Anne de Bourgh
They spent the next couple of hours in a romantic haze, kissing endlessly, swinging from languid to vigorous, though neither Mary’s hands or mouth wandered from their chaste positions. She was always careful to stop whenever things were becoming too heated, and although Charlotte longed for a little more,she was grateful for the brief breaks and nervous about what might come next. She’d participated in marital activities with Mr Collins, though her duty had been mainly to arrange herself appropriately during the act and offer plenty of praise afterwards. If her dream about Mary was anything to go by—and she hoped it was—then her participation here would be much more on equal footing.
While Mary poured tea, Charlotte winced at the recollection of her first few times in bed with Mr Collins; the graceless awkwardness of both parties, the lack of ardor on her part which she had tried to make up for by commending his efforts in a ladylike manner. It had all been so calculated, she saw in hindsight. The keenness with which she sought to prove that she was a good wife, worthy of being selected after all, sprung from her own insecurities. The deep discomfort she’d felt with his hands on her flesh, which she’d tried to cover by reassuring herself that most wives felt this way, that there was nothing wrong with her, that only husbands really enjoyed the marital act. She had known perfectly well that last fact wasn’t true at all, had heard as much insinuated amongst married ladies of her acquaintance, but denial was a powerful tool, and the one she’d used most often to cull the ever-growing field of her anxieties.
Mary didn’t bring up the subject of what might come afterwards, which made Charlotte wonder if she was perhaps not interested in taking matters further. However, she was too shy to ask for clarity, and too grateful for all that she was receiving already.
That evening, they said goodnight with chaste kisses, and Charlotte sat for a while in an armchair in front of the fire, staring into the flames. She’d spent so long convincing herself that her desires were wrong, that she ought to be ashamed for desiring her friend in such a perverse way, that allowing herself to enjoy these experiences now left her feeling strange and dizzy. To complicate matters, while it was one thing forwell-off Great-Aunt Ethel to have a companion, and likewise for Mary, who had means at her disposal, it was quite another thing for Charlotte. She knew now that she could never marry again without much regret, though perhaps she would not have much choice in the matter. As long as her parents were alive, she would have a place at Lucas Lodge, but after they passed her brother, John, would inherit, and he already had a large family. Charlotte would merely be in the way, only useful as a sort of secondary mother to his brood. Her options, therefore, were limited. Her one hope was that Mary might want her to visit often, though she could not count on her friend’s interest remaining steady forever. Hearts wavered and changed like the tides, and who was she to hope for something so wonderful as Mary’s eternal devotion?
She sighed. That was the future; this was now. There was no point crying over what she could not change, and if she spent all her time in Canterbury moping, then what little time she had with Mary would be spoiled. Determined not to waste a single second more, Charlotte got ready for bed, and vowed to meet the new day with all the courage she possessed.
* * *
The next morning, Charlotte joined Mary in the dining room, and over a breakfast of fresh fruit and toast, they made a plan for the day. Mary insisted that she had been a dreadful hostess thus far due to the sheer mound of work heaped upon her, and had to remedy this immediately. “I did promise to make it up to you, did I not?” said she, arching an eyebrow, and Charlotte couldn’t help blushing as she thought of all the ways in which Mary might do so.
Unfortunately, none of these licentious thoughts turned out to be part of Mary’s plan, which encompassed first a carriage ride to Canterbury Cathedral, where Charlotte marvelled at the grand old building. She recalled a little history about the place, though her recollections were mainly the darker deedswhich tended to stick in the mind, particularly the shocking murder of Thomas Becket inside the building itself in 1170. Mary provided the rest, leading Charlotte around the interior and pointing out where the monks had once done their sleeping, eating, and charity work. The stained-glass windows were particularly fine on such a bright day, and Charlotte lingered to admire the effect.
“I have heard it said that the northwest tower is dangerous and ought to be pulled down,” Mary said, pointing at the tower in question. “Though it will take them an age to rebuild such a thing, and will cost an immense amount. I see why they are loath to do so.”
“Whatever for? It is quite lovely.”
“Some sort of structural damage.” Mary shrugged. “I do not supposed it can be fixed, if there is talk of tearing it down entirely. And that over there is the medicinal herb garden.”
The herb garden turned out to be exactly that, and after wandering through the cloister gardens, Charlotte declared that the place was most agreeable, if rather devoid of flowers. “Surely even monks must have enjoyed a bouquet from time to time,” she added, picturing the poor men in their bare cells, with not even a single flower to ameliorate the spartan surroundings.
“A hard life, indeed.” Mary nodded. “Now, I must ask, for it relates to our next activity—you are not fond of horse-racing, are you?”
“I confess I am not. It is too terrible when one falls, and must be put out of its misery.”
“I’m glad to hear it. We may pass over that entirely, and move on to something that interests us both. What about a little shopping, and then a concert?”
Charlotte agreed that both sounded delightful, and so they returned to the carriage and drove through town to Mary’s favourite dressmaker, Ashbrook’s, where the employees were only too delighted to see them. After perusing several new boltsof cloth, including a dark blue the exact colour of a summer night sky, Mary insisted on having Charlotte fitted for a new dress. “No, please,” Charlotte protested. “I could not possibly let you spend so much money on me.”
“What is money for if not to help a friend?” Mary leaned in while the dressmaker bustled off to aid a new customer. “I’d like to buy you something that isn’t black.”
“I won’t be able to wear it for months yet.”
“Then it will be something to look forward to. How about this?” Mary held up a green silk which reminded Charlotte of a just-snipped stem.
Charlotte sighed. “If you must have your way—”
“Indeed, I must.”
“Then…well…” She stroked the dark blue. “This would be lovely, especially with a little silver or gold sewn into it.”
“Celestial,” Mary remarked, and then lowered her voice even further. “You will look ravishing in it.”
Charlotte blushed, but before she could think of a charming reply, the dressmaker bustled back over, and the next few minutes were taken up with measuring and marking. Once they had exited the shop, Charlotte insisted on paying Mary back in a small way by purchasing both tickets to a concert at a nearby guild hall. The music was delightful—an orchestra, accompanied by a young soprano—and though Charlotte did not know enough to know whether the girl was really good or not, it certainly sounded wonderful in the echoing space.
* * *
At home, before the drawing room door had quite closed, Charlotte had leaned in and tugged Mary flush against her, seeking her mouth for a passionate kiss which turned out to be a little harder than she had first intended. “I apologise,” said she, when it was over. “I simply could not wait any longer.”
“Please do not apologise for something so delightful,” Mary murmured, and leaned in for another.
A soft knock sounded, and they extracted themselves from each other in just enough time before Pitt entered the room to announce that dinner was ready.
Miss Brodie had surpassed herself again, this time with fish, so beautifully cooked it flaked at the slightest pressure from Charlotte’s fork, atop a bed of braised greens. Dessert was a raspberry trifle, light and creamy. Although the fare was excellent, Charlotte hardly tasted any of it. Nothing existed that was not Mary’s eyes, Mary’s mouth, Mary’s hands, and she found herself relieved when the meal was over and they could retire into the drawing room together.
