Chapter Nine
Getting into bed with a woman was very different, Charlotte reflected, as she and Mary sat side by side, propped up with pillows. Her companion was engrossed in a book, and the only noise which broke the silence was the soft swish of a turned page. Mr Collins had always made a surprising amount of noise whenever they had shared a bed, hemming and hawing over some passage in his Bible, testing small turns of phrase out loud to see whether they sounded suitable in his next sermon, sniffling and coughing and snorting and—
Charlotte repressed a sigh. Really, sometimes she felt like an awful person. Mr Collins had been a perfectly serviceable husband and a kind man. If she had found him wanting in some areas, well, that was to be expected. And if she had also found him mildly irritating or embarrassing on occasion then, judging by how other women had talked of their own husbands—out of earshot from said husbands—that too was quite normal.
“How do you like it?” Mary leaned over, her dark curls unpinned and lying loose over the shoulders of her white nightgown.
Guiltily, Charlotte flinched. “Pardon?”
“The book.” She gestured at the naturalist’s diary, lying forgotten in Charlotte’s lap. “Does it bore you? Or are you too tired to read? The journey was rather long today.”
“You are very kind. No, it does not bore me at all. On the contrary, I find it very interesting. The way Mr Barton describes the place, with particular attention to the sounds and smells, is extremely evocative. I almost feel I were there alongside him.” Charlotte touched the book’s cover, tracing the name of the author. “I was actually thinking about my late husband.”
Mary’s smile softened, her eyes becoming more serious. “You do not talk of him often. If you wish to do so, know that I would gladly hear it. It has not been long since he died, and I supposed that…well, grief so often comes in strange forms. One person’s mourning process is quite different from another’s.” She bit her lip. “I apologize again for being so callous in the beginning. I hope that I did not give you the impression that I—well.”
She bit her lip again, evidently having trouble choosing the right words. A soft, green tenderness bloomed in Charlotte’s heart. Miss Bennet was not the sort to think much before speaking, and taking such obvious effort to do so showed that she really did care about Charlotte’s feelings. The room was dim, lit only by a candle on either side of the bed. They’d drawn the curtains, closing themselves off against the night and the world, and the tumult of voices and clank of mugs from the bar below had long turned from a clamour to a soft, oceanic murmur. We might be the last two people in the world , Charlotte thought, and the notion sprouted a tiny, bold bud. “May I tell you something in confidence?”
“Of course,” Mary said instantly. “I would never divulge your secrets.”
“It is simply this: I do not think I grieve him as I ought,” Charlotte confessed. “That sounds terrible but it is true.”
“Why, who says you ought to grieve him in any particular way?”
She smiled. “You are trying to make me feel better, and I am grateful for your kindness, but I do know the difference between guilt and truth. I never loved him as I ought, and so I cannot grieve him as I ought.” She put a hand over her chest, the thin fabric of her own nightgown rustling against her fingers, and felt her heart ache with something she could neither name nor explain. “I worry that I…perhaps I am not a good person if I could not—”
Mary reached for her free hand, and pressed it tightly. “Do not say such things. You are one of the best people I have ever known.” Her eyes were fierce and bright, reflecting the candle, and Charlotte could not look away.
“But I—”
“Sometimes,” Mary interrupted, “love is like a flower. If the seed is planted too deeply, then it may never see sunlight. If too shallowly, it may be eaten by a passing bird. If the conditions are not conducive, if there is not enough sun or rain or if the soil is not fertile enough, or a hundred other reasons, then the seed will not flourish. That is not the fault of the seed. Sometimes conditions are simply not ripe.” She looked as if she were about to add something else, and then hesitated, blushing. “Not that I know much of love, but this I do.”
“You may be right,” Charlotte conceded.
“I am always right,” Mary said, fluttering her eyelashes, making Charlotte laugh. “It makes me the envy of all my friends and the terror of all my enemies. Shall we turn in for the night?”
Charlotte nodded her agreement. Each laid their books aside and blew out their candles. Burrowed down into the sheets, they lay shrouded in absolute darkness, for the hangings of the four-poster blotted out even the tiniest slit of light from the shuttered windows. However, though she was tired from the day’s travel, sleep was far from Charlotte’s mind. The kind of conversation which had seemed impossible during daylight hours, even with Mary—who seemed to be able to draw intimacies and confidences out of her as easily as pulling a thread—seemed now much closer and, if not necessary, then certainly desirable. She longed to talk and be heard, to explain her heart and in doing so perhaps finally understand herself. Having lived so long to please others, remaining quiet and amiable and bland, had left her hardly able to ascertain what she wanted or what her real opinions might be. The only thing she really felt certain of was that she loved gardening, and in turn, flowers responded well to her careful ministrations. And much good that will do me, she thought. Flowers will not save me from spinsterhood, or land me a husband, or change my destiny. At most, they will give me a little pleasure each day until I inevitably die alone, still a burden to my family.
“I saw your drawing of me,” Charlotte confessed. Mary had been so kind to her, and to lie, even by omission, now seemed wrong. “I did not mean to, I was simply rescuing your dress from being creased. I do hope you are not angry with me.”
Mary didn’t respond immediately, and the lengthening silence made Charlotte anxious. Instinctively, she reached out and found Mary’s hand, warm and rough. Mary’s fingers entwined with her own, slotting into place perfectly, and for a single, glorious moment Charlotte allowed herself to imagine that hand upon her hip, pulling her close. She blushed, thankful that she couldn’t be seen, for the thoughts must surely be writ large upon her face. These thoughts were impossible to entertain during daylight hours but here in the dark, perhaps one or two silly notions could be permitted.
“I hope you do not mind that I finished the drawing after you asked me to stop.” Mary’s voice, usually so confident, was softer. More vulnerable. “I just… I thought it ought to be complete.”
“Of course I do not mind.” Charlotte pitched her own voice low and reassuring, with a hint of amusement. “You made me look quite beautiful. It speaks to your talent as an artist that you were capable of such a thing.”
Mary squeezed her fingers. “You are a perfect fool, Charlotte Lucas. I cannot draw anything that is not already there.”
Charlotte knew she should let go, but Mary’s thumb had begun to draw small circles around her wrist, and the tickling sensation produced a tightness low in her belly that was entirely too pleasant. How long can one hold a friend’s hand without being thought odd? Yet Mary hadn’t let go either. “It must have taken you a long time.”
“Indeed. I stayed up all night to do so. In fact, I only slept on the coach to Hertfordshire.”
“Now who is the fool?” Charlotte teased, although she couldn’t help frowning. “What possessed you to do something like that? And without my face to compare, was it not very difficult?”
“Difficult? Not at all.” Mary snorted. “Your face is so familiar to me.”
Charlotte blinked, though the darkness was so acute that it hardly made a difference whether her eyes were open or shut. “Really?” Of course, she’d spent a lot of time at Longbourne while growing up, and while she’d noticed Mary, she’d never really spent much time thinking about her. She’d dismissed the middle Bennet sister as dull and preachy, and though Charlotte had always taken pains to be polite, she had never sought Mary out for conversation. How different things might have been then, she thought . How much she has changed, and how little I have.
“I suppose you know I always admired you. My sisters have their own strengths and weakness, and Lord knows those flaws have got us into some—” Mary halted abruptly. “That is to say, you seemed to me to be the best of us. As kind as Jane, as deep as Lizzie, but with your own cool composure. You were the voice of reason in any argument, and you heard each side with such compassion.”
Charlotte had been correct in her earliest surmise, then; Mary had always been watching and quietly cataloguing. Again, she wondered how much Mary had seen, and how much Mary had understood. She fought the sudden urge to pull her hand back. S he was very young then, and not so worldly, she reassured herself. Perhaps she did not quite know what she saw, if in truth she saw anything at all.
“And what about you?” Charlotte asked. “If that was your estimation of your sisters and I, what is your estimation of yourself?”
“Oh, I am an odd duck. I always have been. I retreated into the past as a way of coping with the present, though it did me no favours. I was awkward and blunt and desperate for praise, though deserving none.” Mary’s thumb stuttered over the soft flesh of Charlotte’s wrist. “I may still be blunt, but I would like to think that my other qualities have ameliorated in time. I am, as ever, a work undergoing continual development.”
“I like your qualities,” Charlotte insisted, and was rewarded with a soft, breathy laugh.
Again, she couldn’t help imagining Mary’s hand on her waist, gripping tighter; perhaps even Mary’s lips, pressing lightly against her cheek. The tightness in her belly rolled lower down, the gentle warmth turning into a low, persistent flame.
“Mmm.” Mary yawned, then turned onto her side to face Charlotte, who waited with held breath to see what might be forthcoming. Unfortunately, a snuffling snore was her only response, and Charlotte smiled in the darkness, amused. When she attempted to extricate her hand, Mary only clung on tighter and she was forced to give it up as a lost cause.
It signifies nothing , she told herself. Mary saw her only as another older sister—had she not said as much?—or a new friendship kindled. Still, she couldn’t help picturing the drawing of her own face, every line and detail accurate. The drawing she’d seen of the nude woman in the letter to Mary had not so much detail, though perhaps that aspect varied between artists, some preferring a vague outline while some included every wart and wrinkle of their subjects. She’d wanted to ask about that drawing too, to admit she’d seen it, but that was quite a different situation altogether, and might have provoked anger, for it had been a private correspondence. In addition to guilt for having pried, some other emotion had been woven into the thread of her feelings; a dark, sour thing, which stung every time she imagined Mary examining the details of the drawing, those warm hands perhaps touching her own lips, caressing her cheek, her neck, wandering lower and lower and—
Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. You are going to go to sleep and not think about drawing or nude women at all, she told herself firmly. Surprisingly, this did not work. She counted sheep, then cows, then began to list all the flowers she could remember, in alphabetical order. When dawn finally broke, the sun peering in through the thin gap in the curtains, Charlotte found herself both relieved and troubled. The feelings she had allowed herself to explore had evidently taken root. She only hoped it would be possible to dig them up later.