The day of the salon dawned bright and sunny, though the humidity left Charlotte feeling unpleasantly clammy. Pitt had thrown open the windows in the drawing room, and the wonderful smell of mignonette had paled under the smell of the street below—the sour stench of chimney smoke from a hundred kitchens mixing with the sweet-bitter stink of horse manure.
“Summer will be upon us soon,” she said aloud.
Mary looked up from her page, her quill slowing its scratching. “And yet you sound unhappy about it.” She leaned overand pressed a kiss against Charlotte’s shoulder. “Do you prefer winter? Snow outside and roaring fires?”
By winter, I will be a mere footnote in the book of her life, thought Charlotte. “No,” she said, and forced a smile. “I much prefer spring, truth be told. Everything fresh and new, with little buds sprouting everywhere and darling lambs in the fields.” She sighed.Back when we first met. If I could only live these last few weeks all over again, I would stop being foolish far sooner.
“Is something bothering you?”
Charlotte returned to the present to find Mary studying her, brow furrowed in concern. “I was just wishing that I had sooner realised my…”My what?she wondered.My inclinations? My feelings?“Everything, really.”
“You poor dear.” Mary reached for Charlotte’s chin, tilted it up, her thumb swiping over her bottom lip. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. We have lofty expectations impressed upon us from the moment we begin to walk and talk. It is not easy to break free from such things or to realise what truths lie hidden in our hearts.”
“You make it look easy. You make it feel easy.”
Mary’s eyes glittered in the light. Though neither had moved a muscle, the air between them grew thick. “I’m glad you think so.”
Charlotte bit her lip. “Please put your quill down, lest I ruin your dress.”
Mary cast it aside without looking to see where it landed, and the stack of papers on her lap went the same way. A heartbeat later, their mouths met in a scorching kiss which seared Charlotte all the way down to her toes. She pushed Mary back on the couch, slotting her body into the gap between Mary’s thighs. The kiss deepened, Mary’s breath hitching as Charlotte pulled her closer, pressing them together so tightly that she could feel the thud of Mary’s heart.
“If we continue down this path,” Mary murmured, her voicerough, “then I shall keep you in bed all day and we will never make it to the salon tonight. Have mercy, dear one. I am barely holding myself back as it is.”
Charlotte couldn’t help a whimper catching in her throat at the insinuation, her hips rolling forward once without her quite meaning to do so; Mary made a half-strangled noise under her, and then they were kissing again, harder than before, hands grabbing at each other with fierce abandon, and by the time they broke apart, both gasping for air, Charlotte was quite prepared to ignore that such a thing as a salon had ever existed, far less that they were obliged to attend one. However, Mary had been kind enough to take her to the ball at Mrs Cromley’s, and now Charlotte had to act the part of the amiable husband in turn.
“Very well,” she said, smiling, though she had never wanted to attend an event less than she did right now.
“Are you sure?”
Charlotte bent and kissed Mary, marvelling at how easy it felt to do so, how sweet and already familiar. “Of course. Anything for you.”
Lest she tempt them both into a situation from which neither wished to retreat, Charlotte did her best to behave well in the hours that followed. She occupied her hands with the pianoforte while Mary wrote, playing soft lullabies and lively tunes, and even began to compose a little something of her own. It was hardly Bach, but it passed the time, and when she grew tired of that, Mary offered to lend her the key to the shared garden so that she could pick a bouquet.
“Not today, but perhaps I shall do tomorrow.” Her hands were too restless for flower arranging, her mind still simmering with the heat which had blazed between them during their last kiss. It had been a while since she had picked any flowers, and a thought struck her as she closed the lid of the pianoforte. “Do you recall that when you returned from Meryton, I made a wreath for the table? White peonies and purple pansies?”
“You did. I thought it odd that you did not tell me what they meant, though I had supposed you were too amused by my mimicry of my mother to remember.” Mary glanced up, a slow smile spreading over her face. “Was it a secret message?”
“Of sorts. Pansies signify a lover’s thoughts unspoken, while the peonies represented new beginnings.” She blushed. “And perhaps a certain bashfulness on the part of the giver.”
“Why Charlotte Lucas, you utter romantic.” Mary chewed the end of her quill. “And what flowers would you choose now? Would they differ?”
Fortunately, Charlotte was saved from having to produce any sort of coherent response by the entrance of Pitt, who announced that dinner was ready, and by the time the first course was served, Mary appeared to have forgotten she’d asked the question in the first place. Charlotte put it to the back of her mind, vowing to consider the matter later; such a weighty thing as the perfect bouquet could not be rushed.
* * *
After dinner, they travelled in the carriage to the Wilberforces’ home, which was in the eastern part of the town, in quite the opposite direction they’d taken to attend the Cromleys’ ball.
The Wilberforces owned a townhouse much like Mary’s, though theirs was precisely in the middle of the row. The foyer was not quite as grand as Aunt Cecily’s, and the walls were painted a deep scarlet which Charlotte knew had been all the rage a few years prior. The chandelier which lit the room was a beautiful specimen, all loops and curves supporting a set of flickering candles, while the staircase they passed was constructed of a fine dark wood, and the bustling maids had a plump, healthy look to them. The drawing room was a large one, though the presence of some twenty people made it feel rather crowded. Charlotte could not see a pianoforte, which was unusual, but a grand harp in the far corner suggested that this family’s musical tastes tended towards something quieter.
She had expected to recognise the young woman from the nude drawing, but there was no trace of a dark mane amongst the women present. “Oh no,” Mary muttered, as a blonde woman in a bright green gown made a beeline for them. She was attractive, in a way, with high cheekbones and pouting lips, but something about her reminded Charlotte horribly of Caroline Bingley, whose snobbery had almost caused Jane Bennet to lose a happy love match.
“Good evening, Miss Bennet. And who is this?” the woman asked, eyeing Charlotte as if she were something the kitchen cat had dragged in.
A muscle jumped in Mary’s jaw—a sign of frustration, Charlotte knew by now—but her voice was calm. “This is Mrs Collins, a friend of mine from childhood. Mrs Collins, this is Mrs Tremaine.”
“Indeed? And what branch of science are you pursuing, Mrs Collins?”
“Oh, I am not pursuing anything,” Charlotte said, embarrassment warming her cheeks. “I am here merely to listen and learn.”
