“Whenever you are ready.” Mary’s tone had returned to normal, though it retained some slight vestige of coolness. “In fact, I can begin it now while you break your fast properly, if you like. By the way, the jam is most excellent.” She pushed a jar towards Charlotte, who likewise spread the jam liberally on a piece of toast and was delighted to find out that Mary was correct—it was delicious and, if she were not mistaken, was a concoction of strawberry and blueberry. Sweet and tart; a match made in heaven.
“I expect you’ve noticed the wallpaper already,” Mary said. “And with all your particular expertise in flowers, you will no doubt recognise these.”
“Canterbury Bells,” Charlotte said immediately, “and apple blossoms. Though you flatter me with your praise, I do not claim any such expertise.”
“Then you shall prove it with my second, more difficult question—what do they mean?”
Charlotte hesitated. “Do you know the answer?”
“Quite the opposite. I have no idea.”
She reached for another piece of toast, doing her best to hide a smile. “Then I could tell you any old twaddle and you would not know the difference.”
Mary gave her a long, amused look. “Charlotte, the day you tell an outright lie is the day the world ends and the angels blow their trumpets. Go on.”
Charlotte smiled, unable to help blushing. “Well, the bells signifyyour letter receivedand the apple blossoms mean that the giver prefers the receiver above all others. I always thought the latter one of the prettiest meanings in any bouquet. For what more could one ever hope for, than to be someone’s chosen first?”
Not that she herself had ever known such felicity; Mr Collins had proposed to Lizzie first, and only by Lizzie’s refusal had Charlotte the opportunity to make her own interest known. Before Mr Collins, there had been plenty of balls and dances and young men, but none had ever esteemed her as anything other than a pleasant girl with the same attributes to recommend her as at least four dozen girls in the surrounding area, and nothing at all which would make her stand out as a particular prize. Mary had surely felt the same way, and though she had been rather tight-lipped about any previous suitors, Charlotte was sure that she must have had at least one. She was pretty, after all, with charm and wit enough to intrigue many men and intimidate at least a few, and her family was a good, respectable one. Certainly men often picked far worse brides. The thought distracted her and once again she pictured Mary in church on the arm of some well-dressed gentleman, a veil covering those fine dark eyes, though no matter how she tried, she couldn’t picture happiness in the scene.
Pitt passed by the doorway, drawing Mary’s eyes. Charlotte sighed. If she had been born a man, then Lucas Lodge would have been her inheritance as the eldest, and she would have been able to pick and choose a wife as she liked, with nary a comment about her bachelor status. Marriage would have been her choice at leisure, and if she had decided never to marry, then the worst she would have endured would have been some good-natured familial teasing and the inheritance passing to the next male heir upon her demise. Even if she’d been born a younger son, she would have been free to take up some employof her choosing. A position which allowed one to make one’s fortune was, in a man, a mark of industriousness to be admired. For a woman, a paid position was a pitiable indication that one had fallen low.
To be a man was to sit astride the mount of society; to be a woman was to be crushed under its heavy hooves.
“You have left me again, and gone off into some dreamland where I cannot follow.” Mary poured a little more tea into her cup, then reached for the milk jug.
“Oh, it is very silly of me. I was just thinking that if I were a man, I would be free enough to give flowers to whomever I chose.”
Mary bit her lip, her eyes flickering once again to the doorway. “That is not always the case, I’m afraid.”
“Well, no,” Charlotte admitted. Men of rank were discouraged from falling in love with women of the underclass, though some did anyway. She studied Mary’s expression, and realization dawned; Mary’s lover might have been a poor man, unable to offer the kind of life she’d been accustomed to, or perhaps her fancy had been taken by one of the footmen—both were handsome, broad-shouldered boys. It would not be the first time a Bennet sister had made a poor choice of match; Mary’s unwillingness to discuss Lydia’s marriage to George Wickham, together with the impression Charlotte herself had gleaned of the gentleman and the way she had observed him behave towards Lizzie told her enough. Still, she’d thought Mary more sensible than that, even in matters of the heart.
Charlotte gulped down another piece of toast, pushing down a stab of unseemly jealousy, while Mary pointed out the paintings on the walls. These, it turned out, were chiefly by American painters, and featured rather stark landscapes of pines and rushing rivers under pale skies. They were beautiful, and Charlotte praised them aloud, though her host lacked similar ardor.
After she’d swallowed the remainder of her tea, they returnedto the foyer, where Charlotte stole another glance at the portrait of Aunt Cecily before following Mary into a large, pretty drawing room which smelled of violets, as if Mary had dabbed her perfume all over this room. Here the black pianoforte gleamed, the polished lid reflecting the scalloped ceiling. Another chandelier, more delicate than the one in the foyer, hung in the middle of the room. Two blue couches faced each other on either side of an elegant mantel above a large hearth, creating a pleasant space in which to sit and converse. “I must warn you that everything is very blue in this house,” Mary said, with more gloom than Charlotte would have thought the colour warranted. “Aunt Cecily loves it so. Her one concession is the bedrooms, which have escaped the uniformity of the rest. Yours is the prettiest, bar my own.”
Arching an eyebrow, Charlotte cast a look at Mary’s dress. “It is a colour which flatters you immensely, despite your protests.”
Surprising Charlotte, Mary blushed. “Thank you. I do rather like it in a gown, and perhaps in one room, but one gets tired of seeing it everywhere, every day.”
“And what colour would you prefer?”
“Green,” Mary declared. “A decent, natural green. I’d much rather feel as if I were in a garden than on a ship.”
Charlotte couldn’t help agreeing, but though the lady of the house was not there to hear these complaints, she felt obliged to say how pretty the room was. “And whom did your aunt marry? I do not recall that you told me.”
“Oh, a Mr George Langley—an American gentleman, who did very well for himself after some mines in North Carolina struck gold. His family were not on the British side in the war, though Aunt Cecily seems not to mind such trifling things as that.” Mary rolled her eyes, though a smile played around her lips.
“I see. And who do we have here?” Charlotte bent to examine the plants in pots in the corner.
“Mignonette,” Mary supplied, coming to stand next to Charlotte. “Aunt Cecily loves the scent. It covers up the terrible smell of the cigars her husband smokes, at least.”
“I see why she enjoys it. Though it means meekness, which is a message that I suspect your aunt Cecily does not intend to give her guests.” Charlotte inhaled deeply, before rising to her feet. “It’s lovely. Is there a touch of it in the perfume you use?” She reached for Mary’s wrist and brought it to her nose, pressing it against the pale flesh there. “Yes, it is similar. Yours is a little darker, though. Perhaps they used marjoram or…” she sniffed again, “cloves? Something to undercut the highest notes of the violet. I cannot quite determine—”
Charlotte froze, realising what she was doing must look extremely odd. Mary’s lips twitched, though her cheeks were rosy. “Yes? Do go on. I wasn’t aware you knew my scent so closely.”
“We did spend several days in a carriage together,” Charlotte pointed out, dropping Mary’s hand. A fat worm of embarrassment crawled down her back, leaving her itchy and burning. “It is to your credit that I recall it so well, for had it been a bad smell, I would have sought to forget it quickly.” The jest fell rather flat, but she was too agitated to think of anything wittier.
“Hmm. And your scent is usually rosemary and mint. Am I correct?”
