They sat down to luncheon at a table piled high with cake, scones, cold cuts, and cheese. Sir Gordon engaged Anne in a long conversation about people whom Charlotte had never heard of, while Mr Innes, dressed in a fine gold-buttoned coat and black breeches, fixed Charlotte with a charming smile. “I believe Anne said your late husband was a clergyman? I heard the de Bourghs held him in very high regard.”
“Thank you.” She did not like the way Mary hid a smirk behind her teacup. Mr Collins had been, on occasion, prone to a certain kind of pompous foolishness, but he had done his best with the gifts God had given him. The whole world could not be blessed with exceptional wit or beauty, or they should grow dull, common traits indeed. Irritation bloomed with her guest, followed quickly by resentment. While Charlotte had endured four years of marriage, Mary had apparently been gallivanting around Canterbury practically by herself, and had enjoyed the kind of freedom and liberty that Charlotte had never known.
“He was a cousin of mine,” Mary offered. “Heir to my father’s estate too.”
The resentment grew a little stronger. Charlotte did not need reminding that she had failed to produce any heirs of her own. She could see the wheels turning in handsome Mr Innes’ head—no husband or estate, likely no children, a boring old woman of one-and-thirty—and prepared for him to turn hisattention to Mary instead. Though not a traditional beauty, the middle Miss Bennet was well-mannered and well-dressed. The thought of Mr Innes charming Mary, and she in turn plying him with that dry wit which had so lately cheered Charlotte, produced an unexpected spike of a different emotion. Was she truly jealous? Mary’s attention had been so focused on her and her alone since her guest had arrived, which had felt like a welcome change. The resentment in her stomach cooled, turning into embarrassment. Charlotte had so often been cast aside in favour of others that she was surprised she was even still capable of feeling such a thing. It was natural, though, that a flower starved of sunlight would therefore do everything in its power to grow towards that source. She could acknowledge her feelings to herself without blame, though she would not behave impolitely in company.
“Is that so?” Mr Innes said, as Anne laughed at Sir Gordon’s jest. “And I suppose you two have been very great friends since childhood?”
Charlotte and Mary exchanged amused looks, and Charlotte felt the last lingering sting of resentment subside. “No, sir,” Mary said, helping herself to a scone. “I confess that I was not honoured with such a wondrous thing as Charlotte’s friendship in my younger years. It was my older sisters who were her particular friends. You may know Elizabeth now as Mrs Darcy.”
“Why so I do.” He studied Mary’s face more closely. “What a fool you must think me—I should have seen the resemblance from the start. Your sister is a fine woman. In fact, I should not expect to meet finer anywhere. She has turned Darcy into quite a pleasant fellow, something Bingley could never do.” Charlotte was warmed to hear such praise of her friend, and Mary’s bright eyes showed that she felt the compliment most keenly.
As the plates emptied of delicacies and the forks were finally laid to rest, they moved into the sunroom. Charlotte had long since noticed that while Mr Innes was courteous to Mary, hepaid herself particular attention. At first, she had been convinced she’d imagined it, but as the servants passed around small glasses of sherry, Mr Innes took the seat next to Charlotte on the chaise and questioned her politely about her time in Kent. Had she enjoyed it? What were her favourite pastimes? Had she participated in her husband’s vocation in some way? These questions might have been used to engage any gentleman or lady, but his attention, though pleasant, was singularly focused. Though Sir Gordon had directed several questions to Mary and she had answered, Mary’s gaze always returned to Charlotte and her face conveyed an odd, inscrutable look. Charlotte felt rather like a beetle on her back, squirming under a glass under so much notice. It was difficult to concentrate on ensuring her answers were long enough to be satisfactory. Though Mr Innes smelled pleasant enough—soap and bergamot, if Charlotte was any judge—she could not help noticing that Mary’s faint scent of violets was always there, and found herself searching for the scent in every breath.
“And where did you meet Mr and Mrs Darcy last, Mr Innes?” Charlotte asked, keen to divert the conversation and some of the attention away from herself.
As Mr Innes launched into a long description of the latest ball and who had attended, Charlotte nodded along politely, falling into old habits. She did not miss the way Anne’s head cocked towards them, as if listening for faint music, nor her faint smile. Likewise, it was impossible for Charlotte to ignore the way Mary’s eyes kept flickering to a spot of bare skin just above her clavicle, and the strange thrill which prickled in her chest every time their eyes met.
* * *
Back in the parsonage, Mary loosened her bonnet and shook out her dark hair. “Would you not like to marry again?”
“I do not know.” Charlotte had grown somewhat used to Mary’s questions, which fired like bullets without the usualnoisy warning. “I did not really wish to marry in the first place. But you know it is the done thing, and I was already seven-and-twenty. What man would have had me, if Mr Collins had not—”If I had not thrown myself at him after Lizzie rejected him,she thought grimly.A desperate act and one I am not proud of, though I doubt he ever realised.“I hope you are not talking of Mr Innes,” she added. “For I do not think his interest indicated anything other than decent civility.”
The lie hung between them like thick fog. Mary paused with one glove off, examining her like a specimen to discover what secrets lay within. The thought of being pinned down and studied at length sent a shiver through her, though it was not entirely unpleasurable. To Lizzie, Charlotte had always been a stolid, supportive companion. To Jane, another gentle soul. To her husband, she had been a pleasant wife, an eager listener for all his lectures, yet the thought of marrying another man, to sit in silence day by day and merely listen, rather than be asked to speak her mind—as odd as it felt to voice such blunt truths—was intolerable. Mr Collins knew less of her in four years than Mary had learned in a few days, simply by asking.
“Your friend thinks herself an excellent matchmaker, I suspect.” Mary dropped her gloves onto the table and busied herself with a loose button on her dress.
“I dare say she does, but she will not succeed with me. Love must be more than chess, moving two pieces into the same square and hoping for a spark.” She surprised herself with her own vehemence. She would have answered quite differently five years ago—perhaps even five weeks ago.Why do I say love when I mean marriage?she wondered.And why do I resist when Anne knows my situation only too well?A husband, particularly a wealthy one, would save her from having to return home to Lucas Lodge. Yet the thought prompted a slow, aching feeling in her stomach. It was foolish to want something else, something more from life.
Wasn’t it?
“You do not strike me as one who has ever thought of love as a game.” Mary’s voice was airy and green as new leaves, but Charlotte heard at once that it concealed some far earthier thing, rooted in a deep, dark place.
“Can you read me so well?”
“Well enough, perhaps.” Mary hesitated, shooting Charlotte a coy look from under her lashes. “With a little more time I might read you further still.”
“You talk in such a strange way,” Charlotte mused. “One normally expects people to say one thing and mean quite another, but you say one thing and mean the same.”
Genuine amusement flitted across Mary’s face; a beam of sunlight, chasing lithe shadows. “And which approach do you prefer?”
“You tell me,” Charlotte retorted, and was rewarded with a grin.
Chapter Five
Darling Charlotte!
I am quite beside myself at the news of your husband’s passing. What little I knew of my brow-in-law assured me that he was a kind and decent man (although the comparison to John’s wretch of a wife must surely improve anyone else’s impression). I expect you’ll return to live at Lucas Lodge with Mama and Papa, but there is always a room, however small, here for you at Belmont.
With all the sisterly love a mere quill can convey,
Maria
The next morning dawned clear and bright. Yolk-yellow sunshine dribbled in through the gap in the curtains, kissing Charlotte awake. She stretched and yawned, still in the clutches of a half-forgotten dream, before rising, washing, and dressing in yet another black dress. Regarding herself in the looking-glass, Charlotte sighed. Black made her look paler than usual, like an awful, strict governess. Still, wearing such a stark colour did afford her temporary respite from the endless business of courting. Apart from the de Bourghs, who were incorrigible, few others would dare mention even the possibility to a woman in mourning clothes.
When Charlotte opened the bedroom door, she was greeted by the welcome golden-brown smell of baking wafting in from the kitchen. Inhaling deeply, she ambled down the hallway to the parlor to find the fire lit, but the room empty. Puzzled, Charlotte stepped back into the hallway, wondering whether Mary’s claim to be an early riser had been only a jest, and was almost bowled over by Bessie, who came rushing along the corridor armed with a loaded tea tray. “Begging your pardon, ma’am,” the maid said. “Miss Bennet is in the dining room.”
