As Lord Barrington talked of his latest journey and boasted of all the places he had been, punctuated by the occasional contradiction by Mr Humphries, Charlotte’s eyes also drifted towards the window. Questions plagued her mind: had Mary already arrived in Longbourne? Could she make herself comfortable at home, or had she been away too long? How long had Mr Bennet coped with his middle daughter’s arrival before he retreated to his study? Was Mrs Bennet already in hysterics about some trivial matter, declaiming her poor nerves? And might the marriage-minded mama seek to introduce Mary to some eligible suitors during her swift visit? Now that all four of her other daughters were settled, surely it could not be long before Mrs Bennet’s thoughts—never far from matrimony at the best of times—turned to her final unwed daughter?
The idea sent an unpleasant shiver down Charlotte’s back. She had rather enjoyed getting to know Mary, and the invitation to Canterbury had even ignited some small hope that she might occasionally escape Lucas Lodge for a change of scenery. If Mary married a gentleman who lived in Canterbury, it would still afford Charlotte the same freedom, but something about the notion irked her. She could not imagine Mary wed, nor a brood of little ones around her feet. Her friend—for that was what they were now, she was sure, after sharing so many confidences—was a kind soul, but a clever and impatient one. Mary would not like to be tied to a home and hearth, unable to attend her beloved salons with any regularity. Even the idea of Mary married to a benevolent man who encouraged her hobbies was an unwelcome thought.
“You are rather quiet today, Mrs Collins.” Mr Innes offered a smile, breaking Charlotte out of her ruminations. “Where is your charming guest? Do not tell me she is unwell.”
“No.” Charlotte smiled back. “She is gone to her family in Meryton and upon her return we shall set off for Canterbury.”
Mr Humphries let out another one of his loud guffaws, which drowned out whatever Mr Innes said next. Before he could repeat himself, Mr Fitzherbert leaned across the table and drew Mr Innes into a discussion about land taxes from which he could not easily extract himself. Charlotte spooned spiced carrot soup into her mouth and helped herself to another warm roll. The fare at Rosings was always excellent, but in her opinion nothing could compare to Mrs Waites’ tremendous creations.
Back at the parsonage, Charlotte wandered into the kitchen to tell Mrs Waites as much. After all, an artist deserved compliments on their work, and the time in which she could convey such frequent praise was quickly running out.
“You’re very welcome, ma’am.” Mrs Waites wiped floury hands on her even more floury apron, managing to somehow transfer white smears from the latter to the former. “I wonderedif I might ask you…well, in truth, I wondered if you knew what was to happen after you leave for good? Whether you know who our next employer will be?”
The question was a reasonable one, but it reminded Charlotte again that her time residing in the parsonage was fast running out. The clock on the kitchen mantel sounded less like a tick than a distant cannon shot. “Lady Catherine will appoint someone to the position when she returns from her travels. I would be surprised if she has not already settled the matter in her mind, regardless of whether or not the new man has agreed to it yet.”
“I rather feel for him, whomever he might be,” Mrs Waites murmured, and they shared a smile.
“In any case, neither you nor Bessie need to worry. I will ensure that Lady Catherine hears my glowing recommendation for both of you.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Mrs Waites wobbled a curtsey, and wiped her floury hands—now floury arms—on her apron again. “I suspect Bessie’s young man will make a move sooner rather than later, but that should make no difference to her working here awhile longer. Unless they do not sell the butcher’s shop.”
Charlotte’s face must have betrayed her confusion, because Mrs Waites quickly added, “You did know that her beau is the butcher’s second son, did you not?”
“Yes, of course,” Charlotte said, not following at all.
Mrs Waites turned towards the stove and lifted the lid. Steam rose into the air, curling like a beckoning finger. Inside, a brown mass bubbled and roiled, an occasional carrot disturbing the surface like a small orange kraken. “After the butcher died, the eldest wanted to sell the place. He has no stomach for the business. But the second son, a good lad who has always had his eye on our Bessie, wanted to take it over. He’d make a good job of it too. Was there in all weathers, helping his father,while the other one gallivanted about hunting and whatnot, though he was oft too drunk to sit a horse.”
Charlotte wondered just how drunk one had to be to fail at sitting on top of a horse, but Mrs Waites’s stern expression forbade her from further questioning. “Ah,” Charlotte said, putting it all together. “And if this boy kept the shop, then Bessie would be expected to help him out with the customers and such once they were married.”
“Precisely, ma’am.”
“I would be happy to see her married well,” Charlotte mused. Though the women under her employ had to work for a living—and work hard they did, from dawn until dusk—at least they had the freedom to go where they wished and marry whom they wished, without any reference to particular society or standing. She was surprised to find herself a little envious of Bessie’s situation. “And what of you, Mrs Waites?”
Only a few weeks prior, Bessie had, with a wicked grin, informed Charlotte that the new grocer’s ears turned bright pink every time Mrs Waites stepped inside to buy vegetables. Charlotte had been waiting for the perfect opportunity to tease the cook about it. The lid of the saucepan slipped through the cook’s fingers and clanged down onto the rim. “What about me?”
“Would you ever marry again?”
Mrs Waites eyed her. “That depends on who’s asking.” Charlotte hesitated, but the cook added, a pink tinge to her cheeks, “Or what you’ve heard. Would you remarry, ma’am? I know you weren’t—” She broke off, her cheeks flushing more darkly.
Wasn’t what?Charlotte wondered.Happy? Was it so obvious to everyone but my husband?
“That’s not to say…” Mrs Waites bit her lip. “It’s not my place to comment on such things.”
Charlotte sighed. Over the years, she and Mrs Waites had developed the kind of friendship she could never have imaginedwith any of her parents’ staff, but here in Kent, isolated, friendless, and unaccustomed to being the lady of the house, Charlotte had leaned heavily on Mrs Waites and in turn the cook had warmed to her, treating her more like a favoured niece than an employer. “No, go on. Speak freely to me.”
“It’s a delicate subject, I understand.” The cook pushed a plate of biscuits towards Charlotte. “Here. A new recipe.”
She took one and bit into it; soft and buttery, with a hint of thyme. “Delicious. You constantly outdo yourself, Mrs Waites.”
Mrs Waites picked up a biscuit and turned it around in her fingers. “Next month, it will have been five-and-ten years since my husband died, and both my children are full-grown now.” One son was married and lived in Sussex, Charlotte knew, and the other had been in the navy but had suffered some sort of accident and had no use of his left arm. “They say not to have favourites amongst your children, but James was the favourite I didn’t have. Just as handsome as his brother, and far cleverer, though he had a knack for getting into scrapes and fights. The navy was a good place for him. He lives up in Scotland now. I believe he and his friend are considering sailing around the world next year.”
“And he is yet unmarried?”
Mrs Waites put her own biscuit down without so much as taking a bite. “I do not believe James is the marrying type. He and his friend get along very well together.” She raised an eyebrow.
Charlotte took another biscuit and chewed thoughtfully. “Plenty of men wait to marry until later in life when they’ve amassed some wealth or security. A family is not a cheap undertaking, as I understand it.”
“Of course, ma’am.” Mrs Waites’ lip curled for a moment, and Charlotte had the distinct impression the cook was trying not to laugh, though she couldn’t think what was funny abouta young man trying to make his fortune. “While I have you, I’ve noticed that there’s been an attack on our lettuces.”
