Charlotte nodded. “Mrs Waites insists that Bessie puts a sprig of mint in the water when she washes the clothes. I grew to like it.”
Mary stepped closer. “Ah, but since your bath…” She leaned in, dark hair tickling Charlotte’s nose, and her breath puffed over the bare flesh of Charlotte’s collarbone, sending prickles of a different nature down her spine. “The lavender has quite overpowered it. A shame, really. I shall have our maids do the same as your excellent Mrs Waites suggests.”
Instead of pulling back, her hand lingered, fingers skimming over the curve of Charlotte’s neck. Charlotte’s own fingerstwitched, brushing the fabric of Mary’s dress. Their eyes met, their noses only inches apart, and she was forcibly reminded of the moment back in the parsonage when she had wiped the charcoal off Mary’s cheek. Something had crackled between them in that moment; a tiny flame, which had grown since into a steady, low blaze. Perhaps Mary did not see it, or, if she saw it, perhaps she had failed to recognise Charlotte’s affection as something more than mere friendship. The thought washed over her in a cold rush—to be noticed would be bad enough, but to be noticed and rejected, as she no doubt would be, would be a fatal humiliation.
Feeling rather short of breath, Charlotte offered a quick, forced smile and made her escape to the window overlooking the street. That morning, the light had been too dim for her to properly appreciate the elegance of the houses, but now she could see the neat brickwork and black iron railings which guarded every home. Carriages rumbled past, while gentlemen roved in small packs past tittering ladies in elaborately decorated headwear. Focusing on these small details allowed her breathing to calm, and to recognise the stuttering of her heart as the precursor to desire.
Since they had held hands last night in the inn, Mary had acted differently. She brushed against Charlotte more often, or found more reason to touch her; or was that merely Charlotte’s imagination? Perhaps Charlotte was simply more aware of Mary now, of every breath and movement.Was I ever so aware of Mr Collins?she wondered, though she already knew the answer. In those frequent moments when he had been close to her, she had felt an urge to wriggle free rather than to lean in further. Certainly holding his hand or sniffing his neck had never produced such a low heat in her belly. It was all so very different, and though she told herself that it meant nothing, she couldn’t help worrying that it did in fact mean something.
This was a dangerous path to walk. Sooner or later theremight come a moment when she would make a mistake, reveal her true nature, and that might ruin everything. Mary, having grown up with four sisters, was probably so used to feminine affection that she had not even considered it strange. Only Charlotte could be so foolish and touch-starved to consider it anything other than simple friendship. She was probably mortifying herself already, and vowed to keep on her guard against future incidents, though the promise was short-lived when Mary slid warm fingers into Charlotte’s own, entwining them and squeezing.
“Come,” her host entreated, seemingly unaware of her guest’s innermost thoughts. “We have much more to see.”
* * *
The dark hallway between drawing room and dining room only led down to the kitchen, Mary informed her, and so they crossed the hall and entered the library instead. This room was also blue, albeit a different shade than the drawing room—more a bright cornflower blue, though the walls were so covered with shelves that the effect of the paint was rather spoiled. Charlotte exclaimed over the presence of so many books, and despite the room being only a third of the size of the great library at Rosings, most of these looked as if they had been thumbed through at least in the last century. Mary walked from one end of the room to another, trailing her fingers along the spines and pointing out the ones she’d read which might be of greatest interest, though the titles meant nothing to Charlotte. There was also a large oak desk, spattered with ink, which held a neat stack of books and a fresh candle.
“This is the room where Aunt Cecily talks of business with visitors,” Mary said. “She always says that the drawing room makes them too comfortable.”
Charlotte blinked. “Does she not wish her visitors to be comfortable?”
“She always says she’d prefer them afraid. I disagree—I thinka person who considers himself comfortable might let a little more slip than someone who is on their guard, but what do I know of such things?”
Not quite sure whether Mary was joking or not, Charlotte wandered over to a large curio cabinet. Inside, three shelves groaned under the weight of odd little trinkets and assorted items. “These are the most treasured things Aunt Cecily has brought back from her travels,” Mary continued. “See that carved wooden box? She traded one of her prettiest dresses for it.”
Charlotte leaned closer and inspected the box. It certainly was beautifully carved, with tiny hares leaping around the rim of the lid. The inlay on top was a delicate, curving pattern which reminded her of tangled roots, and must have taken the carver a considerable time to achieve. “What about this?” she asked, pointing to a long pipe.
“She refuses to elaborate on that one, though she smiles every time she looks at it. My personal suspicion is that she and the rest of her party indulged in some local, herbal delicacy leading to a bacchanalic experience best not discussed in polite company.”
“I had no idea such things existed.” Charlotte blinked. The local, herbal delicacy, whatever it had been, was surely a long, long way from anything grown in Mrs Waite’s vegetable patch.
“I have one myself upstairs, though it is not so large,” Mary said, interrupting her thoughts.
“A pipe?”
“A curio cabinet.”
“And what treasures have you?”
“I shall show you, though I beg you to lower your expectations. I’m afraid I myself have never indulged in bacchanalian revels.”
Charlotte followed Mary out of the library, casting a last glance over her shoulder at the pipe. “What precisely qualifies as bacchanalian?”
“I’m sure the definition varies from one person to the next,” Mary said, the back of her neck reddening a little. “Come, there are some wonderful paintings on the second-floor hallway.”
The paintings were indeed wonderful. Aunt Cecily evidently had quite the eye for landscapes, particularly those with brilliant sunrises or sunsets, and family portraits hung between each in an alternating fashion. “This is my great-grandmother,” Mary said, pointing to an amiable-looking woman dressed in a high collar and pearls, with two children playing at her feet. “And the stern gentleman over there, the one with his boot on the deer’s neck, was a favourite of one of the royal cousins, about fifty years ago, though I believe it ended in some sort of scandal. There are a few more paintings at the end of the first-floor hallway, which you did not see last night, as well as a rather lovely bust. Come, I shall show you.”
“You have not shown me your own chamber,” Charlotte reminded Mary, as they descended the stairs. “Or is it a thorough mess of books, papers, and paint-smudged sheets?” Unbidden, her mind produced an image of Mary in bed, frowning and rumpled, ink-stains reaching all the way down her forearms and vining over the pale flesh of her shoulders and—
She cleared her throat.
“It is not as bad as all that,” Mary grumbled, though she was smiling. “Though in truth you are not far off. If you insist upon seeing it, I shall grant you the honour.”
Mary’s bedroom was painted a delicate pink, in contrast to the strong blue which permeated so much of the rest of the house. Her four-poster was covered in a pink blanket, and before the fireplace lay a plush rug in a similar shade. Apart from the desk—which was as Charlotte had expected, so overrun with books and papers and drawings that there was scarcely an inch on which one could conceivably write a letter—there was not a single chair in the room.
“Why, you have no chairs except the one at your desk,” cried Charlotte. “And this is such a pretty place to sit, too.”
“Oh. Well… I confess I had the servants move my best chairs into your room.” Mary’s smile was nervous as she scratched the back of her neck. “I was rather hoping you wouldn’t notice. I thought you would be more comfortable that way.”
