Neither had the vaguest idea how to proceed, so Charlotte dipped her head in the semblance of a curtsey, slid from the bed, seized her dressing gown, and fled.
By nine o’clock, the colonel had requested a tray in his room, while Charlotte followed her custom of eating in the breakfast room with the servants. It violated the usual bounds of propriety, but she saw no purpose in creating a deal of extra work when she needed to speak to them anyway. There were few enough that they might never be particular friends, but they could see they were all in this situation together, and eating separate meals seemed silly.
By ten o’clock, the colonel felt more refreshed than he had in years. He broke his fast in his room, then spent an hour devising the best way to fashion a cravat to hide his scars.
By eleven o’clock, the colonel, feeling surprisingly chipper considering the previous day’s disasters, had Barrow change his bandage, poured more gin on the wound, poured a little more down his throat, and took up a book Darcy had stacked in the corner.
By twelve o’clock, the colonel had worked his way through several chapters and grew restless. He thought it high time to leave the room and brace the dragon, though, truth be told, Barrow had not left quite enough gin for that endeavour.
By one o’clock, the colonel was bored to death, yet still afraid to leave.
By two o’clock, the colonel decided that having survived Badajoz and Salamanca, he should be able to survive the breakfast parlour at a hunting lodge on the Pemberley estate with the ordinarily most stable woman he had ever met.
~~~
Charlotte Lucas sat at a table in the breakfast parlour, her favourite room because it possessed just the right light, the right table, a good chair, and all she required. She had a pot of glue and a quantity of brown wrapping paper laid on the table, and attempted to assemble the mortal remains of her poor work box. She would miss that box, but she wished to see if she could salvage some meagre semblance to remind herself of the previous day, when she had nearly destroyed years’ worth of effort by failing to control her temper. There was nothing like a box that had stood the test of time for years—should have stood the test of decades—yet in one blinding fit of rage was turned into kindling that might or might not serve as an object lesson.
She glued the sixth piece to a group of five she had managed to assemble, when she was surprised to see a seventh piece slide into view to join its brethren. The scarred hands, with which she was oh so familiar, reached between her own to push thecentre of the box down flat. Between the four hands, they almost resurrected half the lid.
Neither spoke as the colonel reached for another piece, while Charlotte reached for another section to reassemble.
By four o’clock, the box was halfway repaired, and two diligent workers had yet to say a word to each other.
By five o’clock, the box was fully assembled; Barrow had even managed to cleverly repair a hinge Charlotte had assumed beyond hope, or requiring a specialist.
By six o’clock, still without a word, the last surviving piece was attached. All the needles had been cleaned thoroughly with gin, and there was indication that a reasonable portion of the spirit had been used for that purpose. All the pins, needles, thread, and other items were neatly organised in the box, just as they had been for nearly the previous twenty years.
Both diligent workers stood up, looked at the box with a certain amount of pride, and then nodded to each other in tacit understanding. Without words, they expressed their basic agreement:
“I will try.’
‘I will not give up on you.’
~~~
No one would ever know whether applying the colonel’s head to a box full of needles, to the bosom of a pretty woman, or merely a few hours of real sleep was what he needed; but either way, the corner was turned that day. He had pushed his caretaker to her absolute limit, and something inside him either broke, repaired itself, or finally became exhausted. Perhaps he finally realised that if he drove away the most sensible and patient woman in England, he would end his life as a mad old man, sitting by the fire with a pack of old dogs, telling them of his former greatness. The survivor of so many battles, in the end,was not quite as enamoured with the idea of yielding to difficulty as his previous behaviour might have indicated.
There were no more midnight visits, clandestine or otherwise. The healing that required the colonel to return to an earlier point in his life and begin anew was done; now, metaphorically, he had only to grow up again.
The first day of repair in the box was the only one completely devoid of conversation. After that, they gradually became able to speak of small, unimportant things—servants’ tasks, dinner, observations of the weather. Difficult subjects such as Darcy or Jane Bingley were embargoed by mutual, unspoken agreement—perhaps for a while, more likely forever.
Gradually the relationship deepened, and eventually Charlotte managed to pry from the man some small account of what happened in Spain, much to her horror. She knew he downplayed his experience, but the tiny portion of the tale he shared made her spirit wish to curl inward and weep. She had believed she could carry a portion of the load, but in truth, she was astonished by how heavy a burden the colonel bore.
~~~
Finally, a day came in early spring when Charlotte judged it time forthe conversation. They walked around the small lake abutting the hunting cottage. The water teemed with waterfowl, and they both displayed their knowledge by identifying various creatures, plants, and other items of interest.
The colonel sheepishly offered his arm at the walk’s commencement, and Charlotte sheepishly took it. They were well used to communicating with small gestures, and this one held a specific meaning: an acknowledgement that they were both very nearly indifferent acquaintances.
Through many more letters to the matron, Charlotte had learned that she possessed a fine instinct for action. She neededthe best advice of the best men and women, but in the end, there was always something that must differ, a necessity to take a chance. Her climbing into the colonel’s bed had been the turning point that transformed a failed campaign into at least a draw, with the possibility of victory. She had not repeated that event, and in fact did not think shecouldwhile retaining any modest semblance of her original task. Should she repeat it but once, her interactions with the colonel would take on an entirely new complexion, benefiting neither.
On this morning, she deemed it time to throw down her final gauntlet.
“Colonel, do you feel you have recovered your soul?”
He regarded her carefully, almost fearfully. “I am not certain.”
“It is time to be.”
