Mrs Bennet
When they rose just after dawn, Charlotte felt exceedingly tired both by the brief journey and the lack of sleep the night before. Even the two cups of tea she’d downed at breakfast in lieu of actual food were not enough to keep her awake once they’d set off for Canterbury. The rolling purr of the carriage, gently rocking her from side to side like a babe in arms, didnot help matters any. As a result, she was startled to find herself tapped gently on the shoulder—an action which she found detrimental to her attempts at slumber and therefore attempted to escape by burrowing deeper into the soft pillow—and Mary’s voice, much closer to her ear than she had expected, murmuring, “Wake up, Charlotte. We shall arrive in a few minutes.”
Charlotte sat bolt upright, almost knocking both of them to the floor. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she was disgusted to find that her chin was wet, as was the shoulder of Mary’s dress.
“I may snore,” Mary remarked, dark eyes glittering with amusement, “but at least I do not drool.”
“I must beg your forgiveness,” Charlotte said, horrified, her cheeks burning with hot embarrassment.
“No need. It was my own fault for being such a comfortable pillow, was it not?” She leaned in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Besides, I shall have ample fodder to tease you for the next week, if not the rest of your life.”
Charlotte forced a smile. She’d been dreaming something strange; a land of yellow flowers taller than a man. She’d walked amongst the stalks with no fear of harm, though they bent their heads towards her as if whispering their secrets, but she’d had the feeling that something dangerous had lurked in the forest beyond, just out of sight. Discomfited, she stared out of the carriage window. In the dim dawn, she could make out occasional figures passing each other on the streets—a hat tip here, a nod of acquaintance there. It was too dim to see much more, for the clouds overhead were thick and grey, and even with the introduction of lanterns hanging from the ornate metalwork outside every home and townhouse, the sky had not yet broken into true luminosity.
She’d been used to much more darkness in Kent. The parsonage had a sconce on the south wall—Mr Collins had it installed to “provide a guiding light to eternal salvation for thoselost”, though Charlotte had privately thought it probably only provided a guiding light for those who had wandered too far off the road home from the local tavern. Cities had much more light than small villages and towns; her own village never needed such things. One navigated by the moon or the stars, and when both were absent, one had better find a candle or hope that one’s memory was good.
She rubbed her eyes, which felt gritty and sore. “Are we close to your aunt’s house?”
“Indeed we are. It is not far now,” Mary said, offering Charlotte her shawl, which had fallen to the floor in all the fuss. “I wrote ahead when I was in Longbourne, and the carriage will be waiting for us.”
The carriage was indeed waiting when they disembarked the coach outside an inn, two brown horses stamping with impatience. With a couple of murmured words to the eager young footman who bounded forward, Mary helped Charlotte into the carriage. Without thinking, Charlotte took the opportunity to seat herself again next to Mary, though there was now no danger of being thrown bodily out of her seat. Though the carriage was even smaller than the coach, Mary did not seem to mind at all, and a few minutes more brought them into a very fine street. The houses formed two terraced rows, facing each other across the cobblestones, like armies ready to do battle.
“There,” Mary said, pointing at the nearest house on the left. “Here we are.”
Charlotte admired the tall windows, the elegant, glossy front doors all painted a matching black, and the iron railings outside each house, though she was too tired to linger in the chill air. Mary helped her down from the carriage, waving the young footman aside, and led her up the steps—neatly swept, and flanked on either side by a pair of strange stone creatures with the face and paws of an angry lion, and the long tail of a serpent. The door was opened by a tall man, dressed in a smartblack jacket which immediately marked him out as the butler. “Good morning, Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice deep and melodious. “Welcome home. Everything is as you requested.”
“Thank you, Pitt.” Mary hooked her arm into the crook of Charlotte’s elbow and led her forward through a dim hallway into a large, open foyer.
The walls were painted a serene green, and the high ceiling decorated with beautifully scalloped cornices just as grand as the Rosings entryway, though Mr Collins would have died much earlier if Charlotte had ever ventured such an opinion. Through a doorway on the left Charlotte caught a glimpse of a blue-wallpapered room she would very much like to investigate. She hesitated but her companion tugged her onwards until they stood directly under the large chandelier, and pointed up towards a large portrait on the right-hand wall of a handsome woman with tawny, brown hair and strikingly green eyes. The subject of the portrait was dressed in a beautiful blue gown and a pink sash. Unusually, she had a dog at her feet and a rifle on her lap. A brace of pheasants, not yet plucked, hung in the background. Through forested trees unlike any Charlotte had ever seen, the great bulky outline of a tall beast—as big as a horse but with mighty, curved antlers quite unlike the pointed antlers English deer wore—was only just visible. Charlotte had seen plenty of portraits in her life, but none had ever featured a woman who so evidently took pleasure in the hunt as men did, nor the scenery, which must be the Americas rather than the English countryside. “Ah!” cried she. “And this must be your aunt Cecily?”
“Indeed. She’s rather proud of that portrait.” Mary grinned. “It scandalizes most visitors on first arrival though. I am glad to see that it does not unsettle you.”
“Quite the contrary,” Charlotte protested. “I would like to know much more about her.”
“For now it may suffice to know that she is about Lydia’sheight, therefore taller than either you or I, and her hair is indeed that most becoming shade of brown. I can assure you that the portrait is a perfect likeness, though it does not fully convey, at least in my opinion, all the wit and wisdom my aunt possesses. Nor does it convey her rather wicked sense of humour. When she first met her husband’s family, she fed them all sorts of nonsense. In fact, she had them believing that the Scots hunted wild haggis, which roamed in packs across the highlands, and that you must never offer an Englishman cake, for to do so would cause great offense to his ancestors.”
Charlotte couldn’t help smiling, though Aunt Cecily sounded rather intimidating. “When is she next due back from America?”
“I do not know.” Mary shrugged. “She comes and goes as she pleases, and leaves me at leisure to do the same. It is rather a good arrangement, if I do say so. And not once has she ever harangued me to marry. In fact, quite the opposite. She has some rather liberal views about—” Her gaze flickered towards Charlotte before she cleared her throat. “Well, I shall give you a proper tour later, and answer all your burning questions then too. I suspect you would like to rest a little before lunch.”
Charlotte opened her mouth to say that she was entirely well, but her words were swallowed up by a huge yawn. Grinning, Mary tugged Charlotte towards the large staircase, which tapered into a landing before branching off to the left and right. “Come. Your room is next to mine.”
Lucas Lodge had been a decent size, but after living in the parsonage for four years, Charlotte had grown used to small means. Constant visits to Rosings had merely served to emphasise all that the Collinses did not have, and Lady Catherine’s frequent hand-me-downs had only made the Hunsford parsonage feel even more cramped. This, however, was a large house by her appraisal, and exceptionally well-kept by anyone’s standards.The dark wood floors were knotted with black whorls, and the walls were a cream so pale it looked like new milk.
They climbed only one flight before Mary made a sharp turn down the hallway. Charlotte followed, casting curious glances at the paintings which adorned the walls. Here at least there was light enough to see, but Mary seemed keen to ensure her guest was established in a room as soon as possible. Perhaps Charlotte had been asleep for longer than she’d thought. Her cheeks burned again at the memory of waking wet-chinned and hopelessly adrift. Mary had not really seemed to mind, but it was not exactly the graceful image Charlotte would have preferred to portray. She shivered, pulling her shawl tightly around her shoulders. The hallway was not cold, but she had not eaten since yesterday and a distinct coolness had crept into her bones while she’d slept.
“This is your room,” Mary said, pausing outside the last door. The handle was brass, polished to such a shine Charlotte could see her own reflection in it. The servants kept the place exceedingly clean—even Lady Catherine could not have found fault here. “I am just next door,” Mary added, pointing. “Now, the dining room is on the ground floor, second door on the left. The servants will direct you if you get lost, though I expect you’ll manage. Actually,” she paused with her fingers on the handle, “perhaps you would like to close your eyes and let me lead you inside. It is not a large surprise, but perhaps you will indulge me?”
Surprised, Charlotte closed her eyes, aware of the rustling of Mary’s skirts, the faint violet scent which permeated the air. A warm hand closed around her wrist and a moment later was tugging her forward, ushering her inside. The change in temperature was welcome, and the crackle of a blazing fire on her left provided a clue as to why. “Now,” Mary said, and Charlotte could hear the smile in her voice, “open your eyes.”
Charlotte obeyed, then gasped. The room was utterly gorgeous;the walls were a pale yellow, the large unshuttered windows letting in pale sunlight. In the magnificent hearth, tongues of orange flame licked along new logs. On either side of the fire sat two winged armchairs, upholstered in sage-green, perched atop a magnificent, forest-green rug. Charlotte could tell at a glance that they were more comfortable than the ones in the parsonage, and couldn’t wait to curl up in one to read more of the naturalist’s diary. On a small table between the armchairs, a tall white vase held a fresh bouquet of foxgloves in every colour from white to purple to a faded red which Charlotte had never seen before. She crossed the room, all thoughts of thanking her host lost in her excitement, and bent to examine the flowers. “Why, these are delightful!” she cried.
“They are your favourite, I know.” Mary smiled, though she shifted her weight from foot to foot as if nervous. “I called in a favour from a friend to obtain that particular shade of red. It is a little unusual, I believe. And you did tell me that they had some meaning, did you not?” She tapped her bottom lip with a single finger. “Secrets and riddles and everlasting life?”
“They can also mean deceit,” Charlotte said, still rapturous, “though I hardly think you meant them that way. Do you not think it strange that flowers may mean cruel things as well as kind ones?”
“Not particularly. People use callous words as well as tender words. Why not flowers?”
“It seems unfair to the flower,” Charlotte mused. “They’re only the messenger, after all.” She was startled when Mary giggled, and straightened, remembering herself. “Thank you for such a wonderful gift. It is quite enough to stay in your home, you need not have gone to so much trouble for me. I do hope the favour you called in was not a large one.”
