Chapter Three
My dearest friend,
I cannot say how sorry I am to hear this news. My own heart breaks to think of you suffering. How I wish I were there to comfort you in some small way.
Unfortunately, my son has taken ill. We do not think it very serious, but Darcy is hesitant to travel given his condition and I am loath to leave either behind to come alone. Therefore I invite you to Pemberley for as long as you please, though I fully understand if you wish to remain home to mourn.
The next portion of the letter looked like it had been written in a different ink, as if added as a hasty afterthought. I wonder if you might consider inviting my sister Mary to stay? She is on her way to Meryton from Canterbury, where she lives with one of our aunts, and will no doubt pass through Kent.
Here, Lizzie had written something and then scratched it out. If Charlotte had to guess, it was probably something uncharitable that her dear friend had pronounced impetuously and then thought better of it. It was nice to see that some things did not change. She smiled, despite the yawn of disappointment widening in her chest. Mary had been the sister she knew least, and from what she remembered, the middle Bennet had been an awkward, plain girl who played the pianoforte well but often could not be induced to stop. The more Charlotte thought about Mary, the more she built up a picture in her mind. Had not Mary been the most devout of that family, always preaching something or other in the background? The thought of having someone around who might be entreated to ramble piously at length struck Charlotte as a strange kind of succour she was unlikely to get anywhere else.
A female companion would be a deep comfort , she decided, and wrote back to Lizzie to say as much.
* * *
The carriage arrived in the late afternoon, and the young woman who emerged, waving away the driver’s help to descend into the road, was somehow not at all as Charlotte remembered and yet quite the same; once a solemn girl of nineteen or so, Mary was now a cheerful woman of four-and-twenty. Unlike Lizzie, who was all softness—a perfect English rose in full flower, Charlotte had often thought—the younger Bennet possessed a thinner nose and a wider mouth, though the sisters shared the same fine, dark eyes. Mary offered her condolences immediately, embracing Charlotte as though they had been much closer friends in their youth. Grey clouds had been massing all morning, and Charlotte’s welcome was cut short as they both hurried inside to escape the first fat drops of rain. It wasn’t long until it turned into a veritable torrent, and Charlotte found herself distracted thinking of her poor flowers, and hoping they survived the deluge. She couldn’t very well abandon her newly-arrived guest merely to defend the garden from the opening of the heavens; Mary would think her quite mad.
Charlotte studied her guest’s profile while she removed her travelling cloak, revealing a pretty, though sober, green dress which brought out the tiny golden flecks in her brown eyes. Lizzie had never had such flecks, Charlotte was certain, and she could not stop a blush at the memory of staring into Lizzie’s eyes as her friend talked with lively animation. Leading Mary down the hallway to a guest room at the back of the parsonage, separate from her own only by a single wall, Charlotte fought the urge to wring her hands. The bed was decent, though the iron-wrought frame was really too big for the room, and the writing desk was weathered and creaky. The walls were painted a dull yellow, like the petals of a buttercup on a gloomy day such as today. At least it was clean. She had never worried so much about the comfort of Mr Collins’ visitors, but she supposed her concern was simply borne of the fact that she had not had visitors of her own for a long time. “It is not much, but I hope it will do,” she said, wondering what the younger Bennet had grown accustomed to now that she was out of her parents’ house.
“Oh, this will be perfectly suited to my needs,” Mary declared, while Bessie dragged in the first of her suitcases. “Do not trouble yourself,” she directed at the maid, “I will fetch the other myself.”
The maid gaped for a moment before closing her mouth with an audible snap. “Yes, ma’am.” Her eyes flicked to Charlotte, who gave a half shrug. If her guest wanted to carry her own luggage, who was she to judge?
“Thank you, Bessie. Please tell Mrs Waites that we’d like tea first, and dinner shortly afterwards.” The maid disappeared, and Mary followed her into the hall, only to return a moment later with a bulging suitcase. It must be full of dresses, Charlotte thought, suddenly a touch envious. London was the height of fashion, and Mary no doubt attended many balls and met many interesting people. “Do take a moment to get yourself settled,” she offered. “My parlor is just down the hall on your left.”
She left her guest for a moment and retreated into her parlor, which had been tidied and thoroughly cleaned just the day before. The rain battered against the windows, the wind groaning like a sick man, but the fire had been built up beautifully and the flames crackled with a warm, welcoming glow. Looking around at the parlor, Charlotte could not help compare it to those few London houses she had visited with Mr Collins on their extremely infrequent excursions to the city, and found it lacking in elegance. She wrung her hands, wondering what could possibly be done now to improve the place, and was only interrupted in her spiral of uncertainty by the entrance of her guest. “How cosy,” Mary said, without the slightest hint of insincerity. “As much as I adore being outdoors, I do so love a rainy day and a warm fire, do you not?”
“I do,” Charlotte agreed, her anxiety fading a little.
Mr Collins would have immediately launched into some long ramble about the angle of the room’s walls, or the particular situation of the windows, but she did not wish to repeat his words. Instead, she stayed silent and watched Mary move around the room, exclaiming over the mantel—it was truly a pretty one—and the small collection of potted flowers on the shelves. “Why, these are beautiful,” Mary said, cocking her head and leaning closer to sniff some of the geraniums. “And this?” Her fingers brushed the fronds of the parlor palm which sat in the corner. “It has grown so tall. I’ve rarely seen one this high. Why, it is almost to my shoulder.”
Flattered, Charlotte blushed. “I confess I do like to garden.”
“Really? Lizzie did not mention any such thing. Though I supposed it was not foremost on her mind when she wrote me. I myself am—” She hesitated, as Bessie appeared carrying a tea tray, and the next couple of minutes were taken up with settling themselves into the two armchairs which sat opposite each other nearest the fire, and taking tea.
Charlotte encouraged Mary to try a lemon biscuit, which were Mrs Waites’ particular recipe, encouragement that her guest needed very little of to indulge. Though she was curious as to what Mary had been about to say earlier, Charlotte could not think of a polite way to recall the conversation, and was casting about for a similar topic when Mary spoke.
“Have you lately spoken to my sister?” Mary inquired. “I confess I do not write her as much as I ought to.”
“Yes, Lizzie and I correspond frequently.” Charlotte smiled. “She offered to visit, of course, after she heard the news, but I would not tear her away from Pemberley, and her son is far too young to make such a long trip in any case, even if he were not ill.” A twinge, deep in her chest, reminded her that she was not telling the entire truth. “I really am very grateful that you came. You were in Canterbury, I believe?”
“Indeed. We have a distant aunt with whom I have been staying for almost three years, though I confess she is so rarely there that it quite feels as if I am mistress of the house myself. I am often in London too, though I find the society there rather stifling.” A flash of discomfort crossed Mary’s face, though it was gone so soon that Charlotte thought she might have imagined it. “In Canterbury, one may move around a little more freely, though it is still a very constrained freedom compared to America, from what I have heard.”
“To which balls did you lately attend?” Charlotte asked, remembering the bulging suitcases.
“Oh, none which would please my family, I am certain.”
She blinked, unsure what to say to that. “Oh, I—”
“I do not care for the kind of balls that Lydia and Kitty once wept over,” Mary continued, picking up another biscuit. “I prefer to attend lectures and the occasional salon for those interested in the natural world. Botany is a particular passion of mine.” She chewed, thoughtfully, eyeing Charlotte over her teacup. “Though I prefer to see a flower in full bloom, shivering in the breeze, rather than pressed lifelessly into a book.”
“I see.” Charlotte was not quite sure how to take this remark. Certainly the parlor held potted plants, which Mary had praised, but her own attempts at flower-drying were sitting on the side table in full view. “I suppose while I think it best that flowers are as God intended, growing outside, that it is also nice to preserve some for…for…” She indicated the side table. “Those are for my mother when I see her next.”
“Your parents are coming to visit?”
“No, no. I will have to return to Lucas Lodge. The parsonage was Mr Collins’, and without him, I am at best a burdensome lodger. I must quit the place before the next parson is appointed, for no one will want to take up the post without all the benefits it entails.”
“That is indeed a shame,” Mary said, and seemed on the verge of adding more when Bessie announced that dinner would be served shortly.
They made their way to the dining room. Charlotte seated herself without thinking, then froze. The seat opposite hers was the head of the table, where Mr Collins had always sat. It would be strange to see another in his place, though she was quickly reconciling herself to the fact when, instead of seating herself in the most obvious place, Mary selected the chair on Charlotte’s right, close enough for their knees to touch. Mrs Waites brought out a dinner of fish in a creamy sauce, accompanied by potatoes and carrots liberally brushed with butter and dill. The smell made Charlotte’s stomach rumble. She offered her guest red wine, which was gladly accepted, and Mrs Waites poured two glasses for them. That was another thing which was different now—Mr Collins had only ever drunk a small sherry on special occasions and could not be induced to try anything else. She had rather missed sharing a bottle of wine with someone; it was less about the taste of the wine itself than the experience, the equality of it, the discussion of vintage and year and associated memories which might result therein.
The moment Mrs Waites left the room, Mary leaned closer. “I do think it a shame that you are being forced out, though I understand the reasoning. Women are so often boats buffeted by the tides of men, are they not? With no oars to paddle ourselves.”
Charlotte had expected to receive some pious, lengthy lecturing on morality at best, philosophical rambling at worst, and found herself a little peeved that neither was the case. “Once upon a time, you would have quoted me a Bible verse about moving aside to make room for others. I did not expect you to have matured so.”
“And I expected to find you a weeping widow,” Mary retorted. “Yet here we are, both rather surprised.”
Flushing, Charlotte stared down at her plate. Humiliation trickled through her chest. You’ve barely cried for him , the cruel little voice inside reminded her. Was your husband so undeserving of your tears? Are you so cold and bad-mannered as all that? “I’m sorry.” She cleared her throat. “I did not mean to offend you.”
Mary, however, merely threw back her head and laughed. “Dear Charlotte, were you always so serious? While I recall your tempering influence on Lizzie, I did think you possessed a little more good humour.”
Charlotte forced a smile. Humour had been in short supply in the Collins household. God, Mr Collins had always claimed, did not have a sense of humour. Charlotte had privately thought if that were so, perhaps God had not yet seen her husband without clothes on.
“I apologize for my callousness. I have been too merry when you are so lately—” Mary pressed her lips together, looking ashamed. “Perhaps your grief is too great and private to be on display to a relative stranger.”
“I do not think you a stranger. Though I admit we were never friends.”
Mary picked up her fork and speared a potato. “Upon consideration, that does not surprise me. I have not the exuberance of Lydia, nor Jane’s easy ways. I believe I used to be rather vain, too. No, do not mistake me,” she corrected, seeing Charlotte’s surprised expression, “for I was certainly never the beauty of the family. In fact, if you had asked my mother to rank the looks of all five of her daughters, I believe I would have come sixth.”
Despite herself, Charlotte snorted, and was immediately mortified at the undignified sound.
“I seek knowledge as much as I ever did,” her guest continued, “but as a child I rather thought understanding would come from the accumulation of facts and figures. As an adult, one discovers the more you know, the less you know.”
“Yes,” Charlotte agreed. “One’s self is often a mystery, is it not?” She should be weeping still at the mention of grief. She should feel something akin to agony; her husband was only recently dead, after all. Is there something wrong with me? she wondered, and not for the first time.
After dinner, they moved back into the parlor. “I have been admiring your pianoforte,” Mary offered, glancing at the instrument in question.
“A wedding gift from Lady Catherine. My husband liked to hear me play sometimes.” Charlotte hesitated. “You used to play very well, I recall.”
“I play, but I do not know if I would call it well.” Still, she sat at the piano, playing competently but mechanically. Her left hand bore an ink-stain, smudged up to her wrist, which Charlotte could not help noticing. Halfway through a third song Mary stopped, fingers hovering above the keys, and began to play something quite different. A soft, haunting melody—a lover’s song, Charlotte thought, puzzled. “Which piece is that?”
“Oh, some small thing I composed. It is nothing, really. I cannot make sense of it.”
“May I?” Charlotte gestured at the bench. Mary moved over to make space, though not much. The faint, distracting scent of violets drifted through the air. She played the melody back but drew out a note here and there, shortening another, until it sounded less like a stuttering stream and more like a great river flowing. “There, perhaps? Though I do not presume to change your—”
“How did you do that?” Mary’s gaze followed her fingers, like a hawk hunting five vulnerable mice.
“My teacher once told me that music ought to be thought of as a conversation. See how the melody,” she played it again with her right hand, and reached over to play a couple of lower chords as accompaniment, “works alongside the rhythm. To and fro. Not a battle but a parley.”
“Well,” Mary said, hands folded in her lap. “There is my problem, then, since I find conversations more like battles than truces.” She smiled without humour. “My opinions on philosophy, politics, and the sciences are many and varied. They make me quite unsuitable for marriage in the usual circles.”
And the unusual circles? Charlotte’s hands stilled on the keys. “I thought he might have chosen you, once upon a time.”
Silence. No need to clarify who he was.
“I rather thought he might have, too,” Mary mused, shifting in her seat. Her knee touched Charlotte’s, though she made no attempt to move away. “Though I’m very glad he did not, in the end.”
“Why?”
She blinked, evidently puzzled by the question. “Well… Did not you love him?” Charlotte stiffened. Mary stammered, a faint blush rising in her cheeks. “That is to say, I had believed you to be—”
She sighed. If it were Lizzie, she might have made a rebuking remark about practicalities. If it had been another friend she might have simply smiled and nodded, yet there was something about Mary’s blunt air which compelled her to be honest. “I suppose I loved him in my way,” she murmured, “and he loved me in his. You must understand, not all marriages can be like Jane and Bingley, or Lizzie and Darcy. Most are just…” She searched for a charitable word. “Companionship at best. It is sensible to hope for as much, lest worse happen.” The room had grown dim by now; she should light another candle lest her guest think her unwelcoming. The heat of Mary’s leg, now pressed against her own, felt as if it were scalding her.
“Did you never feel passion towards a suitor?” Mary questioned.
Ugly shame curled in her stomach, forcing her up and out of the seat. “Never towards a suitor. Not that I had any.” Though your sister was quite another matter. The wicked little voice which had wanted her to steal some of the books from Mr Collin’s room made a reappearance when it was least wanted. This would not do. She had banished that particular longing a long time ago. “Tis a great lacking in my character as a woman, I think, though I dare say it has made me an amiable wife.”
She had in fact long convinced herself that such a lack of ardor was a strength, rather than a weakness. She might not be capable of passion, but she was steady and reliable, and besides, did not the very definition of passion suggest a sputtering flame which might one day be extinguished with the slightest gust of wind or falling raindrop? Was it not better, therefore, to remain cool and composed, able to weather any storm?
Rising, Mary regarded her steadily. Charlotte was suddenly very aware that they were standing only a foot apart. “I see nothing lacking in your character. Nor have I ever.”
Panic rippled through her guts, though she had no idea why. The compliment was benign enough. “You are too kind.”
Mary closed the lid of the pianoforte. “Might I ask—”
“I confess I find myself quite tired,” Charlotte said, forcing a smile. Her stomach clenched. Had there been something in Mary’s praise—something untoward in her tone? Surely not. “I do not wish to leave you alone but I fear I must retire for the evening.”
“Of course.” In the flickering light of the one remaining candle, Mary’s eyes were forested hollows. She nodded politely . “Do not trouble yourself on my account.”