“I do not care for the kind of balls that Lydia and Kitty once wept over,” Mary continued, picking up another biscuit. “I prefer to attend lectures and the occasional salon for those interested in the natural world. Botany is a particular passion of mine.” She chewed, thoughtfully, eyeing Charlotte over her teacup. “Though I prefer to see a flower in full bloom, shivering in the breeze, rather than pressed lifelessly into a book.”
“I see.” Charlotte was not quite sure how to take this remark. Certainly the parlor held potted plants, which Mary had praised, but her own attempts at flower-drying were sitting onthe side table in full view. “I suppose while I think it best that flowers are as God intended, growing outside, that it is also nice to preserve some for…for…” She indicated the side table. “Those are for my mother when I see her next.”
“Your parents are coming to visit?”
“No, no. I will have to return to Lucas Lodge. The parsonage was Mr Collins’, and without him, I am at best a burdensome lodger. I must quit the place before the next parson is appointed, for no one will want to take up the post without all the benefits it entails.”
“That is indeed a shame,” Mary said, and seemed on the verge of adding more when Bessie announced that dinner would be served shortly.
They made their way to the dining room. Charlotte seated herself without thinking, then froze. The seat opposite hers was the head of the table, where Mr Collins had always sat. It would be strange to see another in his place, though she was quickly reconciling herself to the fact when, instead of seating herself in the most obvious place, Mary selected the chair on Charlotte’s right, close enough for their knees to touch. Mrs Waites brought out a dinner of fish in a creamy sauce, accompanied by potatoes and carrots liberally brushed with butter and dill. The smell made Charlotte’s stomach rumble. She offered her guest red wine, which was gladly accepted, and Mrs Waites poured two glasses for them. That was another thing which was different now—Mr Collins had only ever drunk a small sherry on special occasions and could not be induced to try anything else. She had rather missed sharing a bottle of wine with someone; it was less about the taste of the wine itself than the experience, the equality of it, the discussion of vintage and year and associated memories which might result therein.
The moment Mrs Waites left the room, Mary leaned closer. “I do think it a shame that you are being forced out, though I understand the reasoning. Women are so often boats buffeted by the tides of men, are they not? With no oars to paddle ourselves.”
Charlotte had expected to receive some pious, lengthy lecturing on morality at best, philosophical rambling at worst, and found herself a little peeved that neither was the case. “Once upon a time, you would have quoted me a Bible verse about moving aside to make room for others. I did not expect you to have matured so.”
“And I expected to find you a weeping widow,” Mary retorted. “Yet here we are, both rather surprised.”
Flushing, Charlotte stared down at her plate. Humiliation trickled through her chest.You’ve barely cried for him, the cruel little voice inside reminded her.Was your husband so undeserving of your tears? Are you so cold and bad-mannered as all that?“I’m sorry.” She cleared her throat. “I did not mean to offend you.”
Mary, however, merely threw back her head and laughed. “Dear Charlotte, were you always so serious? While I recall your tempering influence on Lizzie, I did think you possessed a little more good humour.”
Charlotte forced a smile. Humour had been in short supply in the Collins household. God, Mr Collins had always claimed, did not have a sense of humour. Charlotte had privately thought if that were so, perhaps God had not yet seen her husband without clothes on.
“I apologize for my callousness. I have been too merry when you are so lately—” Mary pressed her lips together, looking ashamed. “Perhaps your grief is too great and private to be on display to a relative stranger.”
“I do not think you a stranger. Though I admit we were never friends.”
Mary picked up her fork and speared a potato. “Upon consideration, that does not surprise me. I have not the exuberance of Lydia, nor Jane’s easy ways. I believe I used to be rather vain, too. No, do not mistake me,” she corrected, seeing Charlotte’s surprised expression, “for I was certainly never the beauty of thefamily. In fact, if you had asked my mother to rank the looks of all five of her daughters, I believe I would have come sixth.”
Despite herself, Charlotte snorted, and was immediately mortified at the undignified sound.
“I seek knowledge as much as I ever did,” her guest continued, “but as a child I rather thought understanding would come from the accumulation of facts and figures. As an adult, one discovers the more you know, the less you know.”
“Yes,” Charlotte agreed. “One’s self is often a mystery, is it not?” She should be weeping still at the mention of grief. She should feel something akin to agony; her husband was only recently dead, after all.Is there something wrong with me?she wondered, and not for the first time.
After dinner, they moved back into the parlor. “I have been admiring your pianoforte,” Mary offered, glancing at the instrument in question.
“A wedding gift from Lady Catherine. My husband liked to hear me play sometimes.” Charlotte hesitated. “You used to play very well, I recall.”
“I play, but I do not know if I would call it well.” Still, she sat at the piano, playing competently but mechanically. Her left hand bore an ink-stain, smudged up to her wrist, which Charlotte could not help noticing. Halfway through a third song Mary stopped, fingers hovering above the keys, and began to play something quite different. A soft, haunting melody—a lover’s song, Charlotte thought, puzzled. “Which piece is that?”
“Oh, some small thing I composed. It is nothing, really. I cannot make sense of it.”
“May I?” Charlotte gestured at the bench. Mary moved over to make space, though not much. The faint, distracting scent of violets drifted through the air. She played the melody back but drew out a note here and there, shortening another, until it sounded less like a stuttering stream and more like a great river flowing. “There, perhaps? Though I do not presume to change your—”
“How did you do that?” Mary’s gaze followed her fingers, like a hawk hunting five vulnerable mice.
“My teacher once told me that music ought to be thought of as a conversation. See how the melody,” she played it again with her right hand, and reached over to play a couple of lower chords as accompaniment, “works alongside the rhythm. To and fro. Not a battle but a parley.”
“Well,” Mary said, hands folded in her lap. “There is my problem, then, since I find conversations more like battles than truces.” She smiled without humour. “My opinions on philosophy, politics, and the sciences are many and varied. They make me quite unsuitable for marriage in the usual circles.”
And the unusual circles?Charlotte’s hands stilled on the keys. “I thought he might have chosen you, once upon a time.”
Silence. No need to clarify whohewas.
“I rather thought he might have, too,” Mary mused, shifting in her seat. Her knee touched Charlotte’s, though she made no attempt to move away. “Though I’m very glad he did not, in the end.”
“Why?”
