The Lovesick Maid Read online

  ~ ~ ~

  “Mrs Collins? Something more for your husband’s knees?” Sarah Littleworth was sitting quietly, fingers toying with a bundle of some dried herb.

  “No, I come on behalf of Miss de Bourgh—”

  “As I told Miss Inglis, I cannot provide what Miss de Bourgh asks of me.” A twig snapped in Sarah’s hands. “My brews may work wonders on a fever, but nothing can force a man to feel affection. For that I would need to be a real witch.” She took a deep breath. “My apologies, Mrs Collins. I meant no disrespect to Miss de Bourgh. I already have all the maids asking for my help with a footman or gardener. There is only one thing that brings about true love…” She tapped the bundle against the left side of her chest.

  “You will find no argument from me on that point, Sarah, though a little money helps the heart make its choice. But you are mistaken as to my purpose. Miss de Bourgh is simply a little dispirited. Perhaps you have something to soothe her? One of your infusions?”

  “Of course, yes.” Sarah stood to reach up to a nearby shelf. She paused as her hand closed on a small flask. “What I said…about Miss de Bourgh…”

  “Is between you and Miss de Bourgh,” said Charlotte.

  The still room maid retrieved the flask and let a few drops of its contents fall into a pot of liquid simmering quietly on the stove. “This will need a minute or two. Please do sit, Mrs Collins.”

  “Thank you, but I have been sitting all afternoon.” The last time she had sat on one of Sarah’s stools, her reward had been a bright spot on a favourite gown.

  “The stool is freshly scrubbed. It will not stain your clothes.”

  Charlotte wondered if Sarah Littleworth might be a witch after all.

  Next to the stove stood a handful of bottles, just like the one on Mary’s table. “Mr Booth’s daughter continues to suffer,” said Charlotte.

  “There’s been talk among the maids.” Sarah began stirring the pot. “So she is more than just lovesick, then? If it does not pass soon, there are herbs that may help.”

  “What is in the infusion you give her?”

  “Very little.” Sarah stirred a little faster, eyes fixed on the bubbling liquid.

  “Nothing that might cause Mary’s illness?”

  The stirring ceased for a moment, then started up slowly again. “Just a little valerian, same as I’m making up here for Miss de Bourgh. In small quantities, it soothes the nerves and eases the path to sleep.” Sarah looked across at Charlotte. “My grandmother used it, and her grandmother before her. Never been known to cause such problems.” She put down her large wooden spoon, fetched a porcelain cup and saucer, then began to pour liquid into the cup from the pot. “And as for Mary, most likely it is something she ate. Rich food from Rosings can cause complaint in a stomach used to a maid’s fare. Perhaps her father gave her something. Here. It should be cool enough to drink by the time you reach Miss de Bourgh.”

  Charlotte dipped her head into the steam drifting up from the cup, nose flaring at a smell that reminded her of Mr Collins after a long day gardening in the sun.

  ~ ~ ~

  Candle in one hand, valerian in the other, Charlotte stepped through the library as she worked her way back to Miss de Bourgh. Even in the dying light of day, it was a magnificent room. “I should have fetched a tray,” she said out loud, lifting an arm to prevent infusion from dripping onto a slim guide to eating houses in the more fashionable parts of London.

  “Shall I find one for you? Or call for a maid?” Charlotte’s cup and saucer rattled at the sound of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s voice. “My apologies, Mrs Collins, I did not mean to startle you.” A face appeared from behind an armchair. “Lady Catherine was concerned at the length of your absence and sent me to find you. I was told you were in the still room, so waited for you here. I have frightened you.”

  “It is no matter, Colonel Fitzwilliam. My mind was simply quite elsewhere.”

  “How is Miss de Bourgh?”

  “She is resting. I have an infusion for her.” Charlotte held up the valerian.

  “Is there something I can do?”

  “You might fetch that tray…and call for a glass of wine. I promised one to Miss de Bourgh but quite forgot. I will wait for your return here.”

  The colonel rose, then turned once more to Charlotte. “She is really not so unwell?” It was too dark to see his face properly.

  “No.”

  “But you will not say what is amiss?”

  “No.”

  “I see. Well, I had better fetch that wine.”

  As she waited, Charlotte stole a moment to view the books left strewn on chairs, tables, and sofas. Miss de Bourgh was an untidy reader and Lady Catherine forbade anyone not of noble rank from touching her precious collection. All the open books concerned travel—diaries of Grand Tours to France and stories of the Americas. Charlotte settled herself in the same armchair previously occupied by the colonel. A book and the remnants of a candle, wax still soft, stood beside it. Curious, she teased open Sidney’s Astrophil and Stella at the page marked by a piece of old regimental braid.

  With how sad steps, oh Moon, thou climb’st the skies,

  How silently, and with how wan a face.

  What, may it be, that even in heav’nly place

  That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?

  Sure, if that long with Love acquainted eyes

  Can judge of Love, thou feel’st a lover's case;

  I read it in thy looks; thy languish’d grace

  To me that feel the like, thy state descries.

  Then ev’n of fellowship, oh Moon, tell me

  Is constant love deem’d there but want of wit?

  Are beauties there as proud as here thy be?

  Do they above love to be lov’d, and yet

  Those lovers scorn whom that Love doth possess?

  Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

  “You are fond of poetry, Mrs Collins?” Charlotte closed the book sharply. “My apologies. I have frightened you again.”

  “I am fond of poetry, Colonel,” said Charlotte, once she had recovered her composure. “We have all too few books in the parsonage and there were never enough at my parents’ home. Papa is not a great reader, unlike Eliza’s father. She always spoke lovingly of the library at Longbourn and her letters suggest the one at her new home is even grander—like most everything at Pemberley, I expect.”

  “Darcy has a large collection, it is true.”

  Charlotte patted the arm of her chair as if it were a dog receiving its owner’s praise. “In my mind, libraries are places of refuge and comfort.”

  “Yet this one carries an air of sadness,” said the colonel.

  Charlotte found herself nodding in agreement as her eyes fell once again on the travel books. “I should see to Miss de Bourgh,” she said, standing to take the tray from Colonel Fitzwilliam. “She will be glad to hear of your concern.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “I have found our Mrs Collins, safe and well,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam.

  Lady Catherine fixed Charlotte with a stare, brow furrowed. “You have been gone a great deal of time. I am most vexed at being left alone so long with your husband.” A glare from his patroness cut short Mr Collins’s laugh. “You delight in my discontent, Mr Collins?”

  “My deepest apologies. I merely thought…that is to say…” The rector bowed repeatedly from his sitting position—a difficult movement to master, but one he had honed to perfection through regular practice.

  “How is my daughter?”

  “I had Sarah make up an infusion, Lady Catherine. Miss de Bourgh is resting now. I do not believe her too unwell, just a little tired. I am sure all will be fine in the morning.”

  “And there is truly nothing that I might do, Mrs Collins?” Colonel Fitzwilliam lowered himself into his chair.

  “Quite sure, Colonel. Sleep is the best remedy. And, tomorrow, companionship and conversation.”

  Rapid steps from the direction of the brea
kfast room put an end to further talk. A maid—Kitty Collier—entered to stand before Lady Catherine’s chair, hands gripping her apron as she threw worried glances at Adam Booth, who stood at the other end of the table.

  “Well?” said Lady Catherine.

  “Begging your pardon, milady, I was sent by Mrs Twitchen. Mr Booth must come at once.”

  “He cannot possibly do so. He is serving drinks.”

  “It is his daughter, milady. She is dying.”

  An Explanation

  Lady Catherine may have been a strict mistress, but she was not a cruel one. Kitty fetched Thomas Barnet from downstairs to serve drinks and Adam Booth was urged to attend to Mary at once, on the condition that he return later in the evening—unless his daughter truly was dying.

  “Which I very much hope she is not,” said Lady Catherine. “It would be most inconvenient.”

  “I shall follow him,” said Charlotte. “I saw to her only recently and can bring news for Mr Hutchins, so he may know when to expect Mr Booth’s return.”

  Lady Catherine nodded. “Always tending to your husband’s flock. I shall not attempt to convince you of any other course of action, Mrs Collins, preferable though they might be to rushing off in such a manner. Andrew will take you in the carriage.”

  “Thank you, Lady Catherine, but there is no time. I shall go on foot.”

  “My dear,” said a startled Mr Collins. “You cannot refuse such a condescending offer.”

  “She may very well do so, Mr Collins,” said Lady Catherine. “Your wife has sense as well as sensibility; Andrew will indeed take some time to prepare the carriage. The girl might be dead before she arrives. Leave at once, Mrs Collins. Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mr Collins, you shall both stay. I expect Mrs Jenkinson this evening and need you to make up a foursome for cards.”

  ~ ~ ~

  At Charlotte’s approach, the small crowd outside the Booths’ home took a collective step back.

  “Your concern for Mary’s health is admirable, but it is time you all went about your business elsewhere.” Piercing screams from inside the cottage drew loud murmurs from the gathered villagers. Charlotte raised her voice. “Off you all go. There will be news enough later. I know you all mean well, but what Mary needs is peace and quiet.” As they dispersed, Charlotte hurried to the cottage door, which was opened by Mrs Webb, the Booths’ neighbour.

  “How is she?”

  Mrs Webb shook her head, then led Charlotte inside, whispering quietly to Mrs Booth as they entered the room. It was all Charlotte could do to avoid covering her nose with a handkerchief.

  “Oh, Mrs Collins!” Mrs Booth had her hands crossed on her chest.

  “We shall send for Mr Hayward,” said Charlotte.

  Mr Booth stepped out of the shadows. “But the expense—”

  “Shall fall on someone else’s purse, I assure you. Would you fetch the apothecary, Mrs Webb?” Her departure left Charlotte alone with the Booths.

  Mary sat curled in the armchair, chest shuddering with rough breaths.

  “The pain grows less, fortunately,” said Mrs Booth. “For a moment, I thought it the end.” She turned away to fall into the embrace of her husband. He kissed his wife’s head, then whispered into her ear, all the while gently caressing her back. Charlotte watched the two of them, entranced by such an unfamiliar sight. Then she recalled Sarah Littleworth’s words.

  “Mrs Booth, what has Mary eaten? Perhaps some leftovers from a Rosings dinner?”

  Mary’s mother detached herself from her husband’s arms and wiped her face. “Very little, Mrs Collins, and nothing I did not eat myself. She has had no appetite.”

  A corner of bread lay untouched on the table next to the armchair, alongside an empty bottle of Sarah’s infusion. Charlotte stared at the container, almost willing the valerian to be poisonous; how easy it would have then been to explain the maid’s symptoms. Before long, a loud knock announced the arrival of the apothecary; Mr Booth left to answer the door.

  “I am all confused, Mrs Collins,” said Mrs Booth. “She improves, then falls sick again. What are we to think?”

  “Perhaps you should take some infusion yourself. It would calm your nerves. Sarah assures me it is most efficacious.”

  “I will not touch a drop. It is far too sweet for my tongue.”

  “Sweet?” Charlotte picked up the bottle and removed the stopper. The cloying fragrance was quite unlike the stench of the infusion she had taken to Miss de Bourgh.

  “Let me get a good look at her.” Mr Hayward entered without ceremony, his thoughts only for his patient. “Give me a candle.” Mrs Booth hurried to light a stub which the apothecary waved in front of Mary’s face. “Hold it, if you please, Mrs Booth.” He opened Mary’s eyes with thin fingers, then touched his hands to her forehead, cheeks, and neck. “She will live.” The light from the candle trembled.

  “Thank the Lord,” said Charlotte. “Mr Hayward?” The old man looked up from his kneeling position. “When you are finished, send your bill to Mr Collins.” She turned to the Booths. “And now I shall leave you all in peace. I must inform my husband and Lady Catherine of what has passed.”

  “I will be back this evening, as soon as Mr Hayward leaves us,” said Mr Booth. Nothing in his voice suggested concern, but his fists were clenched and his hands shook.

  “If you are sure?” said Charlotte. “Then I will speak with Mr Hutchins, too.” And also with Sarah Littleworth.

  ~ ~ ~

  To Charlotte’s frustration, there was no opportunity to visit the still room on her return to Rosings. The incidents of the day proved more than her husband could bear with equanimity, so they soon left for home, passing Mr Booth on the way. There, at least, was some relief: Mr Hayward had confirmed that Mary was in no immediate danger. He had also suggested a period of abstinence from solid foods and promised a medicinal draught for the following morning.

  ~ ~ ~

  The next day, sheet music clutched like a shield before her, Charlotte rushed to Rosings as early as propriety allowed and—after a few minutes ravaging the work of Mr Haydn—made her way down to the still room.

  “You have heard about Mary Booth?” Charlotte stood in the doorway, watching the blur of the knife as Sarah chopped herbs.

  “I have heard of little else, Mrs Collins.”

  “Mr Hayward saw her last night and thinks her certain to recover. I share his hope. It is not a disease.”

  Sarah stopped cutting, though she did not release the knife. “Oh? What then?”

  “You were right. I suspect it was something she ate. Or rather something she drank. Something from your bottle.”

  “My bottle? But which…you mean my infusion? But that cannot be. I have told you, Mrs Collins, valerian cannot possibly cause such complaints.” The knife returned to its work.

  Striding into the room, Charlotte placed her hands firmly on the table in front of the maid. “It would explain everything—how she recovers, then falls ill again. Was there anything else in your infusions? Perhaps an additional herb? Anything that might explain Mary’s condition? Anything you might have added…inadvertently?”

  Sarah shook her head. “It was just valerian. The same infusion I always give Miss de Bourgh. From the same flask, even.”

  “Sarah, look at me.” The maid lifted her head, knife still again. “It was not the same infusion. There was no valerian in it. Or at least there was something more than valerian within.”

  “I do not understand.” Sarah’s effort at a smile seemed to lack its usual self-assurance.

  “I smelled the bottle in the Booths’ cottage. The aroma was quite pleasant, not like valerian at all. Could it be you gave Mr Booth the wrong bottle?” Charlotte waved a hand at the shelves. “They all look so similar.”

  “I do not label my mixtures, but confusion is impossible. The bottle I gave him was valerian. Only valerian.”

  “And yet there was something quite different in the bottle in the cottage. If it is no accident, then I can think o
f only one other explanation…”

  Sarah let go of the knife. “Mrs Collins, you are not suggesting I—”

  “That you might have poisoned Mary? You are no great friend of hers, not the way you talk about her. Jealousy is a powerful emotion—it drives people to strange acts.”

  Sarah stood, her stool clattering to the floor. “Mrs Collins, I would never…” Tears welled in her eyes. “It is true that I envy Mary. She is so pretty and I am…But I could not harm her. What kind of a still room maid would that make me? You cannot think that I…”

  “I most certainly can think it. But do I believe it? No.” Charlotte picked up the fallen stool and motioned for Sarah to sit. Then she sat down opposite, forcing a smile to put the maid at ease. “If you wanted to poison Mary Booth, you would not do so through your own infusion. You are too clever for that. And your tears seem honest enough.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Collins…I think.” Sarah began to dry her eyes on a clean part of her apron.

  “Others might not share my belief, though. If no alternative presents itself, the finger of blame may eventually be pointed the way of the still room. You know your reputation among the villagers.” Charlotte frowned. “I am at a loss to explain everything. Someone else must have exchanged the liquid between you preparing the bottle and Mary drinking its contents. But since we may excuse her parents from wishing to harm their own daughter, I cannot see how it was possible.”

  “We should talk with Mr Booth.”

  “No, we should not. Not yet, Sarah, not unless we cannot find any other explanation ourselves. I do not wish to alarm him or his family unnecessarily. Mr Hayward assures us that Mary is in no danger and we must trust to his medications. If the infusion truly is the source of her trouble, then she is out of harm’s way. The bottle was quite empty last night.” Charlotte’s nose wrinkled at the memory of the cottage. “She is safe for now, at least until you prepare the next one.”

  “I was going to leave some out tomorrow night.”