Chapter Five
Darling Charlotte!
I am quite beside myself at the news of your husband’s passing. What little I knew of my brow-in-law assured me that he was a kind and decent man (although the comparison to John’s wretch of a wife must surely improve anyone else’s impression). I expect you’ll return to live at Lucas Lodge with Mama and Papa, but there is always a room, however small, here for you at Belmont.
With all the sisterly love a mere quill can convey,
Maria
The next morning dawned clear and bright. Yolk-yellow sunshine dribbled in through the gap in the curtains, kissing Charlotte awake. She stretched and yawned, still in the clutches of a half-forgotten dream, before rising, washing, and dressing in yet another black dress. Regarding herself in the looking-glass, Charlotte sighed. Black made her look paler than usual, like an awful, strict governess. Still, wearing such a stark colour did afford her temporary respite from the endless business of courting. Apart from the de Bourghs, who were incorrigible, few others would dare mention even the possibility to a woman in mourning clothes.
When Charlotte opened the bedroom door, she was greeted by the welcome golden-brown smell of baking wafting in from the kitchen. Inhaling deeply, she ambled down the hallway to the parlor to find the fire lit, but the room empty. Puzzled, Charlotte stepped back into the hallway, wondering whether Mary’s claim to be an early riser had been only a jest, and was almost bowled over by Bessie, who came rushing along the corridor armed with a loaded tea tray. “Begging your pardon, ma’am,” the maid said. “Miss Bennet is in the dining room.”
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 some secret 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 began my most beloved friend in 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 appreciates the 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.” Charlotte watched 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—”
“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 hours here 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. “I hope 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, evidently considering 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.
Like desire.
Do you really think that anyone could see beauty in plain old Charlotte Lucas? the little voice asked. Even your husband did not think you so. You put away that sort of girlish foolishness a long time ago; do not seek to resurrect it now.
Charlotte pulled away like she had been scalded. Mary lifted her hands as if to catch Charlotte’s retreating ones, but Charlotte shifted backwards on the couch, hearing one of the floorboards in the hallway creak. A moment later Bessie entered, bearing a tea tray and two thick slices of rum cake. After the maid had left, Mary sought to take up her drawing again. Charlotte entreated her not to do so, a plea which was reluctantly agreed to, and instead guided the conversation towards Mary’s travel plans for the following day. She would miss the company, and had already grown rather fond of her guest, but the danger of saying or doing something very stupid increased every moment.
A few days and some distance would put everything right again, Charlotte decided, and all would be as it once was.