“I am sure they will be very happy to see you, of course.” Anne picked up her cup, then set it back down again. “Thereare so few women around here with whom I have had any real friendship. I do not care for balls, as you know, for they trouble my head so.” She picked up her cup again. “If you were to find a husband, as my mother suggests, would that not solve all your problems?”
Charlotte almost choked on a scone. Anne may have seemed quiet and sickly in Lady Catherine’s shadow, but she had certainly inherited her mother’s forthrightness. “I confess I—” She hesitated, hardly knowing what to say. “I do not know who might introduce me to such a man as may want me.”
“Why, I could do so! I know many suitable gentlemen. And you are so kind, so amiable, my dear Mrs Collins, that I cannot think of a single man of my acquaintance who would not be delighted to have your company.”
It was on the tip of Charlotte’s tongue to say no, to declare herself in mourning for life. Yet she hesitated. That answer could be given, but perhaps it would close a door through which a handsome stranger might otherwise have stepped. There could be no harm in allowing Anne to introduce her to one or two men, though it wasn’t as if they were likely to be interested in her in return, and the whole situation might very quickly become humiliating. Still, she could not very well turn down an offer of help from the heiress of Rosings. Not directly, anyway. “Very well,” she said, forcing a smile. “Though I beg you not to go to any trouble for me.”
“Nonsense,” Anne declared. “I shall find you the perfect man, and you shall stay right here in Kent.” She sat back and with a look very reminiscent of a satisfied cat, gestured imperiously for more tea.
Chapter Three
My dearest friend,
I cannot say how sorry I am to hear this news. My own heart breaks to think of you suffering. How I wish I were there to comfort you in some small way.
Unfortunately, my son has taken ill. We do not think it very serious, but Darcy is hesitant to travel given his condition and I am loath to leave either behind to come alone. Therefore I invite you to Pemberley for as long as you please, though I fully understand if you wish to remain home to mourn.
The next portion of the letter looked like it had been written in a different ink, as if added as a hasty afterthought.I wonder if you might consider inviting my sister Mary to stay? She is on her way to Meryton from Canterbury, where she lives with one of our aunts, and will no doubt pass through Kent.
Here, Lizzie had written something and then scratched it out. If Charlotte had to guess, it was probably something uncharitable that her dear friend had pronounced impetuously and then thought better of it. It was nice to see that some things did not change. She smiled, despite the yawn of disappointment widening in her chest. Mary had been the sister sheknew least, and from what she remembered, the middle Bennet had been an awkward, plain girl who played the pianoforte well but often could not be induced to stop. The more Charlotte thought about Mary, the more she built up a picture in her mind. Had not Mary been the most devout of that family, always preaching something or other in the background? The thought of having someone around who might be entreated to ramble piously at length struck Charlotte as a strange kind of succour she was unlikely to get anywhere else.
A female companion would be a deep comfort, she decided, and wrote back to Lizzie to say as much.
* * *
The carriage arrived in the late afternoon, and the young woman who emerged, waving away the driver’s help to descend into the road, was somehow not at all as Charlotte remembered and yet quite the same; once a solemn girl of nineteen or so, Mary was now a cheerful woman of four-and-twenty. Unlike Lizzie, who was all softness—a perfect English rose in full flower, Charlotte had often thought—the younger Bennet possessed a thinner nose and a wider mouth, though the sisters shared the same fine, dark eyes. Mary offered her condolences immediately, embracing Charlotte as though they had been much closer friends in their youth. Grey clouds had been massing all morning, and Charlotte’s welcome was cut short as they both hurried inside to escape the first fat drops of rain. It wasn’t long until it turned into a veritable torrent, and Charlotte found herself distracted thinking of her poor flowers, and hoping they survived the deluge. She couldn’t very well abandon her newly-arrived guest merely to defend the garden from the opening of the heavens; Mary would think her quite mad.
Charlotte studied her guest’s profile while she removed her travelling cloak, revealing a pretty, though sober, green dress which brought out the tiny golden flecks in her brown eyes. Lizzie had never had such flecks, Charlotte was certain, and shecould not stop a blush at the memory of staring into Lizzie’s eyes as her friend talked with lively animation. Leading Mary down the hallway to a guest room at the back of the parsonage, separate from her own only by a single wall, Charlotte fought the urge to wring her hands. The bed was decent, though the iron-wrought frame was really too big for the room, and the writing desk was weathered and creaky. The walls were painted a dull yellow, like the petals of a buttercup on a gloomy day such as today. At least it was clean. She had never worried so much about the comfort of Mr Collins’ visitors, but she supposed her concern was simply borne of the fact that she had not had visitors of her own for a long time. “It is not much, but I hope it will do,” she said, wondering what the younger Bennet had grown accustomed to now that she was out of her parents’ house.
“Oh, this will be perfectly suited to my needs,” Mary declared, while Bessie dragged in the first of her suitcases. “Do not trouble yourself,” she directed at the maid, “I will fetch the other myself.”
The maid gaped for a moment before closing her mouth with an audible snap. “Yes, ma’am.” Her eyes flicked to Charlotte, who gave a half shrug. If her guest wanted to carry her own luggage, who was she to judge?
“Thank you, Bessie. Please tell Mrs Waites that we’d like tea first, and dinner shortly afterwards.” The maid disappeared, and Mary followed her into the hall, only to return a moment later with a bulging suitcase. It must be full of dresses, Charlotte thought, suddenly a touch envious. London was the height of fashion, and Mary no doubt attended many balls and met many interesting people. “Do take a moment to get yourself settled,” she offered. “My parlor is just down the hall on your left.”
She left her guest for a moment and retreated into her parlor, which had been tidied and thoroughly cleaned just the day before. The rain battered against the windows, the wind groaning like a sick man, but the fire had been built up beautifullyand the flames crackled with a warm, welcoming glow. Looking around at the parlor, Charlotte could not help compare it to those few London houses she had visited with Mr Collins on their extremely infrequent excursions to the city, and found it lacking in elegance. She wrung her hands, wondering what could possibly be done now to improve the place, and was only interrupted in her spiral of uncertainty by the entrance of her guest. “How cosy,” Mary said, without the slightest hint of insincerity. “As much as I adore being outdoors, I do so love a rainy day and a warm fire, do you not?”
“I do,” Charlotte agreed, her anxiety fading a little.
Mr Collins would have immediately launched into some long ramble about the angle of the room’s walls, or the particular situation of the windows, but she did not wish to repeat his words. Instead, she stayed silent and watched Mary move around the room, exclaiming over the mantel—it was truly a pretty one—and the small collection of potted flowers on the shelves. “Why, these are beautiful,” Mary said, cocking her head and leaning closer to sniff some of the geraniums. “And this?” Her fingers brushed the fronds of the parlor palm which sat in the corner. “It has grown so tall. I’ve rarely seen one this high. Why, it is almost to my shoulder.”
Flattered, Charlotte blushed. “I confess I do like to garden.”
“Really? Lizzie did not mention any such thing. Though I supposed it was not foremost on her mind when she wrote me. I myself am—” She hesitated, as Bessie appeared carrying a tea tray, and the next couple of minutes were taken up with settling themselves into the two armchairs which sat opposite each other nearest the fire, and taking tea.
Charlotte encouraged Mary to try a lemon biscuit, which were Mrs Waites’ particular recipe, encouragement that her guest needed very little of to indulge. Though she was curious as to what Mary had been about to say earlier, Charlotte couldnot think of a polite way to recall the conversation, and was casting about for a similar topic when Mary spoke.
“Have you lately spoken to my sister?” Mary inquired. “I confess I do not write her as much as I ought to.”
“Yes, Lizzie and I correspond frequently.” Charlotte smiled. “She offered to visit, of course, after she heard the news, but I would not tear her away from Pemberley, and her son is far too young to make such a long trip in any case, even if he were not ill.” A twinge, deep in her chest, reminded her that she was not telling the entire truth. “I really am very grateful that you came. You were in Canterbury, I believe?”
“Indeed. We have a distant aunt with whom I have been staying for almost three years, though I confess she is so rarely there that it quite feels as if I am mistress of the house myself. I am often in London too, though I find the society there rather stifling.” A flash of discomfort crossed Mary’s face, though it was gone so soon that Charlotte thought she might have imagined it. “In Canterbury, one may move around a little more freely, though it is still a very constrained freedom compared to America, from what I have heard.”
“To which balls did you lately attend?” Charlotte asked, remembering the bulging suitcases.
“Oh, none which would please my family, I am certain.”
She blinked, unsure what to say to that. “Oh, I—”
