Mary was indeed in the dining room, and stood poring over a large book, muttering something unintelligible. None of the chairs had been pulled out, suggesting that she had yet to settle herself. Papers covered half the table, though they were covered in strange-looking diagrams and scribbled notes. Charlotte shivered; the room held a chill, as if the fire had only been recently lit. “Good morning.”
“Oh, good morning.” Mary beamed, and Charlotte was amused to find that her guest’s inky fingers had left a smudge high on her left cheekbone. “Pardon me, I did not realise the hour.” She gathered the papers, shuffling the papers into a neat pile. “At home I often forget to break my fast until lunchtime. It is a terrible habit.”
“Some say books do feed the soul as well as food,” Charlotte offered, keen to make her guest feel at home.
“That is very true.”
Bessie put the tray down and, after shooting her mistress a strange glance, busied herself with pouring tea. “What were you reading?” Charlotte asked. She picked up the nearest paper, fully intending to hand it over, but the image caught her eye; a foxglove, drawn as if cut open to show the inside of the plant in every respect, with tiny labels on each separate part. “Does this relate to the scientific salons you talked of?”
Bessie clanked out of the room, closing the door behind her. “I am afraid I quite offended your maid,” Mary said apologetically,without answering the question. “I asked to build up the fire myself this morning.”
“I am sure that Bessie would never be offended by such a thing. Relieved, perhaps, that you sought to do one of her duties for her. Do you make a habit of attending to fires, Miss Bennet?” She slid into a chair and raised an eyebrow, but couldn’t help a smirk escaping.
“In fact I do,” Mary said, all seriousness, and took the seat next to Charlotte. “It is one of my many eccentricities, but I believe that ladies ought to know how to do essential tasks within the home. Why, if your maid could not attend you in the wintertime, would you build the fire yourself or simply freeze to death?”
“Of course I would build a fire. It cannot be so hard to do.”
“It is not, of course, but the way a fire is constructed makes all the difference. Why, you cannot simply throw a log or two in and expect them to instantly set ablaze.” She sipped her tea, dark eyes glittering in the light. “You must construct a nest of smaller twigs first, with some piece of cloth tucked inside that will ignite easily, causing the rest to fall in line. It is a dance of sorts, with one small flicker of movement leading inexorably to the next.”
Charlotte had the feeling that Mary was talking about something else, though what she could not possibly guess. Perhaps it was an allusion to science, which her clever salon friends would understand. Feeling rather stupid, Charlotte poured more tea for both of them, and savored the sweet aroma. “You make it sound poetic, rather than a maid’s thankless daily task.”
“It can be both.” Mary shrugged. “And to answer your earlier question, an acquaintance of mine is currently travelling through Austria. She has met several learned mineralogists, who are extremely knowledgeable about aspects of the natural world, and has made some interesting discoveries. I never understood this fascination with stones and cliffs. A plant at least can be grown, can be tended to, can surprise you with somesecret unfolding where you did not expect one. A rock simply is.” She pulled a slightly silly face, though Charlotte sensed real discomfort behind the expression.
“I must agree with you there. A flower is much more beguiling.” Charlotte’s stomach rumbled. “I am afraid that I cannot wait until lunchtime as you do. Would you like something to eat?”
“Yes, thank you.” As Charlotte stood up, intending to ring the small bell for the kitchen, Mary put a hand on her arm. Her fingers were warm, despite the chill, and sent a shiver of a different nature down Charlotte’s spine. “No, do not trouble yourself. I have another book in my suitcase which may interest you. I shall fetch it and then inform your wonderful cook that we are in need of something delectable.”
The second Mary had left the room, Charlotte leaned across the table and dragged the sheaf of papers towards herself. Flicking through them, she saw diagrams of plants and flowers she recognised—bluebells, honeysuckle, the common daisy—as well as those she did not. The words were all new to her; most were in Latin, underlined, with additional notes added in a scrawled hand. Towards the end of the pile, her fingers stuttered over several papers different from all the rest. One was a letter addressed to Mary, which beganmy most beloved friendin cramped, spidery handwriting. Charlotte blanched and moved on quickly, hoping to bypass seeing any more. Yet the fourth page, which comprised the last section of the letter, was a drawing of a young lady in the full flower of womanhood, reposing nude on a chaise.
Charlotte sucked in a gasp as voices murmured at the end of the hallway. This friend had drawn someone in a wanton and licentious manner, and thought nothing of including the drawing in her letter to Mary.Or, the ugly little voice in Charlotte’s head suggested,this friend drew herself unclothed and thought Mary might like to look at her. Perhaps you are not the only one who appreciatesthe female form in such a manner.The name scribbled underneath was almost unintelligible—Anne, perhaps, or Anna? Charlotte could hardly make it out, and her eyes kept sliding back to the woman in the picture. Dark-haired, with narrow eyes and a strong, thin nose. Unarguably an attractive face, to say nothing of the body, which was soft and curvaceous in all the—
Charlotte shoved the papers back across the table and clamped her hands down on the arm of the chair. It was perfectly natural to appreciate womanly beauty, she reminded herself. Were not women generally referred to as the fairer sex? It did not signify anything other than the fact that Mary’s friends were scientists and artists both, who likely saw the human body as no more than another diagram to be labelled. It was Charlotte who was the weak one, she who saw the flesh as something to be desired and touched, instead of some lofty artistic ideal.
Mary bustled back into the room holding a book, and Charlotte did her best to focus on the explanation of the title, which seemed rather long and ponderous. She was saved by Bessie, who brought in a tray of buns still warm from the oven, spiced with caraway seeds, along with a pot of strawberry jam which was Charlotte’s particular favourite. Mrs Waites’ baking was uncommonly good, far better than any of the village shops, and Charlotte was proud to be able to offer something so delicious to her guest, who no doubt had a much more refined palate. As Mary cut her first bun in half and reached for the jam, the firelight caught her face. Charlotte smiled.
“What is it?” Mary asked, looking down at her dress, evidently wondering if she’d already spilled something.
“I should have warned you earlier. You have a little ink on your cheek.”
Mary’s hand drifted towards the right side of her face. “I am forever getting ink and charcoal and stains on every part of me. I know not how I manage it. Where is the mark, please?”
“On the left. A little higher. Yes, just there.” Charlottewatched as Mary rubbed a wet thumb along her cheekbone vigorously, removing the ink-stain. Somehow, the sight made her feel hungrier than ever before. Her fingers twitched around the sides of the teacup.Do not think about the drawing, she warned herself.And certainly don’t ask about it, for goodness’ sake. She’ll think you nothing more than a prying busybody.
“Is it gone now?”
Charlotte forced a smile. “Entirely.”
Over breakfast, Mary announced her intention to continue on to Longbourne the following week, and extended the offer to accompany her. Charlotte declined politely. Most people she knew would have simply smiled and changed the subject, but Mary was not like most people. “You would be most welcome, I am certain,” she pressed. “Even my mother likes you, and she does not like anybody much.”
“I am sure I would be. Your family have always been so kind. But I could not visit Meryton without seeing my parents, and I know full well they would encourage me to remain with them, and to send for my things here.” She sighed. “I know that returning to Hertfordshire is my fate, and I cannot avoid it, but I would postpone it a little longer if I could.”
“Then I shall return much sooner than I had planned,” Mary announced, “and stay with you again if you should like it.”
“I would like it very much,” Charlotte agreed, warmth flooding her chest. She’d assumed Mary would leave and that their paths would simply diverge as they had once done. The idea that Mary would want to return earlier from a trip just to spend time with her was a flattering one.
“And what’s more, I propose a scheme. You ought to come to Canterbury with me for a week or two.”
Charlotte blinked. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly intrude on your—”
