Chapter Seven
Charlotte,
I do not mean to pressure you into such things, but if you are curious at all, perhaps these books will prove interesting to you.
Mary
Before the first name, there was a small dot of ink on the page. Charlotte brought the letter closer to her face and squinted at it. Was it simply an errant drop, or had the quill touched the page here, its wielder intending to begin with a different word? Possibly even a Dear Charlotte ? The thought made her chest feel strange and tight.
As she turned to leave, a scrap of something poking out from a trunk caught her eye. It was the dress Mary had worn to Rosings, the one which had those beautiful little flowers embroidered on the neckline. Charlotte knelt and lifted the trunk’s lid, intending to fold the dress more neatly so that it would not crease, and was startled to find her own face staring back at her. The drawing which she had begged Mary to stop had been finished in great detail, with an impressive amount of care. It was unmistakably Charlotte, and yet she looked more alive on paper than ever she had in the looking-glass. She reached for the parchment, her fingers stopping short of the surface. The eyes were animated and lively, and the mouth was bowed in a sweet smile. The neck was slender, arching into bare shoulders, with only a scribble to hint at a dress below. Was this really how Mary saw her? Certainly not , argued the little voice, but it was far more subdued than usual. In the face of such evidence, Charlotte had to concede that perhaps Mary, with her odd tastes and strange way of looking at the world, might actually find her beautiful.
The thought made her flush, though it was not the red rash of embarrassment she was so used to, but a sweet pink flutter of pleasure. She traced the line of her chin, her neck, and marvelled at the artist’s skill. Her guest must have stayed up all night finishing it, and without the model to work from, evidently had an excellent memory.
Now Charlotte had a conundrum on her hands: fold the dress, and let Mary know that she had been interfering with her possessions, or leave the dress where it was and cause a crease. She bit her lip, thinking the decision over. Mary might well think it had been Bessie’s doing as a matter of course, but it felt wrong to lie, even by omission, about such things. She wrung her hands. Really, she had not done anything so wrong, and it was not as if she had meant to go poking around. And yet this marks the second time you have seen something you ought not to , the little voice in her mind pointed out. What is it about this young lady which has turned you into such a sneak? What are you hoping to find amongst her private things?
Charlotte had no answer to such questions. Pushing down her anxieties, she folded the dress and left the drawing on top. If Mary asked her about it, she would tell the truth. That was all there was to the business, and certainly nothing more.
She spent the rest of the afternoon pruning one of the more errant rosebushes in the garden. That evening, her muscles aching pleasantly, she curled up on the brown couch in the parlor and opened the first of the books. The introduction left her floundering and uncertain, baffled by the scientific terms which the author used as if they were quite commonplace words. After a single page, Charlotte put it aside, a sinking feeling in her stomach. Mary expected far too much if she hoped Charlotte would be able to converse with ease about plants in such a scholarly way. At this rate it would be a miracle if she could even follow a single line of conversation in the salon, never mind formulate a coherent reply to one.
Thankfully, the second book was a far easier read; the diary of a young naturalist called Barton, who had been granted passage on a ship to India and had begun a journal the day before he stepped aboard. Before long, Charlotte lost herself in the descriptions of the creaking mast of the Rositania , the rolling white-capped waves, and the marvelous sight of a pod of whales breaching the surface. It was thrilling to experience, especially from the safety of one’s armchair, though Charlotte couldn’t help a little frisson of jealousy worming its way through her chest. Had she been born a gentleman, all manner of doors would be open to her; even her brother, John, who was not particularly adventurous, had sailed to Italy in his younger days with a friend.
By the time the clock had struck ten in the parlor, Barton had disembarked on an island where new and exotic flowers grew abundantly. Realizing she’d read the same passage about scarlet petals thrice and her eyes were now blurring from fatigue, Charlotte closed the book, covered a deep yawn, and wandered off to bed.
* * *
Charlotte woke in the middle of the night and lay still for a moment, wondering what had roused her. The only noise was a faint rasping snore from Mrs Waites, who often slept in the small room just off the kitchen rather than go home where there was no one waiting for her. Outside, an owl hooted twice, much closer to the window than Charlotte expected; perhaps the bird’s call had woken her.
She got out of bed, crossed to the window, and pulled the curtains open. The moon hung low and bright, barely skimming the tops of the trees. Charlotte stood there a moment, admiring her garden, which she so rarely did at nighttime. The light cast long, sharp-edged shadows on the grass, and kissed each flower petal with a silver mouth, making the whole scene look like a beautiful fairy tale.
Wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, Charlotte stepped into the hallway. The floorboard creaked under her foot. Mrs Waites’ snores hitched, then continued in their usual steady rhythm. She breathed a sigh of relief. If the cook heard her up at such an hour, she’d insist that Charlotte drink her “home remedy”—warm milk infused with lavender, which really was a terrible thing to do to an innocent glass of milk.
She’d had some notion of sitting in the parlor awhile. She would not have need of a fire, for the night was cool rather than cold, but could make do with a candle. Perhaps she might read a little more of the naturalist’s diary, which she’d found so diverting, but Charlotte found herself slowing outside the door to the spare room. She’d left it ajar, and no one had been inside since that morning. The urge to return to Mary’s room, to throw open the trunk and bury her face in the sweet-scented garments, was overwhelming. What is wrong with you? she scolded herself. You never acted so with Lizzie, and she smelled perfectly nice. Like roses and fresh air, most of the time. A light, airy scent, completely unlike Mary’s ink-stained hands and violet perfume and the faint, bitter smell of old books. Like something precious locked away for a long time.
Feeling exhausted, Charlotte rubbed her eyes and leaned against the wall. Her feelings towards certain women had always been a source of discomfort for her, and it would be stupid to ever speak of them to Mary. At best, it might make her new friend uncomfortable, and at worst might ruin Charlotte’s standing in society. She bit her lip, thinking it over.
And yet, Mary attended salons, drew nude models, and by all accounts lived a far more liberal and debonair life than her sisters. If Charlotte were to allude to her feelings in some way, might she find those desires understood? Might Mary even be acquainted with women who felt as Charlotte did? It would be a great relief after all this time, to know that others felt the same way. She had long suspected that it was possible—after all, she was not so special as to be unique in this regard—and if so, then what did that mean? How did other people cope with such things? Did they court like couples did? Dance at balls? Live together in some manner, like a married couple did? She pictured two women kissing, holding hands, discarding their dresses on either side of a large bed. Sharing that same bed.
Oh.
Her mouth was dry, her cheeks flaming hot. Thankful that she was alone, Charlotte crept along the hallway and into the small parlor, where she struck a match and lit the stub of a candle which sat in a brass candlestick. The flame guttered for a moment before righting itself, casting a sphere of light strong enough to read by, provided she sat close enough to feel the heat upon her cheek. She picked up Barton’s book, but didn’t open it. The idea of two women living together would not leave her mind. I mean, some do, do they not? she thought. For companionship and so forth?
Charlotte had an elderly aunt on her mother’s side who had lived with a long-time female companion until both had died, and no one had found that situation strange. Then again, the ladies had been old, and her aunt had been married twice already. Now that she thought about it, Great-Aunt Ethel had been very fond of Mrs Sudsbury. As a child, she’d thought the friendship sweet, and had hoped to have such friends as would last her whole life long. Now, seeing it through the shade of her new musings, Charlotte wondered whether there had been more than friendship between the two. They’d always chosen seats next to each other at dinner no matter who else was in the party, and their bedrooms had had an adjoining door which she and Maria had often used to escape during games of hide-and-seek as children, and—
Oh .
Charlotte opened the book, then closed it again without looking at it. She had no idea how one broached such subjects. It wasn’t as if she could announce her inclinations across the eggs at breakfast and simply hope that Mary took it in stride. Mr Collins had always praised her subtlety and quiet diplomacy, but this was one occasion where a delicate approach might miss the mark entirely. Even if she wrote her sister now, the response would not arrive until after she and Mary had left for Canterbury. Besides, what on earth would she say? Did the notion ever cross your mind that Great-Aunt Ethel might be bedding Mrs Sudsbury in between our visits? was not likely to be received with the calm composure which Charlotte required.
Still, it was better than nothing, and once Charlotte had fetched parchment and pen, she scribbled a couple of hasty sentences down. With the letter written, Charlotte breathed a little easier. The answer, though she had no idea whether it would prove helpful or not, would come in time. All she had to do now was be patient.
* * *
After breakfast the next morning, Charlotte spent a few hours in the garden. Weeding left her back and arms aching, but gazing upon fresh soil with nary a dandelion in sight left her feeling a sense of accomplishment that none of her schooling had ever managed to produce. If only she could make her fortune by gardening, although even if such an impossible dream should become a reality, her peers would surely consider such an endeavour as sullying not only her hands but her name as a gentlewoman. It would not be worth the cost to her family’s status, even if it meant she could contribute to their riches; no amount of money could convince her to humiliate her dear parents.
She took off her gloves and rummaged in the pocket of her skirt for a handkerchief with which to mop her brow, then stretched her hands above her head and then to the side, easing the pain in her back. Mary was due to return the next morning, and Charlotte had thought it might be nice to create a floral wreath as a centerpiece for their dinner. The larkspurs were looking particularly beautiful at the moment, their bold blue blossoms standing out proudly, but larkspurs were not an appropriate flower to choose for such an arrangement; she’d already told Mary that they stood for humour and strong love.
Charlotte cocked her head to the side, considering. If one could send a message in flowers, then why not express one’s feelings to oneself that way too? Mary would not know what they signified, after all, and it would be as if Charlotte were writing some message in secret code that only she could read. She hugged herself, delighted by the thought. It’s a childish endeavour , the little voice inside her head argued, but she ignored it, too excited by the idea. White peonies might do for a start—meaning new beginnings, and a certain bashfulness—and they would look exceedingly pretty when carefully placed around the base of a candlestick. Charlotte had so often been subjected to the pitiful, cruel sight of bunches crammed into a too-small vase, or flowers stuck into holes in a box without being properly trimmed, so that the stalks were uneven and the heads pointed every which way. She shuddered at the memory. No, this wreath would be delicate and carefully laid, like all flowers deserved.
She picked up her basket and wandered down the path until she came to the peonies. Kneeling down, her knees squeaking a protest, she stroked the nearest one, the petals silk-soft under her fingers. Seven or eight would do nicely. The trouble was to find them a decent enough match; a white flower always tended to look a little matrimonial or funereal to Charlotte, and needed something bright to bolster its subtle charms. The bright pink petals of the common corn-cockle would provide that vigor, but corn-cockle stood for overwork and unrelenting struggle—hardly the atmosphere she wished to convey. Cornflowers might do instead, as their pointed blue petals would contrast nicely with the peonies, and they represented hope for the future.
Charlotte stood, sighing. Cornflowers were an obvious choice, so why rebel against the idea? Turning from the peonies, she headed down into the southern part of the garden, just out of sight of her window, where the cornflowers grew. With each step, she became less convinced of her plan, and by the time she’d come within sight of the cornflowers, she’d decided against them entirely. What is wrong with me today? she wondered, mopping her brow again. Picking a simple flower should not be this difficult. Frowning, she was about to head back into the house when a flash of purple caught her eye.
Of course! She had been breeding pansies for two years now and had managed to achieve a pretty shade of lavender on the outer edge of the petals. Nearer the heart of the blossom, a darker purple surrounded each perfect circle of yellow pollen. Pansies were often used to indicate that the giver was thinking of loved ones lost, but they also might signify a lover’s thoughts unspoken. Charlotte hesitated, shocked by her own idea. Still, it wasn’t as if she was propositioning Mary. She was simply creating a little outlet for all the confusing thoughts of the past week. Did not a river burst its banks if one dammed the stream? The same could be said of a person. Besides, if Mary did not know what was being said, it couldn’t be all that shocking. A person might say appalling or licentious things in Italian, but since Charlotte could not speak the language, she could only appreciate the apparent melody of the words. Yes , she decided, pushing down a stab of guilt, there can be nothing wrong with letting off a little steam. Lord knows I have been under strange pressures of late.
Besides, it was only flowers. How could one possibly go wrong?