Maria must have been waiting at the parlor window, for the coach has not even rolled to a stop when she comes bursting through the front door to stand, body drawn tight with impatience, upon the drive. William alights first, then helps me down; I scarcely set both feet upon the ground before my sister has enveloped both me and Louisa in a crushing embrace.
“It is so good to see you!” she says. “And oh, sweet niece, you are so big!”
I find that I am blinking against sudden tears. It has been so long since I have seen her—more than ten months since her last visit to Kent. She smells just as I remember from years of sharing a bed.
William clears his throat, and Maria and I pull apart. She looks at him guiltily. “Sister,” he says, and holds out his hand. She places hers in it and he bows with exaggerated gallantry. “Though she does not entirely approve of your choice of husband,” he says as he rises, “Lady Catherine sent us from Rosings Park with her felicitations.” He presses her hand and releases it.
I close my eyes, but not in time to miss the way Maria’s face turns scarlet. “I—” she says, and then my parents and youngest brothers are hurrying through the doorway, saving her from the necessity of an appropriate response to so inappropriate a statement.
“Mr. Collins!” my mother says. She kisses his cheek, and William flushes rosier than Maria. And then my mother turns to me; her gaze darts between my face and Louisa’s, and she laughs and says, “I hardly know whom I missed most!” and wraps us both in her arms. A moment later and she is stepping back, but she reaches for Louisa. “Let me see you, my big girl,” she says, but Louisa leans back in her arms.
“Ma!” she says. “Ma! Ma!” She holds out her hands to me.
“Oh, hush now,” my mother says, and begins walking toward the house. “I have taken out all of your mamma and auntie’s old toys, they have been waiting impatiently for you to arrive and play with them.”
My chest feels full and warm as I watch them go. And now my father is standing before me. His hair has turned fully gray, but his smile is exactly the same. “Charlotte,” he says, and leans down to kiss my cheek. He smells the same, too, the crisp lemon scent of the cologne he always applies a little too strongly.
“Father.” It is silly, perhaps, to be so utterly consumed by gladness, but I am home, and my brothers Samuel and Frederick are waiting their turns to greet me, having already shaken William’s hand with great solemnity. “You have grown so!” I say—Frederick, who is still so young in my mind, sports a few wisps of hair above his upper lip—and they both shuffle their feet and grin.
DINNER IS TO be a far noisier affair than I’d have chosen, for my mother invited the Bennets and the Longs to dine with us. This means that Maria and I are both drafted into service, my mother passing Louisa off to William with a casual “She is all yours for a few hours, Mr. Collins!” She either does not notice or chooses to ignore the flash of panic that crosses his face as she pulls me toward the kitchen.
“There will be four courses,” my mother says. She wraps an apron around my waist as though I am still a little girl who cannot tie the strings herself. Maria covers her mouth but cannot hide the laughter at the corners of her eyes.
Most of the preparation was already finished yesterday, of course, but there is still plenty to do. Maria busies herself arranging fruit while our mother and I ready chicken and hares for cooking. “When do I get to meet the famed Mr. Cowper?” I say.
Maria’s smile says a great deal. “Did I forget to mention—he will join us tonight.”
I glance at our mother, whose face is set stoically. “He sounds like an amiable man,” I say.
“You will adore him, Charlotte,” Maria says. “He is so very good.”
Our mother releases her breath on a sigh quiet enough that I do not think Maria could have heard it.
“Do you not like Mr. Cowper?” I say in a whisper when Maria goes to fetch something from the larder.
“Oh, he is a good enough sort of man. And he does seem very fond of your sister. But his profession, Charlotte . . . An apothecary! Maria’s head has always been filled with fancies. If only she were sensible like you.”
“He can provide for her though, surely?”
“After a fashion. But she will never live up to our hopes for her now, and that’s a fact.”
Maria returns bearing a large platter, and so I must hold my peace.
MR. COWPER IS a very handsome man of six-and-twenty, with a classical face and curling hair. He and Maria make an attractive couple. When the maid leads him into the parlor before dinner, he makes his bows to my mother and father, but he looks unerringly to Maria where she stands talking to Mrs. Long. They greet each other with their eyes before they are able to speak to one another. I look away.
Mr. Cowper and I are seated together at dinner. He is attentive and eager to please, if rather quiet, and several times I look up to find Maria watching him with an expression of great affection from across the table.
“My sister speaks very highly of you,” I say. “I should thank you, sir, for making her so happy.”
“It is she who has made me happy, Mrs. Collins.”
I smile. “That was just the right response,” I say, and he laughs. But we have little chance to speak further.
Like my father, Mr. Bennet looks older than in my memories, his white hair thinner and his waistline thicker. He has been mostly silent throughout dinner, leaving the burden of conversation to his wife, who has cheerfully taken it up—she has managed to mention her eldest daughters’ illustrious marriages at least ten times since the first course. I am almost too tired to be amused; if only my mother had waited until a day or two after our arrival to hold a party.
Mrs. Bennet leans across the table. “Did you think Lizzy looked well when she was in Kent?” she says to me, and then, before I can respond, she adds for the benefit of any who might not have already known the information, “Mr. and Mrs. Darcy were lately invited to be guests of Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings Park.”
Mr. Bennet rolls his eyes and takes a deep drink from his glass.
“She looked remarkably well,” I say, “and little Thomas is quite the handsome boy.”
Mrs. Bennet smiles widely. “Her pin money alone could keep all my girls in gowns and slippers forever. I had hoped Kitty could stay with her at Pemberley for the summer, but Lizzy said not, and I suppose with a new baby she mightn’t have as much time to find her younger sister a husband as I would like. So Kitty has been with Jane and Mr. Bingley at their estate for two months now. Jane writes that Kitty has been much admired.” She plucks an almond from its dish and pops it in her mouth, chews for a moment, and adds, with a pointed little look at Maria, “There is nothing like an advantageous marriage to ease a mother’s mind.”
I glance at Mr. Cowper, who is attending to his lemon cream with apparent single-mindedness.
My mother’s eyes narrow, but she says only, “Indeed. Which is why Charlotte’s wedding to Mr. Collins brought such gladness to us all, knowing that one day she will be mistress of Longbourn estate.” She nods to Mr. Bennet. “One day far in the future we hope, of course.”
Mr. Bennet’s smile is sardonic. “Oh, I’ve been informed by my wife that now Jane and Lizzy are settled I may die as soon as I choose. She has her pick of grand estates in which to spend the rest of her days.” He raises his glass to William. “Your inheritance holds no terrors for us any longer, Mr. Collins.”
William blinks. “I am glad to hear it, sir—you know that I was always uneasy about it, and would have made amends had I been able. But circumstances, ah, being what they were . . .”
I long to kick him into silence, but he is too far away down the table, and so I settle for a generous sip of my own wine.
THE DAYS HAVE passed in a whirl of calls made and received, between which I spend most of my time in the parlor with Maria and our mother, helping them finish a few last items for my sister’s trousseau.
My father and William do whatever it is that men do in one another’s company. I cannot imagine what they might find to talk about, other than the splendor of Rosings Park. And my brothers spend their days at school. I see them but rarely, and when I do I never know what to say to them.
My eldest brother is off term at Oxford, where he is studying the law, a fact that my mother has managed to work into conversation with nearly everyone we meet. She lingers over the word Oxford as if it were a sugared confection. We had always assumed that my eldest brother would take over our father’s shop when he was old enough; with the shop sold, that option was lost to him, but in its place was our father’s determination that his sons should be educated as gentlemen.
Listening to my mother’s quiet boasting, I am struck by sudden understanding: her feelings about our family’s rise in status are as complicated as my own, her vanity warring with her natural practicality. She is proud that my brother will one day be a barrister, rather than a merchant or a lowly solicitor, and she loves to talk about my eventual role as the mistress of Longbourn—an extraordinary stroke of luck, which would certainly never have happened were I still the daughter of a shopkeeper. But when my father was a merchant, our family was prosperous, if not genteel, and my mother had no worries. My brothers could have gone into trade without any loss of status, and Maria could have married Mr. Cowper without her choice being seen as a degradation.
My brother had been staying with a friend but returned home last night for the wedding. He, too, has grown so much since I saw him last; I must tip my head back to look into his eyes. I can almost imagine him as a London barrister, someone who might attract a wife with a fine dowry. To my delight, he seems very taken with Louisa, though he disappeared this afternoon with some childhood friends, despite my mother’s protestations that it looked like rain.
“Boys,” she said. She shook her head and watched him go. “And two more left to raise.” It began to rain steadily not a quarter hour after he left.
Today is the day before the wedding. A little while ago, my mother took Louisa with her into the kitchen; I am embroidering a reticule while Maria alternates between adding lace to a cap and gazing out the window with a furrow between her brows.
“I do hope the rain stops soon,” she says, and stabs her needle into the cap’s fabric. Then she raises her head yet again, watching as the rain falls against the glass in sheets. “Though I suppose it will make little difference whether it stops now or tonight; it will be a muddy walk to the church tomorrow either way.”
“It is not the weather but the ceremony which matters tomorrow,” I say.
She exhales her frustration. “I know! But would it be too much to ask that the weather reflect the happiness of the occasion?”
I laugh. “It cannot be fine on every bride’s wedding day, or we would never have any rain at all.”
“Yes, but not every bride’s wedding day is a happy one,” she says, and I feel my smile slip away. She does not notice, but holds up the cap. “Do you think this will become me? I have tried on all my others, and I confess I cannot decide whether I look well in them or not.”
The cap is made of insubstantial material, with fine lace at the edges. The cap I am wearing just now is very plain in comparison. “Of course it will become you,” I say. “Very few things would not, I think, and something as pretty as that cannot help but look well.”
She smiles and returns to her work. The steady pounding of rain on the walls and windows is the only sound in the room. When Maria speaks again, she startles me. “Would it be too strange to ask you to sleep with me tonight?” she says.
I look at her. “Maria,” I say, but she reaches forward and captures my hand.
“Oh, please do,” she says. “I know I shall be too nervous to sleep much, and we could talk as we used to.”
I think of our old bed, with its warm soft coverlet and the familiar dips in the mattress where each of us lay. “I would like that very much.”
She starts to smile. “Mr. Collins would not object?”
I have no idea what William will make of this, but I say, “Not in the least.”
WILLIAM MADE A few bleating objections to Maria’s and my plan but was silenced by my talk of sisterly duty and devotion, so I now find myself tucked into bed beside my sister for the first time in years. The rain has subsided into a light, arrhythmic patter on the roof, and the single candle on the night table casts dancing shadows upon the walls. The sound of my sister’s breathing, the pillow under my head, the pattern of the paper-hangings are all so familiar. It feels like I am in a dream world, hushed and still, where the colors are not as bright as they should be.
Maria turns on her side to look at me.
“I am so happy, Charlotte,” she whispers.
“Then I am glad for you.”
“You do like him?”
I am happy to be able to answer truthfully. “Very much.”
“Is it . . . Mamma told me something of what to expect, of course, but—is it all right? What happens . . . between a husband and wife, I mean.”
My body is hot and prickly, and I am grateful for the faint, flickering light. “It is nothing to fear,” I say.
She blows out a relieved breath. “George wants ever so many children.”
“And they will doubtless all be little cherubs, with your coloring and his curls,” I say, smiling.
“If they are half as sweet as my niece, I will be content.”
I prop myself on my elbow. “May I ask—your courtship was so short. So—sudden. Until you wrote to me of Mr. Cowper, the last man you spoke of was Mr. Andrews, who asked you twice to dance. How . . . what made you sure of Mr. Cowper?”
She is giving me a most peculiar look. “It was no faster or more sudden than your engagement. But, well . . . I cannot really explain it. When George and I spoke it was—easy. He understood what I was saying.” She shakes her head. “I must sound very silly.”
There are dark eyes and crooked teeth and a gentle smile in my head; I cannot get them out. “No,” I say. “Not silly.”
She gives a little laugh. “And I never really liked Mr. Andrews—he has the largest ears you have ever seen, and he is so much shorter than I am—it was like dancing with Frederick.”
Again, that prickling heat. “A man needn’t be handsome to be worthy of your attention,” I say.
She flinches back from my vehemence, cups her palm over her mouth. “Of course not,” she says through her fingers, and then puts out her other hand to touch my arm. “I am sorry—that was thoughtless of me. Even men who are not so well favored can make excellent husbands.”
She thinks I am talking about William—naturally, she does. I roll onto my back and her hand slides away from my arm.
“Do not let us quarrel,” she says. “Please, Charlotte.”
There is something the matter with me. I stare up at the canopy until the pattern of the fabric there blurs before my eyes. “There is nothing to quarrel about,” I say. “I should not have taken offense; I am only tired.”
I can hear her swallow. “Of course.”
I must do better than this. I force myself to turn back toward her. “Truly, Maria—I am so glad for you.”
Her smile starts small but spreads quickly, and she scoots nearer to me. “I have not even told you about his proposal,” she says, and I lean forward to listen.
THE CHURCH PORCH is strewn with herbs and rushes. Our feet crush them as we enter, releasing a scent pungent enough to compete with the smell of damp grass. The rain stopped sometime during the night, though we had a time protecting Maria’s slippers and hem from the muddy lane as we walked to the church. But the sun is shining weakly through the clouds.