Chapter Eight
Dearest Maria,
Thank you for your kind words. Indeed, I shall have to return to Lucas Lodge soon enough, and though it is not under happy circumstances, Mama and Papa seem eager to have me. Perhaps I will see you at Christmas, if not sooner? How fare your husband and daughter?
Lately, I have been ruminating on some beloved childhood memories. Remember when John played the frog prank on Mrs DeLong? And remember all those glorious weeks we spent at Great-Aunt Ethel’s house? This may seem like a strange question, but did you ever think that she and Mrs Sudsbury were rather closer than most?
Your elder—though never your better—sister,
Charlotte
Mary returned late on Tuesday morning, and embraced Charlotte with unexpected vigour before she could so much as close the door behind her guest. The smell of violets tickled Charlotte’s nose, her heart quickening as Mary pressed her close. Why was it that only women had ever made her feel such things? Men often smelled pleasant too—though admittedly, often they did not—but no man’s scent had ever aroused such a response.
“Lord, but one does forget how trying my mother can be.” Mary’s voice was muffled, her face pressed into Charlotte’s shoulder. She sighed, dramatically. “I was not in the house twenty minutes before I regretted coming at all.”
“They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder.” And perhaps there is some truth in the saying, she thought , for she was only gone four days and yet I am terribly glad to see her. She’d almost forgotten how bright Mary’s eyes were, the way she held herself, as if expecting the world to deal her a blow she intended to meet with dignity.
“No one who met my mother ever repeated that sentiment.” Mary sighed. “Perhaps my heart is too hardened for absence to soften it.” She held Charlotte at arm’s length and looked her over. “And how have my books been treating you?”
“Very well,” Charlotte said, desperate not to disappoint.
“Really?” Mary raised an eyebrow.
“Well,” she confessed, “the second, at least. I found the first very difficult. I am afraid I lack the language to comprehend even the smallest part of what the author is saying.”
“Good.”
This was not the response she had expected. “Good?” she repeated. “Do you not wish to rescind your invitation to the salon? I certainly won’t be able to keep up with—”
“My dear friend,” Mary said, laying a hand on her arm. Charlotte’s heart fluttered. “All of science is knowing a little about one thing and admitting that you know nothing about most of the rest.”
“Is it?” Charlotte said, mystified.
“Quite so. Why, if you had told me you were certain of anything after reading one book, I would have known the opposite was true. One must be humble in the face of one’s own ignorance, which is so often vast.”
“Then perhaps I shall be the best scientist of all,” Charlotte said, smiling.
* * *
Mary spent all of dinner regaling Charlotte with impersonations of a hysterical Mrs Bennet, each funnier than the last, until Charlotte’s sides quite ached from laughing. “And then she asked me, why did I not find a nice gentleman in Canterbury, and whether I wished her to go to her grave with one daughter yet unmarried.” Mary rolled her eyes.
“Oh?” Charlotte picked up her wine glass. Mary had brought back a delicious vintage from the Longbourne cellar, and the aromatic bouquet brought back many familiar memories of the raucous household. Kitty and Lydia fighting like wild cats over a bonnet, Lizzie making arch witticisms, Jane chiding her gently for her lack of patience, and Mary in the corner on the pianoforte or reading from an old book.
“I told her that if one shot a grouse in four out of five attempts, one would consider that a good afternoon’s hunting. Naturally, my father agreed with me. Not that Mother dropped the subject, of course. We returned to it at least two dozen times over the course of my visit.”
Charlotte sipped her wine, not sure what to say. Mary had not yet noticed the wreath she’d made earlier, though she found she was rather glad the subject had not come up. It had been bold of her to pick these particular flowers, and it would have been uncomfortable to lie about their meanings. “I am sure she would simply like to see you settled and happy.”
“I am happy,” Mary declared, lifting her glass. “I have this delightful vintage, I have Mrs Waites’ rum cake to look forward to, and I have exceedingly pleasant company.” She grinned across the table. “What more could a person desire?”
As Bessie cleared away the dinner plates and brought two great slabs of rum cake in, accompanied by a spiced cream Mrs Waites had recently perfected, Charlotte couldn’t help but agree.
* * *
The next afternoon, they walked into the village and boarded a coach. Canterbury, being only five or six hours away by coach, was easily made in one attempt though Charlotte had never had reason to visit before.
“I’m afraid I cannot sit for so long in a box that small without my muscles aching for a week afterwards,” said Mary apologetically. “If you do not mind, I would prefer to stay overnight at an inn and continue on at dawn. I have in mind just the right one, and I am certain the pigeon pie they serve will impress you.”
Charlotte, who knew little of the area, was more than happy to defer to her friend’s expertise in the matter, and so it was settled. The sky had been overcast that morning, and while the gathering of white and dove-grey clouds did not hint at rain in their future, it nonetheless precluded the sunny afternoon Charlotte had rather been hoping for. She was not fond of travel at the best of times, but if she had to do so, then she would prefer to while away the hours soaking up the beautiful landscape. The countryside unravelled before them as the coach bumbled along the road and over the small stone bridge which led out of the village. Sturdy oaks stood alone in vivid green fields, their branches still, their leaves barely trembling. Sheep grazed in clumps, one occasionally drifting off from the rest to join another group, mirroring the clouds above. In the distance, the farmland was divided into rough rectangles, each nearly as green as the grass. Soon, the wheat would turn a beautiful golden-brown, and then it would be harvest time.
Mary had set her bag on the seat beside her and rummaged around in it for a while before locating charcoal and parchment. Before she touched the charcoal to paper, she looked up, meeting Charlotte’s eyes. “Pardon my impoliteness. I did not ask you last night what you were up to while I was gone.”
Charlotte froze. Was Mary hinting that she’d noticed the folded dress? “I did not do much, I confess. I went to lunch at Rosings the day you departed.”
There was the slightest of pauses. The charcoal descended again, and again, did not quite meet the parchment. “Ah,” Mary said, her tone cool. “And was Mr Innes there?”
“Yes, as well as three other gentlemen of Anne’s acquaintance.”
“Three? Why, your Miss de Bourgh really is set on marrying you off.”
Charlotte adjusted her left glove, then her right. The skin between her shoulder blades prickled. “She has expressed that wish to me openly, and while I think it sweet, I think her unlikely to succeed in her endeavours.”
Mary simply nodded, and spent the next few minutes trying to sketch the landscape, before giving it up and turning the paper over. On the other side, clearly visible was a half finished sketch of a nude woman, standing at the edge of a small stream. Charlotte couldn’t help staring. She wondered who this was—it did not look like the mysterious Anne from the drawing Charlotte had seen—and whether Mary was also drawing this woman from memory. Does she know this face as well as mine? Perhaps better? I wonder if there is any way I could convince her to take me to the kind of drawing class she mentioned. Forcing herself to look back at the fields, though she could not find nearly as much pleasure in them as she had just a moment before, Charlotte leaned her head against the carriage wall and lost herself in thought. The stone road soon turned into a dirt road, and, in half an hour, a small village was visible in the distance. Tiny labourers moved to and fro, no doubt going about their usual business.
“The road is too bumpy to manage anything decent,” Mary complained, sighing in exasperation. “One day they shall make the roads between towns as smooth as city streets, but until that time, I fear that I will have to put this away and we shall have to make our own amusements.”
As Mary tucked the parchment away, Charlotte found herself relieved. The presence of drawings of nude women, which prior to Miss Bennet’s arrival had not featured greatly in Charlotte’s life, was already beginning to affect her nerves. Even a brief glimpse of the curve of the waist, the single stroke suggesting crossed thighs, and the slightest smudge indicating what might lie at the apex of that stroke was enough to unsettle her completely. She cast about for some diversion that would take her mind off bodies. Mary shrugged off her light shawl, revealing the pretty, dark green dress below. The colour reminded Charlotte of holly leaves, symbolising peace, goodwill, and the endurance of life. Was it just Charlotte, or was Mary wearing something lower-cut than usual? For goodness’ sake , she scolded herself. Do not ogle your friend so.
She shifted position so that her left leg was not touching Mary’s, though this meant she had to keep her heel elevated rather uncomfortably. “One of Mr Collins’ visitors had a very droll question he liked to ask everybody, and which might suffice to entertain you for a moment,” Charlotte suggested. “If I recall correctly, it was something along the lines of ‘how many owls would you have to see before you thought something was wrong?’”
“Before I thought something was wrong?” Mary repeated, thinking it over. “Hmm. I would have to say… Two.”
“That is a very small number. What if they were a breeding pair?”
“The problem is that I do not trust owls,” Mary declared. “They always look as if they were up to something. No animal by nature innocent should be able to turn its head around so far. Why, what number did you choose?”
“Seven.”
“Seven?” she cried. “Seven? No, by God, by seven it would be too late.”
She looked so serious that Charlotte had to try very hard not to laugh. “Too late for what?”
“For whatever they were planning,” Mary said darkly.
Charlotte dissolved into a fit of giggles, and for the next few minutes, she could not get a sensible word out. “I had no idea,” she gasped, “how afraid you were of owls.”
“I am not afraid! I am rightfully cautious, and you, my friend, are far too trusting.” Mary’s smile lit up her whole face, and Charlotte’s chest flushed with a pleasurable warmth. “And now you must tell me how your late husband responded, for I knew the man but little and could not possibly guess.”
“He said none at all.” Charlotte wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. “We tried to make him understand that seeing no owls whatsoever would not be any cause for alarm, or most of England would be running around panicking on a daily basis, but I do not think he quite understood why his guest bothered to ask in the first place.”
“It is a capital game, at any rate. What made you think of it?”
“I do not quite know. At the time, it struck me as a rather revealing question, as the person responding so often feels obliged to give their reasons and defend their choice. The answer can tell you quite a lot about a person.” Her calf twinged. She was going to have to accept that she would likely spend the entire trip touching Mary in some degree, and she would simply have to cope with it in a normal fashion. She leaned forward, stretching the offending leg in the hope that it would cease complaining.
“Is that so? And what does my answer—”
A sudden jolt threw Charlotte forward. Unbalanced as she already was, a moment later she landed in a heap in Mary’s lap. Charlotte tried to right herself and was horrified to find her hands planted high on firm thighs. She looked up, spluttering an apology, only to find Mary’s face once again inches from her own. Mary’s eyes were so dark as to be almost black, the pupils widened impossibly. Another jolt threw her sideways and her hands slipped, but Mary caught her before she hit the floor. “Goodness,” said she, helping Charlotte up. “Perhaps you should sit beside me, lest you start flying about the carriage again.”
With flaming cheeks, Charlotte took the seat beside Mary. “You were saying?”
“What? Oh, yes.” Mary’s voice was perfectly composed, but she looked almost as ruffled as Charlotte felt. “I was merely going to ask you what my answer told you about me.”
Charlotte tried to gather her thoughts. The length of Mary’s entire body was pressed against her now, and the delicious heat made it rather hard to organise words into any coherent speech. “Well, I have already teased you about your suspicious nature. Perhaps you are the kind of person who sees a pattern before others do, or perhaps you see patterns where there are none.” If she hadn’t been so discomfited, she might have phrased it differently, and regretted how it came out. “That is to say,” she corrected hastily, “you seem to me to be a profound and sensitive person, though you would have me believe otherwise.” Charlotte hesitated. This wasn’t what she’d meant to say at all, and though Mary’s expression had not changed, she sensed a new wariness. “That is to say,” she repeated, “that I like your nature very much, though it is not quite like my own. You are right when you say I am too trusting, and I admit I am rather naive at times.”
Mary patted Charlotte’s hand, her warm fingers lingering. “I like your nature very much too, Charlotte. And you are right.” She heaved a sigh, though she did not look away. “I am rather too cynical for my own good sometimes. I would like to be more like you, though without your gullible trust in the dubious goodness of owls.” Before Charlotte could press her on that point, she added, “Perhaps you will be the positive influence on me that you were on Lizzie.”
“I do not think I was any sort of influence on your sister,” Charlotte protested. “She always knew her own mind.”
“You mean she was wilful and stubborn. No,” Mary waved off Charlotte’s second protest, smiling, “I do not consider either a flaw, as some might, if not taken to excess. Though I admit, Lizzie did always seem to be off in her own world, two steps ahead of everyone else. I often thought her too superior to enjoy simple things, and while I admired that quality for a time, I came to see that it was not necessarily the virtue I had once considered it.”
The conversation turned, as it often did, to the other Bennet sisters, though Mary once again skirted around the subject of Lydia’s husband, and by the time night had begun to fall, Charlotte had been thoroughly apprised of the goings-on of half of Hertfordshire.
“It was all my mother talked about,” said she, glumly, “that is, when she wasn’t listing off the names of local gentlemen that I might, at the first available opportunity, throw myself at. I’d sooner throw myself under the wheels of their carriages, to be perfectly frank.”
Charlotte could well imagine the relentless tirades and guilt-inducing comments Mrs Bennet was capable of, and sought to distract Mary by supplying her own gossip, though her limited circle meant that most of it had come second or third-hand. In the next village—almost big enough to be a town, really—they disembarked outside an inn which overlooked the road. While Charlotte seated herself at a table inside and ordered a slice of the pigeon pie which had come so highly recommended, Mary haggled with the innkeeper. “She will give us a room for the night, but it is the last one she has, so we must share,” Mary announced, sliding into a seat opposite. “You do not mind, do you?”
Charlotte half choked on her mouthful of pie. “No, of course not.” She cleared her throat. For goodness’ sake, act normally. “You do not snore, do you?”
“In fact I do. It was a terrible problem for me as a child, and has not improved much in adulthood.”
In danger of choking a second time, Charlotte put down her fork. Who has been close enough to hear her breathe during sleep? Perhaps one of her scientist friends—some learned gentleman with whom she studies the stars or elements. Or perhaps an artist, with long, lustrous hair and a beard to match. The taste of the pigeon pie, which had been so delicious only moments before, turned bitter on her tongue.
Mary’s lips twitched. “Like a great bear, Lydia once told me,” she continued. “She slept next door, you know, and said she often lay awake half the night, wondering when the wall between us was going to collapse under the force.” She shot Charlotte a sly look. “You may wish to tie yourself to the bed, just in case.”
Charlotte was deeply glad she’d already put down her fork, for the insinuation left her hands sweaty and trembling, though she was left with nothing to hide her blushes behind and was unutterably glad when the innkeeper bustled over to say that their room was ready.
The room was nice enough, with walls painted a pretty duck-egg blue, and wide windows lined with dark blue curtains. The bed was a little smaller than the marital bed in which Charlotte had infrequently coupled with Mr Collins, and she heaved a private, frustrated sigh at the thought she had spent all day within inches of Mary and would now have to spend the night in such a way too. Why fight it? the little voice in her head suggested. You have only a short time together in Canterbury and soon enough you will be back in Hertfordshire, alone in a bed until the end of your days. It was a disturbing thought, but it made a kind of sense. Clearly she was not able to reason her attraction away, so she might as well accept it. Besides, as long as she maintained perfect behavior outwardly, no one need ever know of her silly infatuation; for that was all it was, really, and would surely pass either with more time spent together, or once they were finally apart.