Charlotte Collins plucked more lavender sprigs from the partially shaded corner of her garden, placing long stems of the herb into her white apron. The quick pace formed perspiration under her many layers of clothing, but she would not remove her bonnet lest Mr. Collins return early from his constitutional walk. Her loose hair proved an easy distraction to her toad of a husband.
A dust cloud followed a hastily driven carriage down the lane. The man inside took little notice of the small woman gathering herbs in her garden. Charlotte squinted her eyes at the coach and recognized the equipage. Catching her breath, she hurried to complete her work.
Married to Mr. Collins for three months, she needed to collect and dry as many stems as she could. If she made enough soap for the household, perhaps she could sell some in town for a minor profit. Her husband was always crossest over the lack of funds for their family. At twenty-seven, Charlotte had been long considered “on the shelf,” and her father, a lowly baronet in Hertfordshire had redirected most of her dowry. The day her marriage settlement was signed ended most of the goodwill she had experienced previously from her intended.
“My wife, was that not Mr. Darcy’s carriage just now in the lane?”
Charlotte cringed. She was caught. The last thing she wished to do was talk about Mr. Darcy. Not to Mr. Collins; not to anyone. Since he had arrived with Lady Catherine two months ago, there had been nothing but strife. Lady Catherine’s moods shifted as frequently as a windmill turns, with her husband bearing the brunt of her moments of displeasure. In turn, Charlotte bore the brunt of Mr. Collins’ displeasure.
“I believe so, Mr. Collins.”
“Did you not rise and curtsy as I have instructed you?”
Charlotte stood hastily with her apron corners in hand, unfortunately pulling the corner of her work gown slightly askew, revealing a well-formed, stockinged right calf. She witnessed Mr. Collins’ stare of desire before quickly reaching down and settling her skirts to fall properly. Marching to the back door of the cottage, Mr. Collins blocked her way.
“Mrs. Collins, perhaps you are fatigued from your morning’s endeavors and care to join me in a rest? For your health of course.” The man licked his lips and inhaled a deep breath.
The stench of his body odor, pungent from his hasty rush to greet a carriage he had no hope of meeting, made her revile at his invitation. “I feel quite well, thank you,” she managed.
“Yet, you did not stand to greet Mr. Darcy as I have implored you to honor all of the illustrious persons of Rosings. The worthy name of our patroness, and her relations, deserve the reverence of nobility. I presumed you too fatigued to stand or you would obey your husband.” Mr. Collins piety began to bring an irritated tone to his voice. But he was no match for Charlotte.
She bowed her head and slowly raised her eyes to look through her long lashes. “You are correct, sir, that I am unwell with the plague women must bear. I was gathering herbs so that I might brew a tea to lessen these symptoms. I have failed to fulfill my duty to Mr. Darcy’s carriage, but I only did so in hopes of fulfilling my duty to you.”
Mr. Collin’s tongue made an unflattering flapping sound. Charlotte knew well when she had appealed to her husband’s baser nature in order to, once again, absolve her of that particular wifely duty. In this case, she even succeeded in alleviating her guilt for purposely ignoring her husband’s command to curtsy for a rushing coach.
Realizing Mr. Collins needed prompting, she used her best tone of deference. “Sir, might I make myself a cup of tea? I shall sit and plan this week’s meals with Cook.”
Snapping to attention, Mr. Collins nearly jumped out of his wife’s way so she could enter the kitchen. Leaving him in the doorway, she joined Mrs. Plummer, the cook, and deposited her pullings carefully into a bin. With a knowing look, Mrs. Plummer handed Charlotte the twine and wiped her hands from the stew she was stirring. The two women spied through the small window that Mr. Collins continued to walk through the garden to the other side of the property in a direction to check on his beehives.
“Have the eggs been collected from the coop?” Charlotte grabbed a bunch of the pale purple thistle-like blooms and wrapped a cord of twine around the base before tying the bunch to a nail in the windowsill.
“Yes, ma’am. Eileen found three eggs this morn.”
“Three? Mrs. Plummer do we not keep ten chickens? “
Mrs. Plummer looked down at her own bundle and quickly tied it off. “Rightly, you do. But for the life of me, this past week the eggs have been scarce, ma’am. It might be from that last spring storm.”
Charlotte pursed her lips. She highly doubted spring storms were spooking the chickens, at least she’d never seen such a thing at Lucas Lodge, her father’s estate. No, Charlotte suspected a much more sensible reason her eggs were missing, and as Mistress of Hunsford Lodge, she intended to discover the cause.
“See that the stew does not scorch. Mr. Collins is unbearable in the evenings when his dinner does not settle well.” Charlotte left the kitchen to hurry upstairs and freshen up. She was to walk to Rosings and perform her daily visit with Anne de Bourgh as she had done every day since a week after her arrival.
The cook nodded, knowing Mrs. Collins meant no disrespect. The three weeks she had been employed at the parsonage she had watched her new mistress dodge the master’s advances enough to value Charlotte as one smart woman. The entire household pitied the woman forever tied to Mr. Collins, both here and the thereafter, in holy matrimony.