“You’re not staying with her?” Mrs Tremaine’s eyes narrowed.
Charlotte gritted her teeth.You must be careful around her,Mary had said,for your words will turn into skittering mice and she will be the hawk who catches the least fortunate one.
“Now that you mention it,” Mrs Tremaine added, “I did see her recently in the company of Miss Carlisle, who has recently returned from Austria.” She sighed ostentatiously. “Such a dashing figure, Miss Carlisle. There is no one in London as fashionable as she, nor as cultured. What a great pity you have not had the chance to make her acquaintance yet.”
Charlotte’s stomach dropped through her shoes. “Indeed.”
“Have a pleasant day, Mrs Coolidge.” Mrs Tremaine smirked, and spun on her heel, joining her friend at the counter where they began to giggle.
Charlotte forced herself to finish the remainder of her tea before leaving in order to prove that Mrs Tremaine had not managed to get under her skin, though of course the blasted woman had done exactly that. She returned to the Palmer-Parkers’ to find the family returned, but not her mother. Making an excuse to return to her room, Charlotte read and re-read the letter to Mary. When she was done, she paced the room, eventually halting before the fire. She stared into the flames, her heart aching all over again. Was it unfair to send such a letter? Marydeserved happiness and yet, in return for her love and kindness, Charlotte had broken her heart, had let fear override her decisions. What right had she to ask for another chance? On the other hand, perhaps this was just another wrong turn down a road so already full of them. Even now, the fear of yet another rejection might be pulling on the reins of her soul, guiding her into a future more lonely than the past she had left behind.
She rubbed her eyes, feeling suddenly exhausted. No, she would not send it. Mary deserved better. She took out the letter and held it over the flames, but could not bring herself to drop it. Tears welled up as she tucked it back into her pocket.
It would serve as a constant reminder of all her past mistakes.
Chapter Thirty-Two
After promising that they would write frequently, Charlotte and her mother shared a tearful goodbye. “I am very proud of you, darling,” her mother sniffled. “I do not say that enough.”
“Oh, Mama, I do not believe I had really done anything to earn it before now.”
“Nonsense,” Lady Lucas said, and pulled her into another tight embrace. “Now, I shall have to run before I miss my coach. I will arrange to have all your things packed and sent down to Amberhurst at the earliest possible convenience.”
After her mother left—carrying a letter of sincerest thanks to Mrs Waites and a promise that Charlotte would visit the very next time she passed through Kent—Mr Mellor’s own carriage arrived to collect Charlotte. Upon her arrival at Amberhurst, Mr Mellor showed her a variety of rooms from which she could take her pick. Charlotte selected a pretty room on the south side of the house, which guaranteed the most sunlight, and additionally overlooked the glasshouses and lawn below. “I did not ask about Miss Bennet in front of your mama, of course,” said he. “Are you and she…”
Charlotte shook her head.
“Ah. I’m sorry to hear that.” He patted her on the shoulder. “The course of true love never did run smooth, eh?”
Though Mr Mellor did his best to make her feel at home, the moment she was left alone Charlotte could not help drifting off frequently into awful daydreams of Mary and Anne Carlisle together. Perhaps Mary’s heart had been broken so badly that she had run straight back into the arms of a philanderer; if so, Charlotte blamed herself even more.
Her possessions arrived two days later, and unpacking everything proved a welcome distraction, as did her work in the glasshouse. Under Henry’s supervision, Charlotte learned how best to maintain the exotic fruits and plants, for each one required some different kind of attention. At night, she borrowed books from Mr Mellor’s library on the subject of hothouse flowers and frequently fell asleep in one of the room’s large, winged armchairs. It gave her no small amount of pride to do a good job, to say nothing of the physical exertion of working with her hands all day, which left her too exhausted to dream.
The days passed. The blisters on her hands became hard-won callouses, and she could soon identify every flower by scent alone, as well as recite the soil type and quantity of sun it required to thrive. At last, she felt as if she was contributing something, that she was no longer a burden on anybody, but a free, independent person all her own. The first wage she received was twice as much as she’d expected, but Mr Mellor refused to negotiate down, and laughed off her every attempt.
One morning, while Charlotte pored over a book at the breakfast table and idly spooned porridge into her mouth, Mr Mellor slid a batch of papers across the table. “I had my lawyer draft a new will,” said he.
“Oh?” Charlotte flipped the page, wondering whether she might experiment with fertiliser to see whether she could increase the size or speed of blooms. It was entirely possible that—
“I’d like to name you as my heir. What say you?”
Her spoon hit the bowl with a clatter. She stared up at him, her mouth hanging open.
“Come now, do not leave an old man waiting for an answer,” said he, his blue eyes crinkled in amusement.
“I do not know what to say, sir,” Charlotte gasped, putting a hand to her chest. “Why, you hardly know me.”
“That response is precisely why I want you as an heir, Mrs Collins. Anyone more mercenary would have agreed without a single protest.” He smiled, genuine affection writ large over his face. “You are a kind soul with a keen mind and an eye for problem solving. I believe you will take excellent care of the estate. And though your heart was recently broken, you have not allowed that grief to shatter your spirit. I have watched you, day after day, toiling away in pursuit of a beautiful bloom with tireless enthusiasm. Besides, you understand that a flower is a temporary thing, do you not? The passage of time can never be slowed or stopped. All things must die eventually, and so shall I. At the very least, I wish to pass knowing that my beloved garden will be in safe hands, not packaged up and sold to the highest bidder, or to some high-born idiot who will tear everything down to make way for his or her latest fancy.”
Charlotte took his hand and squeezed it between her own. “I am so grateful, sir, for the opportunity to work in your garden. It is a reward in itself.”
“A sweet sentiment, Mrs Collins,” said he, smiling, and reaching for the quill. “But a needlessly penurious one.”
She could not bear to hear that name anymore. “Please, call me Charlotte.”
“Very well, Charlotte. And in turn, you may call me Maxwell. Care to add your name?” He offered her the quill.
She hesitated, feeling as if it were all some fabulous dream, before signing the papers.
