They sat in silence for some moments, watching the dancers circle in front of them.

“Forgive me if I invade your privacy, but have you ever regretted your marriage?” asked Elizabeth.

Charlotte looked down at her hands, folded in her lap.

“No,” she said, after a moment. “No.When I have been tempted to repine—and oh, Elizabeth, I must confess there were times—I have reminded myself of what my life should have been if I had never married. I think of poor Maria—and remember that that would have been me—and I know what I did was for the best.” (Maria Lucas had not married, and now lived with her widowed mother in a small house owned by one of her brothers. Lady Lucas was in her late seventies; her wits were wandering and she was very difficult to manage. Maria was some seven years younger than Charlotte, but looked far older.)

Miss Bingley passed by at that moment, all nodding plumes like a carriage horse, parading with Mrs. Yates, in puce satin, and Lady Bertram, in an unfortunate olive green. Charlotte took note. That was the other alternative to Maria, she thought. If I had never married, I might have been like Caroline Bingley. Bitter and resentful. Miss Bingley at least had money of her own, but Society and her own conventionality had allowed her no house, and of course she had no children. Something tight and hard within Charlotte’s bosom expanded and softened.Without thinking highly either of men or matrimony, as a young woman marriage had always been her object; it was the only honorable provision for well-educated young women of small fortune, however uncertain of giving happiness. She had not loved her husband, poor Mr. Collins, blighted from childhood, but she could be grateful to him. He had given her what she had wanted most in life.

“What will you do now?” asked Elizabeth, remembering her own mother’s fears, and her determined incomprehension of the entail of Longbourn.

“For the moment, I do not see my way,” said Charlotte. Her forehead was creased with worry but her hands stayed quietly in her lap. “William and his wife will move into Longbourn with all due speed, and I fear I cannot like Eugenia. I do not think we shall deal well together.” William Collins’s wife, the former Eugenia Elton, was a disagreeable young woman, snobbish and pretentious, with a sharp tongue.

“My dear, I wish to make a suggestion. I am sure Mr. Darcy will agree. Come to Pemberley and live in the Dower House. It is empty, since the death of Great-Aunt Ernestine, and needs a tenant to maintain its well-being. And if the time comes that I need it for myself (and I hope and pray Mr. Darcy and I expire together, and burst into heaven arm in arm), I am sure you and I will happily share it.”

Charlotte found herself moved to tears. What her husband’s death could not bring about, this unexpected kindness achieved. Her friendship with Elizabeth Bennet had been one of the rewards of her life. Charlotte had known Elizabeth since childhood—the families had always been close—but Charlotte was seven years older than Elizabeth, and until Elizabeth reached fifteen, they had not been much together. Then they had begun to find pleasure in each other’s company. Both were intelligent, thoughtful, fond of long walks and the observation of humanity in the form of their neighbors. The quiet, self-possessed Charlotte had watched with admiration the development of the younger girl, with her vivid face, amusing tongue, and love of life and laughter. She had always felt Elizabeth was bound for great things, a fine position—and so it had proved. The admiration Charlotte felt for Elizabeth Bennet was surpassed only by her admiration for Mrs. Darcy! And there had been more than passive admiration; there had been true friendship and enjoyment of each other’s company, despite differences of opinion and judgment. Going away from Elizabeth had been one of the drawbacks to her marriage. Their steady correspondence, recording the small events of their daily lives, had been a welcome compensation.

Sitting in the ballroom through the long and glittering evening, burdened by her secret, Charlotte had thought long and hard. Distracted briefly by the excitement of Juliet’s escapade, and then the joy of her best-loved daughter’s engagement, she had retreated once more into reflections that weighed heavily on her heart.What was she to do? Where was she to live? There was some money saved; she had always been a careful housekeeper, and had kept in mind her daughters’ need for dowries. But she would not be allowed to live alone. Convention demanded that William and Eugenia offer her a home with them at Longbourn, but she could think of such an arrangement only with repugnance. Now this unexpected kindness, from Elizabeth, on top of all else, was almost too much for her. She was used to bearing her burdens alone and silently. To be offered help—and such help—was overwhelming.

She blotted the moisture from her eyes surreptitiously, and straightened her spine. The Dower House. All her life Charlotte had loved houses. Living at home in her mother’s shadow, as the years passed and her youth receded, she had longed for a free hand, the right to make decisions and arrange her rooms, order her servants, plan her days as she wished. She had won that right and, despite the presence of Mr. Collins and the interference of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, had enjoyed her home at Hunsford Parsonage (and Rosings, after all, detached from Lady Catherine, was a handsome building). Then had come the move to Longbourn, back to the neighborhood she knew and loved, and the house that had once sheltered her friend.With the greater elegance of the country house and the security of a comfortable income not dependent upon Lady Catherine’s good will, Charlotte had been most content. She had never imagined anything more to her liking, and the thought of living at Longbourn under the patronage of Eugenia Elton, or leaving it for a small house in Meryton, was deeply dismaying.

To move to Pemberley, to live near Elizabeth and possibly Eliza and Henry (and without Mr. Collins), in the elegance of the Dower House, was as near to perfect happiness as she could wish. She had done her duty by the marriage bed, enduring Mr. Collins’s sticky fumblings while planning her menus for the next day; but now, to sleep alone would be a great comfort. What had she done, she wondered, to deserve such bounty?

Thinking back on the order of her life, she recalled the circumstances of her marriage, her unmaidenly behavior in taking it upon herself to seek out Mr. Collins and thrust herself before his eyes, her deliberate extraction (there was no other word) of a proposal from him. Where had the courage come from? At no other time in her young life had she so asserted herself. She had kept her composure in the face of Elizabeth’s huge surprise and dismay, but she had felt her friend’s disapproval strongly. Later, she had learned to deal with the intimacies of marriage, to command her feelings and make her own way, despite Lady Catherine’s attempts at interference and her husband’s toad-eating ways. Her child-bearing years had been difficult; she had badly missed Elizabeth; she had felt the need of a confidant, an understanding friend with whom to talk openly, as she struggled to carry out her household duties after her miscarriages. And then Eliza, so small, so frail at birth, and she herself not strong. But she was determined to rear the tiny child. And the two little boys, such little, little boys, who died—and Mr. Collins, talking with his mouth full, saying they had gone to God and were better out of this sinful world, and then asking for a second helping of roast pork—no, not all life was easy.There had been times of despair, of deep unhappiness. But Eliza had thriven, and Jonathan had grown to be her dear companion. And now here she was.

She sat back, tired but almost content as the long evening came to an end, and she watched the dancers. The consequences of her unconventional acquisition of a husband were there before her: Eliza dancing so happily in Henry Darcy’s arms, and Jonathan, proud and tender, looking down at Lucy Baluster—that was an unexpected happening. And there were Amabel Bingley and Fitzwilliam Darcy, Catriona Fitzwilliam with dashing Alexander Wentworth, Anthony Bingley with Nell Ferrars, lovely Dorothea Brandon with quiet Kit Knightley. Not all these pairings would come to anything, but it was a pleasure to see how these nice young people came together. Even Juliet, pretty, spoiled Juliet, seemed content in the trustworthy arms of Colin Knightley.

Sitting next to Charlotte, Elizabeth Darcy too watched her children dance round the ballroom, then found her view was blocked. Her husband stood before her.

“My dear,” said Mr. Darcy, extending his hand. “Will you waltz with me?”

Elizabeth held up her arms. They took to the floor, joining the throng, which fell back a little as they were recognized. The shimmering light from the candelabra was reflected on Elizabeth’s elegant cheekbones and the Darcy diamonds at her throat. Gravely and beautifully, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy waltzed round the floor.

“Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth,” said Fitzwilliam Darcy to his wife of twenty-five years, and he drew her a little closer.

And Charlotte Collins, widow, watched with pleasure. Some things work out well, she thought. One must accept the consequences. She sighed, and closed her eyes. She was very tired. There was a great deal on her mind, but for the moment she could rest. 

About the Author

Elizabeth Newark is a Londoner by birth, but a Californian by choice. She was educated at The Tiffin Girls School, Kingston-on-Thames (Tiffen). On leaving England in 1954 to work for the British government—and after living in Sarawak, Tanzania, and in Kenya—she immigrated to America in 1964. Her two children, Penelope and Hugh, were born in Nairobi, and it was there that she began to write fiction. She now has seven brilliant American grandchildren.