“Well,” Charlotte said, turning her attention back to the cabinet. “It’s possible that…well, let me see.” She reached out and ran her fingers over the wood, noting every bump and whorl. There was no hole that she could see, and the glass remained intact on the front. “Hmm. Help me turn this, would you?”
Mr Mellor and Mary put their shoulders to the cabinet and in moments had spun it enough so that the back was exposed.
“There,” Charlotte said, pointing to a small hole in the wood. She bent closer, and saw that the edges of the hole were ragged—surely not made by any tool, but by the hungry jaws of a thousand newly-hatched insects desperate for freedom.
“No wonder we had no idea where they were coming from!” he exclaimed. “Good gracious!”
“And now would you mind unlocking the cabinet, sir?” Mr Mellor produced a set of keys and unlocked it without question, watching Charlotte with renewed interest. “Now we shall see,” she said, pulling the door open and reaching for Barton’s statue.
The statue was much lighter than she had expected, feeling almost entirely hollow. She handed it to Mr Mellor, who exclaimed in surprise. “Why this was much heavier when I purchased it. Henry!” he called, “Bring an axe, my dear boy.”
Henry soon located an axe, and Mr Mellor laid the statue on the floor. A single well-placed swing sliced the wood cleanin twain, and there inside were traces of larvae which had not lived to see freedom.
“An unexpected Trojan horse,” Mary suggested. “Though the previous owner would not have intended anything of the sort.” She smiled at Charlotte, adoration writ large over her face. “You have an extraordinary ability to see what nobody else can.”
“I rather thought that was your talent, Miss Bennet,” Charlotte teased, and was rewarded with an arched eyebrow and a twitch of the lips that promised sweet retribution later.
“Your instincts have proven to be correct once again, Mrs Collins.” Mr Mellor shook his head admiringly. “I really don’t know how I am to repay you.”
“Perhaps, if it is not too much trouble, I could visit again before I return to Kent?” Charlotte suggested.
“Mrs Collins, I am quite of a mind to never let you leave at all. In fact…well… I do not wish to offend you with assumptions, my dear, but I believe I understand a little of what your circumstances must be now that your husband is dead, and I would be delighted to offer you a place to live here at Amberhurst, as well as a sizable wage, in return for your expertise and care.”
A job, Charlotte thought, stunned.Money. Freedom.
Shame.
“Oh, sir, that is very kind of you, but I could not possibly take advantage of your, um—” she stumbled, not quite sure what to call it “—your generous nature.”
“Charlotte,” Mary said, giving her a reproachful look, “perhaps you might like to walk around the rest of the gardens?”
The butler had appeared from nowhere, and without actually moving a muscle, appeared to communicate with Mr Mellor. “Please excuse me for a moment, ladies. Miss Bennet, you know the path well enough by now—please show Mrs Collins around.”
“You mustn’t be so modest, darling,” Mary said, as soon as Mr Mellor was out of sight. “Come, I shall show you the prize-winning roses that are the bane of Mr Cromley’s existence.”
Charlotte made a noncommittal sound, and was relieved when Mary began to ramble about the various kinds of lichen which had lately been discovered in America. This amused them until they arrived at the rosebushes, which were indeed the wonder they had been purported to be. They spent long minutes exclaiming over each shade, from scarlet to palest ivory; Charlotte had never seen such velvety petals, nor smelled such a strong scent from any rose she herself had grown. She made a mental note to question Mr Mellor on his gardeners’ choice of fertilizer, and whether they added something like bone meal, for she had heard this encouraged growth.
She stopped to pick a tiny bouquet of cornflowers at the end of the garden. Giddiness overtook her and, laughing, she presented Mary with the bundle. “In return for the gift of holly you gave me once,” she teased. “Pray tell me what these mean, if you know.”
“You think to test me with something so easy,” Mary replied congenially. “Even I know that oftentimes young suitors wear them, and if the flower fades quickly, it is taken as a sign that their love is unrequited.” Her gaze found Charlotte’s and held it. High colour flooded her cheeks, though they had not exerted themselves on the walk. “What say you to that?”
Charlotte’s hands trembled. She was aware of every leaf rustling around them, every shrill chirp from the branches above. “And what if the flower did not fade?” she asked, heart hammering in her chest, scarcely believing her own boldness and terrified of the answer.
Mary grabbed Charlotte’s hand and drew her into the shelter of a great oak. “Do you think we can be seen from here?” Her voice was low, conspiratorial.
“No,” Charlotte said, puzzled, her pulse quickening. “Why should it—”
Mary stepped closer, touching the underside of Charlotte’s chin with two gloved fingers. A desperate thirst, unquenched. “I am not one for speeches,” she murmured. “But know that nothing need fade. If you feel even half what I—Oh, Charlotte. Only say the word, and I am yours, indefinitely.”
She could not get enough breath in her lungs to answer anything more than a nod. Not a heartbeat passed before Mary kissed her; not gentle, after all, but a firm, encompassing embrace that stole the last remaining air from Charlotte’s body. She sagged, limp, knees buckling under the onslaught of passion. She returned the embrace clumsily, fingers wending into the hair at the nape of Mary’s neck, and oh, the sweet agony of being truly craved, truly perceived, truly loved was enough to pierce Charlotte’s heart in a thousand places, sending shafts of light into its most secret chambers.
A shout in the distance startled them from their embrace and they pulled apart, staring at each other.
“What lovely flowers,” Mary said, adjusting her gloves as if nothing had happened. The puffiness of her lips and the flash in her dark eyes were the only signs that something had taken place. “Shall we return to the house and say farewell to our host?”
Charlotte stammered an agreement—somehow the days of prior kissing and lovemaking had done nothing to prepare her for this—and followed Mary as quietly as a well-heeled dog. They said a fond farewell to Mr Mellor, who was clearly reluctant to let them go, though Charlotte could not meet Mary’s eye without blushing.
“You have not grown shy now, have you?” Mary asked, once they were alone in the carriage. “Did I go too far, darling?”
