Chapter Six
Dearest daughter,
Our deepest condolences for your loss—Mr Collins was, we believe, a good husband to you these past few years.
Though we have taken heart that one of the Miss Bennets has kept our dear Charlotte company in this time of tragedy.
We strongly encourage you to return to Hertfordshire as soon as you please so that we may comfort you too.
With fondest regards,
Mama and Papa
Charlotte’s parents often wrote their letters to her together. One sentence in a looping hand, the words leaning backwards as if facing a heavy gale, was both preceded and followed by a smaller, less neat hand, though the words were far more upright, as if they’d taken brief shelter from the storm. Charlotte folded the letter up with a heavy sigh. She would reply later, though her own letter would not reach them until after they’d heard of Mary’s arrival at Longbourne. They might even visit the Bennets, and then Mary could put them quite at ease about how well their daughter was faring.
Mary had departed so early the next morning that, by the time Charlotte had awoken, her guest was already gone, though she had left the bulk of her luggage in the spare room, so that her journey to Meryton was made a little easier. Seeing the rumpled bedsheets through the open doorway and a scarf casually strewn over the headboard had given Charlotte a pleasant feeling in the pit of her stomach which she had refused to examine further.
Less than an hour after she had breakfasted that morning, and halfway through said pile of letters, Charlotte received a lunch invitation from Rosings. She’d never been able to work out how Lady Catherine had known everything that went on in the parsonage—even news Mr Collins hadn’t yet had the opportunity to convey to his benefactress—and apparently Anne was using the same gambit, whatever that might be. After casting suspicious glances at both Bessie and Mrs Waites, who were shelling peas together at the kitchen table in companionable silence, Charlotte set off for Rosings.
She had hoped to have a quiet, brief luncheon with Anne and afterwards spend some time in solitude in the parsonage garden putting her thoughts in order, and was therefore surprised to find an even larger party than before in attendance. Anne introduced Charlotte to Mr Humphries, Mr Fitzherbert, and Lord Barrington, and added with an arch smile that of course Charlotte already knew Mr Innes.
“Of course,” Charlotte said, and was gratified when Mr Innes bowed deeply, his wide smile showing every evidence of being pleased to see her again.
“Sir George has left on business,” Mr Innes informed Charlotte, as they seated themselves at the long table in the great hall, “and has promised me he will return in a week or two with his wife. She is a very kind soul. I am sure you would like her very much, Mrs Collins.”
“I am sure that I would.” Charlotte hesitated. “But I am to go to Canterbury with Miss Bennet next week. I fear I shall miss their visit entirely.”
“Why, that is a shame indeed,” said he. “But no matter, we are all often in London and I believe you have an aunt there, do you not? How often do you—”
Before Charlotte could answer, Mr Humphries let out a great guffaw which drew the interest of everyone at the table. “No, do not repeat the jest,” he scolded Mr Fitzherbert, when the latter began to explain their conversation, “for it is only funny to those who have visited that particular region of France.”
“Which region do you speak of?” Anne inquired, and the conversation swiftly turned from recollections of pleasant holidays to matters of French politics.
Charlotte knew enough to follow, but not to make any particular opinion of her own felt, and so remained quiet, observing the rest of the party. Mr Humphries had a rebuttal for every point, though his companions did not seem to mind too hard. Charlotte thought that if one had to spend more than an hour in the presence of a man whose every comment was intended to disparage one’s own, even if he had been espousing a similar view only moments before, she would go quite mad. Anne presided over the table with the air of a queen whose mind was on other, more distant matters, and more than once Charlotte caught her staring out of the window at the fluffy white clouds beyond.
“I say, that is a very pretty dress, Mrs Collins,” Mr Humphries said unexpectedly, his eyes sliding down Charlotte’s curves.
Surprised, Charlotte could not quell a blush. “Thank you.”
Mr Innes cleared his throat. “Did Mrs Darcy help you pick it out?”
“No, I’m afraid she did not.” Charlotte repressed a smile. Lizzie had never been the type to fuss over a dress; everything she’d worn had always suited her well, though it frequently lacked in adornments or embellishments. Mary had quite a different style, and Charlotte had noticed the inclusion of small details on her outfits which, although subtle, were evidently the consequence of some care. “It was not always black, I must admit. I rather miss the colour it once was.”
“Mrs Collins’ husband passed away recently,” Anne added, shooting Mr Humphries an odd, inscrutable glance.
“Well,” said Mr Humphries, leaning over the table a little and lowering his voice, “sometimes things which begin one way often end up another entirely, and much for the better. Is that not so, Mrs Collins?”
“It may be so, sir.” Charlotte fumbled with her fork. Was he flirting with her or was this some jest at her expense? “Anne is wearing a very pretty dress today too, I see,” she said, keen to divert the attention onto a far more deserving party.
It was true—Anne’s dress was the colour of a pale summer morning, with all the promise of brilliance ahead. “I quite agree. Why, I saw the very same colour when I was sailing along the coast last year,” Lord Barrington said, stroking his whiskers. “My father had business in Germany, you see, and when I took over the management of the country estates I quite—”
As Lord Barrington talked of his latest journey and boasted of all the places he had been, punctuated by the occasional contradiction by Mr Humphries, Charlotte’s eyes also drifted towards the window. Questions plagued her mind: had Mary already arrived in Longbourne? Could she make herself comfortable at home, or had she been away too long? How long had Mr Bennet coped with his middle daughter’s arrival before he retreated to his study? Was Mrs Bennet already in hysterics about some trivial matter, declaiming her poor nerves? And might the marriage-minded mama seek to introduce Mary to some eligible suitors during her swift visit? Now that all four of her other daughters were settled, surely it could not be long before Mrs Bennet’s thoughts—never far from matrimony at the best of times—turned to her final unwed daughter?
The idea sent an unpleasant shiver down Charlotte’s back. She had rather enjoyed getting to know Mary, and the invitation to Canterbury had even ignited some small hope that she might occasionally escape Lucas Lodge for a change of scenery. If Mary married a gentleman who lived in Canterbury, it would still afford Charlotte the same freedom, but something about the notion irked her. She could not imagine Mary wed, nor a brood of little ones around her feet. Her friend—for that was what they were now, she was sure, after sharing so many confidences—was a kind soul, but a clever and impatient one. Mary would not like to be tied to a home and hearth, unable to attend her beloved salons with any regularity. Even the idea of Mary married to a benevolent man who encouraged her hobbies was an unwelcome thought.
“You are rather quiet today, Mrs Collins.” Mr Innes offered a smile, breaking Charlotte out of her ruminations. “Where is your charming guest? Do not tell me she is unwell.”
“No.” Charlotte smiled back. “She is gone to her family in Meryton and upon her return we shall set off for Canterbury.”
Mr Humphries let out another one of his loud guffaws, which drowned out whatever Mr Innes said next. Before he could repeat himself, Mr Fitzherbert leaned across the table and drew Mr Innes into a discussion about land taxes from which he could not easily extract himself. Charlotte spooned spiced carrot soup into her mouth and helped herself to another warm roll. The fare at Rosings was always excellent, but in her opinion nothing could compare to Mrs Waites’ tremendous creations.
Back at the parsonage, Charlotte wandered into the kitchen to tell Mrs Waites as much. After all, an artist deserved compliments on their work, and the time in which she could convey such frequent praise was quickly running out.
“You’re very welcome, ma’am.” Mrs Waites wiped floury hands on her even more floury apron, managing to somehow transfer white smears from the latter to the former. “I wondered if I might ask you…well, in truth, I wondered if you knew what was to happen after you leave for good? Whether you know who our next employer will be?”
The question was a reasonable one, but it reminded Charlotte again that her time residing in the parsonage was fast running out. The clock on the kitchen mantel sounded less like a tick than a distant cannon shot. “Lady Catherine will appoint someone to the position when she returns from her travels. I would be surprised if she has not already settled the matter in her mind, regardless of whether or not the new man has agreed to it yet.”
“I rather feel for him, whomever he might be,” Mrs Waites murmured, and they shared a smile.
“In any case, neither you nor Bessie need to worry. I will ensure that Lady Catherine hears my glowing recommendation for both of you.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Mrs Waites wobbled a curtsey, and wiped her floury hands—now floury arms—on her apron again. “I suspect Bessie’s young man will make a move sooner rather than later, but that should make no difference to her working here awhile longer. Unless they do not sell the butcher’s shop.”
Charlotte’s face must have betrayed her confusion, because Mrs Waites quickly added, “You did know that her beau is the butcher’s second son, did you not?”
“Yes, of course,” Charlotte said, not following at all.
Mrs Waites turned towards the stove and lifted the lid. Steam rose into the air, curling like a beckoning finger. Inside, a brown mass bubbled and roiled, an occasional carrot disturbing the surface like a small orange kraken. “After the butcher died, the eldest wanted to sell the place. He has no stomach for the business. But the second son, a good lad who has always had his eye on our Bessie, wanted to take it over. He’d make a good job of it too. Was there in all weathers, helping his father, while the other one gallivanted about hunting and whatnot, though he was oft too drunk to sit a horse.”
Charlotte wondered just how drunk one had to be to fail at sitting on top of a horse, but Mrs Waites’s stern expression forbade her from further questioning. “Ah,” Charlotte said, putting it all together. “And if this boy kept the shop, then Bessie would be expected to help him out with the customers and such once they were married.”
“Precisely, ma’am.”
“I would be happy to see her married well,” Charlotte mused. Though the women under her employ had to work for a living—and work hard they did, from dawn until dusk—at least they had the freedom to go where they wished and marry whom they wished, without any reference to particular society or standing. She was surprised to find herself a little envious of Bessie’s situation. “And what of you, Mrs Waites?”
Only a few weeks prior, Bessie had, with a wicked grin, informed Charlotte that the new grocer’s ears turned bright pink every time Mrs Waites stepped inside to buy vegetables. Charlotte had been waiting for the perfect opportunity to tease the cook about it. The lid of the saucepan slipped through the cook’s fingers and clanged down onto the rim. “What about me?”
“Would you ever marry again?”
Mrs Waites eyed her. “That depends on who’s asking.” Charlotte hesitated, but the cook added, a pink tinge to her cheeks, “Or what you’ve heard. Would you remarry, ma’am? I know you weren’t—” She broke off, her cheeks flushing more darkly.
Wasn’t what? Charlotte wondered. Happy? Was it so obvious to everyone but my husband?
“That’s not to say…” Mrs Waites bit her lip. “It’s not my place to comment on such things.”
Charlotte sighed. Over the years, she and Mrs Waites had developed the kind of friendship she could never have imagined with any of her parents’ staff, but here in Kent, isolated, friendless, and unaccustomed to being the lady of the house, Charlotte had leaned heavily on Mrs Waites and in turn the cook had warmed to her, treating her more like a favoured niece than an employer. “No, go on. Speak freely to me.”
“It’s a delicate subject, I understand.” The cook pushed a plate of biscuits towards Charlotte. “Here. A new recipe.”
She took one and bit into it; soft and buttery, with a hint of thyme. “Delicious. You constantly outdo yourself, Mrs Waites.”
Mrs Waites picked up a biscuit and turned it around in her fingers. “Next month, it will have been five-and-ten years since my husband died, and both my children are full-grown now.” One son was married and lived in Sussex, Charlotte knew, and the other had been in the navy but had suffered some sort of accident and had no use of his left arm. “They say not to have favourites amongst your children, but James was the favourite I didn’t have. Just as handsome as his brother, and far cleverer, though he had a knack for getting into scrapes and fights. The navy was a good place for him. He lives up in Scotland now. I believe he and his friend are considering sailing around the world next year.”
“And he is yet unmarried?”
Mrs Waites put her own biscuit down without so much as taking a bite. “I do not believe James is the marrying type. He and his friend get along very well together.” She raised an eyebrow.
Charlotte took another biscuit and chewed thoughtfully. “Plenty of men wait to marry until later in life when they’ve amassed some wealth or security. A family is not a cheap undertaking, as I understand it.”
“Of course, ma’am.” Mrs Waites’ lip curled for a moment, and Charlotte had the distinct impression the cook was trying not to laugh, though she couldn’t think what was funny about a young man trying to make his fortune. “While I have you, I’ve noticed that there’s been an attack on our lettuces.”
The subject change was so swift that it took Charlotte a moment to catch up. “And from whom has this attack come?”
“Small beetles. Black and green both. What do you suggest, ma’am?”
Charlotte tapped her chin. “We ought to plant some more basil. There is something they do not like about it… Perhaps the smell is revolting to them? In any case, it should protect our precious lettuces from the beetle army.” Mr Collins had hated the scent of basil, and it had been such a long time since Charlotte had been able to enjoy the sweet, delicious leaves. Now it was her turn to smirk. “I am quite sure the grocer would give us one or two plants for free, if you were to ask him prettily.”
Mrs Waites purposefully pulled the dish of biscuits out of Charlotte’s reach. “Is that so?”
Sensing she was walking on thin ice, Charlotte repressed a laugh and made her excuses to escape the kitchen. Still thinking about basil leaves, and recalling other flavours that she had not savoured since joining her husband in the parsonage, Charlotte headed along the hallway. She slowed next to the door to the spare room, which Bessie had left wide open. The maid had made the bed neatly, and waiting on top of the coverlet were two books and a letter addressed to Charlotte. She picked the letter up and broke the seal, wondering what Mary could possibly have to say.