Charlotte Collins: A Continuation of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice Read online

  Charlotte poured two fresh cups of tea and considered her sister’s situation. Their parents’ health had continued to decline, leaving Maria without the benefit of society during the prime of her young life. She had not had the opportunity to experience the exuberance of youthful courtship. Or its disappointments.

  Indeed, Charlotte had never experienced love as such and had doubted its very existence until she had too late seen the evidence of it. Now, she believed that it was a rare commodity. “Better to be an old maid than unhappily married.”

  Maria’s expression soured briefly. “Even you are not convinced of the truthfulness of that statement. Confess. You have always believed that it was better to be unhappily married than to be a poor old maid.”

  “Yes.” Charlotte could not dispute that she had believed so in the past. Mr. Collins had certainly made her reconsider her previous philosophy, and now, she was less certain of her opinion on the matter.

  Maria ignored her tea and picked up the bonnet that she had discarded earlier that morning. She began to arrange a bow of pale green ribbon. Concentrating on her task, she appeared to give little thought to her words. “I shall find security and love, I am certain of it, for I still have my beauty, but I require a chaperone to set a toe into society. Mama and Papa cannot do it, but you could. Though you continue to wear your ugly colored gowns, you are no longer in mourning and can attend balls and parties. You are an independent woman.”

  “My independence was hard won.” Charlotte said, recalling the tediousness of her daily interactions with her husband that had resulted in her current situation. How many ponderous sermons had she been subjected to? How many simpering compliments had she endured? And worse, how many fireplace mantels had she heard him describe in painful detail? “Note the carvings, my dear, the fluting, the ribbons. All are of the finest quality. A masterful hand created this artful mantel.” And on and on he would go until Charlotte wished humanity had never discovered fire, for there would be no fireplaces on which to lavish his praise. Yes, her independence had been hard won indeed.

  “But without your help, I have no hope of winning my own or of finding love.” Maria looked up from her bonnet. “You must be my chaperone.”

  Charlotte looked at Maria’s shining face and wondered if she had ever felt so hopeful. Perhaps as a very young girl she had imagined meeting the perfect gentleman and falling in love with him. Perhaps, buried deep within her the hope existed still, but she was now too practical to live for something that might never happen. Her security had not come easily, and she simply did not have the will to go into society and become swept up, and then disappointed, by the quest for love, even if it were her sister’s quest and not her own.

  But then there was Maria with her head full of wishes, and Charlotte knew that for some people dreams of love did come true. Her friends Jane and Elizabeth Bennet had both had the good fortune to be able to marry for love. And by pure coincidence, their beloved gentlemen had both possessed great fortunes. Charlotte had not had the luxury of marrying for love, but perhaps her sister might.

  “If Mama and Papa approve, and continue to send your allowance, you may keep the small bedchamber upstairs as long as you like, and I will serve as your chaperone.”

  Maria squealed like a young girl, leapt off her chair, and flung herself onto the settee and into Charlotte’s arms. “And may we go to the winter ball in Westerham in two weeks’ time?”

  Charlotte groaned aloud. She had not expected the onslaught to begin so suddenly.

  “Pray, say yes, sister. A gentleman will be there whose acquaintance I do so wish to make. An American.” Maria said the word as though it were exotic and strange. “He is said to be just about my age and is traveling with his uncle on a tour of Europe. They are relatives of Colonel Armitage and are staying at his house for the duration of their visit.”

  Charlotte eyed her sister. An American? What could she possibly be thinking?

  The Armitages, at least, were a well-respected family of decent fortune. Colonel Armitage had been in service to England, and he had elevated his whole family’s status. Mrs. Armitage was a quiet, unassuming woman, who seemed to disappear when her jovial husband was near. Their children had made very good marriages. This American gentleman came from good English stock, and if he was on a European tour, he obviously had a good income as well, but Charlotte would withhold her good opinion until she had seen proof that he was not a barbarian, which was unlikely.

  “He is said to be very handsome…”

  There was the real inducement, Charlotte thought.

  “…and Americans are reputed to be less particular about rank and age and other things about which we English are so concerned.”

  Supposing it could do no harm, Charlotte smiled in encouragement. “Indeed? Well, then I suppose you must meet him.”

  “Then we may go to the ball?”

  “Yes, I suppose we may. Quite a picture I shall make in my somber attire among all the angelic white muslin and pale-colored gowns.” She plucked at the drab gray fabric of her skirts.

  “It has been two years, and it is perfectly acceptable for you to begin wearing other colors.” Catching Charlotte’s reproving look, Maria continued, “But somber shades quite flatter your coloring. You will not make such a dour picture as you suppose. You may be the belle of the ball yet.”

  Maria was being kind. Absurd, but kind. Charlotte was an old widow, no matter in how loving a light her younger sister viewed her.

  However, against Charlotte’s will, a tiny thrill of forbidden delight coursed through her at the prospect of attending a ball, of meeting new people and conversing with old friends without the weight of Mr. Collins always about her shoulders, and of dancing again. But who would dance with her now? Her days as a debutante were over years ago, Charlotte reminded herself, quickly squashing her excitement under the weight of reality. She was just coming out of mourning for her husband and must perform her duty as chaperone to her sister.

  “No one will spare a second glance at me. And certainly no gentleman.”

  “I would be happy if a man would only look once at me.”

  Charlotte sighed. “You desire a marriage so much even after seeing my own less than ideal one?”

  “I do. Honestly, I do. For I have seen what is possible when one marries for love.”

  Charlotte understood Maria’s reference perfectly, and she did not blame her one bit for desiring the same love that Jane and Elizabeth had found. “Then we shall ensure that you meet your young American, but we will do so with the utmost decorum and propriety. Otherwise, straight back to Mama and Papa you go.”

  Maria straightened and blinked. “What a thing to say! I shall behave myself very well.”

  Two

  An odd mixture of scents is present in the air of any ballroom: wood smoke, perfumed flesh, cold meats, watered wine, and humanity. Charlotte had forgotten the precise combination of pleasant and unpleasant aromas. Now she inhaled deeply, attempting to ignore the stench of body odor that existed beneath the other, more pleasant, smells. The scents seemed to hold memories, and Charlotte endeavored to ignore them. Memories would do her no good. She must attend to Maria, not to her own past. Instead, she focused on more tangible elements of the chamber.

  Two large fireplaces loomed at one end of the ballroom, and the sheer number of wax tapers, probably donated by Lady Catherine, who never attended a public ball but who liked to make her charity known, leant a feeling of opulence to the assembly.

  Arm in arm, the two sisters wove their way through the crowd toward an empty spot near the fireplaces where they could observe the dancers. Maria sparkled in her white gown with its puffed sleeves and pale green trim around the neckline, and though she would never admit it, Charlotte felt somewhat attractive in the modestly cut lavender gown with black trim, which seemed to flatter both her face and her slim figure.

  Maria jabbed Charlotte in the ribs. “That must be him.” Her voice was sharp, but at least she
had bothered to whisper.

  Charlotte scanned the ballroom for the gentleman who had captured her sister’s attention so forcefully. Maria gestured with a turn of her pretty blond head and giggled. Charlotte looked but could see no one spectacular. “Who?”

  “The gentleman. The American.” Again the word was spoken as though it denoted something unusual and not just an ordinary man. “The one standing next to Colonel Armitage.”

  Charlotte found Colonel Armitage easily enough, for he had a memorable physique, large and jolly, and always stood out, even in a crowded room. Beside him was a young man, who appeared to be rather tall and had dark blond hair, which had been styled to convey unconcerned wildness. She was certain that such perfectly tousled wildness actually took his valet hours to achieve. He spoke to Colonel and Mrs. Armitage, gesturing broadly, and smiled just as broadly. He appeared to have engaging manner, for the Armitages attended to his every word, as did many guests, but Charlotte thought she sensed a cocky air about him.

  No, she must not believe the worst of him. Not yet. Perhaps her own poor experience with gentlemen was coloring her opinion of the young man. “He looks quite…” She searched for the word. “…nice.”

  “He certainly does. I expected him to appear different somehow, being that he is an American. Perhaps more uncouth. But he is dressed in proper English attire.”

  She was quite correct. His striped waistcoat, tan trousers, and dark coat caused him to blend with the other gentlemen in attendance. “He seems to fit well indeed, but we shall see how well he gets along in society.”

  Maria tore her eyes from the American and turned to her sister. “You must arrange a meeting for me before another young lady steals his attentions for the evening.”

  How quickly Maria had forgotten her promise of good behavior. Charlotte would have to guard her carefully indeed. “I shall do my duty as your chaperone and arrange an introduction, but everything will be done in a proper manner. I certainly will not rush straight to the colonel and demand a meeting.”

  There were rules of behavior that must be followed without question. Appearances meant everything for a woman who hoped to gain the protection of a husband. Was she naturally witty and a good conversationalist? No? Then she must learn to be so. Was she a natural musician? No? Then she must practice until she seemed to be naturally gifted. Was she happy? No? She must pretend to be so.

  A woman must be an artist, a seamstress, and a great reader, and this she must do with an air of gentleness and decorum. She must behave comme il faut even if she wished a thousand times a day to do otherwise. It simply had to be done in the name of keeping oneself from falling low in society and being forced to accept charity from those formerly called equals.

  Maria’s gaze rested again on the American. Her voice was wistful. “No, indeed. That would not do at all. I do not want to appear to be overeager.”

  “The best way not to appear overeager is not to be overeager in the first place.”

  Maria groaned. “Please do not take the pleasure out of this for me.”

  Charlotte took Maria by the hand, gently turning her away from the American. “I do not intend to rob you of pleasure, but neither do I intend to sit by and allow you to be injured or to injure yourself socially.”

  “You fret too much.”

  “You do not fret enough.” She glanced at the gentleman out of the corner of her eye. He did not appear to be a ruffian.

  Maria said, “Then together we will fret just enough.”

  Charlotte hoped it would be so. “We must act decorously.”

  The frustration Charlotte had felt from her sister seemed to vanish. Perhaps her warnings had taken hold.

  “I suppose you are right, but I am so tired of being alone. I do not think a little indecorous behavior would destroy my reputation.”

  Perhaps her warnings had not even been heard.

  Charlotte was about to offer a stern rebuke when old Mrs. Farmington and her young granddaughter sidled up to them. Mrs. Farmington maintained a powdery, aged appearance even in the generous softness of so many candles. The pattern and color of her dress, a fleshy background with a subtle chevron pattern, were also reminiscent of powder, causing Charlotte to wonder if she ordered her entire wardrobe after the substance. She groaned at her approach, for Mrs. Farmington’s mind was as dusty as her appearance, and she was forever speaking out of turn.

  Polite curtseys were offered and the older woman began the conversation. “Such a lovely ball, is it not, Mrs. Collins?”

  Thankfully, a safe subject. “It is indeed, Mrs. Farmington.”

  “It has been quite some time since we have seen you out in society.”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Farmington had put together two sentences of good sense, and Charlotte wondered if a third could possibly follow.

  She gestured to Charlotte’s half-mourning attire. “You do Mr. Collins credit by your devotion to him. And it was such good fortune that he was able to leave you a little something on which to live.”

  Apparently, two reasonable sentences were her limit.

  The old lady was rude but correct. Mr. Collins had left her some money. Before their marriage, Charlotte had the foresight to maneuver him into arranging a jointure, a fitting sum of money left to her in the event of his death. Charlotte’s father had encouraged her not to make any such request, believing it wisest not to be troublesome before the marriage was official. But she had ignored his advice, and at first blush, Mr. Collins, being very much against the idea, had proven her father right.

  Mr. Collins had railed against the idea. A woman inheriting money was unbiblical, he said.

  Then, she had reminded him of Mr. Bennet, who had made similar arrangements for his wife and children and whose house Mr. Collins himself would inherit. Of course, Mr. Collins could not allow his relation to appear to be his better. And so employing the straightforward and uncomplicated tactic of exploiting her husband’s desire to keep up with his relations, Charlotte had contrived a jointure.

  Straightaway after Mr. Collins’s funeral, she had visited his solicitor and invested her small inheritance in the Funds, and with good luck and a high rate of interest, Charlotte had been satisfied that she would be able to exist in her widowed state.

  She then sought suitable accommodations, for she was forced to vacate Hunsford parsonage so that Lady Catherine could prepare it for its next occupant. However, hoping to spare herself the embarrassing task of making inquiries of those whom she had formerly considered her social equals, Charlotte asked after another structure on Lady Catherine’s estate: an unused hunting cottage inconveniently located on the fringes of Rosings Park.

  Lady Catherine had agreed to rent it to her at a greatly reduced rate, a circumstance that Charlotte suspected had arisen not from charity or kindness but from a feeling of responsibility. But she did not care why Lady Catherine had given her such charity, and she certainly did not intend to jeopardize it in any way. And now that she was a lowly tenant of Lady Catherine, she was no longer invited to attend the tedious social functions at the great house.

  Truly, the situation could not be more agreeable.

  But it was none of Mrs. Farmington’s affair. Charlotte certainly had no desire to discuss her situation with this old crone or anyone else, so she chose to deflect her line of inquiry. “Mr. Collins’s death was quite a shock, but I am coping with it as best I can.”

  Mrs. Farmington’s smile oozed pity. “Yes, yes, my dear, it is good to see you out amongst society again though I doubt there are any suitably unattached gentlemen in attendance tonight to give you a turn around the dance floor.”

  Charlotte did not know what reaction was proper in the face of such indiscreet comments. She could not laugh or manage to muster anger. She simply stared at old Mrs. Farmington and wondered if it were possible for her to attain the coveted blunder trio and discuss not only income and matchmaking but to comment on her out-of-fashion attire as well.

  She meant well, Charlotte was cer
tain, but rather than allowing her to direct the conversation any longer, she gestured to Maria, who stood quietly beside her. “I am acting as my sister’s chaperone. And is this your granddaughter?” She nodded at the woman who stood at the old woman’s side. “She looks far too grown up to be little Miss Farmington.”

  Mrs. Farmington beamed. “This is indeed our Constance. She is quite a good deal bigger, is she not?”

  A quick glance at Miss Farmington revealed that she did not appreciate being called a good deal bigger, but she said nothing as her grandmother continued. “This is her first season out. Is she not lovely?”

  Constance Farmington was a lovely young lady with chestnut hair and a sprinkling of dainty freckles across the bridge of her nose, but she rather reminded Charlotte of the red roan pony her family had owned when she was a girl. She hoped that Miss Farmington was like the pony only in appearance and not in manners, for the beast had ignored her protestations and dragged her all over the countryside in search of the most delectable grasses. That pony had taught Charlotte a great deal about the complexities of social interaction: most people—and horses—behave in ways that benefit themselves and care little for the wishes and feelings of others.

  Charlotte glanced again at red roan Miss Farmington, who was clearly thrilled to be among members of the opposite sex. She leaned forward conspiratorially and spoke to Maria loudly enough for the group—and perhaps the entire assembly—to hear. “Have you had the pleasure of meeting Colonel Armitage’s relatives yet?”

  “No, indeed, we have not.” Maria shot Charlotte a haughty look under her curving blond lashes.

  “Oh, you must, for they are the most fascinating—and handsome—men as I have ever seen.” Miss Farmington gestured across the room to where Colonel Armitage, the young American, and an unfamiliar gentleman were surrounded by a large group of people. “Mr. James Westfield stands there beside the colonel.” She indicated the young man Charlotte and Maria had observed earlier. “He is a bit older than I, but still very handsome, do not you think?”