Chapter Two
On returning to the parsonage, Charlotte waved away Mrs Waites’ offer of more tea—she was already full enough to feel queasy—and sat for a time in her parlor, staring out of the window. Thick, fluffy white clouds scudded over the sky as if late for a ball. Bessie had said the undertaker’s woman was due to come this afternoon to help them prepare Mr Collins for laying out, though she had not specified a time. The clock on the mantel struck twelve, then one, and still no sign of any visitor emerged.
Sighing, Charlotte got up and paced the room, unable to remain still for too long. The room, though mainly her domain, was full of memories which crowded into her mind unbidden. On Lizzie’s first visit to Hunsford, not long after Charlotte and Mr Collins had first been married, Mr Collins had taken care to show off every article of furniture in the house to their guest. Every angle and aspect of the doors and windows had been commented on and praised to the highest degree, and their guest invited to offer her own compliments. Charlotte had been able to tell from Lizzie’s fixed expression that her friend did not quite know what to make of this performance—that Lizzie perhaps even thought the act put on to spite her, since she had first turned Mr Collins down and had therefore rejected the possession of all that she now beheld.
Charlotte, however, had known her husband too well to suspect anything of the sort. He had been a very predictable man, not prone to sudden outbursts of temper or sullenness and his vanity, whilst conspicuous, was limited to his surroundings and not his own person. He had not been arrogant as some men were, nor vain about his looks. He simply took pride in their parsonage and in his situation, and could not imagine that anyone might do otherwise; a rather endearing flaw that Charlotte had identified from the first, and had known she could tolerate quite easily for the next few decades.
The memory of Lizzie’s countenance—her playful smile, rather than the pitying expression she’d sometimes worn when she thought no one could not see—warmed Charlotte’s heart. Lizzie would soon receive her letter and would surely visit, at least for a week or two, and would offer good counsel. Marriage had softened Mrs Darcy’s tongue, though never her wits, and motherhood seemed to agree with her though she had once or twice complained about sleepless, colicky nights. On the rare occasions she had visited over the last few years, Charlotte had found it harder and harder to part from her friend. The silly old girlhood tenderness came back in full force each time she saw Lizzie’s smile and smelt her familiar perfume.
Charlotte paused in the doorway of her small parlor. Though this room faced onto the back of the house with only a limited view of the garden, here she’d spent many happy days in solitary contentment, reading and sewing and creating floral arrangements. It contained two comfortable green armchairs and a brown couch which could seat three comfortably, a side table which had once decorated the smallest breakfast parlor at Rosings and was in truth far too big and ornate for the room, and an infrequently used pianoforte. Though a set of shelves inhabited one corner of the room, there were fewer books than she would have liked, divided by bright pink and purple geraniums in small, equally colourful pots. Beside the shelves, a large parlor palm sat in a pot on the floor, offering the room a much-needed splash of green. A visiting foreign dignitary had brought it to Lady Catherine a year ago, proclaiming the plant’s symbolic meaning as a bringer of good fortune. Lady Catherine, apparently secure in her fortune, had gifted it to Charlotte on the Collinses’ next visit, complaining that the plant did not look neat enough for her rooms. Charlotte had gratefully accepted, but couldn’t help feeling sorry for all the Rosings plants, who had been excessively pruned and were never allowed to grow according to their own desires.
Instead of entering the parlor, Charlotte sidled back down the hallway to Mr Collins’ preferred room at the front of the house, which overlooked the road, and pushed the door open before really thinking about what she was doing. For a moment she had expected to see her husband sitting there at the desk, surrounded by many papers, a cup of now-cold tea beside him. With a jolt, she realised the room was empty, and that its previous occupant would never again pace back and forth, ruminating out loud. He would never sigh, or laugh, or read a favoured passage from the Bible.
He would never let another cup of tea go cold.
Charlotte pressed a hand to her mouth. The finality of the moment shocked her. One day he had been there, and the next, gone. She would pass too, in time, as would everyone she knew and loved. What a strange experience, to be alive. And yet , said a mean little voice at the back of her mind, could you even have argued yourself to be so alive in the first place? You have achieved nothing of note. He may have only been a simple parson but at least he pursued his vocation and interests with great eagerness.
Charlotte frowned, her eyes falling upon the shelves which lined one wall of Mr Collins’ room. Most of these were religious texts or lectures, but several were books of science which had been gifted by visitors. A passing scientist had once explained Archimedes’ lever to her, which seemed sensible enough, and then followed it up with some story about a crown which she had not quite understood so well. She cast a look of longing at the books. It was not considered appropriate for a woman of her class to desire any vocation beyond being a wife, though she had often yearned to understand even a little of the great rules and laws which governed the world. However, Mr Collins had politely but firmly steered her away from such things. Now, she hesitated on the threshold of the room. Mr Collins would never know. Even so—
Bessie’s voice called along the hallway, making her jump. “The undertaker’s woman is here, ma’am.”
“A moment, please.” Charlotte smoothed her skirts down and hustled towards the kitchen, where a thin woman waited, empty-handed, flanked on either side by the maid and the cook. “Mrs Waites, please make a pot of tea. Would, um—” she stumbled uncertainly, realising she had no idea what the visitor’s name was, “would you like some tea?”
“No, thank you, Mrs Collins. I’ve got several more people to lay out today.” The woman’s cheeks were reddened by the cold, and she was clad in a dark brown dress that had seen far better days. A thick brown shawl hung over her arm. “A nasty sickness over in the village,” she added.
“Oh, how dreadful.” The fact did not make her feel connected with the world at large. Instead, she only felt more isolated, and aware that without Mr Collins to keep her abreast of the goings-on of the parish, she was quite at a loss to know who went where.
Mrs Waites held out her hands. “I can take your shawl, Mrs Peasley. I’ll keep it warm by the fire until you’re done.”
Charlotte cast a grateful eye at the cook, who responded by grinning behind Mrs Peasley’s back. Mrs Waites, with her cloud of grey hair and her permanently affixed white apron, had come with the house and was as much a fixture of it as any of the furniture or garden paths. Charlotte would be sorry to leave Mrs Waites’ cooking behind when she left; the woman could do things to a chicken that stopped only just short of witchcraft. The cook would fare well with any reasonable parson, particularly one who enjoyed his meals—and she had never met one who did not—and Bessie was a good girl who performed her duties in a timely manner. Charlotte needn’t worry about their futures, for their positions were more fixed than her own.
That afternoon, Mrs Peasley and Bessie helped Charlotte to wash Mr Collins’ body before they wrapped it in a wool shroud. The act took longer than Charlotte had imagined, and was conducted in a hushed silence. Bessie, pale-faced and wide-eyed, was clearly as new at this as Charlotte was, but Mrs Peasely directed them deftly, and was much stronger than she looked. By the time they’d finished, the undertaker’s boys had arrived, carrying a temporary wooden casket, and helped them move the body into it. Word got around quickly, and before the afternoon was out, several parishioners had already come to pay their respects.
Once the house was empty again, Charlotte sat down to write yet more letters, including one to her parents, informing them of the sad news and reassuring them that she was well. Please do not trouble yourselves to visit me here , she wrote, for I will see you soon enough. They would understand what she meant, and would be kind enough to welcome her back without fuss. Not everyone had such an easy family. Afterwards, Charlotte ate dinner, though she was too exhausted to manage more than half a plateful of Mrs Waites’ excellent ham with buttered peas, and retired to bed early to dutifully read a few Bible passages by candlelight.
The following days passed in a blur, with more parishioners turning up to share stories and pay respects. Mr Collins was buried hurriedly on a Wednesday when a passing clergyman acquiesced to give a liturgy the dead man would no doubt have found lacking. Worse, the clergyman mispronounced the dead man’s name several times as “Mr Colin”, causing Lady Cather-ine to glower so ominously that the clergyman stuttered over far more of the ending than he had of the beginning. As the mourners dispersed, Charlotte laid a bouquet of hand-picked flowers on the grave. She’d taken particular care over this, and had chosen dark crimson roses on a bed of green foliage, with strands of ivy woven in; flowers of mourning, interspersed with the symbol of wedded love.
Gardening had been one of Mr Collins’ particular passions when they’d first married, but as Charlotte’s skills surpassed his own, he had soon allowed her entire control of it. Visitors often exclaimed over the beautiful rosebushes, the unusual quantity of bright blooms and startling pinks and oranges amongst the geranium beds, and even the shrubbery, where the Collinses could boast of having American flowering trees like the Carolina silverbell—Lady Catherine had been generous enough to gift them two, after deciding the layout her own gardener had planned was too crowded. A low fence separated the parsonage garden from the lane, where the occasional carriage rumbled past, and Rosings could be viewed directly through a gap in the trees. Indeed, Mr Collins had spent many a happy hour simply standing in this spot on the path, gazing out at the handsome building where his benefactress lived.
Her late husband, Charlotte suspected, had only really enjoyed the garden insofar as it afforded him the opportunity to entertain visitors and point out the proximity of Rosings. While he had enjoyed the sight and smell of the flowers—and always could be relied upon to remark on the industriousness of the honeybee, as well as the flowers themselves in bloom under the light of God’s sun—as his parish grew, he had neither the time nor the patience to spend hours in the garden. Likewise, he had never been interested at all in the meanings of flowers, a subject which had interested his wife very much. Invariably he got them wrong—comically so—and on more than one occasion Charlotte had to repress laughter upon receiving a badly-tied bouquet. His last attempt, given on their most recent anniversary, had consisted of milkweed and geraniums, which represented indifference and folly respectively. He had meant well, she reflected, and did that not count for a great deal? Many men would not have bothered to give flowers at all, had they even remembered such gestures were possible. Still, the attempts had always left her feeling amused, embarrassed, and a little strange.
That morning, Mrs Waites informed her that the local butcher had died, and his three grown sons were now squabbling over the rightful inheritance of the business. Charlotte simply nodded, though she privately thought that Lady Catherine would not consider it below her station to swoop in and arrange the outcome to her satisfaction. In the event that she had already departed for London, perhaps Anne would take charge in the meantime, though she did not have her mother’s desire to get involved in every little aspect of village life. As if hearing her thoughts, a messenger arrived from Rosings, inviting Charlotte to tea with Anne that very afternoon.
Without her overbearing mother present, Anne de Bourgh was a much livelier soul. She pressed Charlotte to take more scones, more fresh strawberry jam, and could hardly bear if Charlotte’s cup were half empty for more than a moment. “It is such a shame,” said she, “that we did not become more acquainted during your time here. Is there no way you could stay?”
“I have little choice in the matter, I’m afraid. Without Mr Collins, I have no real ties to the area. I must return to my parents.”
“I am sure they will be very happy to see you, of course.” Anne picked up her cup, then set it back down again. “There are so few women around here with whom I have had any real friendship. I do not care for balls, as you know, for they trouble my head so.” She picked up her cup again. “If you were to find a husband, as my mother suggests, would that not solve all your problems?”
Charlotte almost choked on a scone. Anne may have seemed quiet and sickly in Lady Catherine’s shadow, but she had certainly inherited her mother’s forthrightness. “I confess I—” She hesitated, hardly knowing what to say. “I do not know who might introduce me to such a man as may want me.”
“Why, I could do so! I know many suitable gentlemen. And you are so kind, so amiable, my dear Mrs Collins, that I cannot think of a single man of my acquaintance who would not be delighted to have your company.”
It was on the tip of Charlotte’s tongue to say no, to declare herself in mourning for life. Yet she hesitated. That answer could be given, but perhaps it would close a door through which a handsome stranger might otherwise have stepped. There could be no harm in allowing Anne to introduce her to one or two men, though it wasn’t as if they were likely to be interested in her in return, and the whole situation might very quickly become humiliating. Still, she could not very well turn down an offer of help from the heiress of Rosings. Not directly, anyway. “Very well,” she said, forcing a smile. “Though I beg you not to go to any trouble for me.”
“Nonsense,” Anne declared. “I shall find you the perfect man, and you shall stay right here in Kent.” She sat back and with a look very reminiscent of a satisfied cat, gestured imperiously for more tea.