Chapter Four
Dear Charlotte,
I am so sorry to hear of your husband’s passing. I suppose you must be terribly upset. Emily has suggested that you visit, or that perhaps we ought to send one or two of the children to you for a while to busy you. James is learning to play the violin, and makes the most interesting noises with the instrument. Do let me know when is suitable and how many you can house.
Your brother,
John
Charlotte woke the next day and spent a few minutes contemplating the pale ceiling before she rose and dressed. Light rain pattered against the window in the parlor and though the grey clouds outside were still numerous, none of them hung as heavi-ly as they had the day before. “The weather may yet clear up in the afternoon,” she offered over breakfast, watching Mary butter a piece of toast with exacting precision. “You said you liked flowers, and my garden—while of course only modest—is something I am rather proud of.”
The strangeness of the night before had vanished, much to Charlotte’s relief. Her guest declared that she did not mind a little light rain in the slightest and therefore they shortly found themselves stepping outside into the misted drizzle of the parsonage garden. As they strolled along serpentine paths and ivy-covered walkways, Charlotte pointed out flower-beds of varying arduousness while Mary asked insightful questions about the specimens therein, as well as Charlotte’s particular favourites. She was gratified to be asked her opinion, and even more gratified to find that Mary waited to hear it with interest. Mr Collins had sometimes asked her opinion, but often he had interjected with his own preferences before she could get a word in edgewise. “I admit I have a fondness for foxgloves,” said she, “but larkspurs have such a bold colour, have they not? The blue is such a deep and clean shade, stopping just short of purple. And the simple daffodil is not treated with as much reverence as it ought, for it is inextricably associated with the turn of winter season into spring. Perhaps people forget that it exists during the rest of the year. But it is such a lovely flower, and the shape is both unusual and pleasing to the eye.”
“Daffodils represent new beginnings, do they not?” Mary murmured, leaning down to touch one. “The end to cold, dark days. It is a floral herald, trumpeting of better days to come.”
“Precisely!” Charlotte clapped her hands. Though the air was cold and the wet grass underfoot was beginning to soak into her shoes, she felt a warm glow of contentment. It had been such a long time since she’d felt she had a friend with whom she could simply talk, without being reminded that she must keep up a particular appearance. Mary chattered with similar enthusiasm, exclaiming over every new turn and view, and was in positive raptures over the Carolina silverbell trees which marked the boundary between the parsonage garden and the meadow beyond.
As they rounded the corner of the walk, the conversation turned to Mary’s correspondence with people in her field of interest. “The late Ellen Hutchins, who was a most marvelous botanist, did me the great honour of replying to several of my amateur queries,” Mary declared. “She had this most unusual way of writing. Down one page entirely,” she demonstrated, pretending to write on a piece of parchment, “and then she would turn it sideways and begin again, often writing over her own words in the centre. A cross-hatch, she called it. Quite marvelous to see someone so unfettered by custom. It is a great shame she died so young—a mere nine-and-twenty.”
“How awful.” Charlotte’s stomach swooped unpleasantly as she was reminded once more that mortality was ever-present.
“Death is a part of life.” Mary shrugged. “The cycle begins anew, with little changes wrought here and there to improve upon what came before. I think it rather beautiful, in a way. Look,” she added, pointing, not noticing Charlotte’s frown. “Holly. I believe they say it provides defense and domestic happiness.” Stooping, she broke off a sprig and handed it to Charlotte, her fingers lingering. “There. Now you may have fortune and felicity, whatever that may mean to you.” She still had not removed her fingers from Charlotte’s palm. “Tell me, what would it mean to you? Truly?”
Their gazes met. For a single, heart-stopping moment, Charlotte was on the verge of saying something very stupid about Mary’s fine, dark eyes. Her breath hitched. A bird fluttered in the branches above, jolting her from her reverie. With flushed cheeks, she murmured a thanks, and turned back towards the house, chattering away with a calm she did not at all feel.
Charlotte was deeply relieved when Mrs Waites delivered a deliciously distracting luncheon, causing her guest to exclaim over the sweetness of the tomatoes, the sharpness of the local cheeses, and the rich, savoury sauce in the generous slice of cold pigeon pie. Charlotte took the opportunity to ask about Mary’s favourite dishes, promising to have the cook provide some later in the week. Before long, the conversation turned to memories of happy times at Longbourne, which helped Charlotte to relax. Mary repeated some of her earlier news about Jane and Bingley, who of course were as happy together as springtime lambs, as well as her good opinion of Kitty’s husband. Lydia’s man she refused to speak of entirely, and Charlotte did not press the issue, sensing there was more to the story than she’d heard.
That afternoon, she and Mary read side by side on the couch. Nose-deep in a novel Mary had brought, warmed by the crackling fire and a fresh pot of hot tea, Charlotte found herself sublimely content. The realization brought with it a fresh wave of alarm, shattering her fragile peace. In order to cast off her weakness, she must first acknowledge it. Repressing a sigh, she stared into the flickering flames. Whenever Lizzie had walked into a room, a trail of humming, satisfied bees had taken up residence in Charlotte’s chest. The hive was long-empty, of course, but the memory of buzzing remained. The younger Bennet was not a bee person in the slightest. If anything, she resembled a falcon with a scythe-sharp mouth and dark, keen eyes searching out every detail. How much had she overheard in those younger days? How much had she catalogued, unnoticed?
Mary shifted, moving sideways an inch so that her elbow grazed Charlotte’s arm. Charlotte stiffened, sucking in a breath. A thrill shivered up her forearm, trailed across her collarbone, and wrapped cool fingers around her throat. Guilt and shame bubbled in her stomach; no touch of Mr Collins had ever produced anything like such an effect. Charlotte shifted away from Mary on the pretext of pouring more tea, and reclined against the opposite arm of the couch, far from temptation.
On the following day, an invitation for lunch arrived from Rosings, written in Anne’s neat script. Charlotte replied quickly, asking if it would be acceptable to bring her guest along, which obliged Bessie to run over with the note and then run back with the confirmation that Anne would be delighted to welcome any friend of Charlotte’s. She was pleased to be able to introduce one of her own friends to Anne, and relieved at having another distraction. Mary, who admitted she had only ever heard of Rosings described by Mr Collins and her sister—apparently in quite different terms, though she would not elaborate on that proclamation—enjoyed the short walk over to the house. Charlotte felt as if she was seeing the great estate for the first time through fresh eyes, and was able to provide all manner of detail about the number of rooms and servants contained within the handsome house. “Though I suspect you may be more interested in the gardens and grounds,” Charlotte teased, noticing Mary’s eyes drawn to the shrubbery which lined the fine, wide walkway leading to the front of the building. “There is a beautiful pond over the left, situated just past the diamond-shaped lawn. A little further on, one may walk through a series of archways over which honeysuckle has grown—that is my favourite part, for I do so love an archway. The gardener recently introduced some rhododendron bushes near the vegetable garden in the grounds behind the building, though I have heard Lady Catherine complaining that they are not as pleasing to the eye as she had been led to believe. I fear that, unless the bushes learn to stand in line, tall and straight as soldiers, the flowers may soon come to an untimely demise.”
Mary raised her eyebrow. “I hardly believe you do not live here yourself, with such intimate knowledge of the place.” Her white gloves, Charlotte noticed, were embroidered at the wrist with tiny green flowers, which matched the floral neckline of the pretty pink dress she was wearing.
“Mr Collins was a keen enthusiast of all things Rosings.” Charlotte bit her lip, her stomach sinking. She had hardly thought about him in these last days, but had that not been the purpose of Mary’s visit? It was not wrong to enjoy a little company, after all. “I dare say he had every room catalogued and memorized.”
Expecting only Anne de Bourgh as host, Charlotte was therefore surprised when two gentlemen rose from their positions at the table and bowed. The taller of the two was introduced as Sir Gordon, a gentleman in his fifties with a large nose and a kind countenance, dressed in a red jacket so fine that even Lady Catherine would not have been able to find fault with it. The shorter man with curly brown hair was introduced as Mr Innes, a great friend of the family, who could have been no more than five-and-thirty. He bowed low and smiled, his face pleasant and open. Charlotte was glad she had decided to wear her black silk dress which, although no longer a beautiful larkspur-blue, was still the nicest gown she owned by far.
They sat down to luncheon at a table piled high with cake, scones, cold cuts, and cheese. Sir Gordon engaged Anne in a long conversation about people whom Charlotte had never heard of, while Mr Innes, dressed in a fine gold-buttoned coat and black breeches, fixed Charlotte with a charming smile. “I believe Anne said your late husband was a clergyman? I heard the de Bourghs held him in very high regard.”
“Thank you.” She did not like the way Mary hid a smirk behind her teacup. Mr Collins had been, on occasion, prone to a certain kind of pompous foolishness, but he had done his best with the gifts God had given him. The whole world could not be blessed with exceptional wit or beauty, or they should grow dull, common traits indeed. Irritation bloomed with her guest, followed quickly by resentment. While Charlotte had endured four years of marriage, Mary had apparently been gallivanting around Canterbury practically by herself, and had enjoyed the kind of freedom and liberty that Charlotte had never known.
“He was a cousin of mine,” Mary offered. “Heir to my father’s estate too.”
The resentment grew a little stronger. Charlotte did not need reminding that she had failed to produce any heirs of her own. She could see the wheels turning in handsome Mr Innes’ head—no husband or estate, likely no children, a boring old woman of one-and-thirty—and prepared for him to turn his attention to Mary instead. Though not a traditional beauty, the middle Miss Bennet was well-mannered and well-dressed. The thought of Mr Innes charming Mary, and she in turn plying him with that dry wit which had so lately cheered Charlotte, produced an unexpected spike of a different emotion. Was she truly jealous? Mary’s attention had been so focused on her and her alone since her guest had arrived, which had felt like a welcome change. The resentment in her stomach cooled, turning into embarrassment. Charlotte had so often been cast aside in favour of others that she was surprised she was even still capable of feeling such a thing. It was natural, though, that a flower starved of sunlight would therefore do everything in its power to grow towards that source. She could acknowledge her feelings to herself without blame, though she would not behave impolitely in company.
“Is that so?” Mr Innes said, as Anne laughed at Sir Gordon’s jest. “And I suppose you two have been very great friends since childhood?”
Charlotte and Mary exchanged amused looks, and Charlotte felt the last lingering sting of resentment subside. “No, sir,” Mary said, helping herself to a scone. “I confess that I was not honoured with such a wondrous thing as Charlotte’s friendship in my younger years. It was my older sisters who were her particular friends. You may know Elizabeth now as Mrs Darcy.”
“Why so I do.” He studied Mary’s face more closely. “What a fool you must think me—I should have seen the resemblance from the start. Your sister is a fine woman. In fact, I should not expect to meet finer anywhere. She has turned Darcy into quite a pleasant fellow, something Bingley could never do.” Charlotte was warmed to hear such praise of her friend, and Mary’s bright eyes showed that she felt the compliment most keenly.
As the plates emptied of delicacies and the forks were finally laid to rest, they moved into the sunroom. Charlotte had long since noticed that while Mr Innes was courteous to Mary, he paid herself particular attention. At first, she had been convinced she’d imagined it, but as the servants passed around small glasses of sherry, Mr Innes took the seat next to Charlotte on the chaise and questioned her politely about her time in Kent. Had she enjoyed it? What were her favourite pastimes? Had she participated in her husband’s vocation in some way? These questions might have been used to engage any gentleman or lady, but his attention, though pleasant, was singularly focused. Though Sir Gordon had directed several questions to Mary and she had answered, Mary’s gaze always returned to Charlotte and her face conveyed an odd, inscrutable look. Charlotte felt rather like a beetle on her back, squirming under a glass under so much notice. It was difficult to concentrate on ensuring her answers were long enough to be satisfactory. Though Mr Innes smelled pleasant enough—soap and bergamot, if Charlotte was any judge—she could not help noticing that Mary’s faint scent of violets was always there, and found herself searching for the scent in every breath.
“And where did you meet Mr and Mrs Darcy last, Mr Innes?” Charlotte asked, keen to divert the conversation and some of the attention away from herself.
As Mr Innes launched into a long description of the latest ball and who had attended, Charlotte nodded along politely, falling into old habits. She did not miss the way Anne’s head cocked towards them, as if listening for faint music, nor her faint smile. Likewise, it was impossible for Charlotte to ignore the way Mary’s eyes kept flickering to a spot of bare skin just above her clavicle, and the strange thrill which prickled in her chest every time their eyes met.
* * *
Back in the parsonage, Mary loosened her bonnet and shook out her dark hair. “Would you not like to marry again?”
“I do not know.” Charlotte had grown somewhat used to Mary’s questions, which fired like bullets without the usual noisy warning. “I did not really wish to marry in the first place. But you know it is the done thing, and I was already seven-and-twenty. What man would have had me, if Mr Collins had not—” If I had not thrown myself at him after Lizzie rejected him, she thought grimly. A desperate act and one I am not proud of, though I doubt he ever realised. “I hope you are not talking of Mr Innes,” she added. “For I do not think his interest indicated anything other than decent civility.”
The lie hung between them like thick fog. Mary paused with one glove off, examining her like a specimen to discover what secrets lay within. The thought of being pinned down and studied at length sent a shiver through her, though it was not entirely unpleasurable. To Lizzie, Charlotte had always been a stolid, supportive companion. To Jane, another gentle soul. To her husband, she had been a pleasant wife, an eager listener for all his lectures, yet the thought of marrying another man, to sit in silence day by day and merely listen, rather than be asked to speak her mind—as odd as it felt to voice such blunt truths—was intolerable. Mr Collins knew less of her in four years than Mary had learned in a few days, simply by asking.
“Your friend thinks herself an excellent matchmaker, I suspect.” Mary dropped her gloves onto the table and busied herself with a loose button on her dress.
“I dare say she does, but she will not succeed with me. Love must be more than chess, moving two pieces into the same square and hoping for a spark.” She surprised herself with her own vehemence. She would have answered quite differently five years ago—perhaps even five weeks ago. Why do I say love when I mean marriage? she wondered. And why do I resist when Anne knows my situation only too well? A husband, particularly a wealthy one, would save her from having to return home to Lucas Lodge. Yet the thought prompted a slow, aching feeling in her stomach. It was foolish to want something else, something more from life.
Wasn’t it?
“You do not strike me as one who has ever thought of love as a game.” Mary’s voice was airy and green as new leaves, but Charlotte heard at once that it concealed some far earthier thing, rooted in a deep, dark place.
“Can you read me so well?”
“Well enough, perhaps.” Mary hesitated, shooting Charlotte a coy look from under her lashes. “With a little more time I might read you further still.”
“You talk in such a strange way,” Charlotte mused. “One normally expects people to say one thing and mean quite another, but you say one thing and mean the same.”
Genuine amusement flitted across Mary’s face; a beam of sunlight, chasing lithe shadows. “And which approach do you prefer?”
“You tell me,” Charlotte retorted, and was rewarded with a grin.