“You certainly could. After all, am I not your honoured guest? Would you not be mine in turn?”
What else was Charlotte going to do—count down the hourshere until she had to return to Lucas Lodge, with nothing but an occasional lunch at Rosings to keep her entertained? The thought was a pathetic, lonely one. “Well… I suppose it might be nice to have a change.”
“We shall have a grand time,” Mary promised. “I shall even attend a ball if you so desire, on one condition.” She held up a single finger. “You must attend a salon with me.”
Charlotte’s jaw dropped. “I—I do not think I would be good company at such an event,” she stammered. “I fear I am too much of a country mouse to amuse your clever friends. I have not read widely, nor do I understand most of the studies you speak of, so I have nothing of note to contribute.”
“I shall leave some books with you and when I return, we shall discuss them at length. No, no,” Mary said, and waggled the same finger when Charlotte opened her mouth to protest, “I have every faith in your ability to comprehend the smallest of details and the largest of ideas, Charlotte Lucas.”
Collins, Charlotte mentally corrected, but didn’t say out loud. She’d missed the sound of her old name, and to some extent, her old life; though it had been underlaid with anxiety amid the constant pressure to find a suitable match, she’d had friends in Jane and Lizzy, and had enjoyed dancing at the balls thrown at various Hertfordshire houses. Mary made her feel as though anything were possible, as though the book of her life was opening up to a new chapter, rather than closing on a bittersweet ending.
“Very well,” said she, unable to repress a smile. “An adventure to Canterbury sounds rather grand.”
After breakfast, they took a walk around the garden, where Mary begged a little time to sit and sketch a clump of larkspurs. She seated herself on the small green bench which rested against the eastern wall of the parsonage, and unrolled a black cloth from which she plucked a piece of charcoal. Charlotte seated herself beside Mary and occupied herself with some embroidery,though she had not the least interest in what she was doing. As the hour passed, the time between stitches grew longer and longer, until the embroidery lay forgotten in her lap and her eyes were riveted on Mary’s drawing. Her guest was a clever artist and had captured the nature of the tall plant, the way it bent in the slight breeze, the way the small flowers clustered together as if cold.
Mary rummaged around amongst pieces of charcoal and pencils, and added a slash of vivid blue to each flower, before turning the parchment towards Charlotte for inspection. “What say you?”
“It is beautiful work, but where are your labels?”
Mary blinked, puzzled, before realization dawned. “Oh, this isn’t a diagram. This is a present for you. You said you admired their bold colour, did you not? I know foxgloves are your particular favourite,” she smiled apologetically, “but I could not do the colour justice for I have no red left. So I hope this will do.”
She offered the drawing and Charlotte took it with unexpectedly shaky fingers. “You are too kind,” she murmured, feeling quite overcome.She remembered what you said,the little voice in her mind said.She was listening and she cared enough to remember.“I shall have it framed.”
Mary blushed. “If you like it so much, I shall draw another upon my return.”
“Have you ever drawn people?” The question came out of Charlotte’s mouth before she’d considered the implications, and instantly she wished she could take it back. The drawing from Mary’s letter came vividly to mind—the curves, the full lips, the legs stretched out languidly. Who on earth was Anne and what was her relationship to Mary? The question burned inside Charlotte but she would have sooner gone to the stocks than asked directly.
“I have indeed.” Mary opened her mouth as if to add something, studied Charlotte for a moment, and closed it again. “Ihope this may not scandalize you, but occasionally our salons provide a suitable model for artists. Often it is a young woman, though men do volunteer. They sit in the middle of the room, sometimes clothed, sometimes nude, while we sit about in a rough circle and draw as best we can. Women have such interesting bodies, do they not?”
Charlotte bit down the immediate impulse to disagree. Why bother, when Mary had already espoused the opinion so clearly? It was a question, not a trap.Or is it?she wondered. Maybe the drawing included with the letter had simply been an artistic endeavour after all. “Yes,” she said, slowly. “I quite agree. And though I married a parson, you may not find me as prudish as to think people are clothed every moment of the day.”
Mary’s eyebrows raised a fraction, but she offered no comment. Her dark eyes roved over Charlotte’s face as if calculating and cataloguing every detail. Charlotte forced herself to look away, counting the bright heads of the foxgloves in an attempt to stave off the blushes she knew full well were shading her cheeks. “You may know this already, but in a bouquet, larkspur indicates humour and lightheartedness, or possibly an ardent bond of love.”
“I did not know.” Mary’s voice had lowered to a purr. “And what of the foxglove?”
“That all depends on the colour of the flower and the intention of the giver, really, but it can range from secrets and riddles to insecurity and immortality.”
“That’s a rather broad range of interpretations. When putting together such a bouquet, how can one be sure that one’s meaning is received in the spirit one intended it?”
Charlotte frowned. “I supposed you can only do your best and hope that the receiver is…well, receptive.”
“Hmm. Flowers bring much more risk than I had previously thought.” Mary’s mouth was perfectly serious, but her eyes crinkled with amusement.
“Indeed, you shall have to tread carefully if you draw me another,” Charlotte said, getting up and brushing off her dress. “Shall we take some tea?”
The parlor was warm and stuffy after the refreshing air of the garden. Charlotte seated herself on the brown couch, fully expecting Mary to occupy one of the armchairs, and was surprised when Mary sat down next to her and began to sketch a rudimentary oval, which quickly turned into a face. Shooting quick glances at Charlotte, Mary’s hand moved over the parchment in short, sharp strokes. An ear emerged, then two, then the curly, fair tendrils which hung down at the sides of Charlotte’s face, framing it in the usual fashion.
“This was my mistake,” said Charlotte, laughing, and putting a hand up to shield her face. “I did not intend to suggest by my question that you actually draw me. I was merely asking if you had done so in the past.”
“But you have such a pleasant face,” Mary countered, rubbing her cheek absent-mindedly, transferring a charcoal stain. “It would be a shame not to draw it.”
Charlotte winced. She’d expected better from her guest than such a blatant, fanciful lie. She knew full well she was not attractive in the way that ladies ought to be, and though Mr Collins had taken great pains to compliment almost everything else—her embroidering, her pretty manners, and so forth, the sort of trivial accomplishments that every young lady was supposed to possess as a matter of course—he had never once called her beautiful, or even hinted at it, though he had once conceded that her hair was exceedingly soft. She hadn’t minded this lack too much. He was, after all, a man of God, and was therefore more preoccupied with the quality of a soul rather than the body housing it.
Still.
The drawing now had Charlotte’s wide eyes, her dark brows, her stubby nose. Mary squinted at Charlotte again, evidentlyconsidering some aspect, before the charcoal touched parchment again. Unable to bear this scrutiny, Charlotte reached out, tipping Mary’s chin with her left hand. “You have a little something on your cheek.” She licked the pad of her right thumb. Mary’s eyes widened as Charlotte brushed her thumb over the charcoal mark again and again, until it was entirely erased. “There.”
She hesitated. They were too close. Mary’s breath was hot on her palm, her pink lips slightly parted, the smell of violets tickling Charlotte’s nose. Mary’s dark eyes were gleaming with something and Charlotte knew she ought to drop her hands, ought to move away or say something to break the strange tension of the moment, but in truth no one had ever looked at her like that before. If she had to name the expression, it would be something very close to hunger.
