Mary blinked awake when the great clock downstairs struck eight. “Why, I have slept so late,” she mumbled, and to Charlotte’ssurprise, did not pull away immediately. “Why did you not wake me?”
“But you were sleeping so deeply,” Charlotte protested.
If it had not been for the fact that their bodies were so entwined, Charlotte would have entirely missed the way Mary froze, then made a great show of rolling away to yawn. Charlotte frowned. Had Mary been so groggy that she had mistaken Charlotte for someone else? And if so, who had so lately been sharing her bed that she might confuse things in such a way? Thick skeins of discomfort wound around her chest, pulling tightly.
“Well, I hope I did not trouble you after you so kindly invited me in.” Mary turned to face her, and Charlotte’s discomfort warmed as she remembered the way Mary had looked and sounded in the dream. Was she a dreadful person, to think about her friend in such a way, when they were so innocently close? Especially a friend who probably saw her as another older sister?The way she looked at you last night was not very sisterly, the little voice in her head pointed out, and for once, Charlotte didn’t argue with it, though guilt and shame were wound too tightly in her chest to allow the fingers of hope to prise them apart.
“I must return to my letters this morning,” Mary continued, “but first, I thought we might have a little breakfast and then a walk in the garden.”
The notion shook Charlotte from her reverie. “Wait—you have a garden? Here?”
“Before you get too excited, I must warn you that it is merely shared among the residents of this street. One needs a key to enter, or possess the determination to climb a very high fence in pursuit of flowers.”
“I shall temper my expectations but little.” Charlotte arched an eyebrow. “Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked teasingly, though in truth she would have happily lain in bed with Mary all day. “Let us go!”
* * *
After dressing quickly, Charlotte joined Mary in the dining room, where they enjoyed some of Miss Brodie’s honeyed oats, adorned with a smattering of fresh berries, before venturing out into the street. Turning the corner, Charlotte saw the tops of trees behind a high iron fence—either very short trees indeed, or the garden had been purposefully sunk in order to provide the residents privacy. The latter proved to be the case, and meant that they had to descend a rather steep set of stairs to enter after Mary unlocked the gates; evidently she had not been joking about needing a key.
“Oh, I forgot to mention—I received a letter this morning from Aunt Cecily,” said Mary, helping Charlotte down the last step. “Careful, that one has been cracked a little. We really must get it fixed.”
“What did she say?”
“She believes she will return in a month or so. It is a shame you cannot stay to meet her, for she would love you, I am sure.”
Charlotte’s heart fluttered.If only I could.“You are very sweet to say so. It is a shame indeed, but I shall have to return home long before then to pack and prepare for my departure to Meryton.” The reality of her situation, which she had managed to almost forget about for the last few days, returned in full force. She followed Mary onto a stone path which wound between two large oak trees. Overhead, the sun shone brightly, and the faint rumble of carriages and voices from the street above seemed half a world away. “Besides,” she added brightly, for Mary really did look glum at the thought of her guest leaving, “I am sure you would be sick of me long before the month was over.”
“How very dare you suggest any such thing, Charlotte Lucas.” Mary poked her in the shoulder. “You are wonderful company and I shall miss you dreadfully.”
“Very well, very well,” said she, giggling and fending off afurther attack of poking as they strolled along the path. “You have made your point. Now, where are the flower-beds? I expect to see marvels here, since they must be agreeable enough to please a whole street of people.”
“Oh, then I have grossly misled you. They are pleasant, to be sure, but nothing so pretty as your own garden at Hunsford, which I much prefer.”
Charlotte had rather expected Mary to mention Rosings, and was surprised. “Surely the splendor of the De Bourgh estate far outstrips my own modest efforts?”
“In fact, that is why your garden pleased me so. It exists not to impress, not to tantalize with elaborate hedges or expensive imports, but to simply rejoice in all the beauty of nature. There is something unselfconscious about it.”
“I feel that way too,” Charlotte confessed. “I shall miss my garden most of all. The gardens at Lucas Lodge are beautiful, of course, but they are my mother’s style rather than my own, and they tend to be a little…” She bit her lip, struggling to think of the right word.
“Staid? Not that I’m suggesting your parents are at all staid herself,” Mary hastened to add. “Your mother in particular was always very warm-hearted, and kind to me.”
The path was only just wide enough for two to walk abreast, and Mary’s hand had brushed Charlotte’s enough that the latter had started to wonder whether she ought to take it as a girlish act of affection, though the more she imagined doing such a thing, the more mortified she became. Charlotte had never been able to manage acting girlish or coy, and she’d certainly never mastered the art of flirting, intentional or otherwise. Before she could get a grip on her stray thoughts, Mary drew her attention to the flower-beds on the left, ringed by an assortment of stones painted white.
“Carnations!” Charlotte exclaimed. “And in so many colours. Why, they are lovely.”
“And I suppose you know the meaning of carnations, do you not?”
“Well, that depends on the colour.”
Mary looked blank. “Does that make a difference?”
“Oh, certainly.” Charlotte ticked the answers off on her fingers. “Red meansmy heart aches for you, white meanssweet love, and pink meansI’ll never forget you.”
“What about yellow?” Mary asked.
“Ah, yellow carnations meanrejection. One hopes to never see them in a bouquet, which is rather a shame considering they are pretty enough.”
Just beyond the carnations, an elegant fountain had been set into the path, which branched off in three directions. Mary guided Charlotte down the left-hand path, claiming it offered the most sunshine, and the two walked arm-in-arm past tulips, poppies, and peonies, until they reached the end of the garden. A stone bench offered a delightful view of a pond, in which several orange fish were swimming lazily. The bench itself had been warmed by the morning sun, and the scents of flowers and recently cut grass mixed in the air. A bee buzzed somewhere, unseen, and Charlotte sighed with pleasure. “What a lovely spot. You must spend a lot of time here.”
