Charlotte swallowed, touched by how thoughtful the action had been. “You are far too kind to me, you know.”
“Nonsense, it’s just a couple of chairs.”
“No.” She took Mary’s hand, pressing it earnestly. “It is far more than that. You comforted me in my time of need, and you have been such a good listener, and I—” She bit her lip. “Thank you. For everything.”
Without thinking, she pulled Mary into an embrace. She felt the body in her arms stiffen, and then relax. “You are very welcome,” Mary murmured, her warm breath brushing a sensitive spot under Charlotte’s earlobe.
Charlotte gritted her teeth. She had meant the hug as a friendly gesture, but the feel of Mary’s body against hers set every nerve alight. “I find myself quite thirsty,” said she, detangling herself. “Might it be time for a spot of tea?”
“Why, you fairly read my mind!”
Forcing a smile, Charlotte followed Mary out of the room, really hoping that would never be the case.
Chapter Twelve
Though Mary had been with Charlotte the whole time and had no spare moment to instruct the butler in anything, when Pitt pulled out Charlotte’s chair for luncheon, it was next to Mary’s at the head of the table. Sitting so close, it was unavoidable that their knees brushed, just as they had that first evening in the parsonage. Charlotte caught the odd glance Mary shot Pitt, though his attention was fixed on the careful adjustment of a candlestick which seemed to Charlotte to be perfectly situated already.
The footmen were nowhere to be seen, and when Charlotte mentioned this, Mary waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, I gave them the day off. They worked hard to get the house back in order, and they deserve a rest.”
“That is most kind of you. Many would not even think of such a thing.”
“Well,” said she, “I was always troubled by the way my mother ran a house. Our servants at Longbourne only had one day off a month and even that was given grudgingly. Now that I am the mistress of this house, I can do as I please.”
They enjoyed a light meal of salad, dressed beautifully and featuring cubes of fresh, crisp cucumber littered amongst stripsof mange-tout. The meal was a little earlier than Charlotte was used to, though she finished everything on her plate with satisfaction. “Dinner will be three courses at least,” Mary warned, “though I have not the slightest idea what Miss Brodie is planning.”
Miss Brodie?Charlotte raised an eyebrow. This was a very strange house indeed. Cooks, at least in her experience, tended to be middle-aged and married at least once.She must be rather young, or perhaps very talented, or both.“You do not instruct your cook?”
Pitt entered the room and headed straight for the top of the table, collecting Mary’s plate and cup. “Heavens, no. I let her do what she pleases, and the result is an excellent one for all parties concerned.” Mary smiled. “Thank you, Pitt. So, now that you have had your tour, will you give your opinion?”
“I suppose you already know what I will say. It is a beautiful home and I quite envy you living here.” She couldn’t help adding, slightly mischievously, “In spite of all the blue.”
Mary laughed. “If the constant presence of blue is the price I must pay, then pay it I shall. You are quite right; it is a lovely home. Aunt Cecily has done very well for herself, though she is rarely in the country long enough to appreciate it. And I cannot say I blame her.”
“Why so?”
“The Americans are a little more free in some ways,” Mary explained. “And I have to say, I quite agree with their thinking. Why, I am a grown woman of four-and-twenty—what need have I for a chaperone? Men do not require them at any age, even when they are little boys, but may gad about as they please. Even married women in England do not have the sort of freedom married women in America do, and I confess it is rather vexing to hear her describe her adventures when I am so confined here.”
“Such conditions are intended to protect us from salaciousgossip,” Charlotte pointed out, as Pitt slid back into the room like a well-tailored ghost. “Or ardent suitors too keen to press their desires.”
“That rather sounds to me as if men should work a little more on keeping themselves in check, rather than women hiding themselves away.” Mary smiled. “If only the world were so easily fixed as that. I confess that while I am grateful for Aunt Cecily’s kindness which allows me greater liberty than I enjoyed in Meryton, I am still bound by the confines of English society. Had I never heard countless tales of the adventures she has undertaken across the ocean, I might have been content. One does not know what one misses if one is kept ignorant of it.”
Charlotte’s smile was pained, for she had recently become familiar with the same sentiment. Before she could inquire whether Mary had plans to travel to America, her host smiled back. “Now, I hope you do not mind,” Mary continued, “but I must write a few letters this afternoon. I should be finished by dinnertime. If you require any entertainment, I can recommend diversions.”
Pitt leaned past Charlotte to remove her plate and now-empty cup. “Please do not trouble yourself on my behalf,” said she. “While I shall of course mourn the loss of your company, I admit I am eager to return to Mr Barton’s book.” Pitt fumbled the saucer—the first time Charlotte had ever seen him do anything without grace—and his eyes flashed towards Mary before he continued out of the room. Charlotte hesitated.What was all that about?“He has such a way with words,” she continued, seeing that Mary was listening attentively.Perhaps she did not notice.“He makes me feel as if I am there beside him.”
“Barton was a wonderful storyteller. The world is a far dimmer place without his light.”
“Why, you never told me you knew him.”
Mary shifted in her seat. “I’m afraid he passed away two years ago. He was a good man, and an adventurous one, andhe caught some sort of sweating sickness. He died after a week, though thankfully he had not been awake during most of it.”
“I’m so very sorry to hear that.” Charlotte bit her lip. This was a blow indeed. She’d grown rather fond of Barton, and hoped Mary might be able to introduce them at the salon.
* * *
Mary departed soon afterwards, with a promise to return as quickly as she was able. Charlotte, who despite the tour did not feel able to occupy space in someone else’s drawing room while they were not present—at least, not yet—retired to her bedroom. She sat in the armchair, remembering that Mary had given up her own comfort readily to ensure Charlotte’s own. The idea suffused her with a warm glow, and it was long minutes before she remembered to even open the book on her lap. Immersing herself once again in Mr Barton’s adventure, Charlotte ignored the pang of grief she felt about the author’s death, and concentrated on his life. Barton, who had apparently grown up somewhere near the Dorset coast, was not the sort of gentleman to sit idly by while others worked. He had been told off by the captain for getting so involved—the captain apparently preferred a more distinct boundary between the crew and any upper-class passengers—but Barton had taken the scolding with good cheer, and the captain had eventually relented. He had been permitted to assist with navigation, which seemed like very complex work to Charlotte, who had never been aboard anything bigger than a rowboat on a calm lake.
When Barton was not assisting the crew with physical tasks, he was writing notes late into the night on all that he had seen and heard so far: the screech of sea birds, strange winged fish dragged aboard in nets, and the ever-changing colours of the water.Grey is my least favourite, he’d written,for it heralds bad weather.Charlotte frowned, picturing grey waves rising higher and higher. She shuddered, and was pulled from her reverie by a soft knock upon the door.
