Mary waved an airy hand, and Charlotte turned to inspect the rest of the room. A gleaming mahogany desk sat against one wall, a neat pile of parchment accompanied by two smallbottles of ink, an array of quills, and a stump of red sealing wax with which to seal letters. A tall wardrobe made of dark wood, matching the floor, stood to attention beside the desk. Under the shuttered window there was a large metal tub, full of steaming hot water. The scent of lavender and mint drifted from it in a very pleasing way, and Charlotte was suddenly very aware of all the dust and dirt of travel clinging to her. Not wanting to rush Mary out of the room, however desperately she wished to bathe, she moved towards the bed; a beautiful four-poster, much nicer than the one they’d stayed in at the inn. The sheets and pillows were a crisp white, and the grey blanket neatly folded over the bottom of the bed was embroidered with tiny blue flowers. Charlotte ran a finger over one experimentally, feeling each petal in turn and then the raised circle of the yellow stitches of the pollen. “This is beautiful,” said she. “Did your aunt do this?”
Mary snorted, then tried to cover it with a cough. “No, Aunt Cecily is not the embroidering type. It was her friend, Edith, who did such fine work.”
It might just have been the way the firelight flickered, lighting the room with a pretty golden glow, but Charlotte could have sworn Mary was blushing. She would have liked to press the issue, but heavy footsteps could be heard coming along the hallway and the next moment a short, broad footman appeared, carrying Charlotte’s trunk. Mary directed him to deposit it next to the bed, where it might be least obtrusive, and the boy did so with a cheerful countenance. He disappeared speedily into the hallway, where Charlotte could hear Pitt directing another footman to bring up Mary’s own luggage.
“I thought you would like this room best,” Mary said, calling Charlotte’s attention back. “I am delighted to be proven correct, as I usually am.” She winked at Charlotte before pointing at the tub. “That should be the perfect temperature for you, though if you would like it warmed further, ring the bell. Ishall leave you to yourtoilette.” She half turned, before turning back. “Are you hungry? You ate not a thing at breakfast.”
“A little,” Charlotte admitted, though she wanted nothing more than to leap into the bathtub.
Mary nodded. “If you would wait but a moment, one of the maids will bring you a tray. Please do not hesitate to call me or the servants should you require anything. Anything at all. Nothing is an inconvenience if it pleases you.”
Charlotte could feel a blush creeping over her cheeks and down her neck. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Mary was playing the part of a courteous, dashing swain. “You are too kind.”
Mary stepped forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Sleep sweetly, Charlotte. I shall see you in an hour or two.”
Mary closed the door behind her, leaving Charlotte frozen in the middle of the room. Once she had regained her ability to breathe, she touched the cheek Mary had kissed with light fingers, tracing the spot where lips had met flesh. This was a new development, and not an unpleasant one, though she would have to be careful not to ruminate over it too long lest new notions took root in her mind which were harder to dig out. Mary was simply more at ease in her own home, as anyone would be, and had in all likelihood slipped into the more formal manners which were to be expected in Canterbury. Charlotte knelt and unlocked her trunk, and busied herself with putting things away in the wardrobe. She sighed over how dowdy her black gowns would look next to Mary’s, and wished not for the first time that the mourning period was not so long nor so dreary.
As Mary had promised, a maid appeared in due course, bringing a tray which held a teapot, cheese, fresh bread, and slices of cold ham, alongside a single sugar biscuit in the shape of a star. The maid, a tall, slender sapling of perhaps sixteen or seventeen, poured a cup and left, closing the door behind her. Charlotte ate quickly, only realising just how hungry she hadbeen after she’d tasted the first bite of buttery cheese, before stripping off her petticoats and shift, and submerging herself into the hot water—too hot to be truly comfortable, just the way she liked it—with a lascivious moan that echoed around the room. The soap provided had sprigs of dried lavender running through it, and left her feeling clean and fresh for the first time in days.
After drying off naked in front of the fire, accompanied by a second round of cheese and bread, Charlotte got into her nightgown and then into the bed, groaning with pleasure again. After hours spent sitting upon a hard bench, for no cushioning could disguise a coach seat for what it was, it felt wonderful to sink into downy softness. She could still feel the touch of Mary’s lips upon her cheek. Would she be expected to perform the same action? If she did not, would Mary think her rude or boorish? She certainly would not like to offend, and the desire to adhere to the rules of Canterbury society was absolutely nothing to do with the slow warmth in her belly.
She rolled her eyes, aware she was being foolish. No matter. Whatever her real desire, she was not doing any harm with this silly, girlish infatuation—except to herself.Speaking of girlish infatuations, she thought, recalling the mention of Aunt Cecily’s friend Edith which had made Mary blush so.I suppose many young women look up to older friends or mentors in such a way. It may signify nothing, and yet, is it possible Mary once had the same kinds of feelings I do?
She turned on her side, wondering what sort of qualities the mysterious Edith might possess which would make such a deep impression on Miss Bennet, and was asleep in moments.
Chapter Eleven
This island differs only little from the last; where once scarlet flowers grew, now they are pink. Many of my acquaintances and family back home could walk past these bushes a thousand times without noticing the change, and even those who notice would not necessarily care what such a detail might mean. Even the slightest, most subtle alteration may herald some future consequence.
S. Barton,Travels of a Young Naturalist
Charlotte awoke to broad sunshine pouring in through the windows. Though her nap had been brief, she felt well rested—if a little groggy—and it took her a moment to remember where she was. She rose, shuffling over to the wardrobe to consider her meagre wardrobe. If they were to attend a ball and a salon, she would need to reserve her silk for such elevated occasions. As much as she would like to look her best every day, she could not very well wander around wearing only the silk for the week or so she intended to spend in Mary’s aunt’s house. Sighing, she began the process of wriggling out of her nightgown and into various stays and petticoats, before putting on the black muslin and smoothing down her hair to a presentable state. Growing up at Lucas Lodge, Charlotte and her sisters had a lady’s maid,though she’d learned to manage quite well without one for four years at the parsonage. She’d half expected Mary’s own maid to wake her up and help her dress but, on second thoughts, she couldn’t imagine independent Mary allowing anyone to help her any more than was strictly necessary.
Pitt was waiting in the hallway, pretending to inspect a plant pot in the corner, and greeted Charlotte warmly before escorting her down the broad staircase and into the blue wallpapered room she had glimpsed earlier that morning. The grandfather clock in the hall struck eleven when Charlotte entered, the loud noise causing her to flinch in surprise. Mary was already at the breakfast table, wearing a long-sleeved sapphire-coloured dress which made her look as if she had been designed perfectly to fit the room. The table itself was almost as long as the great table in the dining hall at Rosings, and was only laid for two places, making it look rather bare. Even the large centerpiece of white roses and white orchids—both conveying purity and innocence, Charlotte noted, though likely chosen for their look rather than their meanings—did not help matters. Still, the room was beautiful, and airy, with tall eastern-facing windows which let in the morning sunshine most becomingly.
Two footmen stood along the wall in dark livery and black breeches, their hair neatly combed. Pitt pulled out Charlotte’s chair, halfway down the table—rather far from her host, she thought, but perhaps one could not help the distance with a table so large—and waited until she was seated before bowing and making his exit.
“Good afternoon,” her host beamed, waving a piece of toast liberally spread with jam. She rose and came around the table, kissing Charlotte on the cheek, before retiring to her seat again. “I trust you rested a little?”
At home in the parsonage, Mr Collins had frequently got up early, whether for some particular prayer or parishioner who required his attention, and Charlotte had therefore got intothe habit of rising even earlier so that everything was ready for him. It had been a long time since she had slept with such careless abandon, and said so.
Mary smiled. “Well, you shall sleep as much as you like here.”
“I shall do no such thing,” Charlotte protested. “Would you have me snore away all my hours in an exciting new place?”
Mary took another bite of toast, smirking. “I suppose you are right. In that case, you shall sleep neither too little nor too much.”
Charlotte realised she was being teased, though instead of feeling embarrassed, a warmth spread through her chest. Pitt poured her a cup of tea—only a splash of milk, just the way she liked it, making Charlotte wonder whether he had been specifically instructed on something so small. “And how did you fare?”
“I missed my bedfellow, of course, though not the drooling,” Mary declared, and Charlotte’s warmth turned to embarrassment after all.
Neither footman moved, but held a quick conversation with their eyes which was easy enough to guess. Mary caught it too, and gestured for them to leave. “Out, boys,” she commanded. They obeyed, grinning at each other rather than looking rebuked by such an abrupt dismissal. To Charlotte, Mary added, “Do not worry about them. They are silly fish-wives eager for any scrap of gossip, but nothing said or done in this house ever leaves it, on pain of their employment. You may trust me on that point.”
“Oh. Why such secrecy?” She hadn’t quite meant to voice the thought, but it was out before she could take it back.
Mary’s gaze flickered towards the door and then back to Charlotte. “Have not all houses secrets?” Her tone, which had been quite free only a moment before, had become cool andmeasured. “And this one more than most, though I dare say ours are of a different nature.”
She had saidours, nottheirs, Charlotte noted, gulping down the much-needed tea. This secret, whatever it was, must pertain to Mary herself as well. Confused by the conversation, and distracted by her stomach grumbling loudly, Charlotte poured herself more tea before reaching for a slice of lightly-toasted bread. “And when shall you give me this much-lauded tour of the house?”
