Before she could do much more than thank the elderly gentleman for his courteousness, the Cromleys approached. “We have not been introduced,” Mrs Cromley said, and then added, “Oh, Miss Bennet! I wondered where you had got to.”
Mary had appeared at Charlotte’s elbow, smiling widely. “That is my fault entirely. This is my dear friend Mrs Collins, who is visiting me from Kent.” Unlike many others Charlotte knew, Mary did not add anything about Mr Collins, or Rosings, or the de Bourghs, but merely allowed her to exist on her own. She rather appreciated the gesture, even if Mary was not aware she was doing it.
“Any friend of our Miss Bennet is welcome any time,” Mrs Cromley said, patting Charlotte on the arm.
“And how do you like Canterbury, Mrs Collins?” Mr Cromley asked.
“It is beautiful. And you have a beautiful home,” she added, keen to impress upon her hosts that she was having a good time. “I hear you grow exceedingly pretty roses, Mr Cromley?”
“That I do!” cried he. “Though I am always bested by our Mr Mellor, unfortunately. Still, I think my roses the prettiest,as one ought to when one has tended to their growth so long and laboured over their upkeep.”
“Much like children.” Mrs Cromley arched an eyebrow.
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” said he, earnestly. “For I never put a sack over our children’s heads when the frost crept in.”
She rolled her eyes at him good-naturedly, and he grinned back at her. Charlotte turned to Mary, and was surprised to see her watching the Cromleys with a slightly wistful expression.
“Come on,” Mary whispered, while someone called Mr Cromley’s name and distracted the couple. “I shall take you to the garden now. Unless you wish to dance again?”
Charlotte shook her head, and followed Mary outside. The gardens were dark and empty, with only a few stragglers lingering at the entrance of the house. The candlelight inside stretched golden fingers out to the hedges but fell short, so that by the time they reached the rosebushes, Charlotte was obliged to stop for a moment and close her eyes to adjust to the darkness. They had wandered off the path a little, and the grass underfoot was spongy and soft. “I admit this was not one of my better schemes,” Mary said regretfully. “I ought to have brought a candle, or we ought to have arrived earlier when there was still light.”
“It was a sweet thought, nonetheless.” Charlotte felt Mary’s hand brush hers, and the fingers entwine with her own. To be standing here in the dark, in a beautiful garden, holding hands—was this not what lovers did? Did they not sneak off together? She wondered what Miss Highbridge would think if she saw them now, and reflexively tightened her grip. Mary responded with a squeeze of her own, and as Charlotte’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, she was able to perceive the myriad shades of roses. An occasional shaft of moonlight lent the scene a magical air, like that from a fairy tale.
“Pink roses?” Charlotte guessed, leaning over to inspect the nearest bush more easily. Though the night was dark, theair was warm, and she had hardly any need of the shawl slung over her shoulders. The sound of the string quartet inside was only just audible, adding to the strange, dreamlike quality of the moment. “And yellow?”
“You have sharp eyes. I suppose that roses, like carnations, have different meanings with each of their colours?”
“Indeed. Let me see…pink meansgrace and joy. Yellow stands forfriendship. Red, of course, islovebut alsorespect. There are more too, for a rose is more than just its colour.”
Mary’s fingers twitched. “What do you mean?”
“Well, a single rose can meanI love you, whereas a rose plucked of all its thorns can meanit was love at first sight.”
“Charlotte,” Mary said, and her voice was not the charming tone she’d used with the Cromleys, nor the amused way she’d spoken to Miss Highbridge, but something lower, rougher, rawer. She turned to face Charlotte, her face a mask of shadows and silhouettes. “If we had a pair of scissors right now, which would—”
Light flashed across the gardens, throwing them into relief. Charlotte let go of Mary’s hand instantly, stepping back to put appropriate distance between them. Raucous shouts echoed as the group of young men stumbled past, each carrying a lamp, heading for the bottom of the lawn where a tall hedge seemed to mark the end of the estate.
Mary smoothed down her dress, though it was not ruffled, and stared up at the sky for a moment. “Would you like to go back inside? We could find you another dance partner.”
She’s probably keen to get back to Miss Highbridge, Charlotte thought, and gritted her teeth.She was probably about to ask which rose she should cut for her dear Delia.“Yes, of course.”
Her suspicions were correct, for Miss Highbridge found them quickly once back inside, and while Charlotte acquiesced to dance with two men, neither Mary nor Miss Highbridge seemed to want to do anything but sit and chat with each other.In fairness, they included Charlotte too, but she was so aware of every glance and word that passed between them that sitting in their company felt like agony rather than a pleasant evening.
* * *
In the carriage, on the way home, Charlotte responded to each of Mary’s questions with polite, but abrupt answers. After the third, Mary studied her, frowning. “Are you well?”
“Yes, quite well. Perhaps a little tired.” She needed to get away, to sit alone and put her thoughts in order, to sift through the chaos and identify what was really bothering her. Good manners would see her through for now. “And did you have an agreeable time? You did not dance even once.”
“I am not a terribly good dancer,” Mary said. She seemed about to add something else, but instead stared out of the window at the darkened sky before glancing back at Charlotte. “Besides, you looked rather cosy with Mr Harold, and those other gentlemen. Far be it from me to keep you from enjoying yourself.” Her fingers drummed her knee for a moment before stilling.
Charlotte blinked. “During my first dance with Mr Harold, we discovered we had a friend in common, so I do not think his asking a second time was anything other than an excuse to talk a little more, and to dance with a safe partner in his wife’s absence. The others were merely being polite, I am sure.”
“You and Mr Harold have a mutual acquaintance?”
“He knows Mr Darcy well, and the de Bourghs somewhat,” Charlotte added, and then, though she felt some strange anxiety about mentioning the topic, “and he also seems to be acquainted with both Sir George and Mr Innes, whom you met at Rosings.”
“Oh, Mr Innes.” Mary bit her lip. “I see.”
