“He thinks I do not go out enough,” said she, to Pitt’s retreating back as he left the room. “He believes that, left to my own devices, I would be some sort of mad hermit.”
“Given what you told me in the garden earlier, it seems as if he might be correct,” Charlotte pointed out.
“Do not join forces with him, please. A war on two fronts is not easily won.” Mary sighed again. “Look, here are two balls to choose from. The other invitation is merely a luncheon with a friend of my aunt’s who is rather lonely in her old age. She will not mind if I put our meeting off for another week or so.” She offered the cards to Charlotte. “I shall attend whichever ball you choose.”
“I confess I am at a disadvantage here, for I know neither name nor the history of their acquaintance with you.” Charlotte held up the cards so that Mary could see them plainly. “However, if you tell me a little about each, then I shall be able to make a sensible decision about which one we ought to attend.”
Mary inspected the first card. “Ugh. This one is from Miss Abbott, a friend of Mrs Tremaine’s.” She pulled a face.
Charlotte had not heard her mention either name before, nor look with such evident disdain. “You do not care for Miss Abbott?”
“Her mind is a vast blue sky and not a single cloud of thought dims its brightness,” Mary said, her tone still slightly sulky.
Charlotte snorted. “I see. And what about Mrs Tremaine? Is your opinion of her any better?”
“I…” Mary trailed off, which was odd given how freely she had spoken of Miss Abbott’s faults just a moment before. “In that lady’s case the situation is more complicated. She is…how shall I put this? She is ungracious and uses her natural charms in the pursuit of younger quarry. Her husband is a sweet, if gullible, man which makes her behaviour all the worse.”
“Oh dear! She sounds dreadful. And the other invitation?”
Mary glanced at the second card. “Ah, this ball is being held by Mr and Mrs Cromley. They are good souls, and though their ball will not be as lavish as Miss Abbott’s, who has more money than sense, it will be a very pleasant time.”
“I think the choice is clear, though I cannot say I am not a little intrigued by your description of Mrs Tremaine. Surely she cannot be as bad as all that?”
“You are too willing to think the best of everybody, Charlotte. Doubt me if you must, but you shall discover the truth for yourself. She will be at the salon next week, where she does her best to be the reigning monarch of our little republic.”
Charlotte frowned. “But a republic needs no monarch.”
“Precisely,” Mary pronounced, using the same sort of forbidding tone she’d used to describe the great danger presented by a small gathering of owls.
* * *
At around six on the clock, they ate a fabulous dinner of pigeon breasts in a rich, velvety sauce, with buttered potatoes and pickled cucumbers to accompany. Charlotte retired to her room to dress in her black silk, her only suitable option, and stared at herself in the looking-glass. She was not beautiful, certainly, but she was clean and presentable, with a cheerful countenance and a pleasant smile.
Mary was waiting downstairs in the hallway when Charlotte descended the stairs. She was wearing a purple gown, lush and dark, which suited her complexion exceedingly. The neckline of the dress was edged in thistles. Charlotte archedan eyebrow. “Interesting choice. Do the flowers represent devotion or suffering?”
“Why not both?” Mary smiled. “I am devoted to your happiness, so I am honour-bound to suffer through a ball.”
“Oh.” Charlotte’s own smile faded. “If you would really rather not go—I mean, I would not wish for you to do anything on my behalf that would cause you pain.”
Mary waved a careless hand. “Do not take me so seriously. Besides, a little suffering is healthy, is it not? If God wanted me to stay inside all the time, He would have granted me a snail-shell to carry on my back. On the contrary, I thank you for reminding me that one must step out into the world from time to time and enjoy all it has to offer.” She produced a pink carnation. “I felt,” said she, blushing, “that you might need a little colour to brighten up your gown. Of course, you cannot change your mourning dress but I thought, well… Here, allow me.” She stepped closer, far closer than she needed to be. “This has a hook attached here, so you are in no danger of having your dress punctured by a pin. See?” Mary tucked the pink carnation into the hook and fastened it.
Charlotte watched her fingers work, and swallowed hard. She looked up. Mary was still very close—close enough to see each golden fleck in her dark eyes. Pink carnation, meaningI will never forget you. It also meant longing, though she hadn’t mentioned. “You remembered.”
Mary raised an eyebrow. “It was only this afternoon. Or do you think my memory as bad as all that?”
“No, not at all.” She was shy but pleased. “I appreciate your efforts to make me look inviting.”
“You need no help with that, I assure you.” Her fingers lingered, brushing the petals, her voice dropping to a murmur. “Black rather suits you, although I do look forward to seeing you wearing bright colours again. I recall you once wore apretty lavender dress to a ball at Netherfield, and I remember thinking how—”
Behind Charlotte, Pitt cleared his throat. Mary straightened, a flash of annoyance crossing her face. “The carriage is outside, ma’am,” the butler announced.
“Thank you, Pitt.” She extended an arm to Charlotte as Pitt strode ahead of them and opened the front door. “Shall we proceed?”
Chapter Fifteen
My dearest friend,
I think of you often, and with not a little consternation. This may be partially due to the long hours I have lately spent in the nursery, though I am delighted to relay that our son is much improved. In truth, I am aware that you and Mary are so very different, and in herding you together without forethought, I may have created an uncomfortable situation. Perhaps I ought to have encouraged Jane or even Kitty to visit you. Alas, that a bell cannot be unrung!
