Chapter Twenty-Eight
Over the last few days, Charlotte had wondered where she would find the strength to leave Mary. She had pictured tearful, bittersweet goodbyes and at the very least, a couple of months of letters with which to console her poor broken heart. She had never pictured herself on a coach back to Kent with no such goodbye, and no hope of a single letter in her future.
The coach ride seemed twice as long without Mary; Charlotte wished to be home as quickly as possible, and had therefore immediately exchanged one coach for another upon disembarking, though this second one took a circuitous route. She had made a start at a letter to Mr Mellor, turning his offer down with the most sincere thanks she could muster, though the bumpy road and the spattering of hot tears upon the parchment left her words almost indecipherable. Folding the attempt up, Charlotte alternated between weeping and staring out of the window at the approaching dawn, her heart a clenched fist. She blew her nose hard and forced herself to take calming breaths, and by the time she arrived back in Kent, the small cottages and hamlets becoming familiar, she was sure she’d managed to erase the obvious traces of her grief. All she had to do was pretend to be fine for a few minutes, and then she could retreat to the safety of her bedroom and cry her heart out in peace.
The coach stopped outside the village tavern, and Charlotte alighted, blinking in the golden sunshine of the afternoon. Her bag was not particularly cumbersome, though she felt as if her body was encased in stone; heavy, dull, sinking into an endless quagmire. After downing a quick cup of water to quench her thirst, she marched through the village as fast as she could in such a state, trying not to draw attention. To her surprise, a familiar voice rang out from the doorway of the butcher’s shop. “Mrs Collins!” exclaimed Bessie. “Why, we did not expect you back so soon. If you would wait a moment, I will walk with you back to the parsonage.” She turned back into the store. “Let me have a bit of pork as well.”
Charlotte grimaced. She was ill-prepared for a meeting, for she had not decided what she was going to say regarding her early arrival. Bessie joined her, swinging a basket full of parcels. “Mrs Waites mentioned that the butcher’s son has been courting you,” she said, casting about for something that might occupy the maid’s mind.
“We are betrothed, ma’am.” Bessie gave a toothy, delighted smile. “He asked me just after you left and I said aye.”
Bessie was only too happy to tell the whole romantic story, which kept her occupied all the way back to the parsonage. Charlotte offered the appropriate expressions of delight and joy, and though her heart wasn’t in it, Bessie didn’t seem to notice. “Well, I am exceedingly pleased for you,” said she. “Mrs Waites tells me that he is a very hard-working young man. Does this mean you will be leaving my employ?”
“Oh,” Bessie shot her a worried glance as they neared the garden gate. “Yes, ma’am. I mean, not yours as such, for I am happy to stay on until you leave, but after that I’ll work with William in the shop.”
“I thought as much.” Charlotte held the gate open for Bessie, then closed it behind her. The flowers looked brighter than they had when she’d left only two weeks prior, though it felt like a lifetime ago. My darling garden, she thought, gritting her teeth against a fresh wave of grief, I will have to leave you too. “Do not worry, I will simply tell Lady Catherine that the next parson will require a new maid.”
Bessie trotted down the hallway and Charlotte followed, dropping her bag outside her bedroom door on the way. In the kitchen, Mrs Waites was rolling out dough, the smell of rosewater lingering in the air. “Oh, good,” said the cook, “I was wondering if you were going to—” Her eyes widened. “Mrs Collins! Whatever brought you back so early?”
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said, swallowing hard against the prickle of tears. “I didn’t have time to send a note.”
“Hmm.” Mrs Waites studied her, frowning. “Bessie, leave those things here. I’ve made three pies for the poor, if you wouldn’t mind taking them back to the village. She needn’t come back until dinner,” now addressing Charlotte, “for all her work is done and whatever is left, I can handle.”
Bessie didn’t need telling twice, and after being loaded up with the pies, she hared out of the room. A moment later, Charlotte heard the front door close. “Now you can tell me what’s wrong,” Mrs Waites said, gesturing to a chair.
“What makes you think anything is wrong?” she said, half-heartedly, sinking into the chair. “Apart from my imminent departure.”
The cook raised an eyebrow. “Have a biscuit.” She pushed a tray of golden brown biscuits towards Charlotte, who took one. The taste was rosewater, as she’d expected, and while the biscuit had a satisfying crunch, the inside was chewy and delicious.
“What’s wrong, ma’am?” the cook prompted. Her eyes were soft with concern, and the sympathetic look was almost more than Charlotte could bear.
“It is…complicated.” She reached for another biscuit. She hadn’t been able to force down any food on the journey, and though she had no real appetite, the biscuits were delicious.
“Most things are.” Mrs Waites picked up her rolling pin again and began to work. Her hands moved quickly, but her eyes were trained on Charlotte. “And how fares Miss Bennet?”
Charlotte flinched. She had expected the question but the feelings she had been repressing for the last few hours roared back, hitting her with all the force of a hammer. “She is very well,” she managed, before a lump welled up in her throat. “That is… I mean—”
“Your husband was a good man, Mrs Collins.” The cook sighed. “A kind man, though not without his faults, as you well know. And yet in four years the only times I’ve seen you so animated and lively were those occasions when either of the Miss Bennets was around, and lately, the latter made you smile far more.”
Shock fizzed through Charlotte’s veins. She put the rest of the biscuit down.
“Do not be angry with me, please,” Mrs Waites added quickly, seeing her expression. “If I have missed the target, I do apologise.”
“You have hit it squarely,” Charlotte admitted, after a moment’s hesitation. She was too tired to concoct any sort of lie, nor could she easily evade the insinuation. “I hadn’t realised I was so transparent.”
The cook took a deep breath and lowered her voice, though they were the only two in the house. “On your first day, you asked me to always be honest with you, and I’ve never had reason to do otherwise in all these years. It isn’t my place to speak on your life or what choices you may feel compelled to make in future, but…it was nice to see you truly happy for once. That’s all. And when Miss Bennet asked me for the rum cake recipe, well.” She shrugged. “She cares for you a great deal. An unusual girl, but a kind one. What I’m saying is, not all flowers thrive in the sunshine, ma’am. Some need the shade to flourish. Do you understand?”
The silence between them dragged on. The rolling pin went back and forth, back and forth, until Charlotte began to feel slightly seasick. Tears blurred her vision. “I did try to be a good wife,” she admitted. “I had hoped if I tried hard enough, I would be.”
“You were not simply good, you were perfect,” Mrs Waites declared. “Nobody ever had a bad word to say about you, least of all Mr Collins.”
“But I never loved him, and now I am in love with someone else only months after his death.” She sniffed, and rummaged in her pocket for a handkerchief. “Does that not make me callous? Heartless?”
“It makes you human.” Mrs Waites smiled. “Go on, finish your biscuit. Now, in the spirit of honesty, for you did ask me to—”
“How can I forget when you remind me so frequently?” Charlotte muttered, a trifle sulkily.
“Perhaps you could tell me a little of what transpired, and I can try to help you untangle the knot.”
Charlotte heaved a reluctant sigh, then a second, before offering a condensed version of the tale. “And so, you see,” she complained, “Miss Bennet put me in an impossible position. I could never let it be known that I had accepted a job, for society would judge my family harshly. I also do not wish to lie to my parents, though I admit I do not want to live with them again.”
The silence lengthened. “I’m afraid that I must side with Miss Bennet.”
“But the pressures upon me!” Charlotte spluttered, rising to her feet and wringing her hands. “My parents, and the circles they move in, to say nothing of the wider—”
“I’ve always liked you, ma’am.” Mrs Waites’ mouth was set in a hard line. “You were kind to a fault, always anxious to please and be pleased in turn. But you don’t have half the sense I thought you did, if you’d throw away your own true happiness for the perceived happiness of others.”
Charlotte gaped at her, outraged. “You must see that it would be impossible for me to accept a paid position.”
“I see nothing of the sort. Difficult, certainly. Impossible? No.”
“Well, I—” She cleared her throat. “Semantics do not change facts, Mrs Waites.”
The cook arched an eyebrow. “The trouble with your class, ma’am, is that they are so concerned with doing what is perceived as right, that they do not consider who set the standard in the first place, nor why.”
Charlotte opened her mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. “I will concede that I have been perhaps a little too honour-bound in my thinking, but I maintain that is no bad thing. However you argue it, you must agree that my duty is to my parents, to protect them from any harm as they have protected me throughout my life.” She bit back tears of shame. “They accepted my limitations and did not pressure me to marry, when most other parents thought of little else. I love them dearly, and the thought of being another kind of disappointment to them is more than I can bear.”
This was the truth, which she had never shied from, though she had never stated it so boldly before. Mrs Waites came around the table and folded Charlotte into her arms, letting Charlotte drop great rivulets of tears onto the cook’s apron.
“There, there,” Mrs Waites murmured, and eventually Charlotte quietened, wiping her streaming nose on her sleeve. “My husband is long dead and I’ll not meet him again in this life,” the cook went on, catching and holding Charlotte’s gaze with a new intensity, “but I’ve been given a second chance at love and I intend to grab it with both hands. Do you know what I would give to have one more moment with my David? If your young lady died tonight, perish the thought, what would you regret? Saying something, or not saying it? What would you do with a second chance?” Mrs Waites clucked in disapproval. “And don’t tell me there’s nothing you’d do differently. I wasn’t born yesterday, ma’am.”
The retort died on Charlotte’s tongue. She pictured Mary, cold and dead, lying pale against the silken inlay of a casket. Grief bubbled in her chest, threatening to submerge her. “Oh,” she gasped, and leaned against the table. Her knees were weak, unable to support her weight. “I do believe I have made a terrible mistake.”
“Mistakes can be undone, ma’am. Death cannot be.”
Charlotte sank back into the chair and pressed two fingers to her temple, which had begun to throb. “How did you get to be so wise?”
“It’s all the salt, ma’am,” Mrs Waites said, her lips twitching. “It has preserved my sagacity for many a long year. And while I cannot speak for all families, for some do hold to different values and traditions, I know that if you were my daughter I would want only your health and happiness. Remember I talked of my son, James?”
“Yes, but I do not see what he has to do with—” Charlotte blinked, the memory of their previous conversation seen through an entirely new light. “Wait, are you saying… And his friend whom you spoke of, were they… Oh, good Lord.” She buried her face in her hands. “You must have thought me so ignorant of the world.”
“A little naivety is not a bad thing, Mrs Collins. Perhaps before you make a hasty decision, you might speak with your family. Ask for their blessing. Surely it is worth a try.”
Charlotte blinked. She had never considered this an option. “Do not you think they would disown me?”
“Lord and Lady Lucas? Never,” Mrs Waites scoffed. “They are sweet people, and they have raised a sweet daughter. You might think a little higher of them than that. They may not understand, but I am certain that they will at least try to. Look, ma’am, I’ve found that happiness lives in many places, not just the land of love. It’s an old saying worth thinking about. Though if it be the land of love, well…that is not never a bad thing, ma’am, no matter what anyone says.”
“Does happiness live in the grocer’s shop?” Charlotte muttered, unable to help herself from teasing, and was rewarded with a blush and a splutter.
“Out! Out of my kitchen!” Mrs Waites ordered, though she was laughing, and Charlotte couldn’t help a small smile of her own.
In her bedroom, she lay face down on the sheets while hot tears leaked down her cheeks, her chest tight with a deep blue grief that refused to release its stranglehold. She loved Mary, of course she did—that had never been in question. Everything had gone so wrong, so quickly, that Charlotte had acted like a wounded animal in a trap, struggling to get free at any cost. It wasn’t as if she actually wanted to go back to Hertfordshire and live as she once had, filling her weeks with dull visits, occasional balls, and the ever-present expectation that she ought to pursue every available bachelor within reach. Quite the opposite, in fact; now that she knew that more options were available to her, it would be nigh impossible to ignore those open doors.
She could never feel about anyone the way she felt about Mary, rendering any marriage no better than a prison sentence. Nor could she spend the rest of her life pottering around in a single garden, knowing she had turned down the chance to work on the most incredible collection she had ever seen, and to spend every day surrounded by more happiness than she had known in all her first thirty years of life combined. If there was a path to joy, its only route lay through the valley of truth. Was she brave enough to journey there? Was the risk worth the reward?
It would have to be, Charlotte decided.