“I told her that if one shot a grouse in four out of five attempts, one would consider that a good afternoon’s hunting. Naturally, my father agreed with me. Not that Mother dropped the subject, of course. We returned to it at least two dozen times over the course of my visit.”
Charlotte sipped her wine, not sure what to say. Mary had not yet noticed the wreath she’d made earlier, though she found she was rather glad the subject had not come up. It had been bold of her to pick these particular flowers, and it would have been uncomfortable to lie about their meanings. “I am sure she would simply like to see you settled and happy.”
“I am happy,” Mary declared, lifting her glass. “I have this delightful vintage, I have Mrs Waites’ rum cake to look forward to, and I have exceedingly pleasant company.” She grinned across the table. “What more could a person desire?”
As Bessie cleared away the dinner plates and brought twogreat slabs of rum cake in, accompanied by a spiced cream Mrs Waites had recently perfected, Charlotte couldn’t help but agree.
* * *
The next afternoon, they walked into the village and boarded a coach. Canterbury, being only five or six hours away by coach, was easily made in one attempt though Charlotte had never had reason to visit before.
“I’m afraid I cannot sit for so long in a box that small without my muscles aching for a week afterwards,” said Mary apologetically. “If you do not mind, I would prefer to stay overnight at an inn and continue on at dawn. I have in mind just the right one, and I am certain the pigeon pie they serve will impress you.”
Charlotte, who knew little of the area, was more than happy to defer to her friend’s expertise in the matter, and so it was settled. The sky had been overcast that morning, and while the gathering of white and dove-grey clouds did not hint at rain in their future, it nonetheless precluded the sunny afternoon Charlotte had rather been hoping for. She was not fond of travel at the best of times, but if she had to do so, then she would prefer to while away the hours soaking up the beautiful landscape. The countryside unravelled before them as the coach bumbled along the road and over the small stone bridge which led out of the village. Sturdy oaks stood alone in vivid green fields, their branches still, their leaves barely trembling. Sheep grazed in clumps, one occasionally drifting off from the rest to join another group, mirroring the clouds above. In the distance, the farmland was divided into rough rectangles, each nearly as green as the grass. Soon, the wheat would turn a beautiful golden-brown, and then it would be harvest time.
Mary had set her bag on the seat beside her and rummaged around in it for a while before locating charcoal and parchment. Before she touched the charcoal to paper, she looked up, meeting Charlotte’s eyes. “Pardon my impoliteness. I did not ask you last night what you were up to while I was gone.”
Charlotte froze. Was Mary hinting that she’d noticed the folded dress? “I did not do much, I confess. I went to lunch at Rosings the day you departed.”
There was the slightest of pauses. The charcoal descended again, and again, did not quite meet the parchment. “Ah,” Mary said, her tone cool. “And was Mr Innes there?”
“Yes, as well as three other gentlemen of Anne’s acquaintance.”
“Three? Why, your Miss de Bourgh really is set on marrying you off.”
Charlotte adjusted her left glove, then her right. The skin between her shoulder blades prickled. “She has expressed that wish to me openly, and while I think it sweet, I think her unlikely to succeed in her endeavours.”
Mary simply nodded, and spent the next few minutes trying to sketch the landscape, before giving it up and turning the paper over. On the other side, clearly visible was a half finished sketch of a nude woman, standing at the edge of a small stream. Charlotte couldn’t help staring. She wondered who this was—it did not look like the mysterious Anne from the drawing Charlotte had seen—and whether Mary was also drawing this woman from memory.Does she know this face as well as mine? Perhaps better? I wonder if there is any way I could convince her to take me to the kind of drawing class she mentioned.Forcing herself to look back at the fields, though she could not find nearly as much pleasure in them as she had just a moment before, Charlotte leaned her head against the carriage wall and lost herself in thought. The stone road soon turned into a dirt road, and, in half an hour, a small village was visible in the distance. Tiny labourers moved to and fro, no doubt going about their usual business.
“The road is too bumpy to manage anything decent,” Mary complained, sighing in exasperation. “One day they shall make the roads between towns as smooth as city streets, but until thattime, I fear that I will have to put this away and we shall have to make our own amusements.”
As Mary tucked the parchment away, Charlotte found herself relieved. The presence of drawings of nude women, which prior to Miss Bennet’s arrival had not featured greatly in Charlotte’s life, was already beginning to affect her nerves. Even a brief glimpse of the curve of the waist, the single stroke suggesting crossed thighs, and the slightest smudge indicating what might lie at the apex of that stroke was enough to unsettle her completely. She cast about for some diversion that would take her mind off bodies. Mary shrugged off her light shawl, revealing the pretty, dark green dress below. The colour reminded Charlotte of holly leaves, symbolising peace, goodwill, and the endurance of life. Was it just Charlotte, or was Mary wearing something lower-cut than usual?For goodness’ sake, she scolded herself.Do not ogle your friend so.
She shifted position so that her left leg was not touching Mary’s, though this meant she had to keep her heel elevated rather uncomfortably. “One of Mr Collins’ visitors had a very droll question he liked to ask everybody, and which might suffice to entertain you for a moment,” Charlotte suggested. “If I recall correctly, it was something along the lines of ‘how many owls would you have to see before you thought something was wrong?’”
“Before I thought something was wrong?” Mary repeated, thinking it over. “Hmm. I would have to say… Two.”
“That is a very small number. What if they were a breeding pair?”
“The problem is that I do not trust owls,” Mary declared. “They always look as if they were up to something. No animal by nature innocent should be able to turn its head around so far. Why, what number did you choose?”
“Seven.”
“Seven?” she cried. “Seven? No, by God, by seven it would be too late.”
She looked so serious that Charlotte had to try very hard not to laugh. “Too late for what?”
“For whatever they were planning,” Mary said darkly.
Charlotte dissolved into a fit of giggles, and for the next few minutes, she could not get a sensible word out. “I had no idea,” she gasped, “how afraid you were of owls.”
“I am not afraid! I am rightfully cautious, and you, my friend, are far too trusting.” Mary’s smile lit up her whole face, and Charlotte’s chest flushed with a pleasurable warmth. “And now you must tell me how your late husband responded, for I knew the man but little and could not possibly guess.”
“He said none at all.” Charlotte wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. “We tried to make him understand that seeing no owls whatsoever would not be any cause for alarm, or most of England would be running around panicking on a daily basis, but I do not think he quite understood why his guest bothered to ask in the first place.”
“It is a capital game, at any rate. What made you think of it?”
“I do not quite know. At the time, it struck me as a rather revealing question, as the person responding so often feels obliged to give their reasons and defend their choice. The answer can tell you quite a lot about a person.” Her calf twinged. She was going to have to accept that she would likely spend the entire trip touching Mary in some degree, and she would simply have to cope with it in a normal fashion. She leaned forward, stretching the offending leg in the hope that it would cease complaining.
