“Not as much as I ought,” Mary confessed. “I often get so absorbed by my readings that I am not entirely conscious of the hours passing. Pitt does his best to keep me on a reasonable schedule, but if were not for my staff, I would find myself sleeping the day away and eating dinner at two or three in the morning.”
“Am I keeping you from your work?”
“Not at all! I did not mean to imply—” Mary sighed, and leaned her head on Charlotte’s shoulder. “I’m trying to compliment you, though I must be even more rusty at it than I had thought. What I meant to say is that I am very grateful for your company. The house is beautiful, and I have friends whom Imay visit whenever I choose, but, well… I suppose I prefer more intimate friendships to a large party.”
“As do I.” Charlotte wanted to say more; she wanted to ask if Mary was lonely, if she had always felt lonely, and if there was a possibility that Mary felt a little less alone in Charlotte’s company, as she did in Mary’s.
Instead, she bit her lip, and said nothing.
Chapter Fourteen
Dear Charlotte,
I hope you received my last letter with my condolences. Maria says that you will soon return to Lucas Lodge, which made us wonder whether we ought to send all the children there for a week or two. After all, whatever will you and Mama and Papa do with your long, empty days? We are quite prepared to do you this kindness.
Do remember that I always favoured you.
Your brother,
John
Upon their return to the house, Miss Brodie sent up fresh scones, accompanied by cherry jam and clotted cream. Charlotte fetched Barton’s diary from her room, intending to read a little once she’d eaten her fill, and laid it beside her plate in the dining room. Though the cover of the book was rather nondescript—a pale brown, almost fawn, with the author’s name stamped in small gold letters on the front—the butler flinched when he saw it. Yet the next moment Pitt covered his reaction so admirably that Charlotte wondered if she had simply imagined his response.
Puzzled, she spread jam on her scone while Mary complainedabout the batch of letters she’d received that morning; apparently some new finding had all the mineralogists at her salon ablaze with excitement. “It was the same after Cuvier and Brongniart publishedDescription Geologique des Environs de Paris,” said she, staring gloomily down at the pile of envelopes at her elbow. “You couldn’t get any sense out of them for months. I shall have to do a little reading before I respond to some of these, but—” casting an eye at Barton’s diary “—I see you have your own book to occupy you. What say we retire to the drawing room for an hour or two?”
Certain that she wouldn’t understand the new scientific discovery even if Mary had explained, and secretly rather glad that her friend had not even bothered to try, Charlotte agreed to the notion with delight, and was once again pleased by the strong smell of mignonette pervading the drawing room. She seated herself on one of the couches. Mary sat next to her rather than on the opposite seat, close enough for their elbows to brush. Had it been anyone else, Charlotte would have minded a great deal, and would have, at the first available opportunity, made her escape to another chair. Here, she felt no such urge. If anything, she wanted to be closer, and so, when Mary shifted, Charlotte inched sideways a little, so that they were elbow to elbow. Repressing a sigh at the thrill which fizzled through her veins at a mere touch, Charlotte opened Barton’s diary.
* * *
The first third of the book had been taken up with the voyage, but Barton had now landed on a pretty little island and evidently been enthralled with all the flora and fauna he found there; monkeys, lemurs, great trailing vines, and tall trees crowned with leaves as long as the naturalist’s forearm. They’d had a warm welcome from the islanders, who held a feast in their honour and presented the captain with a carved trinket box; it sounded very much like the one in Aunt Cecily’s study, though Barton had described this one as being encircled with strange,long-legged birds rather than rabbits. He himself had been gifted a wooden statue, carved in the shape of an old man with a beard, which he had received with the tenderest appreciation.
Trading between the crew and the islander took place over several days, and it was plain that Barton did not care a fig for the process, preferring instead to join some of the young native men to learn how they fished and harvested. Every few pages there was some new delight—a drawing of a bird with a voluminous crest, or a description of a broad fish so heavy it took two men to carry back to the main camp. Barton’s passion shone through with every word, and Charlotte found herself both pleased and envious of his innocent joy, and his ability to travel anywhere he liked at any time without worrying about impropriety. Surely no woman, no matter how rich or connected, would have been allowed to undertake such a journey. And yet, someone always had to be the first to break a rule, did they not, for the rest to come tumbling after?
Mary turned a page, her elbow brushing Charlotte’s. A sideways glance confirmed that Mary was intent upon the page, which contained several complicated-looking tables of numbers and unintelligible paragraphs; her forehead was furrowed in concentration, a sight which Mrs Bennet would surely have remarked upon with consternation, had she been present.
Charlotte knew that she herself frowned while she read—though her family had remarked on it with amusement rather than reprimands—and her late husband had thought it sweet to lean over and smooth out the frown with his thumb before returning to his own book. Charlotte had always smiled and thanked Mr Collins, but privately the action had irked her. Did she have to maintain a perfectly smooth face whilst reading, lest it perturb him? Was it not enough that she presented a perfectly pleasant air in company and while alone with him? She had often felt that she had stepped into the role of Wife, a role any worthy woman might have filled for him with little todistinguish her. Why, if Jane or Lizzie or some other Meryton girl had consented to marry him, he would have been just as happy, perhaps even more so. She’d known this only too well, and so had strived to be the most dutiful wife in every way, never to give him trouble or cause him to regret his decision. The result had been achieved, but at what cost?
She glanced up to find dark eyes studying her intently. “I like the way you look when you are deep in thought,” said Mary. “I should like to draw you again, if you would permit me to do so. No, wait—” for Charlotte had smoothed out her expression as she had done so many times before, “do not change on my account. Please.”
“Well now I wish to smile, and I’m afraid the two expressions cannot exist on my face at the same time. Although, now that you have mentioned a desire, I feel I must mention my own in turn.”
“Oh?” A strange expression flashed across Mary’s face, as fast as a bird flitting past a window. “What desire is that?”
“I believe at Hunsford you promised that in exchange for accompanying you to the salon later this week, you would accompany me to a ball.” Charlotte smiled in what she hoped was her most charming way. “You did promise, did you not?”
“Ah. Yes.” Mary sighed. “I suppose I did.”
Pitt materialized as if from nowhere, three cards in his hand. “Ma’am, you received three invitations this morning.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And why am I only hearing about them now?”
“It must have quite slipped my mind, ma’am.”
“Your mind seems lubricated only at inconvenient times,” Mary muttered, but took the proffered cards anyway. “Very strange that you should have separated them from my letters.”
“You have an unfortunate habit of tripping and throwing said invitations into the fire, ma’am,” he said, face politely blank, “which luckily does not often happen with your letters.”He tilted his head, looking the very picture of helpfulness. “I thought the presence of Mrs Collins might alleviate your usual clumsiness.”
Mary scowled at him. Charlotte watched their interplay with amusement. Mrs Waites had often employed the same kinds of underhanded tactics, though to different ends, and Mary seemed indignant rather than genuinely irritated by the butler’s behaviour.
