Castaway

Chapter 4: Willingden

Charlotte is sitting at the window of her country cottage, nursing Molly, now eighteen months old. Bartholomew tells her that she spoils the child, that the child should be weaned at this age, but she persists in nourishing her with her own milk. It brings her great comfort to have little Molly suckling at her breast, breaking off from her swollen nipple now and then to give her a big, toothy smile and say 'Ma-ma'. Softly, she strokes her young daughter's wispy, chestnut brown hair, jiggling her gently on her knee and rubbing her back to wind her. She is also aware that suckling Molly will ensure she does not fall with child again, not just yet. She has no wish to make her life more complicated, one child is enough for the present.

During Charlotte's confinement, her younger sister Sarah, just nineteen, took over her duties in the schoolroom and now, between the three of them, Sarah, Bartholomew and Charlotte take it in turns to provide the village children with instruction. Sometimes Molly is cared for by one of Charlotte's many sisters; at other times, she sits quietly in the corner of the classroom, gurgling and babbling. Charlotte loves being a schoolteacher although she has a tendency to get carried away at times, explaining the finer points of the satirical novels of Daniel Defoe or Henry Fielding, or delving too deeply into the conspiracy theories surrounding the Babington Plot to assassinate Queen Elizabeth I, or pondering philosophically on the writings of Heraclitus, while her pupils stare at her in blank incomprehension. She then sighs and turns back to the rudimentary arithmetic, handwriting and spelling lessons planned for the day. Her favourite times are when she takes the class out of the schoolroom on a nature walk through the woods, identifying the trees, plants and animal tracks, as she balances Molly on her hip or lets her toddle along beside her, clasping onto her hand.

Charlotte examines Molly's tiny fingers, gripped tightly around hers. So perfect. Another child would only upset the delicate balance of the life she has worked so hard and made so many sacrifices to achieve. Not that Bartholomew enters her chamber very often these days. His first flush of passion soon faded after their daughter's birth, at which time, disturbed by the night feedings and constant crying, he set up a bed in his study and has remained there ever since, Molly taking his place in the marital bed. Bartholomew prefers to bury himself in his books, his studies and his prayers and lately, his frequent visits to the neighbouring parish of Chawton to discuss ecclesiastical matters with his fellow curate and good friend St John Rivers. Although he appreciates his wife's attention to his material needs and her running of their household, and they still occasionally discuss books and parish news over tea, he rarely bothers her with his physical demands. Perhaps once a month, Charlotte hears a knock on her bedroom door and, tensing slightly, welcomes him inside. Muttering a few endearments, he lowers himself on top of her and lifts up her shift. It is usually over within a matter of minutes, after which he kisses her gently on the cheek and retires to his study. It is better this way. Charlotte tries not to think about what could have been. She is grateful to have a roof over her head, employment and security, a kind, caring husband (instead of a drunken boor like one of her sister's husbands) and a beautiful child who loves her unconditionally. It is enough. It will have to be.

Apart from regular visits to the Heywood residence or to visit her married sisters, she never travels anywhere. Sadly, Mr Heywood senior suffered a stroke the previous summer and requires daily nursing from his wife so Charlotte's two elder brothers, both now married, have taken over the management of the estate and the farmyard is now teeming with small children once again as the cycle of life repeats itself and the generations reproduce.

These days, she rarely receives letters from Sanditon or indeed from anyone connected with the town; only Mary Parker keeps up an infrequent correspondence. The carefree summer of 1817 now seems like a long-distant dream. One day, however, not long after Molly's birth, she received a letter addressed to her in Mary's careful hand. She opened the missive with a mixture of curiosity and dread. Her forebodings were not without foundation. The letter read thus: