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“Oh, Charlotte, I am so sorry to have worried you,” Mr Collins said, as husband and wife made their way home.
She had striven to maintain some distance from him, and in this way demonstrate her displeasure at his foolish behaviour. But she could see, from the way he stumbled as he walked, that his nerves were still frazzled, and his head must still ache from the uncharacteristic quantity of brandy he consumed last evening, so that her resolve faltered before they had gone a quarter-mile, and she slid her hand through the crook of his elbow, their pace slowing until they were barely moving at all.
“What possessed you to do such a thing?” she asked, determined, now that they were alone, to discover the truth. She could not have imagined a fellow more unsuited to calling someone out to duel than her quiet, homely husband, and could not thank God more that Colonel Fitzwilliam had stayed his hand. She shuddered. How different matters might have been!
“I do not know!” Mr Collins wailed. “It was love, or, pride, or some foolish human emotion - some temporary madness I wager - that made me act so rashly.” He shook his head. “I am foolish, Mrs Collins, a foolish old man.”
“You are hardly old!” Charlotte said, amusement tugging at her lips. She meditated on his words, and one called her back to it.
“But love? Now you speak in riddles, sir. Tell me what you mean, and speak plainly, as you would to the humblest of your congregants.”
Mr Collins looked askance as if he thought her mocking him, but when he deduced nought but a desire to know the truth, he cleared his throat and began once more to speak.
“I know that our marriage has not been entirely as you wished it to be, and I - I apologise if I have not made your new home as happy as you deserve. I know I am not always forthright with my feelings and tend to say too much, rather than too little. I speak to fill the silence, saying little of importance and leave the most important things unsaid. I love you, my dear Charlotte, and I do not believe I have ever told you that.”
Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat. She had never thought her husband capable of such honest sentiment and it touched her even more than his note had that morning.
“I know I cannot begin to imagine you care for me, not yet in any case, but I saw how easily you conversed with Colonel Fitzwilliam, and knowing him to be brave, and skilled and confident in all manner of gentlemanly pursuits that I have never cared for I confess to being...jealous.” This last word was barely a whisper, and Charlotte felt a flurry of understanding. Had she not felt precisely the same way, over and over again when her friends were selected for dancing, companionship, marriage, and she was overlooked? She knew she could not compete with many of the other young ladies in Hertfordshire for beauty or accomplishments, but still, such disregard stung. Had she not even felt a flare of jealousy at the way her husband seemed to care so utterly for Lady Catherine’s comfort and good opinion, at the expense of her own?
“I can understand that,” she said, reasonably. “But I still do not see why this led to a duel! What can have precipitated such an extreme reaction?”
“I saw that he cared for you, and you for him, and I was driven mad.” He shook his head. “No doubt aided by my pounding head and weariness. My dear, if ever I doubted the wisdom of temperance I shall never do so again. I dare not even drink medicinally in future: it will be water, only, from now on.”
“What on earth made you think Colonel Fitzwilliam cared for me?” Charlotte asked, not wanting the explanation, now that it came, to be derailed. “Or I for him?” She shook her head in disbelief, unsure what surprised her more. That her husband believed her capable of forming an affection so quickly with a man who was not her husband, and with her husband in such close proximity, or that he cared what she did at all! Her mind returned to the note Lizzy had passed her that morning, and what had begun to kindle in her heart grew. Was it possible that Mr Collins truly did care for her after all? Not just for his wife, for the poor fellow had been clear enough in his intent to marry a young woman - any woman - even before he had settled on her. She had known his first attempt had been to win Lizzy’s heart, but as her own interest in Mr Collins had been pragmatic and not romantic she had not been concerned with the thought that he might not care for her any more than was strictly necessary. They were still a little unknown to one another, after all. But Charlotte’s heart was stronger than her mind had given credit to it, and her desire for romance remained, even after pragmatism had won the day. She dreamed one day that her husband might care for her, and she might care for him, but had resigned herself to love’s impossibility. Had she so mistaken her husband’s true character? For what were today’s actions if not those of a man driven half mad with something that might, perhaps, be love?
“I found his note,” Mr Collins said, simply.
“What note?” Charlotte grew suspicious, now, and when Mr Collins cleared his throat and proceeded to recite the very letter she had received that morning - from him - her heart sank as she began to understand.
“But he did not write it!” she protested. “Indeed, I felt certain you had. Lizzy told me as much, she -” Charlotte stopped, her mouth falling open in surprise. Colour burned in her cheeks as she began to realise what must have happened. Her friend, her dear, well-meaning, interfering friend had penned the very letter she thought Charlotte ought to receive from her husband, and had given him the credit for it.
“I shall strike her myself!” she seethed, turning back as if Elizabeth might somehow materialise behind them and enable Charlotte to exact her revenge then and there.
“Who?” Mr Collins was utterly bewildered and looked back to see what had caught his wife’s attention. The motion was too sudden, though, and he groaned, clutching at his head.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam wrote me no note, my dear Mr Collins,” Charlotte said, the absurdity of their situation, at last, causing her to smile, and then, to laugh. “It was all Elizabeth. I wager it was her pen you are jealous of, and yet she wrote on your behalf.”
“She did?” Mr Collins coloured, now. “Whatever - oh! But I gave her quite a different note this morning. I apologised for my behaviour, certainly, but it was not at all so...so...” he waved his hand at a loss for a descriptor.
“And Lizzy took it upon herself to improve things.” Charlotte shook her head. “How foolish I was to believe her! As if you should ever write to me lines from a poem.”
“It did not ever occur to me that you would want me to!” Mr Collins said, stopping walking altogether, and insisting his wife stop too. “Tell me, Charlotte, for my mind cannot cope with riddles anymore. Is that the type of romance you prefer? Duels and declarations, poetry and romance?”
Charlotte shook her head.
“I am happy with a quiet home, and my husband, if he will love me simply, with his whole heart, and no longer fear to be his own self with me. There is no need to strive to impress me, William, for I am married to you already. Please, do not treat me as you would Lady Catherine, or some other person you are desperate to impress. I am your wife, and you have given me so much already that there is no need to fear my displeasure.”
“You are sure?” William looked searchingly into her face, as if he could not quite begin to trust this little speech.
“You have given me my own home, and a position I had before now only dreamt of. If I might have all that, and your love too, then what more could I possibly wish for?”
“I do not deserve such a wife as you, my dear, wonderful Charlotte.”
Mr Collins’ declaration might not have been poetry, but it was so heartfelt that it served him better than any quantity of recitation, for Charlotte was in his arms and the pair shared a tender embrace, more genuine, now, than any they had shared before.
***
LADY CATHERINE WAS not to be trifled with, and when Darcy saw Anne fall back behind Richard he felt a childish inclination to do the same, before shaking off the notion and striding forward, ready to meet his aunt head on.
“Good afternoon, Aunt,” he began.
“Good afternoon?” she screeched. “Fitzwilliam, it is neither the afternoon nor good.” She scowled in the direction of the grandfather clock older than time itself and rapped o the arm of her chair. “What have you been about?”
“I?” Darcy was playing for time, and everyone knew it, including Lady Catherine, who shot him a withering glare and turned her attention to the second of her nephews.
“When I invited you to stay, Richard, I certainly did not intend for you to set about starting feuds with my neighbours or drawing my very Curate into disrepute.” She laid her palms face down in her lap, a picture of calm that did not settle either Darcy or Richard’s nerves one iota. “Or have I heard wrongly? Tell me now that you were not set to fight a duel with my Curate.”
“In all honesty, Aunt Catherine, it was not my choice -”
“And yet you went ahead with it!”
“Aunt -” Darcy spoke up.
“And you!”
Darcy’s attempt to intercede for his cousin served only to draw Lady Catherine’s temper upon himself, and he regretted the move almost immediately.
“You knew of this and did nothing to stop it!” Lady Catherine paled. “How could you have brought such shame upon my household, Fitzwilliam?”
“Shame?” It was Anne who dared to speak when both of her cousins feared to. “Mama, there was no shame. It was all a misunderstanding, put right now, and nobody was hurt.”
“Reputations were hurt!” Lady Catherine countered. “I do not know what attachment you sought to form with Mrs Collins -”
“None!” Richard interjected. “None but friendship.”
“If you were married it would be far less scandalous...” Lady Catherine continued as if Richard had not spoken, indeed it seemed to Darcy that she might not have heard him at all and she continued undaunted, little noticing when he chose to speak again.
“If that is truly your opinion, Aunt, then I hope that you will hear my next words and be pleased.” Richard drew a breath, glancing anxiously at Anne and then Darcy before speaking again, quickly and in earnest.
“Aunt Catherine, I wish to be married. Indeed, I have found the object of my affections, indeed the object upon whom all my future hopes of happiness rest, and I hope that you will consent to our marrying. Anne and I wished to wait until I had secured a more ample fortune or at least secured for us a home, but in truth, Aunt, we do not care to wait. These past few months have been torment, keeping our true feelings hidden, corresponding only by letter and fearing all the while that they might fall into the wrong hands and betray us before we were ready. Please say you will permit us to marry.”
“Marry?” Lady Catherine seemed to have begun listening only halfway through Richard’s appeal, but her response was one of shock, the same shock which Darcy felt etched into his own features.
“Yes,” Richard laughed, anxiety giving way to relief, now that the secret was shared, his plea made. He reached out to Anne and she nestled herself into the crook of his arm, the two forming such a contented and complete picture that Darcy could not believe he had never noticed their suitability before that evening.
“You care for...Anne?”
It was Darcy who voiced the words, and both cousins turned to regard him as if they had quite forgotten he was present.
“Yes.” Richard’s face grew serious, his brow lowering. “Do you mind it, William? For I know that there has always been talk of the two of you...Forgive us for not being upfront, only -”
“I do not mind it at all!” Darcy smiled, unsure which of his cousins to embrace first. “Indeed, how could I? You are perfectly suited, far more so than Anne and I would ever be.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from this assertion, but Darcy did not pause to consult his aunt. He knew his own mind and wished only to rejoice in the picture of affection that lay before him. He embraced both Anne and Richard in turn, thumping his cousin hard on the back, for he could not quite hide his delight that it was Anne, and not Elizabeth, who held his cousin’s heart.
“Well, Mother?” Anne ventured, when the immediate delight was spent. “What are your thoughts?”
“I hardly know,” Lady Catherine sniffed. “I despair at this display of deceit. Yes, I call it deceit. All along, Anne, I felt certain that you felt as I did, that your future happiness lay aligned with Fitzwilliam, and now I see you have betrayed him for his cousin.”
“There was no betrayal,” Darcy interjected, feeling certain he must speak, lest Lady Catherine look to him for a slight that he did not feel. “Indeed, I can scarcely think of a better future for two of the people I love best in the world.”
“Thank you,” Richard said, beaming at him, and looking as if he had been given the world and wished only to enjoy it.
“Excuse me,” Lady Catherine said, standing suddenly and pushing past the assembled group to the door. “I must retire to my room.”
“Oh, Mother -” Anne began.
“No, I will go alone.” Lady Catherine shrugged off her daughter’s concern, summoning her maid and departing in a cloud of fury and agitation. As the door closed behind her it was as if a gust of wind had blown through the room, rendering all its occupants silent.
“I knew she would not be pleased,” Anne lamented, a crease forming on her pale brow.
“Fear not, my love, it is merely the shock of the thing. She will soon relent, you’ll see.” Richard said, reaching out a hand to smooth the crease with a gentleness that surprised Darcy. It struck him, then, that this love affair had been long in the making, and he wondered just how it had been being conducted, quietly and in secret, without him ever daring to dream of such a thing. Why, if he had known Anne’s heart lay elsewhere he might have contrived to visit Kent all the sooner. It was on account of Lady Catherine’s insatiable desire to match the two cousins that he avoided Rosings as often as he might, lest his presence be a torment to Anne. He coloured, then, wondering if it had been pride that caused him to think of himself as so desirable a match that Anne could not fail to form an attachment to him, simply by proximity and at the suggestion of her mother.
“You see now, Darcy, why I strove to be equal in my attentions to all other ladies present last evening.” Richard laughed. “I wonder if I was not a little too equal, and had I not been, poor Mr Collins might never have worried so unduly.” He folded Anne’s tiny hand in his two large ones. “I wished Aunt Catherine to suspect nothing, and I could not risk devoting too much time to Anne, lest she guessed where my heart truly lay.”
“Then you were never taken with Mrs Collins?”
“Certainly not!” Richard snorted. “And I think she would be quite affronted by the suggestion, too. She spoke to me only out of politeness, and a certain deference to her husband’s patroness. I noticed her eyes glaze over more than once at my stories of daring, and I was not immune to the glances exchanged between her and Elizabeth when I sought once more to dominate conversations they might rather have had with another gentleman present.”
Darcy frowned, unsure to whom his cousin could mean to refer.
“You, of course!” Richard roared with laughter. “Honestly! I always thought you were a sensible fellow, but if your behaviour this week is anything to remark upon I must wonder if I was not sorely mistaken. Can you not see that Elizabeth cares for you, almost as much as you care for her?”
“I do not!” Darcy countered him almost immediately but was silenced by a knowing glance shared between Richard and Anne as if they, as close to affianced as it was possible to be, were given insight into the secret of all men’s hearts. They knew what Darcy knew, and could only seek to hide, unsuccessfully it seemed, from those around him. He did care for Elizabeth Bennet, and had done since almost the first hour of their meeting, despite his best intentions to prevent himself from doing so. If he had rejoiced at the chance to remove himself from her sphere of influence, in hopes that doing so would cause him to forget, then he could not have been more wrong. She had been with him in London and, he wagered, she had somehow summoned him to Kent, even without him being aware of it, so that they were forced once more into society. Providence had acted, and who was he to dispute providence?
“Well, my own heart is of little consequence. She certainly cares little enough for me.”
“Oh, indeed!” Anne said, with a sly smile. “It is out of her decided lack of concern for you that she waits at this very moment in the library, to ensure that you survived this interview unscathed, and unmolested.”
“She is still here.” It was a statement, not a question, but Anne sought to answer him anyway, pointing Darcy towards the door.
“She is still here at present. No doubt she will wish to return home, now that the evening draws closer. It will require a carriage and an escort. Perhaps you will do the honours, William, and I will seek to speak to my mother once more.”
She exchanged a look of mild anxiety with Richard, but Darcy did not notice. He scarcely noticed a thing, for his mind was in the library ahead of his body, already planning how he might address the young woman who consumed so many of his waking thoughts.