After 1 month of treating Colonel Fitzwilliam, Charlotte Lucas was reasonably satisfied with his recovery from the injuries to his body, but not so much with the injuries to his soul. The man vacillated between any number of moods, he woke up Charlotte and at least one of the servants with nightmares nearly every night, and he had a number of what Sister Mary called personas. He could be the amiable, charming, well-spoken man one moment, and a taciturn, morose wild tempered man the next.
During that month, Charlotte wrote to Sister Mary back in the hospital in London, and had received advice on how to go about trying to drag the man out of the black pit of despair that he seemed to be locked in. Charlotte considered all the advice that she had received from Sister Mary, and was as well in nearly daily contact with Mr. Darcy. She eventually determined that the General's idea that the Colonel would be recovered in one month was wildly optimistic. The man seemed to be vacillating between the personalities of Mr. Wickham and Mr. Darcy on an hourly basis.
After 2 months of treating Colonel Fitzwilliam, Charlotte Lucas was well on her way to trying every tactic that had ever been suggested by anybody, and not entirely satisfied with results. In fact, the phrase not entirely satisfied understated the case by nearly an order of magnitude. In reality, she was extremely frustrated, and yet she soldiered on.
After 3 months of treating Colonel Fitzwilliam, Charlotte Lucas was becoming ever more vexed with her lack of progress.
On a bright, unseasonably warm and dry morning, she sat down on a small covered veranda just outside of the hunting lodge to write yet another letter to Sister Mary, back at the hospital in London. Charlotte worried that she was using up too much of the sister's time with one lone patient when she had many other duties to deal with, but the two women had grown to greatly esteem and respect each other, and they had a vigorous exchange of ideas, different treatments, different tactics to take with her patient. Sister Mary assured her that she was enjoying the exchange, and that it was no trouble or bother whatsoever, so they continued.
Colonel Fitzwilliam's physical wounds had long healed, and aside from the fact that he could no longer yell like a drill sergeant, he was mostly recovered. He would always have a scar on his neck, so he would never again venture in public without a well tied cravat. The gentleman would never talk quite properly either, but Charlotte reflected that, should his worst problem in life be the fact that he was a quiet and reserved man, it would be quite an improvement over being a dead man.
She had only gotten a good start on her letter, when she was interrupted by the object of her reverie.
Pemberley, Derbyshire
Dear Sister Mary,
For three months now, I have tried every persona I have been able to think of, and I have taken a stab at every treatment we have managed to discuss. At the moment, my most common personas include Rage, Frustration, Vexation, Annoyance, Exasperation and primarily Dissatisfaction.
I have tried being the friend, the lover, the taskmaster, all to no avail. Nothing that I do seems to shake my patient. He vacillates between very gentlemanly behavior, disdain, anger, staring through me as if I were not there, and many other reactions. If I thought any of these were the true man buried underneath all of his hurt and injury, I would #$%&**(&%$$#ERDFGT%TRF JH KUYTTT^^_P()%^ *(^&%& OGHIU^)(*^&_P_()*_)(*&U
Charlotte practically screamed in frustration as her letter was yanked out of her hand by none other than the object of her discussion… or at least, the closest to a scream of frustration one was likely to get out of the ever dependable and steady Charlotte Lucas.
"What do we have here, Miss Lucas? Writing your favorite little nurse back in the hospital? Trying to work out what to do with your recalcitrant little soldier boy? Think you are somehow going to repair me in some way? Do you think you have any chance? Your conceit knows no bounds!"
Charlotte ground her teeth in silent frustration before answering.
"Colonel Fitzwilliam, that letter is private. Though it concerns you, that does not mean it is yours to read. I will have my letter back, sir."
"No no no no no no no no! What have we here? This I must see? How do you and your little band of sisters look at us men who are actually putting ourselves in risk of our lives to give you your comfortable existence. You who will never face the slightest bit of danger in your entire lives are not the ones who will determine my fate."
Charlotte looked at the man in front of her with even more frustration than usual, but managed to rein in her temper a little bit… but it took some real effort.
"No danger! No danger you say! It is easy enough for you to say that, sir, obviously having not the slightest idea what you are talking about. A few of you gentlemen go off to play your war games on the continent, while most of you are content to simply risk your life at games of horsemanship and chance. Sooner or later though, you all want children, and sooner or later your wives frequently die for it. A very small number of you men risk your lives for the betterment of our society, while every single woman risks her life every time she goes to the marriage bed. I will not stand for this disparagement of my sex, Colonel. We do all that you men ask of us, and frequently more… and we do a while we are putting up with both men and children, who by the way seem mostly indistinguishable. You have no right to your opinion, sir. "
The Colonel startled at her sudden demeanor, apparently completely convinced of her placid nature, but then recovered himself and merely sneered at her in disdain. Apparently, she was getting the arrogant Colonel today.
"I think you need not worry about childbirth, Miss Lucas. Spinsters rarely have that sort of problem, and you are a spinster in the making if I have ever seen one."
Things went back and forth more or less in this vein for what may have been five minutes, with each exchange becoming more alarming than the last. Charlotte Lucas may have been the most even-tempered woman that ever lived, but even she had her limits. The Colonel had vacillated between being simply frustrating and being downright mean-spirited, but she, despite all evidence to the contrary, believed that somewhere deep down inside, so deep as to be impossible to detect, was the honorable gentleman who'd gone off to war so many years ago. Whether he would ever be seen again was another question, but she just could not believe that he was as bad of a man as he appeared to be based on what he was saying. However, she had her limits.
For a moment during their repartee she wondered if she was feeling a sense of honor and duty towards the gentleman who had given so much, or whether she was simply a victim of her own pride, vanity and stubbornness, unwilling to quit with the task unfinished. In the end, results were the only thing that really mattered, but in the same way that results on the battlefield might be the result of good impulses, bad impulses, skill, planning or just plain luck and stubbornness; Charlotte felt like she had spent three months trying to do her best, and almost felt like she could see success just around the corner. At times it felt like it was so close she could taste it, and at other times, it seemed to slide farther away with every word.
She continued, "You made say hurtful things all you want Colonel, but you shall not affect the rest of my life. Certainly, you will never have much effect on it once I am done with you. I will finish my duty just as you have done, and then I fully intend to never see you again, but make no mistake Colonel – I will finish my duty."
The Colonel looked at her with a bit of a sneering expression, before he made his most scathing reply.
"You might as well leave now Miss Lucas, since you have already failed in your endeavor… whatever it was. I will either live or die, but will not be through your intervention."
There was something about the way the man said those words; something about his tone of voice; something about how he knew exactly what to say to vex her the most, and did not scruple to do so. There was something about the way he seemed to enjoy provoking her. Whatever it was, that last little arrogant statement, much like the proverbial straw that broke the burro's back, was just one thing too many. Nearly anybody in Meryton, or anybody in the hospital in London, or just about anybody who knew Charlotte would assure you that she did not have a temper, but though it was rarely exercise, it was certainly there.
"AAAAJJJJYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEE"
With a frustrated cry of rage, and a scream that was heard all the way through the house and had every servant within half a mile running towards them, Charlotte picked up her favorite work box that was sitting on the table next to her. This was the box that her mother had given her when she was five years old and she carried around all the days of her life. This box was probably her favorite possession in the world, but it was unfortunately right at hand. She picked it up and smashed it against the side of the Colonel's head with all the force of every bit of pain, rage, vexation and frustration the insufferable man had built up inside her over three very long months.
The wooden box splintered into pieces, some of the splinters being driven into the side of the Colonel's head, and others falling to the ground. The Colonel fell to the porch like a sack of grain, while Charlotte stomped away from the house practically killing the soles of her boots, cussing and screaming like a drunken sailor.
Barrow ran out the front door just in time to see the Colonel unconscious on the side of the porch, bleeding profusely but not worryingly from the side of his head. There were two needles stuck in the side of his ear, and a splinter driven all the way through his cheek. The remnants of the poor box were laying underneath him, and all Barrow could see of Miss Lucas was her back as she stomped away, screaming words that even he in his vast experience had never heard.
After 1 mile, Charlotte managed to calm down almost enough to quit doing her best to destroy her boots, and she even managed to moderate her foul language, which she had learned from the best at the hospital. She even got to the point where she only sounded like a fishmonger's wife, rather than a prostitute. During that mile she caught her dress on a tree branch and simply ripped it away, leaving a surprisingly big tear in her skirt. Now she not only sounded disreputable, but she looked disreputable, but she was at least calmed down enough so that she was only talking to herself instead of screaming.
After 2 miles, Charlotte managed to slow down from almost a run to more of a fast walk. It was a pace that the younger Elizabeth Bennett would have used to eat up the miles, but Charlotte had not moved at such a pace for many years, nor did she ordinarily prefer to. During that mile, she had managed to catch her dress on one more rock on the way by, so it was looking even worse than it had to start with, but at least she was now aware enough to avoid future rocks and trees.
After 3 miles, Charlotte finally stopped talking to herself like a crazy person, although she could not revert to her ordinary silence. She was walking up a slight incline, and a quick look at her watch indicated that she had been gone for around an hour. She was on a path that she had never seen before, but she knew the way to Pemberley, and she was traveling towards it like an arrow fired from a bow. In her distress, she had been well aware that the route away from this horrid man was through Pemberley and back to her own life. Mr. Darcy would see her to where she needed to go.
After 4 miles, Charlotte started walking through a more attended part of the park, which she had heard was 10 miles around. The path joined the carriageway, and started climbing up a small hill, with well-groomed and tended trees on both sides, and even some obviously cultivated flowers here and there. The carriageway wound upward towards a small promontory, and Charlotte slowed down even more, but continued relentlessly towards Pemberley and freedom from that horrid man.
After 5 miles, Charlotte reached the top of a small hill, and as she crested it, she encountered a wide spot where carriages on the way to Pemberley obviously pulled over, so she assumed it was probably a good place to see the view. She ambled over to the other side of the promontory, at a pace that was slightly more ladylike, and as she reached the edge, she saw her first view of Pemberley itself. She had arrived at night all those months ago, and gone directly to the hunting lodge, so in all this time, she had never actually even seen the main house.
The view was breathtaking, and it was soothing enough that it even tamped down her violent mood a little bit. She had calmed down enough that she believed she was satisfied she had only knocked the Colonel unconscious, whereas for most of the previous five miles she had really wished she had killed him.
Charlotte stood stock still for a moment, and just stared at the visage long enough for her mood to improve, and long enough for her anger over the Colonel to abate somewhat. Charlotte was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. Yes, there was no doubt, Pemberley was magnificent! Mr. Darcy had a certain amount of entitlement to whatever pride he managed to carry around with himself. His ancestors had done remarkably well for themselves, and from everything she could see, it appeared that he was a diligent and conscientious master.
The place she was standing was not the very top of the hill, and Charlotte noticed a small climb right next to the overlook that was steep, but barely manageable, and it had what looked like a nice isolated cliff‑like shelf around thirty or forty feet up. Charlotte climbed up the ledge, only snagging her dress two more times. She tore enough of her petticoat on a passing rock that she once again started getting ready to scream in frustration, but instead simply pulled it off and left it sitting there.
When she finally reached the top, she went over to the very edge, closed her eyes and felt the sunshine on her face and the breeze blowing her hair. Being as far from propriety as it seemed possible to get, she threw her bonnet over the edge, pulled the pins out of her hair and let it fall, then sat down with her feet hanging over the edge, just staring at Pemberley as the sun neared the horizon.
When she had sat on the cliffside for 1 hour, Charlotte had almost managed to sort out the idea that it really did not matter if she had tried for treble the amount of time the general it asked for out of honor, duty, or stubbornness. In the end, the only two things that mattered where that she had given it her best effort, and that she had failed.
When she had sat on the cliffside for 2 hours, she managed to work her away around to trying to decide which direction she would go when she came back down. She sat staring at her two hands in contemplation for many moments at a time. She pictured in her mind exactly what she would do upon her descent. She would climb down the cliffside exactly the inverse of how she had come up. She would take one last look at Pemberley from the exact spot where she had first viewed it some time back. Then she would turn around and walk back the way she had come until she came to the carriageway. When she got to the carriageway, she might turn to her left towards Pemberley, and she would be at the main house within the hour. She knew in her own heart that if she ever got to Pemberley itself, that would only be because she had finally given up.
If she followed her right hand, she would turn back down the path, return to the lodge, and see if she could work out some other way to finish her duty.
When she had sat on the cliffside for 3 hours, she decided that she was both woolgathering, and starting to get quite hungry, but not hungry enough to leave yet. Her last meal had been when she broke her fast, very much earlier in the day.
The sunset was a gorgeous array of reds, oranges and violets, as if Pemberley were so important to the world that the sun itself felt compelled to honor its presence. Charlotte just sat there, wondering what in the world she was going to do.
When she had sat on the cliffside for 4 hours, watching the last rays of the sun disappear, she finally concluded that she would have to go down, pick the appropriate hand, and go meet her fate. With a heavy sigh, she climbed slowly to her knees, very nearly falling off the edge of the cliff, which would have forestalled any need to finally make a decision, and worked her way over to climb back down.
It turned out that even without her petticoat, climbing down was a lot harder than climbing up. She imagined if she had asked the young Lizzie Bennett before she lost her eyesight, she would have been able to tell her that, but this was not something that Charlotte already knew. She did eventually get back down with only a stumble or two, stood up, dusted herself off, turned around and walked over back to her original viewpoint to make her decision.
"Mr. Darcy!"
"Miss Lucas."
Charlotte wondered why she was surprised that Mr. Darcy was standing there waiting for her. It seemed obvious that a servant no doubt took a horse to Pemberley many hours previously, and it seemed likely that Mr. Darcy had known exactly where she was the whole time.
What was surprising was that he stood on the ground as if he had been planted there at the dawn of time, and would be happy to wait there until the end of time. He showed no impatience, no reserve, no sign of any distress whatsoever. Looking down she noticed a few tracks in the dust that indicated that he had been there quite some time. His vantage point had a very good view of where she was sitting up on the cliffside, but he had been gentleman enough to leave her to her ruminations. The simple courtesy of doing absolutely nothing might have been the nicest thing anybody had done for her in some time, and she was very appreciative.
"Mr. Darcy, I apologize for taking up so much of your day, but I do appreciate the fact that you left me to my own devices. I needed… reflection."
"Miss Lucas, there is no need to thank me. You have done far more than anybody has asked of you, you have done it well and with aplomb, and frankly the fact that you only injured my cousin instead of killing him is very much to your credit. Nobody heard the very last conversation, but Salina and Barrow have overheard enough to know that he is a very difficult patient."
Charlotte just nodded her head in understanding, and waited patiently. However, Mr. Darcy seemed a very patient man, in no hurry to go rattling on like other young men did, so he gave her a few minutes. When he saw that she was not very inclined to speak, he finally asked.
"Miss Lucas, you have done all that anybody is asked of you. If you will come to Pemberley tonight, I will see you delivered wherever you need to go."
Charlotte looked at him, and nodded in appreciation, but apparently, he was not finished yet.
"You actually need go nowhere at all, Miss Lucas. You are welcome at Pemberley for as long as you should choose to stay."
Looking carefully at the man, Charlotte had to have a bit more appreciation for him. She knew what he had done for Jane, and for the relatively small service that she had provided for his cousin, she knew that he would in fact allow her to stay at Pemberley for years or decades if she so chose, or he would happily introduce her to other men of standing. He was not the man for her certainly, but he was very much a man for some woman. She thought he might even have been a good match for Lizzy, if she had not gone to America.
"Mr. Darcy, I had decided upon the cliff face that I would come to this spot, and choose left or right. Left for Pemberley, home and defeat; right to go back to the lodge and try once more."
Mr. Darcy walked up directly in front of her, and very forwardly reached out to take hold of both of her hands. Propriety be damned, neither of them were wearing gloves. In fact, she was dirty, sweaty and tired, and was not even wearing a petticoat, a fully intact dress, hair pins or a bonnet – but she felt that they had an understanding between themselves.
They stood there staring at each other for a few moments, feeling a bond of friendship that had been built up over the previous months of visits, letters, and endless fretting about his cousin. It was obvious that he was simply awaiting her decision, and then he would know how to act.
At long last, Charlotte released her left hand and let it fall to the side, squeezed his right hand in a gesture of comfort that would be more appropriate for a lover but she had no fear would be misinterpreted, and then looked to the right towards the hunting lodge.
Mr. Darcy nodded acceptance of her decision, along with what she thought was an expression indicating that he would perfectly well have accepted either one.
Ever the gentleman, Mr. Darcy offered her his arm, and led her around onto the carriageway. When they got to the top at a particular point, he took off his hat and waved it a few times. A few minutes later, a groomsman rode up with a small phaeton. Mr. Darcy handed Charlotte up, casually mentioned that his groom was a man to be trusted to keep his silence, carefully covered her lap with the rug, climbed up beside her, snapped the whip and brought her back to her next encounter with her duty, her destiny, her unfinished task, the bane of her existence.
When they arrived back at the hunting lodge, Salina indicated that they had saved a bit of supper, and led them off into a small breakfast room to eat. Barrow joined them, and reported that he had pulled all the splinters and needles out of the Colonel, patched him up, gave him some laudanum, and stuffed him into bed. He had not the vaguest idea what would happen next, so Charlotte thanked him for seeing to her duties for the day, and bade him go to his own bed and his own wife.
Mr. Darcy watched all this with nods of appreciation at her decisiveness. He once again appreciated her qualities, while silently assuring himself that she would not be a mere Colonel or General's wife. This was a lady born to be mistress of a household, and mother to a flock of probably well‑behaved children.
"Miss Lucas, the servants have done their duty well today. Perhaps I will stay and assist through the night."
Charlotte gave him a look he had learned meant that argument was pointless before replying.
"No Mr. Darcy, you need to go home. Things are well under control here. I apologize for causing you any distress or wasting your day, but I now have things well in hand."
"It would be my honor to stay, Miss Lucas."
Charlotte looked at them carefully, judging how much she really needed to say, and finally told him, "Mr. Darcy, your presence is like trying to put out a fire with oil, kindling and matches. The Colonel reacts badly to you. Let me deal with him."
Darcy did not particularly like that situation, but could find no real argument against it, and he had in fact put the Colonel in Miss Lucas's care. Until she relinquished that claim, or he found some reason to be dissatisfied with her, which seemed so unlikely as to be impossible, he would follow her guidance.
"Very well, Miss Lucas. I will abide."
With that he picked up his hat and his coat, went back out to the stable to take his horse back from the groom, and rode the phaeton back to Pemberley.
Despite the exhaustion of the day, sleep thoroughly eluded Charlotte, so she was awake when the Colonel started screaming. He wasn't actually screaming with a sound that could wake up most people. His voice had more or less recovered from his adventure with the rope sufficient to be able to talk, or perhaps even yell, but he could not really scream with any level of volume. She was quite certain that he was feeling all the terror of his fever dreams, but it was difficult to hear them any more than a dozen yards away.
Against the advice of all of the well-meaning men of the day, she had set her bedroom up right next to the Colonel's, and even went so far as to have Barrow move her bed to the opposite side of the wall the Colonel slept in. Salina was in the next room over, and Barrow was a few rooms down the hall. He was not willing to keep his wife anywhere near the Colonel, so he shared the duty of watching the Colonel with one of the other servants from Rosings. There was another small outbuilding a quarter‑mile away that was shared by their wives, and the men would take turns occupying the cabin.
Charlotte jumped out of bed, quickly donned her dressing gown, and strode down the hall to the Colonel's room. She fully expected to see one of the footmen up, or Salina, but it appeared that the Colonel had not made enough noise to wake any of them, so Charlotte made a decision. Her instructions for how to deal with the man were crystal clear, rock‑solid, unambiguous and reinforced by the authorities of everyone from the general to Mr. Darcy to the doctor. She was never to be alone with the man, never to jeopardize her safety, never to… never to… never to… never to actually have any chance of healing him. Was she to spend even more months trying the thing that had never worked before, or try something new?
Decision made, she walked into his room, where he was thrashing around in the blankets. The counterpane was half laying on the floor, half twisted around the gentleman, and half twisted in knots. He was sweating profusely, and letting out inarticulate little screams that could not quite seem to escape his throat.
Charlotte stared at him for a moment, thinking about waking him up, thinking about what she could do to try to help him, and finally decided to do something a little bit different.
Walking over to the bed, she took charge of the counterpane with all the authority of an upstairs maid, straightened the bed out, and covered him properly. He was still thrashing about, but at least he was not tied up in the bed linens like some giant snake.
That task done, she only thought about it for another moment, before she took off her dressing gown, lifted the counterpane, and climbed into the bed.
The Colonel was still thrashing, and moaning, and Charlotte simply started gently singing a lullaby that she learned from her great aunt, while gently pushing the hair out of his eyes and rubbing his head just like you would with a baby. It was the same song and the same motion she had used many years ago to rock the noisiest, fussiest and most ill‑tempered baby she had ever known to sleep. She had always assumed that someday Lizzy Bennet would repay the favor by singing the same song to her own children, but it was hard to say whether that would be the case or not. Any sensible man would snap up her friend in a heartbeat, but in her current state, she thought she only knew one sensible man and he was 4,000 miles from Elizabeth, and honor bound to leave her in peace.
The idea that the Colonel basically had to be reborn was not exactly a new idea, but it was new to Charlotte at the time, and she thought perhaps it might work. Further increasing her daring, she decided that she would put everything she had into this task. Why this particular man should get more attention than any other soldier, she had no idea. Why this particular man was so important to her, she had no idea. Why she was unwilling to simply give up and admit failure, she had no idea.
She had no idea on any of these things, but she did have an idea on how to deal with the man. She very slowly and carefully, acting just as you would with a spooked animal or a colicky baby, gradually worked her arm underneath his neck, and wrapped him in an embrace. He was actually a little bit too large to be embracing like a baby, and he was way too old to be listening to the cooing sounds that she was making, but whether it made sense or not, she had chosen her path and she would follow it unless he got violent.
Eventually, she managed to pull the gentleman over so that his head was tucked under her chin, nestled tightly into her bosom, while she simply held him as tightly she could and rocked him like a baby, still cooing, singing lullabies, and otherwise just trying to get him back to sleep. Why she was going to treat a battle-hardened Colonel like a colicky baby was not an idea she wanted to delve very deeply into, but it seemed to be working.
Eventually, the Colonel's thrashing slowed down, then he stopped sweating, then he stopped screaming, and finally he fell into a deep restful sleep – perhaps the first of many months.
Charlotte had been watching for it carefully, eyeing the man as carefully as any naturalist would pay attention to some particular animal that he was studying, and prepared to take or leave as soon as he was fully asleep. The plan, once formed was perfection in its simplicity, and it probably even had a better than even chance of succeeding until she had fallen asleep herself.
Charlotte woke with a gasp as dawn shone through the windows. Unless it was particularly cold, the servants were not allowed into the room until they had been authorized, so at that point not a soul in the world knew what she had done. She was perfectly safe, her reputation perfectly intact, and she could simply go back to her room with none the wiser… well, none except the Colonel who was sitting there staring at her.
Neither of them had the vaguest idea what to do, so Charlotte simply dipped her head in a little semblance of a curtsy, slid out of the bed, grabbed her dressing gown and fled for the door.
By 9 o'clock, the Colonel had asked for a tray in his room, while Charlotte had followed her usual custom of eating in the breakfast room with the servants. She knew she was violating some type of proprietary bounds, but saw no purpose for setting up a bunch of extra work, when she needed to talk to all the servants anyway. There were few enough of them that they might never be particular friends, but they could see that they were all in this deal together, and eating separate meals just seemed silly.
By 10 o'clock, the Colonel was feeling more refreshed than he had in years. He broke his fast in his room, and then spent more than an hour working out the best way to make a cravat to hide his scars.
By 11 o'clock, the Colonel, feeling still surprisingly chipper considering how badly the previous day had gone, had Barrow change his bandage, poured a bit more gin on the wound, poured a little bit more gin down his throat, and took up one of the books Darcy had stacked in the corner.
By 12 o'clock, the Colonel had worked his way through several chapters in the book, and was starting to grow restless. He thought it was nigh on time to leave the room and face the Dragon, although, truth be told, Barrow had not left quite enough gin for that endeavor.
By 1 o'clock, the Colonel was bored to death, but still afraid to leave the room.
By 2 o'clock, the Colonel decided that he had survived Badajoz and Salamanca, so he should well be able to survive the breakfast parlor at a hunting lodge on the Pemberley estate with the ordinarily most stable woman he had ever met.
Charlotte Lucas was sitting at a table in the breakfast parlor, which was her favorite room in the house because it had just the right light, just the right table, a good chair to sit in, and all the things she needed. In this case, she had a pot of glue and a bunch of parchment laid on the table, and was attempting to put together the mortal remains of her poor little work box. She was going to miss that box, but she wanted to see if she could get some meager semblance of it that she could use to remind herself of the previous day, when she had nearly destroyed months and years' worth of effort by failing to control her temper. There was nothing like a box that had previously stood the test of time for years, should have stood the test of decades, and yet in one blinding bit of rage was turned into a bit of kindling that might or might not be able to be turned into something that could be used as an object lesson.
She was just in the process of trying to glue the sixth piece to a little group of five that she had managed to put together using thick parchment and glue, when she was most surprised to see a seventh piece sliding out of the edge of her vision, to go right up against its brethren. She saw the scarred hands that she was oh so familiar with after these months reach in directly between her two hands which were holding the ends down, to push the center of the box down flat onto the parchment. Between the four hands, they managed to almost resurrect half of the lid of the box.
Not a word was said as the Colonel reached for another piece, while Charlotte reached for another section of the box to try to put back together.
By 4 o'clock, the box was about halfway towards being as repaired as it was ever going to be, and two diligent workers had yet to say a single word to each other.
By 5 o'clock, the box was fully assembled, and Barrow had even managed to cleverly repair one of the hinges that Charlotte had assumed would be either beyond repair, or require a trip to a specialized blacksmith.
By 6 o'clock, still without a single word, the last surviving piece of the box was put together. All the needles had been cleaned thoroughly with gin, and there was some indication that at least a reasonable portion of the gin had been used for that purpose. All the pins, needles, thread and other work items were neatly organized in the box, just as they had been for nearly the previous 20 years.
Both diligent workers stood up, looked at the box with a certain amount of pride, and then nodded to each other in some type of tacit understanding. Without any words, they expressed their basic agreement.
'I will try.'
'I will not give up on you.'
No one will ever know whether applying the Colonel's head to a box full of needles or to the bosom of a pretty woman, or just a few hours of real sleep was what the Colonel needed; but either way, the corner was turned that day. He had pushed his caretaker to her absolute limit, and something inside of him either broke, or repaired itself, or just finally became exhausted. Perhaps he finally realized that if he managed to drive away the most sensible and patient woman in England, he would wind up a crazy old man, sitting next to the fire with a bunch of old dogs, talking to the dogs about how great he had been when he was something. It turned out that the survivor of so many battles, when it got right down to it, was not quite as enamored with the idea of just giving up when things got difficult as his previous behavior may have indicated.
There were no more midnight visits, clandestine or otherwise between the pair. The parts of the healing that required the Colonel to go back to some earlier point in his life and start over was done, and now, metaphorically he just had to grow back up.
The first day of repair in the box was the only day completely devoid of conversation. After that, they gradually got so they could talk about small unimportant things… the servants' tasks, what to have for dinner, observations of the weather, that sort of thing. Difficult subjects such as Darcy or Jane Bingley were embargoed by mutual unspoken agreement.
Gradually the relationship deepened a little bit, and eventually Charlotte managed to pry out of the man a little bit of what happened in Spain, much to her horror. She knew he was downplaying his experience, but what she did hear made her insides want to curl up in a ball and cry. She thought that she could carry a little bit of the load, but when it really got down to it, she was astonished just how much of a load the Colonel had in the first place.
Finally, a day came in early spring when Charlotte judged it was time for the conversation. They were walking around the small lake that abutted the hunting cottage. The lake was full of all types of waterfowl, and they were both showing off their knowledge by identifying different creatures, plants, and even animals if they could see them.
The Colonel had somewhat sheepishly offered his arm at the beginning of the walk, and Charlotte had somewhat sheepishly taken it. By then they were well used to communicating with small gestures, and this one had a very specific meaning. This was basically an acknowledgment that they were both very nearly indifferent acquaintances.
Through many more letters to Sister Mary, Charlotte had learned that she had a very good instinct for what to do. She needed all the best advice of all of the best men and women she could get, but when it came right down to it, there was always something that had to be different, something where you had to take a chance. Her climbing into the Colonel's bed had been the watershed event that turned a failed campaign into a victory. She had not had to repeat that event, and fact she did not think she could repeat it, while retaining any modest semblance of her original task. Should she repeat it only one more time, then her interactions with the Colonel would take on an entirely new flavor, and it would be to benefit to neither.
On this morning, she thought it was probably time for her to lay down her last gauntlet.
"Colonel, do you feel like you have recovered your soul?"
The Colonel looked at her carefully, almost fearfully, and finally admitted, "I am not certain, Miss Lucas."
Charlotte was unsurprised by the answer, and replied, "It is time to be certain Colonel."
"How is it to be done?"
Charlotte laughed a little bit, and said, "Remember that this is ONLY AN ANALOGY Colonel, but it is very much like when a couple gets married. They do not know everything. In fact, they may know very little about each other, and most of what they think they know is probably wrong. But there comes a time in their relationship where they must decide. They have to choose to stand up in front of their friends and family and declare themselves partners for life…that is a decision."
She looked at him to make sure he was not misinterpreting her analogy. She could have come up with some that were not so… volatile, but they were not as useful?
"Today Colonel, you must decide. I want to go back to the house, and you go to the stable. Get your horse saddled, and I want you to ride it towards the peaks as hard as you can. Ride it until it nearly flounders, and you find both man and beast very near your limits. After you've done that, slow down just a little bit and ride some more. Ride to the very top of the highest cliff you can find."
"And the object of this ride, Miss Lucas?"
"When you reach that point Colonel, it is time. Climb down from your horse, walk over directly next to the edge. Walk up to the very limit, where your toes are hanging over. Lift your arms up like a statue, feel the wind in your hair, feel the weight of the Earth under you, think about everything that has happened in your life, good or bad, and then make a decision. Decide front or back!"
"Meaning?"
"Meaning Colonel, either go forward over the cliff and end this charade today – or walk backwards, get on your horse, come back here and start living. Those your two choices Colonel. If you decide on the former, make sure your horse is not tied up so he does not suffer your fate. But make no mistake Colonel, if you come back, I expect you to return a man… not the shadow of a man who first came here. Your time as a patient is over. It is time to decide. Are we understood, sir?"
The Colonel stared at the lady for quite some time. He had no real idea what he would decide when the actual moment of decision came, but by god this was a woman. This was a woman that might be worth backing away from the cliff for. She had given him instructions, so he would follow them to the letter.
Darcy was sitting in the comfortable breakfast parlor with Miss Lucas, reading a book while she did some work while marveling at how well her broken box had been restored, and hoping that her broken friend might do the same. Mr. Darcy had offered that he could have a master craftsman make a new one exactly like the original if she preferred. Miss Lucas knew this was just protocol. If she wanted a different box he would make her the best box in England, but he did not expect her to make that choice, and she did not expect to make it. Nothing would ever take the place of this particular box.
After six hours, the Colonel returned with a glorious sunset at his back, and a decision in his heart.
Darcy asked, "Have you decided?"
"I have!"
"Are you ready for a challenge?"
The Colonel looked at his cousin quite carefully. Up to this point, since the moment he'd tried to end his life, just surviving one more day at a time, or even a few more hours had seemed like a big challenge to him. Darcy was implying something larger. Perhaps he was to go back to duty, or go back to a duty where he was only training soldiers or doing something else where he was unlikely to get a bunch of other men killed. Perhaps Darcy wanted to have him manage some small estate. They had talked about it over time, and Darcy had offered it any number of times.
"I believe I am ready, cousin. What is the task?"
Darcy, being a little bit cagey, replied, "We will discuss that when we get there."
The Colonel replied, "I will go along, but where is 'there'."
"We leave at first light tomorrow. You will know in a couple of days. I will not explain the plan more than once, so we need to get to the place where the rest of the participants are."
Everybody looked a bit surprised at this new-found plan of Darcy the Mad. Charlotte, beginning to feel that her task was done, started thinking about what would come next.
Darcy forestalled her a little bit, by adding, "We need you as well, Miss Lucas. Now more than ever. Might you indulge me for another little bit?"
Perhaps there was some woman in England who would turn down an earnest request from Fitzwilliam Darcy, but Charlotte Lucas was certainly not her.
"It would be my pleasure, Mr. Darcy."