“You ought to ask her yourself.”
“I was trying to,” Charlotte muttered, and for the first time Aunt Cecily’s lips twitched in amusement.
“Hmm. Well, far be it from me to interfere. If you should come again this time tomorrow, I believe you will find her here.Though I cannot say with any certainty that you will find her open to any apology you care to give.”
“I understand.” Charlotte rose. “Thank you for the tea. It was nice to meet you all.” She forced a smile. “I have heard so much about you.”
“Before you go—” Cecily gestured to the butler, whose expression had melted into something far less mutinous. “Please fetch the box, Pitt.”
Charlotte frowned.What box?The question was answered quickly enough when Pitt vanished and returned with a large white box Charlotte immediately recognised as the dress Mary had bought her.
“I believe this is yours,” Aunt Cecily said. “No, no—” when Charlotte tried to protest. “I know my niece, and she is not unkind. She wanted you to have it and take it you shall.”
“Thank you,” she said, and meant it.
Pitt led her back into the foyer, but before he opened the front door, he hesitated. “I cannot pretend to understand what happened, nor is it my place, ma’am. But I do think you ought to finish this,” he said, pressing Barton’s diary into her hands.
“Oh, I cannot possibly—”
“I strongly suggest that you do, ma’am. We cannot move on from a situation until we accept that things are what they are, not the way we wish them to be.” His eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I would give anything to have one more moment with Simon. And if that is not the way you feel about Miss Bennet, then—” He studied her. “Though we both know that it is, do we not?”
Charlotte nodded. “I swear I would not be so foolish a second time.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He opened the door and bowed as she exited.
* * *
Back in her room at the Parker-Palmers’, Charlotte put the box in the wardrobe and closed the door, without so much asa peek. She could have asked Cecily whether Mary had insisted on this gift, or whether it had been a casual suggestion, though she did not think Cecily would have told her which. Instead, she opened Barton’s book and began to read the final chapter. Barton was failing, his words becoming more stilted, the sentences less coherent. Still, his mind shone through in glimpses. He wrote of his great love for the natural world, and his sinking feeling that he would never live to see his dear homeland again, nor his beloved P.In amor speramus, he had written, and though Charlotte’s Latin was rather poor, mainly gleaned from the lectures and readings her late husband had given, even she could understand this sentiment:in love we trust.
She got up and paced about the room. That was it, ended. Mr Barton lived no more. And yet…
In love we trust.
Charlotte crossed the room and took the box from the wardrobe. Setting it on the bed, she lifted the lid. There was a drawing of a violet inside, and the wordsI know what this means. Do you?scrawled underneath.
Faithfulness, she thought, a spark of hope igniting in her chest. It was possible that she still had a chance with Mary, if only she could find the right words.
Charlotte sat at the desk and pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment. All the words which had been lodged inside her flowed onto the page in a stream of incoherent thoughts, followed by a trickle of tears which smudged the ink. She wiped her face, blew her nose, and began again. She told Mary everything in her heart; how afraid she’d been, how shamed. How stupid she had been. How in love she had been. How in love she still was. How the thought of never telling Mary exactly how she felt, of never getting a chance to confess her innermost desires, was worse than death. She’d thought she was protecting Mary, that Mary would move on and find someone new, someone betterthan Charlotte, without all her foibles and anxieties, someone clever and brilliant and beautiful, to match Mary.
And then I had sense knocked into me, several times,she wrote.I was wrong. I was so wrong. Please forgive me. Please allow me to tell you how deeply I adore you, every day, with every flower that means such a thing. I will lay bouquets at your feet so that they will never touch common ground again.
She hadn’t known she possessed such poetic sensibilities, but the letter hadn’t been written to impress; this was her heart, slashed open on the page. She could only hope now that Mary would see it for what it was.
Exhausted, Charlotte leaned back in her chair. The afternoon sunshine had warmed the room, and she felt rather drowsy after expending so much effort on the day. She wandered downstairs to find the house empty of everyone but servants. Uncertain when her mother would return, Charlotte donned her bonnet and set out for a nearby café. A nice cup of tea in a pleasant location would provide a change of pace. The Parker-Palmers were very nice people, and their house was lovely, but what little tea they drank always tasted of soap.
After ordering a pot of tea and rejoicing that it did not smell or taste at all like something one might use in a bathtub, Charlotte sat at a small table adjacent to the window and stared out at the street. Her hands trembled with possibility and terror in equal measures; it might be her heart slashed open on the page, but that was no assurance that it would be enough to appease Mary. She was just wondering whether she ought to rewrite it to add something else, when a blonde woman with sharp cheekbones stepped inside, accompanied by a friend.Oh no, Charlotte thought, the moment Mrs Tremaine locked eyes with her.
“Why, Mrs, uh, Chalmers,” Mrs Tremaine piped, while her friend moved towards the counter to order. “How lovely to see you.”
Charlotte didn’t bother to correct her; the name had beenmistaken on purpose. “Mrs Trendley,” she said with a broad smile. “How are you?”
Mrs Tremaine’s left eye twitched, her smile slipping for a moment. “Whatever are you doing here?”
She stared down at her teapot and cup; the table was otherwise empty. “Writing letters, of course.”
“I—” Mrs Tremaine frowned. “Indeed.”
Feeling guilty for being so rude, though it was terribly entertaining, Charlotte cast about for something polite to say. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen our mutual friend lately, have you?”
