“You have quite worn me out tonight,” said she, smiling. In truth she felt as if she was capable of managing another round, but the memory of Mary’s warm, broad tongue between her legs still lingered deliciously, and she did not want to forget the feeling so soon.
Mary pressed a kiss to Charlotte’s lips and she tasted herself, sweet-sour, mingling with the intimate scent of Mary. Charlotte brushed tear tracks from Mary’s cheek; her lover was gazing at her with adoration, radiating so brightly she wondered howshe had ever missed such a thing in the first place. Love could begin in many ways, certainly—between Lizzie and Darcy it had been a seed of animosity, watered by mutual prejudice, which only blossomed into joy once both had gained a deeper understanding of the other’s character. Between Jane and Bingley, it had been instant and sweet. Between her own parents, who had married young but with the full encouragement of both families, it had been kind and respectful; Charlotte could not remember either ever having raised their voices. Mr Collins had loved her in his own way, though without any real depth. She had tried to love him back, and succeeded with that same shallow effect, but she had never felt like this. Anne de Bourgh’s friend Mr Innes had been handsome and his manners excellent, but nothing about him had ever sparked real interest in Charlotte’s heart. Whereas, whenever she looked at Mary, she felt less like a wilted flower, than an entire garden in bloom.
* * *
After breakfast the next morning, Charlotte picked up her book again, which she had been putting off for some days now. Her reticence had to be overcome at some point, whether she liked it or not. While Mary puzzled over a diagram that looked more like an angry scribble than anything with coherent intent, Charlotte sighed and began the second-to-last chapter. The crew were back aboard the ship and had begun the return journey to England, though the captain had suggested a last stop at an island group a few miles east of their route. Barton was apparently looking forward to visiting this last place, which he had been assured held many marvels, though he had mentioned already a strange headache which would not stop even after a good sleep. Charlotte’s fingers twitched around the jacket, but she took a deep breath and forced herself to keep reading.
The weather on-board had grown worse as they had headed up the African coast, back towards Portugal, and a strange, feverish sickness had spread through the crew. Barton complainedof insects which had, unbeknownst to anyone aboard, buried their eggs in the hollow of wooden trinkets and gifts and had not revealed themselves for many miles. By the time they were discovered, many of the eggs had hatched, and the adults had eaten their way through several bags of grain. The captain, he’d written, had been inconsolable, blaming himself for the mistake, though the crew had been ordered plainly to check each new item brought on-board in case of this very event.
Though the captain, the ship’s doctor, and Barton volunteered to go without rations to preserve larger portions for the crew, meals were still much smaller than they had been, resulting in high tempers and a worsening of the fever amongst the sickest men. Charlotte’s eyes prickled with tears.Poor man.She laid the book aside. “I cannot bring myself to read the ending. I simply cannot do it, knowing what happens to him.”
“All things must end,” Mary said, glancing at her with sympathy. “Is that not what makes life so important? Without grief, anger, and fear, how would we appreciate the true delights of joy, gratitude, and security?”
“I suppose you are right.” Still, she did not open the book again, and after a moment got up and wandered about the room.
“If you are looking for something else to amuse you, there is always the pianoforte.”
“I can hardly look at one now without blushing,” Charlotte pointed out. “Might I peruse your aunt’s library?”
“Of course. Take whatever you like.” Mary glanced up. “She has quite a lovely selection of poetry on the shelves behind her desk.”
Charlotte meandered into Aunt Cecily’s room, where she did indeed discover a shelf of interesting poetry, as well as several plants which had clearly been dead for some time—much longer than Aunt Cecily had been gone. “Your aunt is not a gifted gardener then?” she called through the open doorway.
“Oh, no. She claims it is not her fault, and insists that thereis a particularly vengeful ghost in that room that hates flowers and causes them all to die. She may well have a point, for nothing brought into this room in the past year has lived to tell the tale.” Mary appeared in the doorway, a streak of charcoal adorning her chin.
“That’s odd,” Charlotte said, stroking the crisp, dead leaves of what had probably once been a lovely begonia. She bent, examining the stalk, which was mottled and hollow, as if a hundred tiny bites had been taken out of it. “And they were never outside?”
“Not to my recollection. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t water them.” Mary shrugged. “Very strange. Now, darling, speaking of flowers—I received a reminder from Mr Mellor. Shall we go tomorrow?”
Charlotte straightened, the dead plants forgotten, and followed Mary out of the room. “Oh, yes! I cannot wait to see his collection. If it is even half as wonderful as you say, then it will be more like one of the seven ancient wonders than any old country garden.”
“I cannot wait to see what you think.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dear Mama and Papa,
I am as well as can be and Mary is taking exceedingly good care of me. Please do not think that I am not anxious to see you—of course I am—but there will be time enough to catch up once I return to Hertfordshire. Thank you for your offer of help, I shall accept it gratefully, though I do wonder if it has anything at all to do with John’s promise to send the children to Lucas Lodge for a long stay?
Your loving daughter,
Charlotte
Mid-morning, Charlotte and Mary climbed into the carriage and set off for Amberhurst, Mr Mellor’s grand estate. “He owns a house in town, too,” Mary informed her, “but when you see Amberhurst, you will understand why he only leaves it for salon meetings and business.”
The ride took them west through Canterbury town, which really was a very pretty place. The morning air was warm, hinting of the summer that was to come, reminding Charlotte that she would have to leave soon. She rolled her shoulders, pushing the thought down. The closer her departure came, the lessshe wanted to leave. To distract herself, she kept up a steady stream of questions about the surrounding buildings, which Mary was only too happy to answer. By the time they left the town proper, Charlotte could still see the great towers of Canterbury Cathedral in the distance, looming over the trees like a pale shepherd over a flock of green sheep.
For the next hour, the carriage rumbled along a road which passed over the Great Stour, the water gliding along in a stately, unhurried way. When they finally arrived at Amberhurst, Charlotte’s excitement had grown almost uncontainable. She peered through the carriage window, craning to see if she could get a glimpse of the estate beyond, but her view was blocked by a high stone wall. Above the top of the wall, beech trees stood to attention at regular intervals, displaying beautiful green crowns. Birdsong rang out, and though Charlotte had never been particularly good at identifying their calls, even she recognised the questioning lilt of a blackbird, and the shrill, repetitive sound of a song thrush. “If flowers could sing,” said she, turning to Mary, “which one do you think would make the prettiest music?”
Mary bit her lip, thinking the idea over. “I believe a rose would be able to hit the most pleasing notes, like an excellent tenor. What do you think?”
“Bluebells, perhaps. I imagine they would sound like a choir of sweet little children.”
“I do so love your imagination,” Mary said, and leaned in for a quick kiss. “Oh, we are almost at the gates now.”
The large gates were made of black iron, each side wrought in the middle to form anM. “Is this his family estate or more lately bought?” Charlotte asked, as the carriage turned and began the long, tree-lined drive up to an unseen house.
“His family had it for at least a generation prior. His mother was quite the eccentric, though well-loved by everybody, and his father a very quiet man, though of course, I never met them. I believed they died in a boating accident some twenty yearsago, and he had no brothers or sisters with whom to divide the family fortune.”
