“I am afraid I did not finish them all in time.” Mary looked tired, though her eyes were still bright and her features animated. “I had more to say than I thought and… Well. Tis no matter. I will finish them tomorrow.”
“I would be perfectly happy to amuse myself this evening,” Charlotte suggested, afraid that Mary would feel obliged to put off her letters in order to entertain her guest. She sipped the brandy again, feeling the effects already.Lord, but this is rather strong stuff. Another glass and I will be asleep where I sit.
“If I am perfectly honest,” Mary’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “I would much rather spend time with you. What say I write one or two, and then come to your chamber?”
“An agreeable compromise.” Charlotte shot a sly look over her brandy glass. “Why, you would make a very amiable husband, Miss Bennet.”
“You flatter me far too much,” Mary laughed, though afaint flush crept up the side of her neck. Under the table, her knee brushed against Charlotte’s once, twice, and then stayed there. “Perhaps I only compromise because I want something, like most husbands.”
“Whatever could you want from me?” Continuing the game, Charlotte batted her eyelashes coquettishly, unable to repress a smile.
“Your time and attention, of course. What could be a sweeter reward than that?”
“I’ve changed my mind. You might be an amiable husband, but anyone who talks with such poetry is surely up to something devilish.” Charlotte rose from the table, amused by the way Mary stared up at her in faux-outrage.
“How dare you impugn my character as an upstanding gentleman?”
“Yes, dear. Whatever you say, dear.” Charlotte smirked as Mary’s outrage turned to indignation, and before her host could splutter a reply, she leaned down and pressed a kiss to Mary’s cheek. “I shall see you upstairs, then.”
* * *
In her chamber, Charlotte allowed herself a single minute’s reflection on the way Mary had smiled at her, the way Mary’s cheek had felt under her lips, before she turned her attention back to Barton’s diary. The fire was bright, the window open and delivering a cool breeze with the dark-edged smells of the night. She was so engrossed in a passage recounting an incident where a dead gull had plummeted onto the deck, sending the crew into a frenzy of superstitious panic, that she startled when the door opened. Mary sidled into the room, holding a decanter and two glasses. “May I join you? I have, of course, brought an offering to tempt you away from your book.”
“Yes, of course.” Charlotte studied Mary as she settled into the opposite armchair. “Did you know you have ink on yourchin? And charcoal on your forehead? And something I cannot name just under your left eye?”
“Oh for goodness’ sake.” Mary sighed. “You must think me a slovenly wretch indeed. Have you a towel?”
“I think no such thing,” Charlotte chided. “Here, let me.” She fetched a towel which had been neatly folded next to the empty washbasin, and some water from the pitcher. Dipping the corner of the towel into the water, she took her time gently cleaning Mary’s face. Those dark eyes watched her all the while, and although it was a dangerous moment, Charlotte took her time, unlike the first time she had ever done this back at the parsonage.
Her other hand held Mary’s chin in place, and she could not help moving very slightly, the fingers stroking infinitesimally. Mary blinked, long and slow, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. It was so strange, Charlotte thought, that when they were together like this, a bubble formed, and they really did feel like the only two people in the world. Jane had once described her marriage to Bingley in a similar way, but that had been a marriage—a love connection sought, established, and built upon—rather than a friendship.
By the time she was finished, she was quite reluctant to let go. “There, now you are quite clean.”
“Thank you.” Mary’s knuckles were white around the arms of the chair, though her voice was calm and collected. “Shall I pour us a glass?”
“What is it?”
“Whisky. Aunt Cecily’s preferred Scottish brand, no less. She claims the Americans made a very decent rye whisky, but I personally think the Scots have the right of it.”
The spirit proved to be excellent indeed, and soon enough they abandoned the armchairs in favour of sitting side by side on the rug in front of the crackling fire, discussing people they had known in Hertfordshire. “Do you recall Emma Sallow?Yellow hair, rather tall?” Mary asked. “She was a friend of Jane’s in their youth, though I think she turned quite mean-spirited later.”
“I think so. Did not she marry a baron?”
“An earl, if the rumours are true.”
Charlotte swallowed another mouthful of whisky, savouring the burn. “It just goes to show that kindness is not always rewarded.”
“Indeed. In fact, Lydia used to say…” Mary trailed off. A muscle in her jaw jumped, and she raised her glass to her lips, then lowered it without drinking.
Charlotte touched Mary’s arm tentatively, and was relieved when Mary smiled at her, eyes softening. “I understand that we all have our secrets, but if you should wish to talk to anyone, I am here.”
“I know that you would never tell anyone. It is just…” Mary sighed. “Well, here is the truth. Lydia went off with the militia, and slipped her chaperone one night. She and Wickham ran off together, and they…well, suffice it to say that they did not immediately marry.” Charlotte gasped, her mouth flying to her mouth as Mary continued. “Darcy found them and made them undertake the ceremony immediately. I suppose I should not be surprised that Lizzie did not tell you herself. She never told me either. I heard it from Jane, who eventually caved under my questioning.”
“Lizzie and Darcy are a very good match.” At one time, that sentence would have pained Charlotte, but now it seemed like some faraway dream, lost to the clouds of time. “In his place, I believe she would have done the same thing. She always did have a very strong sense of justice.”
Mary gulped down the contents of her glass, and poured another. “Indeed.”
“Thank you for confiding in me.” The words hardly seemed to do the sentiment justice, for the scandal would have beena huge one and destroyed the family’s name and the opportunity of all of the girls to make a match. Lydia had always been headstrong, but to run away at fifteen with a man she barely knew went far beyond the foolishness of youth.
