Mary stiffened slightly. “Yes?”
“Does Lizzie know? About you?”
“Oh, yes. All except Lydia, for I did not trust her to keep itsecret from our mother. I suspect even Father knows, though we’ve never spoken about it directly. He’s made several allusions to a boyhood friend that never married, and I am many things but I am not stupid.”
“Oh.” Charlotte fidgeted for a moment. “And was she—were they…”
“Accepting? Yes. Kitty took a little longer to come around, but even she did, in the end.” Mary inched closer, her arm stretching out on the back of the couch. “If you ever wanted to tell them, I know they would not love you any less.”
“That is quite a relief,” Charlotte admitted, leaning back into Mary’s embrace, glad that Mary was giving her plenty of time to get used to touches that actually might mean something. Everything was so new, but the thought that Mary wanted to be close to her, had perhaps even yearned to do so, was undeniably thrilling.
* * *
Dinner that evening was the promised chicken in white wine sauce, with apple pie to follow, and a final round of cheese and figs. They retired to the drawing room afterwards, and Charlotte collapsed on the couch next to Mary, rubbing a hand over her full stomach. “Your Miss Brodie is quite the treasure,” said she. “And a very sweet girl.”
Mary glanced at Charlotte so sharply that at first Charlotte thought she might be angry. “You met her?”
“I did. It was—oh, I never told you. There was a series of events which preceded me bursting into your room. I should have explained already.” Charlotte explained the events: the letter from Maria, meeting Miss Brodie in the kitchen, exploring and discovering the portraits of Aunt Cecily, Mr Langley, and Edith.
“Ah, I see.” Mary’s cheeks pinked. “No wonder you ran in as if your hair was on fire.”
“So… Edith?” Charlotte prompted, keen to steer the conversationaway from her sudden and undignified entrance, and was amused to see her friend blush again.
“I confess I was rather infatuated at first,” Mary confessed.
“I thought as much. And no wonder, she is exceedingly pretty. Her hair is a glorious colour.”
“If you met her, you would see that her beauty pales in comparison to her mind. Aunt Cecily and George evidently were of the same opinion. A very sensible pair, actually.”
“Is she… I mean…” Charlotte couldn’t think of a tactful way to ask if Edith was Mary’s type. She recalled the nude drawing of the mysterious woman again, and compared the two in her mind’s eye. Certainly they were both beautiful, with large expressive eyes and wild manes of hair. A far cry from her own smooth curls and plain face. The contentment she’d felt since the kiss began to ebb at the thought.
“Charlotte?” Mary was studying her, eyebrows furrowed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You really ought to stop saying nothing when it is evidently something.”
“Well, I…earlier, you said you wanted to kiss me again.” Already, she could feel a hot flush creeping up her neck and spreading across her cheeks. “Surely you did not mean it.” How could she have meant it, when Charlotte was nothing in comparison to these women?
Mary stared at her, lips slightly parted, confusion writ large across her face. “Why not? You kissed me and I kissed you back. I told you that I had nursed hopes that you might return my affections. Good grief, what deeper expression of interest do you need? A brass band?”
They stared at each in mutual incomprehension. “Oh.” Charlotte bit her lip, a single tentative bud unfurling in her chest.Could it really be?
“May I kiss you now?” Mary’s fingers touched Charlotte’scheek, then slipped down to her chin, tilting it up. “I’m quite willing to prove my interest, if you’ll let me. Though,” she added hastily, “I’ll happily wait until you’re more comfortable with the idea.”
“I confess you make me nervous,” Charlotte said, and Mary began to withdraw her fingers but Charlotte caught them, kept them where they were. In the candlelight, alone, everything which had seemed so frightening and far off earlier that day now seemed entirely possible. “That is not a no. I am simply—” She swallowed. “Perhaps a little shy. Perhaps you might help me become less so.”
Her heart beat a rapid tattoo, as Mary leaned in slowly, giving Charlotte time to back away.
Despite her nerves, she did not retreat. The second kiss was very unlike the first, which had been all fangs and claws and desperation. This one was the soft touch of a morning breeze, promising a beautiful day to come. Charlotte reached out blindly, her fingers finding the line of Mary’s jaw, the soft flesh of her neck, the sharp angle of her collarbone. No one had ever handled her so gently before—her parents had been jovial, Lizzie friendly, Mr Collins keen but unwieldy. Mary’s touch on her chin was barely there and yet something explosive crackled between them, veiled by sweetness.
Charlotte pulled back and studied Mary’s face; it was flushed, her sparkling eyes still edged with concern for Charlotte’s well-being—and oh, how that expression made her own heart swell in gratitude—and she wondered if she had been an utter fool all along not to see what was so obviously present.
Mary was a perfect gentlewoman for the rest of the evening. She made no secret of hiding that her eyes followed Charlotte around the room, but she made few overtures that had not already become part of their intimate friendship. If anything, she had pulled back a little, which made Charlotte’s heart sink. Perhaps Mary had not enjoyed the second kiss as much as the first.Perhaps neither had been up to the excellence she had expected. Perhaps Charlotte—who in fairness could not claim to be terribly skilled at such things—had been rather inept.
She had worried that conversation might be stilted now that there was something acknowledged between them, but in that respect Mary seemed just as she had before; just as witty, just as warm. “The salon will be held at Mrs Wilberforce’s home, in two days’ time. You will still accompany me, won’t you?” Mary batted her eyelashes, making Charlotte giggle.
“Yes, of course. What ought I to expect?”
