* * *
After breakfast the next morning, Charlotte spent a few hours in the garden. Weeding left her back and arms aching, but gazing upon fresh soil with nary a dandelion in sight left her feeling a sense of accomplishment that none of her schooling had ever managed to produce. If only she could make her fortune by gardening, although even if such an impossible dream should become a reality, her peers would surely consider such an endeavour as sullying not only her hands but her name as a gentlewoman. It would not be worth the cost to her family’s status, even if it meant she could contribute to their riches; no amount of money could convince her to humiliate her dear parents.
She took off her gloves and rummaged in the pocket of her skirt for a handkerchief with which to mop her brow, then stretched her hands above her head and then to the side, easing the pain in her back. Mary was due to return the next morning, and Charlotte had thought it might be nice to create a floral wreath as a centerpiece for their dinner. The larkspurs were looking particularly beautiful at the moment, their bold blue blossoms standing out proudly, but larkspurs were not an appropriate flower to choose for such an arrangement; she’d already told Mary that they stood for humour and strong love.
Charlotte cocked her head to the side, considering. If one could send a message in flowers, then why not express one’s feelings to oneself that way too? Mary would not know what they signified, after all, and it would be as if Charlotte were writing some message in secret code that only she could read. She hugged herself, delighted by the thought.It’s a childish endeavour, the little voice inside her head argued, but she ignored it, too excited by the idea. White peonies might do for a start—meaning new beginnings, and a certain bashfulness—and they would look exceedingly pretty when carefully placed around the base of a candlestick. Charlotte had so often been subjected to the pitiful, cruel sight of bunches crammed into a too-small vase, or flowers stuck into holes in a box without being properly trimmed, so that the stalks were uneven and the heads pointed every which way. She shuddered at the memory. No, this wreath would be delicate and carefully laid, like all flowers deserved.
She picked up her basket and wandered down the path until she came to the peonies. Kneeling down, her knees squeaking a protest, she stroked the nearest one, the petals silk-soft under her fingers. Seven or eight would do nicely. The trouble was to find them a decent enough match; a white flower always tended to look a little matrimonial or funereal to Charlotte, and needed something bright to bolster its subtle charms. The bright pink petals of the common corn-cockle would provide that vigor,but corn-cockle stood for overwork and unrelenting struggle—hardly the atmosphere she wished to convey. Cornflowers might do instead, as their pointed blue petals would contrast nicely with the peonies, and they represented hope for the future.
Charlotte stood, sighing. Cornflowers were an obvious choice, so why rebel against the idea? Turning from the peonies, she headed down into the southern part of the garden, just out of sight of her window, where the cornflowers grew. With each step, she became less convinced of her plan, and by the time she’d come within sight of the cornflowers, she’d decided against them entirely.What is wrong with me today?she wondered, mopping her brow again.Picking a simple flower should not be this difficult.Frowning, she was about to head back into the house when a flash of purple caught her eye.
Of course!She had been breeding pansies for two years now and had managed to achieve a pretty shade of lavender on the outer edge of the petals. Nearer the heart of the blossom, a darker purple surrounded each perfect circle of yellow pollen. Pansies were often used to indicate that the giver was thinking of loved ones lost, but they also might signify a lover’s thoughts unspoken. Charlotte hesitated, shocked by her own idea. Still, it wasn’t as if she was propositioning Mary. She was simply creating a little outlet for all the confusing thoughts of the past week. Did not a river burst its banks if one dammed the stream? The same could be said of a person. Besides, if Mary did not know what was being said, it couldn’t be all that shocking. A person might say appalling or licentious things in Italian, but since Charlotte could not speak the language, she could only appreciate the apparent melody of the words.Yes, she decided, pushing down a stab of guilt,there can be nothing wrong with letting off a little steam. Lord knows I have been under strange pressures of late.
Besides, it was only flowers. How could one possibly go wrong?
Chapter Eight
Dearest Maria,
Thank you for your kind words. Indeed, I shall have to return to Lucas Lodge soon enough, and though it is not under happy circumstances, Mama and Papa seem eager to have me. Perhaps I will see you at Christmas, if not sooner? How fare your husband and daughter?
Lately, I have been ruminating on some beloved childhood memories. Remember when John played the frog prank on Mrs DeLong? And remember all those glorious weeks we spent at Great-Aunt Ethel’s house? This may seem like a strange question, but did you ever think that she and Mrs Sudsbury were rather closer than most?
Your elder—though never your better—sister,
Charlotte
Mary returned late on Tuesday morning, and embraced Charlotte with unexpected vigour before she could so much as close the door behind her guest. The smell of violets tickled Charlotte’s nose, her heart quickening as Mary pressed her close. Why was it that only women had ever made her feel suchthings? Men often smelled pleasant too—though admittedly, often they did not—but no man’s scent had ever aroused such a response.
“Lord, but one does forget how trying my mother can be.” Mary’s voice was muffled, her face pressed into Charlotte’s shoulder. She sighed, dramatically. “I was not in the house twenty minutes before I regretted coming at all.”
“They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder.”And perhaps there is some truth in the saying,she thought, for she was only gone four days and yet I am terribly glad to see her.She’d almost forgotten how bright Mary’s eyes were, the way she held herself, as if expecting the world to deal her a blow she intended to meet with dignity.
“No one who met my mother ever repeated that sentiment.” Mary sighed. “Perhaps my heart is too hardened for absence to soften it.” She held Charlotte at arm’s length and looked her over. “And how have my books been treating you?”
“Very well,” Charlotte said, desperate not to disappoint.
“Really?” Mary raised an eyebrow.
“Well,” she confessed, “the second, at least. I found the first very difficult. I am afraid I lack the language to comprehend even the smallest part of what the author is saying.”
“Good.”
This was not the response she had expected. “Good?” she repeated. “Do you not wish to rescind your invitation to the salon? I certainly won’t be able to keep up with—”
“My dear friend,” Mary said, laying a hand on her arm. Charlotte’s heart fluttered. “All of science is knowing a little about one thing and admitting that you know nothing about most of the rest.”
“Is it?” Charlotte said, mystified.
“Quite so. Why, if you had told me you were certain of anything after reading one book, I would have known the oppositewas true. One must be humble in the face of one’s own ignorance, which is so often vast.”
“Then perhaps I shall be the best scientist of all,” Charlotte said, smiling.
* * *
Mary spent all of dinner regaling Charlotte with impersonations of a hysterical Mrs Bennet, each funnier than the last, until Charlotte’s sides quite ached from laughing. “And then she asked me, why did I not find a nice gentleman in Canterbury, and whether I wished her to go to her grave with one daughter yet unmarried.” Mary rolled her eyes.
“Oh?” Charlotte picked up her wine glass. Mary had brought back a delicious vintage from the Longbourne cellar, and the aromatic bouquet brought back many familiar memories of the raucous household. Kitty and Lydia fighting like wild cats over a bonnet, Lizzie making arch witticisms, Jane chiding her gently for her lack of patience, and Mary in the corner on the pianoforte or reading from an old book.
