“Is that so? And what does my answer—”
A sudden jolt threw Charlotte forward. Unbalanced as she already was, a moment later she landed in a heap in Mary’s lap. Charlotte tried to right herself and was horrified to find her hands planted high on firm thighs. She looked up, splutteringan apology, only to find Mary’s face once again inches from her own. Mary’s eyes were so dark as to be almost black, the pupils widened impossibly. Another jolt threw her sideways and her hands slipped, but Mary caught her before she hit the floor. “Goodness,” said she, helping Charlotte up. “Perhaps you should sit beside me, lest you start flying about the carriage again.”
With flaming cheeks, Charlotte took the seat beside Mary. “You were saying?”
“What? Oh, yes.” Mary’s voice was perfectly composed, but she looked almost as ruffled as Charlotte felt. “I was merely going to ask you what my answer told you about me.”
Charlotte tried to gather her thoughts. The length of Mary’s entire body was pressed against her now, and the delicious heat made it rather hard to organise words into any coherent speech. “Well, I have already teased you about your suspicious nature. Perhaps you are the kind of person who sees a pattern before others do, or perhaps you see patterns where there are none.” If she hadn’t been so discomfited, she might have phrased it differently, and regretted how it came out. “That is to say,” she corrected hastily, “you seem to me to be a profound and sensitive person, though you would have me believe otherwise.” Charlotte hesitated. This wasn’t what she’d meant to say at all, and though Mary’s expression had not changed, she sensed a new wariness. “That is to say,” she repeated, “that I like your nature very much, though it is not quite like my own. You are right when you say I am too trusting, and I admit I am rather naive at times.”
Mary patted Charlotte’s hand, her warm fingers lingering. “I like your nature very much too, Charlotte. And you are right.” She heaved a sigh, though she did not look away. “I am rather too cynical for my own good sometimes. I would like to be more like you, though without your gullible trust in the dubious goodness of owls.” Before Charlotte could press her onthat point, she added, “Perhaps you will be the positive influence on me that you were on Lizzie.”
“I do not think I was any sort of influence on your sister,” Charlotte protested. “She always knew her own mind.”
“You mean she was wilful and stubborn. No,” Mary waved off Charlotte’s second protest, smiling, “I do not consider either a flaw, as some might, if not taken to excess. Though I admit, Lizzie did always seem to be off in her own world, two steps ahead of everyone else. I often thought her too superior to enjoy simple things, and while I admired that quality for a time, I came to see that it was not necessarily the virtue I had once considered it.”
The conversation turned, as it often did, to the other Bennet sisters, though Mary once again skirted around the subject of Lydia’s husband, and by the time night had begun to fall, Charlotte had been thoroughly apprised of the goings-on of half of Hertfordshire.
“It was all my mother talked about,” said she, glumly, “that is, when she wasn’t listing off the names of local gentlemen that I might, at the first available opportunity, throw myself at. I’d sooner throw myself under the wheels of their carriages, to be perfectly frank.”
Charlotte could well imagine the relentless tirades and guilt-inducing comments Mrs Bennet was capable of, and sought to distract Mary by supplying her own gossip, though her limited circle meant that most of it had come second or third-hand. In the next village—almost big enough to be a town, really—they disembarked outside an inn which overlooked the road. While Charlotte seated herself at a table inside and ordered a slice of the pigeon pie which had come so highly recommended, Mary haggled with the innkeeper. “She will give us a room for the night, but it is the last one she has, so we must share,” Mary announced, sliding into a seat opposite. “You do not mind, do you?”
Charlotte half choked on her mouthful of pie. “No, of course not.” She cleared her throat.For goodness’ sake, act normally.“You do not snore, do you?”
“In fact I do. It was a terrible problem for me as a child, and has not improved much in adulthood.”
In danger of choking a second time, Charlotte put down her fork.Who has been close enough to hear her breathe during sleep? Perhaps one of her scientist friends—some learned gentleman with whom she studies the stars or elements. Or perhaps an artist, with long, lustrous hair and a beard to match.The taste of the pigeon pie, which had been so delicious only moments before, turned bitter on her tongue.
Mary’s lips twitched. “Like a great bear, Lydia once told me,” she continued. “She slept next door, you know, and said she often lay awake half the night, wondering when the wall between us was going to collapse under the force.” She shot Charlotte a sly look. “You may wish to tie yourself to the bed, just in case.”
Charlotte was deeply glad she’d already put down her fork, for the insinuation left her hands sweaty and trembling, though she was left with nothing to hide her blushes behind and was unutterably glad when the innkeeper bustled over to say that their room was ready.
The room was nice enough, with walls painted a pretty duck-egg blue, and wide windows lined with dark blue curtains. The bed was a little smaller than the marital bed in which Charlotte had infrequently coupled with Mr Collins, and she heaved a private, frustrated sigh at the thought she had spent all day within inches of Mary and would now have to spend the night in such a way too.Why fight it?the little voice in her head suggested.You have only a short time together in Canterbury and soon enough you will be back in Hertfordshire, alone in a bed until the end of your days.It was a disturbing thought, but it made a kind of sense. Clearly she was not able to reason her attractionaway, so she might as well accept it. Besides, as long as she maintained perfect behavior outwardly, no one need ever know of her silly infatuation; for that was all it was, really, and would surely pass either with more time spent together, or once they were finally apart.
Chapter Nine
Getting into bed with a woman was very different, Charlotte reflected, as she and Mary sat side by side, propped up with pillows. Her companion was engrossed in a book, and the only noise which broke the silence was the soft swish of a turned page. Mr Collins had always made a surprising amount of noise whenever they had shared a bed, hemming and hawing over some passage in his Bible, testing small turns of phrase out loud to see whether they sounded suitable in his next sermon, sniffling and coughing and snorting and—
Charlotte repressed a sigh. Really, sometimes she felt like an awful person. Mr Collins had been a perfectly serviceable husband and a kind man. If she had found him wanting in some areas, well, that was to be expected. And if she had also found him mildly irritating or embarrassing on occasion then, judging by how other women had talked of their own husbands—out of earshot from said husbands—that too was quite normal.
“How do you like it?” Mary leaned over, her dark curls unpinned and lying loose over the shoulders of her white nightgown.
Guiltily, Charlotte flinched. “Pardon?”
“The book.” She gestured at the naturalist’s diary, lying forgottenin Charlotte’s lap. “Does it bore you? Or are you too tired to read? The journey was rather long today.”
“You are very kind. No, it does not bore me at all. On the contrary, I find it very interesting. The way Mr Barton describes the place, with particular attention to the sounds and smells, is extremely evocative. I almost feel I were there alongside him.” Charlotte touched the book’s cover, tracing the name of the author. “I was actually thinking about my late husband.”
Mary’s smile softened, her eyes becoming more serious. “You do not talk of him often. If you wish to do so, know that I would gladly hear it. It has not been long since he died, and I supposed that…well, grief so often comes in strange forms. One person’s mourning process is quite different from another’s.” She bit her lip. “I apologize again for being so callous in the beginning. I hope that I did not give you the impression that I—well.”
She bit her lip again, evidently having trouble choosing the right words. A soft, green tenderness bloomed in Charlotte’s heart. Miss Bennet was not the sort to think much before speaking, and taking such obvious effort to do so showed that she really did care about Charlotte’s feelings. The room was dim, lit only by a candle on either side of the bed. They’d drawn the curtains, closing themselves off against the night and the world, and the tumult of voices and clank of mugs from the bar below had long turned from a clamour to a soft, oceanic murmur.We might be the last two people in the world, Charlotte thought, and the notion sprouted a tiny, bold bud. “May I tell you something in confidence?”
“Of course,” Mary said instantly. “I would never divulge your secrets.”
“It is simply this: I do not think I grieve him as I ought,” Charlotte confessed. “That sounds terrible but it is true.”
“Why, who says you ought to grieve him in any particular way?”
She smiled. “You are trying to make me feel better, and I am grateful for your kindness, but I do know the difference between guilt and truth. I never loved him as I ought, and so I cannot grieve him as I ought.” She put a hand over her chest, the thin fabric of her own nightgown rustling against her fingers, and felt her heart ache with something she could neither name nor explain. “I worry that I…perhaps I am not a good person if I could not—”
