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Charlotte Collins lay in bed next to her husband, wondering how much foxglove she would have to pick in order to kill him. She could conceal the leaves in a salad, perhaps, and no one would ever guess. They'd just assume he had a weak heart.
She smiled briefly, but let the smile fade as he rolled onto his back next to her and began to snore, loudly and with a particular hitch and snort that always drove her mad. These quiet moments in the dark, alone with her thoughts, she prized above all others. No one talking to her, no one demanding a response from her, no one able to see her if she rolled her eyes at a few of her husband's more ridiculous speeches. But it was impossible to concentrate with him snoring that way. She jabbed him in the side with her elbow, and he gasped and mumbled something unintelligible and then relaxed into more snores. She jabbed him again, harder, digging her fingers under his body to push him upward, and this time he rolled over onto his side, the snores receding and leaving blissful silence in their wake.
No, she couldn't use foxglove, Charlotte realized, her mind falling back into familiar patterns. William took such an especial pride in his garden, and she took an especial joy in encouraging him to tend to it, keeping him out of the house as much as she could. Surely he would be the first to notice if an inappropriate amount of foxglove had been harvested.
She sighed. In truth, it wasn't as bad as all that. She wrote Lizzie glowing tales of the house and the grounds and the condescension of Lady Catherine, and they were only faintly exaggerated. It was a lovely house, quiet and peaceful, and it was all her own, which she had dreamed of for such a long time. Infinitely to be preferred to her father's house and the cramped room she had shared with her sisters and the constant looks she got from family and friends and strangers, plainly wondering just when it was that she intended to be married and cease to be a burden to her parents. And Lady Catherine was insufferable, but she had no idea of how inappropriate and ridiculous she truly was. Charlotte whiled away quite a few moments in Lady Catherine's presence by sitting with her eyes properly downcast and imagining what Lizzie would say if she were present.
As for William … he was as blind to his own ridiculousness as Lady Catherine. And equally oblivious to how his speeches were received by those around him. Occasionally Charlotte wondered what things would have been like if Lizzie had married him, but she rarely followed that thought too far down the path, because it would have been horrid. Lizzie would never have been satisfied to lie in bed imagining ways to kill him; she would have done so. Or run away, or done something equally foolish and desperate in a bid to get free.
Charlotte wasn't nearly as unhappy with her lot as Lizzie would have been in her place, and she was very pleased with her own initiative, putting herself forth to William and listening graciously to him, when it was plain that Lizzie had rejected him entirely. Charlotte had seen her chance, and she had taken it; it had been almost too easy. A bit of flattery; an intent, listening look; a shy smile. He had come for a wife; she dearly needed a husband. There was no reason in the world why, with a little patience and forbearance, they shouldn't suit each other admirably. That said patience and forbearance were largely exercised by Charlotte was a minor inconvenience, at best—the advantages gained were largely on her side, as well. He had had a home before her, and a living. Now he had a wife. But Charlotte had had nothing, and now she had a home of her own and a station in life that people respected.
She looked at his nightshirt-clad back with some tenderness. It was easy to feel gratitude and something approaching affection for him here in the dark, when all was silent. Slowly, almost furtively, her hands crept up to lie across her belly, fingers tentatively poking at the skin underneath her nightgown, wondering if tonight had been the magic night that would create a child inside her. William was assiduous in his duties, even in the face of his nearly crippling embarrassment. Any stray touch somewhere he felt was unseemly and he would snatch his hand back as if he had been burnt, stammering apologies. At such moments, Charlotte vacillated between amusement and irritation, but she knew to laugh or to snap would send him away entirely, so she had learnt to bite her lip and assure him that all was well, encouraging him to continue with his husbandly duties.
William coughed and shifted, his body still for a moment, and Charlotte held her own breath, waiting to see if he would wake or move. Then he snorted and sighed and began breathing steadily again, and she relaxed. Her fingers stroked the fabric of her nightgown, softly, as though she could wish a child into existence.
She had walked into this with her eyes wide open, she reminded herself. She had known who and what she was marrying and she had done so of her own free will. The tediousness of his conversations; the condescension bordering on rudeness from Lady Catherine that she must bear with a show of humble gratitude; the pain of his inexpert fumblings in bed; the constant interruptions of her day as he came to her to get her opinion on his dry, over-written sermons, all were what she could have, should have, expected. If she disliked listening to him, cared not at all about his sermons, could barely endure his touch, and longed to display her own wit and wickedness in putting Lady Catherine in her place once and for all, well, she shouldn't.
Charlotte nodded to herself emphatically at that point, to underscore it in her own mind. She shouldn't. And she didn't, not always. But if she could only have a child! A little child she could hold, and love, and care for, who would provide a buffer between herself and William, who would give Lady Catherine something else to talk about. Of course, undoubtedly Lady Catherine would mostly talk about all the ways Charlotte cared for her child in the wrong way, but that in itself would be amusing, given poor Lady Anne's nearly crippling shyness after a lifetime under her mother's thumb.
She supposed that put paid to the foxglove fantasy; if she poisoned him, who would give her a child? And undoubtedly she'd be turned out of the cottage and packed off back to her father's house. And that would be worse. She moved her hand from her belly to the middle of William's back, placing it gently so as not to wake him. Perhaps in time she could come to feel an affection for him, a tolerance for his interminably dull speeches, a respect for his intelligence. He was unquestionably so, capable of devouring long texts and interpreting them in his own words—if only he could do so with any sense of humour, any true feeling for the thoughts and emotions of others. Could she teach him those things, Charlotte wondered, keeping her hand where it was and feeling the warmth of his body and the slow rhythm of his breathing, deep in sleep now. Could she, and a child, once they had one, bring him closer to a true understanding of what other people felt and thought and dreamed?
William seemed to have no dreams; he drifted through his life in deadly earnest, so serious about his own work, so satisfied with the place where he had landed. He seemed only to ask of his life a chance to read his books and share his learning with his flock … but he never noticed that they didn't follow what he said, or if he noticed, he thought less of them rather than caring to change his message to one that would have true meaning for them.
Charlotte frowned at the thought, taking her hand off his back. Could she teach him to respect that opinions that differed from his own had merit? Somehow she doubted it. She had never met his parents, who had passed away some years ago, but they seemed to have thoroughly convinced him that the world was only one way. Charlotte had grown up watching the people around her, fascinated by the way they differed from one another, and had long ago learnt to stop thinking of hers as the only point of view with any validity.
Because of that, she could understand some of the fear that motivated her husband. He was afraid of being thought ridiculous, afraid of saying the wrong thing to the wrong person, afraid of not understanding a joke or misinterpreting a conversation. The sad irony was how often all those things were true, despite his fear of them … and how seldom he was aware of having made a blunder. She rolled to her side, facing his back, blinking as the beginning of weariness washed over her.
Another day faced her tomorrow, a day in which she would work in her kitchen, preparing meals that were to her own taste, as William was so delighted with the mere fact of having a wife to cook for him that he thought whatever she prepared charming and toothsome; she could work at her herb garden, or tend her flourishing vegetables—avoiding at any costs the roses and shrubs that she encouraged William to take an interest in. It kept him out of doors, gave him a sense of what lay beyond the room full of books he was so willing to bury himself in, and, most importantly, got him out of the house a bit to give her a rest from his constant stream of talk. She attended to only about half of it, but even that was enough to jar her out of her sense of peace. If she could only imagine that the advice he was always asking for, the approval of his sermons, would change him, move him slowly toward more thoughtfulness … but he seemed oblivious to any lack in his perceptions, and the constant reinforcement of Lady Catherine's opinions only made him more certain that his was the right approach.
Sighing, Charlotte settled further into the pillow, blinking drowsily, as her hand stole again across her stomach. Perhaps fatherhood would change him, make him see a world outside his pulpit, outside his narrow book-bound existence. If only …
She drifted off to sleep, waking when the sun rose over the trees and shone in the window. William awakened at the same time, and he rolled over, looking at her. For a moment, Charlotte thought he might smile at her, might say something romantic, or tender, but instead he blinked and stifled a yawn. "Lady Catherine says a person who lies abed past sunup is wasting precious minutes in which they could be useful."
Charlotte sighed inwardly, slipping back into the role of supportive wife. "Does she? Very wise." Privately she was amused, thinking of Lady Catherine lying abed until late in the morning, when her breakfast was served to her.
William nodded his approval of her approval, sliding out of the covers. He was still shy about being seen in his night-clothes, so Charlotte rolled over so that he wouldn't have to hide himself. She got out of bed on her own side, already sorting over her tasks for the day. Her mending basket was overflowing, William like most men being hard on his socks, and she could stand to do some washing, as well. She couldn't help a smile, thinking of how scandalized her mother would be that her washing wasn't done on a schedule. But this was her home now, and she arranged her time as she pleased, if somewhat strictured by her husband's needs and the dictates of Lady Catherine, and that control over her own household was well worth the minor annoyances that came along with it.
She dressed and descended to the kitchen, making breakfast and tea and serving William's plate. He barely noticed, already deep in a book, his lips moving slightly in his absorption in the text, so Charlotte was free to indulge in her own thoughts as she sat down across from him. She imagined a small basket near the table filled with a cooing bundle; a little chair pulled up with a small, serious lad in curls sitting in it. Would they favour her, she wondered, or William, when they inevitably arrived? She hoped, at least, to instill some humour into the children, if she couldn't quite manage to do so in their father. Perhaps when the influence of Lady Catherine was removed, as it must someday be … Charlotte imagined picking the foxglove and delivering to Lady Catherine some delicacy created with it, but of course, that was quite impossible. No doubt any such gift would be passed on to servants as being unworthy of Lady Catherine's delicate palate.
William finished his breakfast, murmured something that might have been appreciation, and went to his study, where he would likely remain for most of the morning. Charlotte stood up, looking around her peaceful kitchen, and breathed a sigh of happiness. It wasn't perfect, and it came with many small and not-so-small irritations, but it was hers, and that was worth … everything.
She bent to the table and began clearing away the dishes, and inside her the tiny life that had sparked there grew and grew.