MRS. COLLINS, YOU MUST TAKE A LOVER, by Eldrice

Charlotte's Letter to Lizzy

A/N: Dear readers, thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed these whimsical letters of mine. It's always fantastic to hear from you! I also need to warn you that the following missive requires something of an explanation. It is a letter from Charlotte to Elizabeth regarding Lady Catherine's letter, but it is not written by the same Charlotte who replied to Lady Catherine. You see, I could write a short ridiculous note to Lady Catherine easily enough, but I found I couldn't bring that same sense of frivolity to correspondence between Charlotte and Elizabeth. Therefore, this letter has a far more serious tone, and little of the goofiness of the other two. Sorry for switching modes so schizophrenically!

Standard Disclaimers Apply: I do not own any of the works or characters of Jane Austen, and am making no profit from this story.

My dear Eliza,

I have just received the most astonishing correspondence from Lady Catherine. It is so shocking I can barely bring myself to write. I have enclosed it for you to read. Please burn it as soon as you have finished; I know I can trust your discretion. I don't know how I shall respond. Oh, Lizzy, how can I possibly respond to such a suggestion!

Lady Catherine has recommended that I – well, you shall have to read the letter yourself, for I cannot bring myself to describe its contents, except to say that they have unsettled me exceedingly. I shall step away from my desk for a moment, pretending that you are engaged in reading it as I do. And Eliza, I apologize for the pain it will bring you, in light of your recent loss. Lady Catherine is indeed a most callous woman.

Have you finished? If so, you can now perfectly understand why the letter has made me so unhappy. It is not only the idea of a man thinking of me in such an impossible role that is so distressing. (Although that is awful enough … can I ever visit Rosings again?!) But Lady Catherine, with or without intending to do so, has placed her finger directly on the portion of my lot that pains me the most.

I am not insensitive, Eliza, to my husband's shortcomings. They were perfectly known to me on the day of my wedding. And, for the most part, they do not trouble me. They were the price I paid to be safely established. My life is busy and comfortable, and my housekeeping duties are more than enough to keep me active and amused. And, fortunately, my husband's own particular duties lead him out of the house almost every day, so long as the weather is fine.

But there are quiet moments, I admit, when I find myself not quite content. Would it have been so bad, after all, to be a spinster aunt to my nieces and nephews, and to care for my parents as they age? It would have been a limited life, of course, and I would have been afforded little, or no, independence. My well-being would have depended utterly upon the whim of my relations. This cannot be a comfortable situation for any woman. And yet -- is it not also uncomfortable to have as little faith in your husband's sense as I do?

Those are the quiet moments, Eliza. Even more distressing are the noisy ones, when my husband's tongue has exposed his limitations more awkwardly than usual. Indeed, it is my marriage that has finally taught me how to blush, a talent I never learned as a maiden. Those can be bad days, indeed. And Lady Catherine's letter (and the rain) has made this the worst day of all.

But that letter does more than merely remind me of the deficiencies in my husband's intelligence. Equally unwelcome are Lady Catherine's congratulations on Mr. Collins' recent acquisition of Longbourn. Eliza, I know any discussion on this topic between us at one time would have been exceedingly awkward. But your family has seen so much good fortune since my marriage that I think nothing I say will trouble you. (Do you not find it ironic, Lizzy, that I have gained what your family lost, and yet find myself less happy than any of you? With the exception, of course, of poor Lydia.) Therefore, I will be frank regarding my current situation.

This is not my house, and I do not feel at ease here. Even though your mother and Mary were delighted to move into Mrs. Bingley's cottage, I still feel as if I were an unwelcome visitor. Without intending to do so, I have left almost everything as your mother had it, fearful to be caught moving things from their place. And this in what is supposed to be my own house!

Also troubling are my constant recollections of Longbourn's former owner. I deeply admired your father, Eliza, and remember him with fondness. As a result, I feel a pain every time I pass his study. I imagine him sitting there as he used to do, chuckling over a novel with a glass of claret. You can't imagine the shock I felt when I first came upon my own husband reading in Mr. Bennett's chair. For some time I was not quite myself. Nothing about my life here feels right. I suppose my feelings about the situation will change with time, but I will not be free from suffering until then.

So as you see, there is little at the moment to keep me cheerful. My primary comfort is the proximity of my own family, who are unquestionably happy to see me returned to the neighborhood. I'm much engaged at present with the preparations for Maria's wedding, a distraction for which I'm grateful, and which brings me sincere joy.

There has already been much in this letter to unsettle you. And yet, I have reserved my most agitating thoughts for last. You are the only person, Eliza, to whom I could admit this. The strength of our friendship over the years makes me believe that you will not judge me too harshly for it. But would you believe that there is a small part of me that wishes I could accept Lady Catherine's offer?

I can see you frown at me, Eliza. I know you must disapprove such thoughts. How can I explain? It is not the promise of Rogers' "nicely-turned calves" that lures me. I have never been a woman who chased creature delights (although I can imagine there are some wives who would welcome the charms of a "lusty" laborer with a "lowly cottage"). Rather, I am attracted by the possibility of some transforming experience – any experience. To act purely in my own interest, without considering the obligations of family or society – who could not help but thrill at the idea?

But this is all nonsense. I am either too strong or not strong enough to embark on this adventure. Do not worry that I shall embarrass myself. I have chosen my place, and will not quit it. It is of no import if I am not quite as content as some. We can not all expect to have your good fortune, Mrs. Darcy, both in riches and personal happiness. There are few rich, good men in this world … and there are even fewer rich, good men who would take plain wives.

Yours, sincerely,

C. Collins