She blinked, evidently puzzled by the question. “Well… Did not you love him?” Charlotte stiffened. Mary stammered, a faint blush rising in her cheeks. “That is to say, I had believed you to be—”
She sighed. If it were Lizzie, she might have made a rebuking remark about practicalities. If it had been another friend she might have simply smiled and nodded, yet there was something about Mary’s blunt air which compelled her to be honest. “I suppose I loved him in my way,” she murmured, “and he loved me in his. You must understand, not all marriages can be like Jane and Bingley, or Lizzie and Darcy. Most are just…” She searched for a charitable word. “Companionship at best. It is sensible to hope for as much, lest worse happen.” The room had grown dim by now; she should light another candle lesther guest think her unwelcoming. The heat of Mary’s leg, now pressed against her own, felt as if it were scalding her.
“Did you never feel passion towards a suitor?” Mary questioned.
Ugly shame curled in her stomach, forcing her up and out of the seat. “Never towards a suitor. Not that I had any.”Though your sister was quite another matter.The wicked little voice which had wanted her to steal some of the books from Mr Collin’s room made a reappearance when it was least wanted. This would not do. She had banished that particular longing a long time ago. “Tis a great lacking in my character as a woman, I think, though I dare say it has made me an amiable wife.”
She had in fact long convinced herself that such a lack of ardor was a strength, rather than a weakness. She might not be capable of passion, but she was steady and reliable, and besides, did not the very definition of passion suggest a sputtering flame which might one day be extinguished with the slightest gust of wind or falling raindrop? Was it not better, therefore, to remain cool and composed, able to weather any storm?
Rising, Mary regarded her steadily. Charlotte was suddenly very aware that they were standing only a foot apart. “I see nothing lacking in your character. Nor have I ever.”
Panic rippled through her guts, though she had no idea why. The compliment was benign enough. “You are too kind.”
Mary closed the lid of the pianoforte. “Might I ask—”
“I confess I find myself quite tired,” Charlotte said, forcing a smile. Her stomach clenched. Had there been something in Mary’s praise—something untoward in her tone? Surely not. “I do not wish to leave you alone but I fear I must retire for the evening.”
“Of course.” In the flickering light of the one remaining candle, Mary’s eyes were forested hollows. She nodded politely.“Do not trouble yourself on my account.”
Chapter Four
Dear Charlotte,
I am so sorry to hear of your husband’s passing. I suppose you must be terribly upset. Emily has suggested that you visit, or that perhaps we ought to send one or two of the children to you for a while to busy you. James is learning to play the violin, and makes the most interesting noises with the instrument. Do let me know when is suitable and how many you can house.
Your brother,
John
Charlotte woke the next day and spent a few minutes contemplating the pale ceiling before she rose and dressed. Light rain pattered against the window in the parlor and though the grey clouds outside were still numerous, none of them hung as heavily as they had the day before. “The weather may yet clear up in the afternoon,” she offered over breakfast, watching Mary butter a piece of toast with exacting precision. “You said you liked flowers, and my garden—while of course only modest—is something I am rather proud of.”
The strangeness of the night before had vanished, much to Charlotte’s relief. Her guest declared that she did not minda little light rain in the slightest and therefore they shortly found themselves stepping outside into the misted drizzle of the parsonage garden. As they strolled along serpentine paths and ivy-covered walkways, Charlotte pointed out flower-beds of varying arduousness while Mary asked insightful questions about the specimens therein, as well as Charlotte’s particular favourites. She was gratified to be asked her opinion, and even more gratified to find that Mary waited to hear it with interest. Mr Collins had sometimes asked her opinion, but often he had interjected with his own preferences before she could get a word in edgewise. “I admit I have a fondness for foxgloves,” said she, “but larkspurs have such a bold colour, have they not? The blue is such a deep and clean shade, stopping just short of purple. And the simple daffodil is not treated with as much reverence as it ought, for it is inextricably associated with the turn of winter season into spring. Perhaps people forget that it exists during the rest of the year. But it is such a lovely flower, and the shape is both unusual and pleasing to the eye.”
“Daffodils represent new beginnings, do they not?” Mary murmured, leaning down to touch one. “The end to cold, dark days. It is a floral herald, trumpeting of better days to come.”
“Precisely!” Charlotte clapped her hands. Though the air was cold and the wet grass underfoot was beginning to soak into her shoes, she felt a warm glow of contentment. It had been such a long time since she’d felt she had a friend with whom she could simply talk, without being reminded that she must keep up a particular appearance. Mary chattered with similar enthusiasm, exclaiming over every new turn and view, and was in positive raptures over the Carolina silverbell trees which marked the boundary between the parsonage garden and the meadow beyond.
As they rounded the corner of the walk, the conversation turned to Mary’s correspondence with people in her field of interest. “The late Ellen Hutchins, who was a most marvelousbotanist, did me the great honour of replying to several of my amateur queries,” Mary declared. “She had this most unusual way of writing. Down one page entirely,” she demonstrated, pretending to write on a piece of parchment, “and then she would turn it sideways and begin again, often writing over her own words in the centre. A cross-hatch, she called it. Quite marvelous to see someone so unfettered by custom. It is a great shame she died so young—a mere nine-and-twenty.”
“How awful.” Charlotte’s stomach swooped unpleasantly as she was reminded once more that mortality was ever-present.
“Death is a part of life.” Mary shrugged. “The cycle begins anew, with little changes wrought here and there to improve upon what came before. I think it rather beautiful, in a way. Look,” she added, pointing, not noticing Charlotte’s frown. “Holly. I believe they say it provides defense and domestic happiness.” Stooping, she broke off a sprig and handed it to Charlotte, her fingers lingering. “There. Now you may have fortune and felicity, whatever that may mean to you.” She still had not removed her fingers from Charlotte’s palm. “Tell me, what would it mean to you? Truly?”
Their gazes met. For a single, heart-stopping moment, Charlotte was on the verge of saying something very stupid about Mary’s fine, dark eyes. Her breath hitched. A bird fluttered in the branches above, jolting her from her reverie. With flushed cheeks, she murmured a thanks, and turned back towards the house, chattering away with a calm she did not at all feel.
Charlotte was deeply relieved when Mrs Waites delivered a deliciously distracting luncheon, causing her guest to exclaim over the sweetness of the tomatoes, the sharpness of the local cheeses, and the rich, savoury sauce in the generous slice of cold pigeon pie. Charlotte took the opportunity to ask about Mary’s favourite dishes, promising to have the cook provide some later in the week. Before long, the conversation turned to memories of happy times at Longbourne, which helped Charlotte torelax. Mary repeated some of her earlier news about Jane and Bingley, who of course were as happy together as springtime lambs, as well as her good opinion of Kitty’s husband. Lydia’s man she refused to speak of entirely, and Charlotte did not press the issue, sensing there was more to the story than she’d heard.
That afternoon, she and Mary read side by side on the couch. Nose-deep in a novel Mary had brought, warmed by the crackling fire and a fresh pot of hot tea, Charlotte found herself sublimely content. The realization brought with it a fresh wave of alarm, shattering her fragile peace. In order to cast off her weakness, she must first acknowledge it. Repressing a sigh, she stared into the flickering flames. Whenever Lizzie had walked into a room, a trail of humming, satisfied bees had taken up residence in Charlotte’s chest. The hive was long-empty, of course, but the memory of buzzing remained. The younger Bennet was not a bee person in the slightest. If anything, she resembled a falcon with a scythe-sharp mouth and dark, keen eyes searching out every detail. How much had she overheard in those younger days? How much had she catalogued, unnoticed?
Mary shifted, moving sideways an inch so that her elbow grazed Charlotte’s arm. Charlotte stiffened, sucking in a breath. A thrill shivered up her forearm, trailed across her collarbone, and wrapped cool fingers around her throat. Guilt and shame bubbled in her stomach; no touch of Mr Collins had ever produced anything like such an effect. Charlotte shifted away from Mary on the pretext of pouring more tea, and reclined against the opposite arm of the couch, far from temptation.
On the following day, an invitation for lunch arrived from Rosings, written in Anne’s neat script. Charlotte replied quickly, asking if it would be acceptable to bring her guest along, which obliged Bessie to run over with the note and then run back with the confirmation that Anne would be delighted to welcome any friend of Charlotte’s. She was pleased to be able to introduce one of her own friends to Anne, andrelieved at having another distraction. Mary, who admitted she had only ever heard of Rosings described by Mr Collins and her sister—apparently in quite different terms, though she would not elaborate on that proclamation—enjoyed the short walk over to the house. Charlotte felt as if she was seeing the great estate for the first time through fresh eyes, and was able to provide all manner of detail about the number of rooms and servants contained within the handsome house. “Though I suspect you may be more interested in the gardens and grounds,” Charlotte teased, noticing Mary’s eyes drawn to the shrubbery which lined the fine, wide walkway leading to the front of the building. “There is a beautiful pond over the left, situated just past the diamond-shaped lawn. A little further on, one may walk through a series of archways over which honeysuckle has grown—that is my favourite part, for I do so love an archway. The gardener recently introduced some rhododendron bushes near the vegetable garden in the grounds behind the building, though I have heard Lady Catherine complaining that they are not as pleasing to the eye as she had been led to believe. I fear that, unless the bushes learn to stand in line, tall and straight as soldiers, the flowers may soon come to an untimely demise.”
Mary raised her eyebrow. “I hardly believe you do not live here yourself, with such intimate knowledge of the place.” Her white gloves, Charlotte noticed, were embroidered at the wrist with tiny green flowers, which matched the floral neckline of the pretty pink dress she was wearing.
“Mr Collins was a keen enthusiast of all things Rosings.” Charlotte bit her lip, her stomach sinking. She had hardly thought about him in these last days, but had that not been the purpose of Mary’s visit? It was not wrong to enjoy a little company, after all. “I dare say he had every room catalogued and memorized.”
Expecting only Anne de Bourgh as host, Charlotte was therefore surprised when two gentlemen rose from their positionsat the table and bowed. The taller of the two was introduced as Sir Gordon, a gentleman in his fifties with a large nose and a kind countenance, dressed in a red jacket so fine that even Lady Catherine would not have been able to find fault with it. The shorter man with curly brown hair was introduced as Mr Innes, a great friend of the family, who could have been no more than five-and-thirty. He bowed low and smiled, his face pleasant and open. Charlotte was glad she had decided to wear her black silk dress which, although no longer a beautiful larkspur-blue, was still the nicest gown she owned by far.
