Mrs Tremaine sniffed. “You do know, Miss Bennet, that these salons are for scientific discussions and not simply another event on the social calendar. I am sure there is very little here to interest those not interested in the advancement of science in all its glory.”
“Mrs Collins is too modest about her myriad talents,” Mary said, her dark eyes narrowing. “And besides, we were all beginners once.” She hesitated only slightly before adding, “Some of us still are. Come, Charlotte, we must present ourselves to our hosts.”
Leaving Mrs Tremaine glowering in their wake, they moved towards a large fireplace, encircled by three leather couches. Mary steered Charlotte towards the occupants of one couch. “You mistake me, sir,” a lady in a large pink hat was saying toa grey-haired gentleman smoking a foul-smelling pipe. “I am not saying nobody can criticize him for producing what seemed like a sound theory ten years ago. I simply think that we ought to carefully consider whether the mark of a good scientist is one who proposes a theory, or one who discards a theory when it is proved wrong.”
“And yet some who cling to their arguments and weather the storm of protest are found to have been correct long after the fact,” said he, blowing a cloud of blue smoke. “There is something admirable about tenacity, is there not?”
“Not in the face of evidence to the contrary, no,” the lady disagreed. “Oh! Here is Miss Bennet, whom I am sure will provide a sensible argument.”
“You flatter me.” Mary grinned. “There is something to be said for both sides, is there not? It is only hindsight which proves whether the endeavour has been worthwhile.”
“You do not often play the diplomat,” said the lady, peevishly. “I wish you had chosen another day to do so. And who is your friend?”
“I’m delighted to present Mrs Collins, who is visiting from Kent.”
Charlotte smiled, and the next few minutes were taken up with introductions, which revealed that the man and woman were their hosts, Mr and Mrs Wilberforce. She was surprised to hear that this was the case, and wondered if they might be only related by marriage—a brother and sister-in-law, perhaps. “I know what you are thinking, but in fact they are married to each other,” Mary murmured, leading Charlotte back across the room, “though one would never think it to hear them talk. I hear they argued all through their acquaintance, and their engagement, and the wedding too. And yet they are happy as lambs, twenty years later.”
Charlotte glanced back to find the lady fussing over the gentleman’s lapels while he tried to escape her attentions, thoughboth were smiling at each other with good humour. “Love is certainly a mystery, is it not?”
Mary only smiled in response, for they had arrived in front of a gentleman with white hair, white whiskers, and piercing blue eyes which crinkled with pleasure at the sight of them; Charlotte liked him at once. Mary introduced the gentleman as Mr Mellor, then introduced Charlotte so warmly that she flushed with equal parts pleasure and embarrassment. “Miss Bennet is too kind,” she said, “I am merely here to observe and educate myself a little.”
“That is what we are all here for, Mrs Collins,” said he, smiling. His jacket, beautifully cut to encompass his portly frame, was a striking bright blue that Charlotte had rarely seen on a man, emphasising his eyes to greatest effect. If she had to guess, she would think him no younger than five-and-fifty, though his exuberance was that of a much younger man.
“The foxgloves that enraptured you came from Mr Mellor’s collection,” Mary confessed. “I believe the faded reds were your favourite?”
“You recall perfectly,” Charlotte agreed, smiling. “I must thank you, Mr Mellor, for granting the favour. I was very taken with them.”
“You are very welcome, my dear! I was only too happy to help Miss Bennet with her request. She tells me that you are very fond of your garden back in Kent.”
“I am, sir. Though I am not a botanist, merely a humble gardener.”
“Well, then it seems we have more than one thing in common.”
Charlotte blinked, not quite sure what was meant by such a statement, but before she could work out how best to answer, Mr Mellor turned to Mary. “And where is Miss Carlisle? Still in Austria?”
For a moment, Mary looked stricken at the question, but the next moment her face smoothed out entirely. “I believe so.”
Ah, so her name is Miss Carlisle, Charlotte thought, jealousy stinging.Miss Anne Carlisle, then, who sent Mary a drawing—either of herself or of someone else, but evidently designed to cause jealousy in the recipient—and whom Miss Highbridge thought important enough to mention in their conversation on the balcony at the ball.“Whatever will Anne say?” Miss Highbridge had asked, and though Mary had replied that Anne’s opinion had no bearing on her current situation, Charlotte was not so sure that this was the entire truth.
“In fact, Miss Carlisle is already on her way home from Austria.” Mrs Tremaine had edged into the conversation. Her emerald necklace caught the light as she shifted from foot to foot, feigning astonishment, though her smile was snide. “Miss Bennet, I expected you to know such things.”
“I confess it is news to me.” Mary had paled, though her voice was still steady.
“Why, that surprises me a great deal, what with you two being such good friends and all,” Mrs Tremaine clucked, shooting a sly glance at Charlotte before sashaying away.
Mr Mellor glanced at Mary, and the two exchanged arch looks. “If we were not in polite society,” said he, “then I would have words for that lady which would set her hair ablaze.”
“Hellfire cannot harm the devil,” Mary muttered, causing Mr Mellor to snort. Charlotte brushed the back of Mary’s hand with her own gloved one, in a vain attempt to give comfort, and was rewarded with a small smile. “I shall fetch us drinks while you two become better acquainted.”
As Mary disappeared into the crowd, Mr Cromley appeared, mid-argument with a dapper gentleman in a red tailcoat. “My dear Monford,” he cried. “You cannot still be holding to Werner when Hutton has made such a compelling argument.”
The man in the red tailcoat shrugged. “As a chemist, I feelbound to look at things a certain way. And it seems to me—ah, Mellor! I have a bone to pick with you later.”
Mr Mellor offered a slight bow. “Pick away, dear fellow, pick away.” He seemed relieved that the men had not stopped to talk, but continued towards a long table at the back of the room, which held bowls of fresh fruit and trays of biscuits. Charlotte eyed the pistachio queen cakes andmillefeuillewith interest, and vowed she would try at least one or two. “So,” Mr Mellor said. “You have a keen interest in flowers, do you?”
“I do indeed. I love flowers for their own sake, whether fresh or dried, but I am particularly interested in their meanings. I have no doubt been boring Miss Bennet with all my talk on the subject.”
“Oh, I suspect Miss Bennet would listen to you for hours upon any subject,” said he, and winked. Panicked, Charlotte flushed, but the gentleman lowered his voice and added, “Do not worry, Mrs Collins. I am part of the same club. That is why I have no heir, and why I have devoted much of my life to creating vast, interesting collections. The flowers in particular have been splendid, and I have won many prizes for them. Do you like roses?”
