After a solitary breakfast of eggs and ham, accompanied by hot buttered toast, Charlotte spent the morning in the drawing room. By now, she had only a quarter of Barton’s diary; the naturalist had visited several more islands over the last pages, and his journey seemed to be drawing to an end. Though the mentions of hisdear P—Penny, perhaps? Peggy? Prudence?—were infrequent, Charlotte could not help the sense that P, whoever she was, was always on Barton’s mind. Whether he was describing some new iridescent beetle or the gift of the hollow wooden statue which the islanders had bestowed on him or a trick the crew had taught the ship’s cat, he did so in the manner of one imparting a much treasured story. No detail was too unimportant to include, and yet he never rambled or lost the thread of his tale; it was quite a remarkable feat.
Charlotte halted at the second-to-last chapter, and hesitated before putting the book down on the couch. She wanted to finish the book and find out whether Barton married his dear P upon his return, but at the same time she was loath to finish the book. There was something so final about a last page, an ending confirmed, particularly when she already knew that the man in question had passed away. Delaying the ending felt like a way of keeping him alive a little longer.
Instead she got up and wandered over to the window, staring out at the sky. The day was warm but grey, the breeze which ruffled the curtains as tepid as a yawn. There was no clock in the room, so she could only make a cursory guess at the time. She did not wish to disturb Mary, for it could only have beenan hour or so since they parted, so she ought to amuse herself in other ways for a while longer.
* * *
Charlotte had only just descended the stairs into the foyer when Pitt greeted her, a letter in his hand. “This arrived for you, ma’am.”
“For me?” Puzzled, Charlotte accepted the letter, though her confusion cleared when she saw her sister’s handwriting. Mrs Waites must have sent it on the moment it arrived at Hunsford, thinking it a matter of familial importance. “Ah. Thank you, Pitt.”
“Shall I bring you tea?” he offered.
“No, thank you.”
He nodded and withdrew. Charlotte broke the seal before sitting down on one of the blue-upholstered couches. She wasn’t quite sure what she had been expecting from Maria, and braced herself for the answer to her question.
Chapter Seventeen
Dear Charlotte,
Congratulations, sister, it has only taken you one-and-thirty years to notice something plain as day to most. Well done!
Jesting aside, I do hope that you will not hold this fact against Great-Aunt Ethel, for she did as her family bid and married twice to please them, though I do not think it pleased her one whit either time. Here in the north things are not quite so restricted and while I cannot say that these people live without any kind of nuisance directed at them for something they surely cannot control, certainly it is rather an open secret in polite society. I assumed you must have realised that not everyone is happy living as society prescribes, though perhaps your late husband was against such behaviour on principle. Whatever made you think to ask about this?
Your loving Maria
Charlotte re-read the letter to make certain she had not misunderstood, but the words remained the same. So Great-Aunt Ethel had a female lover after all. She’d thought getting an answer to this question might make her feel different—less confused, perhaps—but she was more confused than ever. Folding the letter up again, she sat staring into the flames for a fewminutes before getting up and pacing the room.Why did I even ask?she wondered, tapping her fingers against the arm of the couch.What difference does it make to me?Neither of her parents had ever mentioned it, though Maria had called it an open secret; had Charlotte been the only one who hadn’t known? And why would Maria think her so close-minded that she might hold this secret against a long-dead aunt? Besides, Great-Aunt Ethel being in love with a woman in secret changed nothing for the family. It was not even close to the same sort of scandal Lydia had courted by running away publicly with Mr Wickham.
She paused by the window and looked out. A few children were playing together in the street with a hoop and stick, darting this way and that. The sky was clear, with only a couple of fluffy clouds meandering across the blue expanse, and the sun was blindingly bright. Slipping the letter into the pocket of her dress, Charlotte left the room, walking across the foyer and into the library, where she once again admired the full shelves. She read the spines of some, though they sounded rather dull or too complicated for someone like her to understand. The Great-Aunt Ethel question continued to bother her immensely; if everyone had known and everyone had accepted it, might they accept the same thing about Charlotte? After all, that had been thirty years ago. Times had changed, surely for the better. Although perhaps Ethel had been the exception to the rule—after all, she’d had enough money to live on even without her companion’s income supplementing their lifestyle.
Money is the key, she thought glumly,and unfortunately it is money I do not have. Having a fortune of one’s own permits a host of choices not permitted for the poor, and keeps the wagging tongues of society silent.
Sighing, she checked the time. It was only a quarter past one, and Mary had said she would likely be finished around two on the clock. Though the day was lovely, she did not know where Mary kept the key to the garden, or she might have gone thereinstead. She ought to have asked this morning, rather than bother Mary now when she was no doubt in the middle of important correspondence.Hmm,she thought. How might I occupy myself for another forty-five minutes?Hovering in the doorway of the library, Charlotte spied the dark hallway leading down to the kitchen, and a sudden idea dawned.
She descended the few stairs leading to the kitchen and emerged into a large room, stone-bricked and swelteringly hot. A slender youth in an apron was rolling out dough with practiced strokes, and looked up, panicked, at Charlotte’s appearance. “I am looking for Miss Brodie,” said she, gazing around with interest. Something delicious wafted from a nearby pot; something creamy, laced with—if Charlotte was not mistaken—rosemary and black pepper.
“I—” The youth stood stiffly, flustered. “I… Miss Brodie is out at the moment, ma’am. May I take a message?”
Charlotte’s gaze slid down to the apron, adorned with the initials A.B. She saw no other apron in the room, nor had Mary mentioned other kitchen staff. “I just wanted Miss Brodie to know that I appreciated her rum cake very much, and I shall tell my own cook, Mrs Waites, that she did the recipe justice.”
The youth’s eyes lit up, confirming Charlotte’s suspicions. Names were often more difficult than people imagined, and came laden with societal expectations and baggage in every way. A little kindness could go a long way; Maria’s letter in her pocket reminded her of that. “Do pardon me if this is a rude question, or an odd one,” she said, making sure her tone was gentle, “but…are you Miss Brodie?”
The youth’s eyes flickered from side to side, as if looking for an escape. “It’s quite all right if you are,” Charlotte added hastily.
“I… Yes. I am.” Miss Brodie’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though she still looked as if she were awaiting a blow or a scream. “Thank you, ma’am. The recipe was a very good one. I would do quite a lot to get my hands on another.”
“You and a hundred others,” Charlotte joked, and was relieved when Miss Brodie graced her with a small smile. “I apologise, I should not have intruded on your domain.”
“Not at all, ma’am. It’s not—I mean, they don’t often come down here. The guests. Not that Miss Bennet has many of them,” Miss Brodie blurted, and then stopped, looking terrified. It was evident that Charlotte had caught her off guard.
“I shall leave you to your marvelous creations. May I ask what is for dinner?”
“Chicken in a creamy white wine sauce, with carrots and green beans. And,” Miss Brodie gestured to the pastry under her hands, which were trembling, “an apple pie.”
“Gracious, I can hardly wait.” Charlotte exchanged a last smile with the timid cook before exiting.
She’d hoped to spend a bit more time in the kitchen, but it was clear that her presence put poor Miss Brodie on edge. She might as well wander around the house a little more—Mary had given her a wonderful tour, but it had been more focused on the paintings and busts, and Charlotte had spied an especially impressive set of antlers set onto the wall on the second-floor hallway Mary had only referred to as “Aunt Cecily’s quarters.”
