withdrew.
In contrast her daughter, Anne, the heiress of Rosings, offered Charlotte a warm, compassionate smile, though she looked pale and wan as ever. The spring-green gown she wore did not help matters, but Charlotte knew Anne well enough to distinguish between one of her mild headaches and the first rumbles of a week-long retreat into her sickbed. Such frailty might have put many men off their marriage suits, though when such a large estate was in question, many still would overlook it. Charlotte had often wondered why Anne did not have more suitors, though it would benefit her not to marry at all since any husband would take full control of her entire fortune. Anne had never expressed any particular disappointment over not marrying her cousin, Mr Darcy, and besides, she surely knew that any suitor she had would have to undergo a rigorous and unending series of interrogations from her formidable mother, an action no one with a heart would knowingly inflict on someone they purported to love.
“It would have honoured Mr Collins very much to know that his great benefactress could spare the time to attend his burial,” Charlotte said, desirous of getting the request out of the way quickly. Lady Catherine did not like to feel fooled in any respect, whether intentional or not. “I realise the request may be a little unorthodox, since women do not usually…but then again you are no ordinary woman, and my husband thought so very highly of you.” Archimedes might have claimed a lever could move anything on earth, but flattery could be applied to the same place for the same result and required less machinery besides.
“As well he might,” Lady Catherine said, before catching her daughter’s eye and sighing openly. “Yes, I will attend. I am due in London the week after next, and then in Rome, but I…” She frowned down at her half-empty teacup. “I will grant that Mr Collins was a good man. Always so attentive. If only more were like him, the world would be a better place.” She gestured to Charlotte to take more fruitcake, which she did obediently. It really was very good.
“Indeed,” Anne piped up, her eyes bright with sympathy. She resembled Lady Catherine in some ways—the arch of her brow, the jut of her chin—but she had not her mother’s bullish temperament. Had not Lady Catherine been present on most occasions they’d met, Charlotte suspected she and Anne might have been rather good friends. “A very sweet man. You must miss him dreadfully.”
Charlotte nodded gravely. Do I miss him? she wondered. Certainly the house is quiet without him, and I am sorry that he died. Perhaps the shock of the loss has affected me more than I—
“I am to be away for at least four months, and Anne will be lonely,” Lady Catherine added, interrupting her thoughts. “You must come to tea twice a week at least and keep each other company. Anne simply cannot abide being lonely.”
Anne raised her eyebrow at this declaration of feelings she had neither shared nor claimed, though she did not dare contradict her mother outright. Despite herself, Charlotte had to bite back a smile. “I am sure she will miss you a great deal.”
“Of course she will.” Lady Catherine sniffed, and sipped her tea again. She patted her high nest of white hair, before touching the necklace of emeralds which matched her dress perfectly. “I myself understand only too well what it is to lose a husband. It does rather try one’s patience, does it not, Mrs Collins?”
Oh , Charlotte thought with some surprise, her amusement fading. I am still Mrs Collins. The idea of being referred to as such for the rest of her life made her stomach sink. He had left his mark in every way, and she could never escape it.
“As such, I am willing to put off arranging a new parson until my return,” Lady Catherine said, reaching for another biscuit, and not waiting for Charlotte to answer her prior question. “There will be several clergymen passing through in order to attend some lecture or other in London, and they will take on such duties as they can in the meantime.” She paused, staring down at Charlotte with sharp eyes. “You are a sensible woman, Mrs Collins. I dare say you will take stock of your situation by the time I return.”
She means marry or leave, or ideally both , Charlotte thought. It took me years to land one husband. How can I possibly find another in such a short space of time? There was nothing for it; she would have to move home to her parents and likely die a spinster. After four years of marriage, she would end up right back where she’d started—a burden on her parents. Though none of this had been her fault, and knowing she could not be blamed for any of it, Charlotte nevertheless felt the sharp sting of humiliation amidst the dull ache of grief. She picked up her cup and downed the still-scalding tea, focusing on the pain of it to stop from dissolving into tears in the middle of the handsome Rosings sunroom. “Of course, Lady Catherine. I shall do my very best.”
“Mother, please,” Anne pleaded. “The poor man only died this morning. It is far too soon for Charlotte to have to consider such—”
“Every day dawns afresh,” Lady Catherine said calmly, and reached for yet another lemon biscuit.