“Then perhaps you would gratify me with a dance?” He held out his hand.
Now?Charlotte thought, dismayed, though she forced a polite smile and took the offered hand. Mary’s expression flashed something, though Charlotte could not tell what, as Mr Harold led her onto the dance floor. The band struck up a song she knew, for which she was grateful, and they began to dance in two long lines. “I have only just arrived at the ball,” said he, bowing. “My dear lady wife is unable to accompany me tonight, though she insisted I come. And what about yourself?”
“I am only visiting from Kent,” she explained, as they circled each other.
“I adore Kent! I am there often, visiting a dear cousin. Which part of the country?”
“My late husband was the parson at Hunsford, across from the de Bourgh estate, Rosings. Perhaps you know it?”
“Know it?” cried he. “Why I spent two summers there as a young man. I was great friends with Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy in my youth—we came up together at Cambridge, you see. I don’t suppose you’re acquainted with him?”
“Indeed I am, sir,” said Charlotte, smiling, “for he married my best friend.”
A little further questioning proved that Mr Harold knew Lady Catherine too—of course he did, Charlotte thought ruefully, for even in another city she could neither escape the shadow of the Darcys nor the keen eye of the de Bourghs—and this provided several minutes of diverting conversation.
“I was hunting with Sir George the other day, and I…” Mr Harold gave her a queer look. “Why, you would not be the Mrs Collins he spoke of, would you?”
“I cannot say for certain that I am the woman in question, though I am Mrs Collins,” Charlotte confessed.Why on earth would Sir George be talking of me?
He laughed, as if she’d said something funny. “You are every bit as modest and charming as he claimed, Mrs Collins. And Mr Innes was most keen to impress upon me his good opinion too. Why, he said that—”
“Oh, you know Mr Innes as well?” Charlotte swallowed. Of all places, she’d expected Canterbury to be free of such reminders: that she must return soon, that people would expect her to try to land another husband before settling into her status as an burdensome widow, that Canterbury was but a dream and she must soon wake to the realities of life alone in a place where Mary did not live.
“Indeed I do. He is a fine fellow, do you not agree?”
“I think him very fine indeed,” Charlotte agreed, and then, concerned about how such a statement might be perceived, added, “He was most kind to me when we met, which was not long after my late husband’s passing.”
Mr Harold could not have failed to notice that Charlotte’s black dress was a mourning one, but the reminder was helpful, just in case he mistook her cheerfulness for some particular attention to what Mr Innes had said. He began to talk of his own wife in lively terms, but Charlotte’s attention was caughtby Mary whispering with Miss Highbridge in a dim corner. Charlotte couldn’t help her eyes drifting to that corner with each spin, and as a result floundered in the dance, too distracted to keep up with Mr Harold’s conversation. Her stomach ached with something sour and green; perhaps she had overeaten at dinner.
Mary leaned in and whispered something in Miss Highbridge’s ear, causing them both to break out into giggles, and then they both sidled out of the room and disappeared from view. Mr Harold insisted on a second dance, and though Charlotte found his company pleasant, the strange feeling in her stomach grew and grew. After the second dance ended, Charlotte made polite excuses to Mr Harold, and edged into the hallway. No one here was paying her any attention, and the group of young men talking in loud voices at the end of the corridor provided perfect cover. Charlotte inched forward until she caught the sound of Mary’s voice on the balcony outside. She peered around the corner as much as she dared, and caught a flash of Mary’s dark purple dress.
The two friends were speaking in hushed whispers. “I never saw you act so, my dear Mary,” Miss Highbridge declared. “Why, you sound entirely in love. Will you confess it?”
“I will do no such thing.” Mary sounded amused, though a little chagrined. “You must cease larking about, Delia. This is serious.”
“Whatever will Anne say?”
A slight hesitation, marked by a moment of silence. “What Anne says is no longer any business of mine. And what I feel is no longer any business of hers, either.”
“Ah! So you do not deny your feelings?”
A rustle of skirts. Mary’s voice sounded again, slightly further away, as if she’d walked a few paces in the opposite direction. “How long have we known each other? Seven years?”
“It will be eight in the springtime,” Miss Highbridge corrected.
“Ah, yes. Always looking forward, never backwards. And how often have you known me to be—” Mary’s voice dropped so that the last few words were lost in the tumult of the young men’s voices. Charlotte frowned, wishing they’d hush up.
“In truth? Just the once. Apart from now.” The tease was evident though the speaker’s face could not be seen from Charlotte’s current position.
“So you know that I do not say such things lightly.”
“I do not believe you have said anything at all, lightly or otherwise. You have always been the bolder of the two of us. What halts you now from speaking your heart?” Mary murmured something which Charlotte could not hear, and Miss Highbridge laughed. “You may glare at me as much as you like, Mary, but it will not change matters.”
This is lover’s talk, is it not?Charlotte knew she should leave, lest she be discovered eavesdropping, but it was extremely difficult to pull herself away. So she’d been correct, at least a little, regarding the mysterious Anne. Evidently that lady’s opinion had meant a great deal to Mary once upon a time, even if something had happened in order to change that situation. Had Mary wanted Anne? Had Anne wanted Mary? Had one of them denied the suit, or had they both entered into it willingly? The ache in Charlotte’s stomach soured further. Her throat was as dry as old bone, and she headed for the table which held several large punch bowls.A drink will put me right.An elderly gentleman with white whiskers offered to pour a glass for her and she gratefully accepted, sipping the spiced drink with relief. It was strong—far stronger than she was used to, but it helped calm her racing thoughts. No matter what had happened in the past with Anne, Mary was evidently interested in Miss Highbridge now, and with good reason. The young lady was beautiful, charming, witty…everything, in short, that Charlotte was not.
The punch curdled in her stomach.
Chapter Sixteen
