Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
The clock in the hall struck ten, and Charlotte counted each chime by habit more than choice.
She stood at the sideboard, arranging the last of the toast on a platter while her sister Maria complained about the ribbon selection at the milliner’s in Meryton.
Their mother nodded absently, her attention likely fixed on who would be among the morning callers.
“Charlotte, the marmalade,” Sir William said without looking up from his newspaper. “And pass the butter, if you please. The toast is quite in need of it this morning. And tell Cook the eggs were overdone again.”
She fetched the jar from the cupboard and placed it beside his elbow, then reached for the plate of butter and set it within easy reach. The boys burst through the door with mud on their boots despite her reminder yesterday about wiping them clean.
“Father, Carter says his father’s setter had nine pups,” the elder announced. “Nine! Think of the hunting we could have if—”
“If we had the means to keep hounds,” Sir William interrupted. “Perhaps when you establish yourself in trade—”
“Trade!” The boy’s face flushed. “But you left trade, Father.”
And indeed he had, Charlotte considered, reflecting on the irony of her brother’s declaration.
Sir William Lucas had been formerly in trade in Meryton, where he had made a tolerable fortune, and risen to the honour of knighthood by an address to the king during his mayoralty.
The distinction had perhaps been felt too strongly.
It had given him a disgust to his business, and to his residence in a small market town; and, in quitting them both, he had removed with his family to a house about a mile from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge, where he could think with pleasure of his own importance, and, unshackled by business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all the world.
For though elated by his rank, it did not render him supercilious; on the contrary, he was all attention to everybody.
Inoffensive by nature, friendly, and obliging, his presentation at St. James’s had made him courteous.
However, it had not made him particularly rich.
It was a state marked by pride and status, yet he could not provide large dowries for his many daughters, nor the allowances and privileges his sons desired.
The latter longed for the luxuries of a wealthy gentleman—foxhounds and daily wine—yet bore a childish understanding of what money could buy, even as the family struggled to maintain their lifestyle.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the table. Charlotte busied herself with collecting the empty plates and glasses.
“Charlotte, my blue spencer needs mending before the assembly,” Maria said. “The sleeve is coming loose at the shoulder.”
“I shall see to it this afternoon,” Charlotte promised.
“And my white gloves need washing,” Maria added. “The ones with the pearl buttons.”
Charlotte nodded, cataloguing the requests in her mind alongside the litany of other mounting tasks.
Her mother rose from the table. “The Bennets are calling this afternoon,” Lady Lucas announced. “Charlotte, you will need to see that the front parlour is aired out and have Cook prepare the cake. Remind the servants to use the good china, for you know Mrs Bennet notices everything.”
Charlotte’s fingers tightened on the plates. This afternoon. Oh well, perhaps after the Bennets leave, when the household settles, someone might— She perished the thought mid-sentence, thinking instead, what was the point of wishful yearnings?
“I will not be here,” Maria declared, pushing her plate away. “Harriet Goulding invited me to practise duets.”
“Take one of your sisters,” Lady Lucas said, already moving towards the door. “Charlotte, ensure the girls are presentable for Mrs Bennet’s visit. Their hair was quite wild yesterday.”
Charlotte watched her family disperse to their various pursuits—her father to his study to review his old mayoral correspondence, her mother to her morning routine, the boys to their Latin tutor, Maria to her music, and the younger girls to their samplers.
She remained in the empty room, surrounded by the remains of breakfast. The hall clock chimed the half-hour. Charlotte gathered the remaining dishes and, with the aid of a servant, carried them to the kitchen, and thereupon instructed Cook to bake the cake.
“The eggs, Miss Charlotte?” Cook asked, the weariness of repeated criticism evident in her voice.
“They were perfect,” Charlotte said. “Father prefers them less done, is all.”
Cook huffed but said nothing more. Charlotte left her to her work and climbed the stairs to Maria’s room, where the blue spencer lay draped across a chair. The extent of the damage to the shoulder seam was more severe than her sister had suggested.
She fetched her sewing basket and settled by the window. Below, she could hear the boys reciting Latin verbs, their voices carrying through the open window. Maria’s pianoforte scales drifted from the parlour, competent but uninspired.
The spencer’s seam drew closed, stitch by careful stitch. Charlotte held it up to examine her work, and for a moment—just a moment—she saw herself at seventeen, wearing a similar spencer to her first assembly, full of hopes and dreams.
“Charlotte!” Her mother’s voice carried up the stairs. “Mrs Long has arrived early. Come and attend to her while I finish my letters.”
She set aside the mending, smoothed her skirts, and descended to perform the duty of the eldest daughter, the one who could always be relied upon, who asked for nothing and received exactly that in return.
Mrs Long sat in the front parlour. Her sharp eyes commenced taking in every detail of the room. Charlotte curtsied and took her place on the settee, preparing to listen to whatever gossip from Meryton would fill the next quarter of an hour.
“Are there no special occasions in the Lucas household today?” Mrs Long asked, her gaze lingering on Charlotte’s plain attire.
Charlotte was taken aback. She drew a quick breath. Does Mrs Long know? Has someone remembered and mentioned it, perhaps?
“Only the usual preparations for the assembly,” Charlotte replied. “Maria is quite looking forward to it.”
The tea arrived, piping hot, and was balanced carefully on a tray by the new maid, whose inexperience was evidenced by her nervous hands.
Charlotte poured for Mrs Long first, then for herself, and passed the biscuits with the grace that only comes from years of practice.
She smiled at the right moments, responded in all the expected tones, and nodded in agreement when Maria’s beauty and charm were described in terms that would have seemed exaggerated had they not been repeated so often.
There was, Charlotte reflected, a peculiar comfort in the sameness of these formalities; they required no imagination, only endurance.
“Ah, yes.” Mrs Long smiled. “She is such a pretty girl, your Maria. She shall make a fine match soon enough, mark my words. Has she caught the notice of any of the officers yet? Or perhaps Mr Goulding. His mother speaks of little else but his prospects.” She sipped her tea with a little more enthusiasm than was warranted.
“Maria will be positively beset with partners at the assembly, you may depend upon it,” Mrs Long continued, fixing Charlotte with a look designed both to flatter and to interrogate.
Charlotte offered a polite reply. “Maria enjoys her music more than any other pursuit, I think. She has little inclination for officers, even the dashing ones.” This was, of course, a lie, but a gentle one, intended to hold Mrs Long at bay for another five minutes.
If Maria were present, she would blush, deny all, and then, in an unguarded moment, betray herself with a sigh or a giddy retelling of some recent encounter.
“Has there been any particular attention paid by the curate? Mr Bridges? I hear he is very attentive to the musical accomplishments of the young ladies.”
Charlotte replied that Mr Bridges had called twice that week, but that his conversation seemed more concerned with the Meryton parish’s lingering roof repairs than with the voice and hands of her younger sister.
Mrs Long shook her head, an indication of either a want of ambition on Maria’s part or a deplorable lack of gallantry in the clergy.
She pressed the point further, speculating with confidence on a possible soon-to-be-flourishing attachment between Maria and the curate, despite Charlotte’s slightly evasive answers.
It seemed the lady was not as attuned to the local goings-on as she pretended, else she would have heard that the curate was soon to leave that part of the country.
Mrs Long lowered her cup, her lips pursed with the satisfaction of a woman about to deliver a loaded observation.
“I quite understand, my dear. Not all girls are in a hurry to escape the nest. But time does run swiftly! I remember when you were the brightest hope in Meryton, Miss Lucas. Now, the town speaks only of Maria, or of Jane Bennet, who is a beauty, though perhaps not as clever as your own sister.” Her eyes lingered on Charlotte—appraising and slightly pitying.
Charlotte nodded. “Jane Bennet is universally admired, and I am sure she will do her family proud.” She smoothed the napkin on her lap, suffering the old familiar sting of comparison—not to Jane, but to the girl she had been at seventeen, before practicality and duty overtook hope.
“As for Maria, I should be sorry to see her leave so soon. We would be lost without her laughter.”
“Of course, of course,” Mrs Long said, and then, with a sidelong glance, added, “Your mother will be relieved when you are all settled. It is so much worry for a woman to have daughters at home, wondering and waiting. But you are a comfort to her, no doubt, taking on so many of the household cares—it is such a help to Lady Lucas, and to the little ones.”
The conversation, as it often did with Mrs Long, hovered on the line between compliment and faint censure.
Charlotte could not resent it. She had grown too accustomed to the expectations of friends, relations, and every idle gentlewoman within miles: that a daughter must marry, and that a daughter who did not must devote herself to the smooth running of other people’s lives.
Whenever Mrs Long drifted towards the dangerous waters of Charlotte’s own prospects—her lack of them, her age, the rumours already swirling about her contented spinsterhood—Charlotte steered the topic away.
She asked after Mrs Long’s nieces, after the health of Mr Long’s gout, and even after the price of barley.
Another quarter-hour passed in this manner, with Mrs Long occasionally glancing at the clock. Each time she did so, Charlotte’s relief was immediate and palpable, surely visible to anyone who cared to look.
At length, the older woman set her cup aside and announced she must not overstay, for she had promised Mrs Phillips a visit and there was talk of a shipment of new muslins at the haberdasher’s.
“I expect to hear great news of Maria soon, Miss Lucas,” she said, rising.
“And of you as well, perhaps? You never know who might come into the neighbourhood this year.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief or malice. Charlotte could not decide which.
She curtsied, showed the guest out, and closed the door with a soft click. Charlotte marvelled despite herself that Lady Lucas had somehow managed to evade the morning’s visitor and that she herself should have been so fortunate.