Charlotte Collins: A Continuation of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice (22 page)

"Indeed I have." Her words were awkward, hesitant, as if trying to determine the course of the conversation before it occurred. "May I wish them every happiness."

"And please convey our well wishes to your granddaughter and Mr. Westfield."

A flush spread across Mrs. Farmington's weathered, pale cheeks. Charlotte was pleased to see that embarrassment, for it meant that the older woman was not going to gloat over her granddaughter's capture of Mr. Westfield.

"The marriage did not occur the way we would have done it years ago. Children today, it seems, have a different way of viewing things." She turned her head to issue a brittle cough. "I am sorry for any pain it may have caused your sister, but I cannot help but be pleased by my granddaughter's fortuitous match. I only regret the manner in which it occurred."

"Pray, do not make yourself uneasy, Mrs. Farmington. The situation served a greater purpose. It taught Maria that she had always had a fondness for Mr. Card. Now, it seems that everyone is happy."

"I know my Constance experienced terrible pain over the affair." Mrs. Farmington winced at her own choice of words. "She had always valued your sister as a friend, and it was difficult for her to be in love with Miss Lucas's beau."

Charlotte fought the urge to roll her eyes. She doubted that Miss Farmington had experienced any such difficulty. "Maria harbors no ill feelings toward Mr. or Mrs. Westfield."

"That is very kind of her, for she is entitled to be quite angry, really."

"I can assure you that Maria is far from angry, and I know she would want to convey her best wishes to the Westfields."

Mrs. Farmington sighed in relief and the two women continued to carry on a very polite conversation until Mrs. Farmington finally said, "I am surprised to see you out and about, what with the things I have heard about you of late."

For once, Charlotte was pleased at Mrs. Farmington's bent for choosing inappropriate topics of conversation. She put down the bonnet she had been considering and gave Mrs. Farmington a steady look. This was her moment of vindication, and she would not spoil it. "None of those things are true, Mrs. Farmington. Why do you choose to accept his lies about my character?"

Her features seemed to harden slightly, and she huffed. "As much as I hate to say it, Mrs. Collins, I have heard there was proof."

"Have you seen this proof?" Charlotte knew that Lady Catherine had seen it, but had anyone else? Charlotte did not know if Mr. Edgington had simply hinted at the glove's existence or if he had displayed it for the townspeople to see. Had Mrs. Holloway shown anyone? Certainly not, for she had her own secrets to conceal.

"No, I have not."

"Has anyone of your acquaintance seen proof?"

Here Mrs. Farmington paused. Anxiety filled Charlotte. "No, I suppose not."

Charlotte sighed inwardly. No one ever would see that glove. She was safe.

Mrs. Farmington continued, "But it seems unlikely that Mr. Edgington would claim to have proof that he did not possess."

Charlotte was fortified by her newfound knowledge. "I am sorry to be harsh on any person, but Mr. Edgington is an unscrupulous individual and he meant to do far worse than merely damaging my reputation."

"So you claim that there is no proof?"

"Indeed, there is none. You may apply to Mr. Edgington himself, but I guarantee that he will not be able to supply it."

"Really?" Disbelief hunched in the creases of her skin.

"Truly. Ask him. Good manners prevent me from saying anything negative about that gentleman beyond the fact that he has done me a great disservice in this community. I will hide no longer. I am not guilty of that which he has accused me."

"You sound quite convincing." Mrs. Farmington eyed her. "I do so wish to believe you, if only because of your kind forgiveness of my dear Constance."

"You ought to believe me, for I speak only the truth, Mrs. Farmington. I do not deserve the censure of this town."

"Well, my dear, all I can say is that the truth will set you free. And I hope it does."

• • •

As Charlotte had hoped, word of her encounter with old Mrs. Farmington spread quickly around Westerham. Although Charlotte had grown to despise gossip, she was thankful it moved so swiftly. According to Mrs. Eff, who had friends in many major households, it was generally agreed that Charlotte's insistence upon applying to Mr. Edgington for proof had removed any need to do so. The fact that she was willing to offer such a course of action proved that no such evidence existed and that her poor reputation had been undeserved.

Soon, invitations, which had been scarcer than a daisy in December, began to arrive. Friends began to pay calls, and Charlotte cautiously began to enjoy Westerham society again.

However, the Charlotte who returned to society was ever so much more guarded. If being married to Mr. Collins had made her wary of her reputation in society, the situation with Mr. Edgington caused her to become extremely vigilant. Her reputation was all she had. She no longer had her independence or her cottage. She was very thankful for her small income and for her sister's generosity, and she would not dishonor Maria again by her actions in society.

While Maria and Mr. Card attended almost every event to which they were invited, Charlotte restricted herself to attending only small parties or gatherings held at Crumbleigh. She declined invitations to large assemblies and balls and was careful never to be alone with a gentleman even for the briefest of moments.

Maria had told her repeatedly that she was being ridiculous, but Charlotte would not budge, claiming that she preferred to remain in the morning room at Crumbleigh rather than risk humiliation again.

In truth, Charlotte found something lacking in the society to which she had returned. The parties were not as exciting, and the concept of a ball somehow lacked the intrigue that such an assembly had formerly possessed. The card parties were duller, and the dinners, while delicious, did not inspire her the way they once had. There was no sparkling conversation that sparkled enough or clever repartee witty enough to entertain her. She considered the reasons for this lack, but she was loath to admit the truth--that Mr. Basford was the missing element.

To her great frustration, over the intervening months, she found herself thinking of him more often than she wished. Sometimes he would slip into her thoughts as she sat reading letters in the morning room with her slippered feet tucked beneath her. He appeared in her mind when she was dressing herself for bed, which disconcerted her greatly. Why would he be so stuck in her mind? He was not a suitor; he was barely even to be considered a friend. It should not be such an ordeal to forget him.

She had practically succeeded in her quest to stop thinking of Mr. Basford, except for an occasional lapse--perhaps fifteen to twenty times per day--when the letter arrived from her cousin Mary Emerson in London and brought him back to the forefront of her mind.

She read the words quickly, eagerly consuming the news of her family and friends in town, but when she saw Mr. Basford's name appear in Mrs. Emerson's neat script, she read it very carefully. Twice.

I have the most interesting news of Mr. Benjamin Basford. As you no doubt recall, I was acquainted with his sister before she moved to America. You may imagine my surprise even to hear his name mentioned in London, for I was quite sure you had told me that he returned to Savannah some months ago. However, I had the pleasure of meeting him at a dinner party given by mutual friends just last evening. After speaking at great length about his family in Savannah--all are doing well, by the way--I told him of my relationship with you, dear Charlotte.

He inquired after you with more than a passing interest and was very desirous to know about your current situation. I related the happy news of your sister's marriage and explained that you are now living at the Cards' home. I had not expected the look of consternation that crossed his features. I confess I still do not comprehend the reason for it. Perhaps you will understand.

Searching for a topic of conversation less disagreeable to him, I then told him that you believed him to be in America. He proceeded to give me the explanation for which you are undoubtedly waiting. He was, apparently, instrumental in securing passage for the new Mr. and Mrs. Westfield, and he had originally intended to accompany them when they departed, believing, he said, that there was nothing left for him in England. However, he altered his plans at the last moment, electing instead to return to London where he has taken a small house. We had a pleasant conversation about the goings on in Westerham at the end of which he asked me if I thought he would be welcome to return despite his nephew's misconduct. I hope I did not answer incorrectly by telling him he would certainly be welcome. He seemed quite eager to be off, and I would not be surprised to hear that he beat this letter to you, my dear Charlotte.

For the remainder of the letter, Mary described renovations that she and Mr. Emerson had planned for their home, but after reading the news of Mr. Basford, Charlotte could not possibly concentrate on the merits of French interior design as opposed to the current rococo fashion.

Mr. Basford was to return.

He might be in Westerham already.

Charlotte untucked her legs and sat up straighter, looking around the morning room as though he might walk in at any moment. That was absurd, of course.

She reread the letter several more times, attempting in vain to interpret the precise meaning of Mr. Basford's conversation with her cousin. He had inquired after Charlotte "with more than a passing interest." What precisely did that signify? He could be concerned merely about her living situation, but her heart wondered. Could he possibly be concerned about her beyond the boundaries of casual acquaintance?

Charlotte had felt something more from him. He had been very attentive on their walk when they encountered each other near the cottage that day. They had danced together, and the experience was not unpleasant. They were, in truth, very pleasant dances indeed. Then, there was the time when they had been on the settee in her cottage and he had almost touched her hand.

She could not easily forget the sensation that shimmered through her body as she watched his hand draw closer. She had wanted to feel his fingers against hers. And she could distinctly remember the disappointment that cut into her when Maria had entered the room.

Certainly, Charlotte would never forget the way Mr. Basford had aided her that fateful evening at the ball when Mr. Edgington had begun his campaign against her. He had distracted her and fortified her. He had danced with her, and his every touch seemed to give her strength.

Although his attempt to marry his nephew to Maria was misguided, it was meant to protect her.

He had failed miserably, and Charlotte had been rightfully troubled, but with the benefit of a little perspective, she felt kinder toward him. A great deal kinder.

She only hoped that they would have an occasion to meet when he returned to Westerham. Despite the fact that she truly wanted to have the opportunity to speak with him, she would not break her rules. They would meet appropriately. They would be in a public place and among friends. She would ask his forgiveness for her earlier outbursts, and then they would continue as good friends.

She would not allow herself to hope for anything more.

Charlotte was an old widow, and Mr. Basford had displayed gentlemanly consideration of her. Perhaps he had felt kindly toward her, but it would be foolish to dare to hope.

However, Charlotte could not help herself.

And she called herself every kind of a fool.

Twenty-Two

"Pray, excuse me. Did you say something about Mr. Basford?" Charlotte asked. She was sitting at the breakfast table with her sister and Mr. Card and was enjoying some very fine sausages. She had been only partially listening to the couple's conversation, for their discussions could be quite tedious, when she thought she heard Mr. Basford's name mentioned.

"Indeed I did, Charlotte. Have you not been listening?" Maria scolded as she buttered a piece of toast.

"I do apologize. I cannot seem to keep my mind focused this morning." Or whenever the conversation centered on ribbons or methods for tying a stylish cravat.

Mr. Card put down his teacup and took up the conversation. "Maria and I saw Mr. Basford in Westerham yesterday when we stopped for lunch."

"We were quite surprised to see him," Maria interjected. "I thought he had escorted Mr. and Mrs. Westfield back to America. In fact, Colonel Armitage relayed that information to me personally. He was quite contrite over the whole debacle between Mr. Westfield and I, you see, and he wanted me to know that I would not have to come upon them unexpectedly in town and have to endure a difficult scene."

"It was a very kind sentiment, though I do not believe it was necessary," Mr. Card said.

"The colonel did not realize that nothing could possibly impede my happiness." Maria waved her butter knife in the air as though to emphasize her thoughts. "I am so content with my life that there is no room in my heart for sadness or awkwardness, even if I were to meet with Mr. and Mrs. Westfield every day of the week."

The couple smiled at each other, and Charlotte felt jealousy stir in her. Even if she was not in love, her sister seemed happy. Would Charlotte ever be so?

She steered the conversation back to Mr. Basford, asking if he seemed well.

"Indeed, he did," said Mr. Card.

"We spoke to him for a little while before our meal arrived," Maria explained. "He congratulated us on our marriage and was very kind indeed."

"Did he say how long he has been in town?" Charlotte kept her attention focused on her forked sausage.

"I believe he said he arrived last Monday and is staying again with his uncle," Mr. Card replied.

He had not called on Charlotte, and he had been in town since last Monday. More than a full week had passed. Perhaps he did not want to see her after all.

Charlotte tried not to allow herself to be disappointed.

"Mr. Card and I invited him to our dinner party on Saturday."

"And did he accept the invitation?"

"He seemed rather unsure, saying that Colonel Armitage had been keeping his schedule rather full of late and asked permission to check with him first. We assured him that he would be welcome, as would the colonel."

"I wonder what the colonel has him doing," Charlotte mused.

"Hunting, I expect. You know what a great hunter he is, and this cool weather often coaxes the deer from the woods."

"I do not see why he would choose to hunt all day and miss our party. It is possible, is it not, to attend both?" Maria whined.

"My dear, hunting is a taxing activity. Guns are much heavier than they appear. He may be quite exhausted after a day in the wilderness."

"Well, even if he may not attend the party, I invited him to call at our house any time that was convenient for him. I hold nothing against him."

Charlotte smiled at her sister's attitude toward her past circumstances, but the brightness of her smile could only be attributed to the news of Mr. Basford.

He had been invited to call.

Maria and Mr. Card continued their conversation, but Charlotte paid them little attention. Her anticipation rose even higher, causing her hands to shake slightly and her appetite to dissipate. She returned the fork and sausage to her plate and began to fidget with the napkin in her lap.

When would he come?

Would he come at all?

• • •

By Thursday, several days later, Mr. Basford had still not paid a call at Mr. Card's home, and Charlotte fought her disappointment. She remained very distracted. With every knock at the door, she hoped it was Mr. Basford. Every footstep in the hallway toward the morning room was Mr. Basford's. Every voice sounded like his.

But still he did not come.

And Charlotte could not prevent herself from being disappointed. She could, however, prevent Mr. Card and Maria from seeing it, and she spent the majority of her time trying to distract herself with small jobs around the house with Mrs. Eff. That very afternoon she and Mrs. Eff were going to rearrange her wardrobe, putting away her summer dresses and taking her winter gowns and cloak out of storage. It was a rather dull task that she could have left to Mrs. Eff, but she needed to keep herself busy so Mr. Basford would not sneak into her thoughts.

Charlotte had just completed a rather fine afternoon repast with Maria and Mr. Card, but she barely tasted the sweet biscuits and Chinese tea and she hardly heard a word that was spoken.

"Charlotte?" she heard Maria say.

Guiltily, Charlotte met her eyes.

"Have you not heard a word we have said?"

"I do apologize. My mind has been at sixes and sevens today."

"That is not like you at all. Perhaps you are ill. Are you feeling quite well?"

Charlotte assured her that she was very well indeed, just distracted.

"Mr. Card and I are going for a walk after breakfast, would you like to join us since you are not ill?" She seemed to desire her company, probably to serve as a buffer from her husband.

"I think not. My mind is too preoccupied to allow me to be a proper companion. Besides Mrs. Eff and I have a project upstairs."

Maria rolled her pretty blue eyes. "Whatever you wish, but I do not see why you would turn down a walk on a lovely day for tedious indoor work."

"Do enjoy your walk. Do not worry about me. I am fine. Besides, tedium is sometimes good for the soul." Had not marriage to Mr. Collins been proof of that?

Soon, the couple departed, leaving Charlotte to her task with Mrs. Eff.

She climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, which was in a lovely part of the house that faced the front park. From her window, she had a delightful view of the small fishpond and the drive up to the house. The front lawn was elegantly manicured, and Charlotte not only enjoyed seeing it from the window, but she also enjoyed walking across the grass in the morning when it was still wet with dew.

Now it was later in the morning, and Charlotte stood in the window, waiting for Mrs. Eff to arrive and watching as sun descended through the trees that stood along the edge of the property. Their leaves had begun to change from lush green to radiant yellows, oranges, and reds.

Mrs. Eff had cracked the window slightly, allowing the cool autumn air to freshen the room. Although the air caused goose bumps to rise on her skin, she did not close the window.

Charlotte loved the fall--the scent of fallen leaves and the crisp feeling in the air.

Perhaps she should have gone on that walk with Maria and Mr. Card after all. Instead, she stood at the window and looked down the drive. She began to imagine. A single rider on a bay horse. Mr. Basford's horse. He would come. He would be shabbily dressed, but his words would not be so shabby. He would propose and Charlotte would accept. They would be married and go together into the future. A secure and happy future.

Charlotte blinked away her thoughts. She focused her mind and gaze again on the driveway. There was no movement on the horizon, but as she looked out the window, she began to become conscious of movement in her soul.

She must see Mr. Basford. She must! And if he would not come to her, she would go to him.

She could put on her sturdy boots and walk to Colonel Armitage's house straightaway. It was not so long a distance, and it was a flat path. She would be home by supper, and no one need know the nature of her trip. Indeed, she would pay a traditional morning call. There was nothing untoward about that. And if she happened to meet with Mr. Basford and perhaps attempt to make her feelings known, then so be it.

No! What was she thinking. She must not do such a thing. Her recently tattered reputation was not fully mended. She must be careful.

Charlotte's hands gripped the windowsill.

Taking a deep breath, she turned and crossed the room to the wardrobe. Inside, she found the small wooden jewelry box where she had hidden the glove Mr. Basford had loaned her the night of Mr. Edgington's deceit. Underneath her accoutrements, she saw the fine fabric of his glove. She had not allowed herself to think of that glove since the day she had put it away. She had tried not to remember the kindness it represented, and she certainly did not touch its soft fabric as she was now.

She should destroy the glove. It should meet the same fate as the gloves given to her by Mr. Edgington. She glanced at the hearth, knowing what she ought to do. She would not be free of Mr. Basford until the glove, the only remnant of their friendship, was gone.

But she simply could not do it.

Running the tip of her index finger along the contours of the glove one last time, she closed the box. Mr. Basford was gone, but she was not ready to release him completely.

• • •

With each step of her boots, Charlotte vacillated between retreat and determination. Left boot, retreat. Right boot, determination. Left, right, left, right. Retreat, determination, retreat, determination. Her steps carried her onward, closer to Colonel Armitage's house.

She had planned to be careful, to be above reproach, and yet here she was, paying a call on a gentleman. What could she possibly be thinking?

She was not thinking. That fact was very plain. She was employing her heart, not her head, and she refused to allow herself to contemplate the wisdom of doing so. She simply continued walking.

In due course, she stood before the colonel's house. Of only moderate size, it seemed to tower above her now, looking ominous and foreboding. But Charlotte did not even consider the option of returning home. She had gone too far to allow her fears to dissuade her. Her heart was at stake.

Slowly, Charlotte walked up the front steps--left, right, left, right--and brushed the dust off her skirt. She checked her bonnet and tucked in stray wisps of hair. She was determined to look the best she could after such a long walk, even though she realized the low value Mr. Basford placed on fashion.

She raised her hand to knock, but stopped short, remembering to fetch her card from her reticule. Mrs. Charlotte Collins, it said in plain black script. So proper and detached. And she wondered if this prim Mrs. Charlotte Collins would recognize the slightly disheveled woman on Colonel Armitage's doorstep.

This time when she lifted her hand to the door knocker, metal struck metal, and the sharp sound seemed to echo around her. She heard the muffled footsteps of the butler approaching the door. It opened with a whoosh of air, and a large gentlemen greeted her. "Good day, madam."

"Good morning," she handed him her card. "Is Mrs. Armitage at home?"

He took the card and glanced at her name before dropping it in the receiving bowl on the hall table, and Charlotte got the distinct impression that he did not believe the prim name on the card matched the woman standing before him. She brushed at her gown again.

"I am sorry, madam, but she is not at home this morning."

"Oh dear." What was she to do? She had depended upon Mrs. Armitage's being at home to receive callers this morning. Charlotte glanced behind the butler, hoping that Mr. Basford would appear as if by magic. But the hallway was empty.

Charlotte joined her hands in front of her gown and dropped her eyes. Was she to have gone all this way for naught? She could not allow that. She had already risked her reputation; why not see her task to completion? She raised her chin and found the butler still looking at her. "Is the family at home?"

"No, I am afraid they are all out this morning."

Out? Charlotte wanted to shout. All of them? The colonel? Mr. Basford? Everyone? How could they be out? She must see Mr. Basford. She simply must.

"Mr. Basford. Is he in?" Her words sounded tight.

"He too is out, madam." The butler was clearly losing patience. "No one is at home. They are all
out
." The last word was annunciated as though Charlotte were an imbecile.

"Oh." Charlotte's mind raced. What should she do?

"My apologies," he said, slowly closing the door. "Good day."

The heavy oak door drew closer and closer to Charlotte's face, and she was frozen, wondering what course of action, if any, to take. If the door closed, she would have no choice but to return home a failure. Suddenly, one word escaped her tight lips: "Wait!"

Startled, the butler halted the door's progress and stared at her. Charlotte had startled herself and for a moment said nothing. What would she do? What could she do? She must say something. She could not stand here staring at the butler all day.

"May I be of service, madam?"

She gathered her courage. "Yes, you may. I would like to leave a note, if I might, for Mr. Basford. I require a quill, ink, and sheet of writing paper, if you please."