Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
HERTFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
Charlotte Lucas awoke that morning to the same thoughts and meditations which had at length closed her eyes the night before.
Her life had yielded nothing she had once hoped for and precisely what everyone who knew her best had grown to fear.
Today marked her twenty-seventh year. There had been no mention made of it yesterday, nor was any likely today.
Though she herself could not help remembering, she had all but given up hope that anyone in her family might.
Charlotte had awakened before the others, as she often did. She lay perfectly still, listening to the distant stirrings of the servants below stairs. Twenty-seven. The number hung in her mind.
She pushed aside her covers and rose from bed.
Her birthday would likely pass, as it always did—unnoticed by her family.
And yet, the hope for even a polite acknowledgment, perhaps a new ribbon from her mother, Lady Lucas, would not quite abate—even if such a gesture came with the carefully unspoken recognition by her mother that another year had slipped away without a proposal of marriage.
Charlotte moved to her washstand and splashed cold water on her face. The shock of it freed her from the last vestiges of sleep. Looking in the mirror, she regarded herself with the same practical assessment she applied to all things: a plain face with intelligent eyes, her brown hair.
Is that a strand of grey or just the morning light? Charlotte wondered.
No, it is much too soon for that, she surmised. Or is it?
Hers was not a face to inspire poetry, but rather a sensible countenance that had once, perhaps, held some promise of attracting a suitable match.
That time had passed. Charlotte understood her position with perfect clarity. The daughter of Sir William Lucas might once have been considered an acceptable match for a man of modest means, but youth had been her only true dowry, and that currency diminished with each passing year.
She dressed quickly, choosing her sturdiest walking boots and a gown that would withstand the morning dew.
The house remained quiet. Her mother would not rise for another hour, her father later still, and her younger brothers and sisters could be counted upon to sleep until summoned.
This early solitude was Charlotte’s private luxury and one of the few indulgences she permitted herself.
Upon descending the stairs to the kitchen, she nodded to the cook, who barely looked up from kneading dough.
The woman was accustomed to Miss Lucas’s early departures, her strange preference for solitary walks when a lady might better occupy herself with needlework or improving her mind through extensive reading.
“I shall return before breakfast,” Charlotte said, taking an apple from the bowl on the sideboard. This too was part of their usual practice—the cook’s silent acknowledgment and Charlotte’s unnecessary reassurance.
The April morning met her with a lively breeze and the rich, damp smell of the countryside. Charlotte drew her shawl tighter and set off towards the path that led away from Meryton—away from neighbours who may or may not offer birthday congratulations laced with pity.
Four years ago, when her intimate friend Elizabeth Bennet, from the neighbouring estate, had turned sixteen and subsequently was out in society, they had laughed together about spinsterhood as though it were an impossibility for either of them.
Now, her younger friend remained vibrant and sought-after at assemblies and balls, while Charlotte had gradually grown weary of such gatherings.
The path veered towards a little copse of trees where bluebells had begun to appear in scattered patches.
Charlotte slowed her pace, allowing the familiar landscape to work its magic upon her restless thoughts.
Here, at least, she need not maintain the pleasant expression expected of an unmarried daughter in a good home.
Here, she could acknowledge the discontent that gnawed at her practical heart.
Charlotte would not say there was no disappointment in remaining unwed—she had long ago reconciled herself to the likelihood of that outcome and in the diminishing possibilities that came with it.
Without a husband, there would be no household of her own to manage or children to raise.
She would remain forever in her father’s house, useful but unnecessary, present but unremarkable.
The hem of her gown was soon wet with dew as she quit the path to look at a particularly fine stand of bluebells.
Their delicate heads, bowed under the weight of moisture, persisted, however, in their brief, vivid existence.
Charlotte touched one ever so gently, as to watch a droplet roll from petal to stem.
“Seven and twenty,” she said aloud, testing the sound of it. The words dissipated into the air. Just as this day would pass, and the next, and all the days that followed, unless something changed. Unless she found the courage to change it herself.
The sun had brightened while she lingered, and her few minutes among the bluebells turned into nearly half an hour.
The realisation unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
She did not like to seem absent-minded or inattentive to her commitments, even when neither was required of her.
Yet it was not dread of rebuke that hastened her steps back towards the lodge, but rather the knowledge that the household would soon be stirring, and that she—so efficient, so predictable—had better play her part as the dutiful daughter returning from her morning routine.
As Charlotte retraced her path through the dew-covered grass, her thoughts shifted from the private indulgence of self-pity to the pragmatism demanded by life within the walls of Lucas Lodge.
Already she could picture her mother at the table, fussing over the arrangement of the breakfast things and dropping pointed observations about the state of her eldest daughter’s complexion; her father, behind the newspaper, pretending to ignore the domestic drama while slyly enjoying every moment; her younger brothers and sisters, noisy and heedless, as yet immune to the weighty aspects of marriage and status.
It was not that she disliked her family or their routines. There was comfort in their predictability. The detachment she felt was more like that of a competent steward, overseeing the smooth running of an estate she could never truly possess. She had become essential and invisible, both at once.
Charlotte mused, Is that not the fate of so many women of my circumstance, in so many homes, across England and the world?
Before she reached the kitchen door, Charlotte paused at the edge of the garden to collect herself.
She drew a long breath, savouring the moment, and let her gaze linger over the grounds.
The borders would in due time be awash with roses, and the vegetable beds—her particular pride—were already green with promise.
At least here, her efforts bore visible reward.
She entered the house as quietly as she had left it, letting the heavy door fall shut behind her with only the barest thud.
The kitchen was more animated than before: the cook had been joined by a scullery maid, and the air was thick with the scent of baking bread.
She nodded to the kitchen staff, who registered her return with no more than a glance and a respectful “Miss Lucas” before resuming their work.
Charlotte slipped past them and climbed the back stairs with some haste.
Her boots tracked a noticeable trail of mud, which she would later feel obliged to clean herself rather than trouble a servant.
In her room, she peeled away her shawl and exchanged it for a crisp lace cloth, pinning it in place with the silver brooch given to her years ago when her prospects were better.
She took in her reflection in her mirror, though the grey strand at her temple demanded more than its fair share of attention.
She considered for a moment whether she ought to attempt a few curls—even pluck the offending stray away—but dismissed the thoughts as mere vanity and caprice.
She proceeded towards the breakfast room to commence the smooth governance that was her birthright and her burden: the eldest daughter, mistress of nothing, and obedient partner to her mother’s endless campaign for domestic perfection.
Upon reaching the door, she lingered for a moment to catch the sounds within.
There was the murmur of voices, the sound of silver against porcelain, and the sudden peal of laughter from her youngest sister—those familiar notes of household harmony which, while once so consoling, now served only to remind her of the boundaries which her situation imposed.