Chapter Eleven
This island differs only little from the last; where once scarlet flowers grew, now they are pink. Many of my acquaintances and family back home could walk past these bushes a thousand times without noticing the change, and even those who notice would not necessarily care what such a detail might mean. Even the slightest, most subtle alteration may herald some future consequence.
S. Barton, Travels of a Young Naturalist
Charlotte awoke to broad sunshine pouring in through the windows. Though her nap had been brief, she felt well rested—if a little groggy—and it took her a moment to remember where she was. She rose, shuffling over to the wardrobe to consider her meagre wardrobe. If they were to attend a ball and a salon, she would need to reserve her silk for such elevated occasions. As much as she would like to look her best every day, she could not very well wander around wearing only the silk for the week or so she intended to spend in Mary’s aunt’s house. Sighing, she began the process of wriggling out of her nightgown and into various stays and petticoats, before putting on the black muslin and smoothing down her hair to a presentable state. Growing up at Lucas Lodge, Charlotte and her sisters had a lady’s maid, though she’d learned to manage quite well without one for four years at the parsonage. She’d half expected Mary’s own maid to wake her up and help her dress but, on second thoughts, she couldn’t imagine independent Mary allowing anyone to help her any more than was strictly necessary.
Pitt was waiting in the hallway, pretending to inspect a plant pot in the corner, and greeted Charlotte warmly before escorting her down the broad staircase and into the blue wallpapered room she had glimpsed earlier that morning. The grandfather clock in the hall struck eleven when Charlotte entered, the loud noise causing her to flinch in surprise. Mary was already at the breakfast table, wearing a long-sleeved sapphire-coloured dress which made her look as if she had been designed perfectly to fit the room. The table itself was almost as long as the great table in the dining hall at Rosings, and was only laid for two places, making it look rather bare. Even the large centerpiece of white roses and white orchids—both conveying purity and innocence, Charlotte noted, though likely chosen for their look rather than their meanings—did not help matters. Still, the room was beautiful, and airy, with tall eastern-facing windows which let in the morning sunshine most becomingly.
Two footmen stood along the wall in dark livery and black breeches, their hair neatly combed. Pitt pulled out Charlotte’s chair, halfway down the table—rather far from her host, she thought, but perhaps one could not help the distance with a table so large—and waited until she was seated before bowing and making his exit.
“Good afternoon,” her host beamed, waving a piece of toast liberally spread with jam. She rose and came around the table, kissing Charlotte on the cheek, before retiring to her seat again. “I trust you rested a little?”
At home in the parsonage, Mr Collins had frequently got up early, whether for some particular prayer or parishioner who required his attention, and Charlotte had therefore got into the habit of rising even earlier so that everything was ready for him. It had been a long time since she had slept with such careless abandon, and said so.
Mary smiled. “Well, you shall sleep as much as you like here.”
“I shall do no such thing,” Charlotte protested. “Would you have me snore away all my hours in an exciting new place?”
Mary took another bite of toast, smirking. “I suppose you are right. In that case, you shall sleep neither too little nor too much.”
Charlotte realised she was being teased, though instead of feeling embarrassed, a warmth spread through her chest. Pitt poured her a cup of tea—only a splash of milk, just the way she liked it, making Charlotte wonder whether he had been specifically instructed on something so small. “And how did you fare?”
“I missed my bedfellow, of course, though not the drooling,” Mary declared, and Charlotte’s warmth turned to embarrassment after all.
Neither footman moved, but held a quick conversation with their eyes which was easy enough to guess. Mary caught it too, and gestured for them to leave. “Out, boys,” she commanded. They obeyed, grinning at each other rather than looking rebuked by such an abrupt dismissal. To Charlotte, Mary added, “Do not worry about them. They are silly fish-wives eager for any scrap of gossip, but nothing said or done in this house ever leaves it, on pain of their employment. You may trust me on that point.”
“Oh. Why such secrecy?” She hadn’t quite meant to voice the thought, but it was out before she could take it back.
Mary’s gaze flickered towards the door and then back to Charlotte. “Have not all houses secrets?” Her tone, which had been quite free only a moment before, had become cool and measured. “And this one more than most, though I dare say ours are of a different nature.”
She had said ours , not theirs , Charlotte noted, gulping down the much-needed tea. This secret, whatever it was, must pertain to Mary herself as well. Confused by the conversation, and distracted by her stomach grumbling loudly, Charlotte poured herself more tea before reaching for a slice of lightly-toasted bread. “And when shall you give me this much-lauded tour of the house?”
“Whenever you are ready.” Mary’s tone had returned to normal, though it retained some slight vestige of coolness. “In fact, I can begin it now while you break your fast properly, if you like. By the way, the jam is most excellent.” She pushed a jar towards Charlotte, who likewise spread the jam liberally on a piece of toast and was delighted to find out that Mary was correct—it was delicious and, if she were not mistaken, was a concoction of strawberry and blueberry. Sweet and tart; a match made in heaven.
“I expect you’ve noticed the wallpaper already,” Mary said. “And with all your particular expertise in flowers, you will no doubt recognise these.”
“Canterbury Bells,” Charlotte said immediately, “and apple blossoms. Though you flatter me with your praise, I do not claim any such expertise.”
“Then you shall prove it with my second, more difficult question—what do they mean?”
Charlotte hesitated. “Do you know the answer?”
“Quite the opposite. I have no idea.”
She reached for another piece of toast, doing her best to hide a smile. “Then I could tell you any old twaddle and you would not know the difference.”
Mary gave her a long, amused look. “Charlotte, the day you tell an outright lie is the day the world ends and the angels blow their trumpets. Go on.”
Charlotte smiled, unable to help blushing. “Well, the bells signify your letter received and the apple blossoms mean that the giver prefers the receiver above all others. I always thought the latter one of the prettiest meanings in any bouquet. For what more could one ever hope for, than to be someone’s chosen first?”
Not that she herself had ever known such felicity; Mr Collins had proposed to Lizzie first, and only by Lizzie’s refusal had Charlotte the opportunity to make her own interest known. Before Mr Collins, there had been plenty of balls and dances and young men, but none had ever esteemed her as anything other than a pleasant girl with the same attributes to recommend her as at least four dozen girls in the surrounding area, and nothing at all which would make her stand out as a particular prize. Mary had surely felt the same way, and though she had been rather tight-lipped about any previous suitors, Charlotte was sure that she must have had at least one. She was pretty, after all, with charm and wit enough to intrigue many men and intimidate at least a few, and her family was a good, respectable one. Certainly men often picked far worse brides. The thought distracted her and once again she pictured Mary in church on the arm of some well-dressed gentleman, a veil covering those fine dark eyes, though no matter how she tried, she couldn’t picture happiness in the scene.
Pitt passed by the doorway, drawing Mary’s eyes. Charlotte sighed. If she had been born a man, then Lucas Lodge would have been her inheritance as the eldest, and she would have been able to pick and choose a wife as she liked, with nary a comment about her bachelor status. Marriage would have been her choice at leisure, and if she had decided never to marry, then the worst she would have endured would have been some good-natured familial teasing and the inheritance passing to the next male heir upon her demise. Even if she’d been born a younger son, she would have been free to take up some employ of her choosing. A position which allowed one to make one’s fortune was, in a man, a mark of industriousness to be admired. For a woman, a paid position was a pitiable indication that one had fallen low.
To be a man was to sit astride the mount of society; to be a woman was to be crushed under its heavy hooves.
“You have left me again, and gone off into some dreamland where I cannot follow.” Mary poured a little more tea into her cup, then reached for the milk jug.
“Oh, it is very silly of me. I was just thinking that if I were a man, I would be free enough to give flowers to whomever I chose.”
Mary bit her lip, her eyes flickering once again to the doorway. “That is not always the case, I’m afraid.”
“Well, no,” Charlotte admitted. Men of rank were discouraged from falling in love with women of the underclass, though some did anyway. She studied Mary’s expression, and realization dawned; Mary’s lover might have been a poor man, unable to offer the kind of life she’d been accustomed to, or perhaps her fancy had been taken by one of the footmen—both were handsome, broad-shouldered boys. It would not be the first time a Bennet sister had made a poor choice of match; Mary’s unwillingness to discuss Lydia’s marriage to George Wickham, together with the impression Charlotte herself had gleaned of the gentleman and the way she had observed him behave towards Lizzie told her enough. Still, she’d thought Mary more sensible than that, even in matters of the heart.
Charlotte gulped down another piece of toast, pushing down a stab of unseemly jealousy, while Mary pointed out the paintings on the walls. These, it turned out, were chiefly by American painters, and featured rather stark landscapes of pines and rushing rivers under pale skies. They were beautiful, and Charlotte praised them aloud, though her host lacked similar ardor.
After she’d swallowed the remainder of her tea, they returned to the foyer, where Charlotte stole another glance at the portrait of Aunt Cecily before following Mary into a large, pretty drawing room which smelled of violets, as if Mary had dabbed her perfume all over this room. Here the black pianoforte gleamed, the polished lid reflecting the scalloped ceiling. Another chandelier, more delicate than the one in the foyer, hung in the middle of the room. Two blue couches faced each other on either side of an elegant mantel above a large hearth, creating a pleasant space in which to sit and converse. “I must warn you that everything is very blue in this house,” Mary said, with more gloom than Charlotte would have thought the colour warranted. “Aunt Cecily loves it so. Her one concession is the bedrooms, which have escaped the uniformity of the rest. Yours is the prettiest, bar my own.”
Arching an eyebrow, Charlotte cast a look at Mary’s dress. “It is a colour which flatters you immensely, despite your protests.”
Surprising Charlotte, Mary blushed. “Thank you. I do rather like it in a gown, and perhaps in one room, but one gets tired of seeing it everywhere, every day.”
“And what colour would you prefer?”
“Green,” Mary declared. “A decent, natural green. I’d much rather feel as if I were in a garden than on a ship.”
Charlotte couldn’t help agreeing, but though the lady of the house was not there to hear these complaints, she felt obliged to say how pretty the room was. “And whom did your aunt marry? I do not recall that you told me.”
“Oh, a Mr George Langley—an American gentleman, who did very well for himself after some mines in North Carolina struck gold. His family were not on the British side in the war, though Aunt Cecily seems not to mind such trifling things as that.” Mary rolled her eyes, though a smile played around her lips.
“I see. And who do we have here?” Charlotte bent to examine the plants in pots in the corner.
“Mignonette,” Mary supplied, coming to stand next to Charlotte. “Aunt Cecily loves the scent. It covers up the terrible smell of the cigars her husband smokes, at least.”
“I see why she enjoys it. Though it means meekness, which is a message that I suspect your aunt Cecily does not intend to give her guests.” Charlotte inhaled deeply, before rising to her feet. “It’s lovely. Is there a touch of it in the perfume you use?” She reached for Mary’s wrist and brought it to her nose, pressing it against the pale flesh there. “Yes, it is similar. Yours is a little darker, though. Perhaps they used marjoram or…” she sniffed again, “cloves? Something to undercut the highest notes of the violet. I cannot quite determine—”
Charlotte froze, realising what she was doing must look extremely odd. Mary’s lips twitched, though her cheeks were rosy. “Yes? Do go on. I wasn’t aware you knew my scent so closely.”
“We did spend several days in a carriage together,” Charlotte pointed out, dropping Mary’s hand. A fat worm of embarrassment crawled down her back, leaving her itchy and burning. “It is to your credit that I recall it so well, for had it been a bad smell, I would have sought to forget it quickly.” The jest fell rather flat, but she was too agitated to think of anything wittier.
“Hmm. And your scent is usually rosemary and mint. Am I correct?”
Charlotte nodded. “Mrs Waites insists that Bessie puts a sprig of mint in the water when she washes the clothes. I grew to like it.”
Mary stepped closer. “Ah, but since your bath…” She leaned in, dark hair tickling Charlotte’s nose, and her breath puffed over the bare flesh of Charlotte’s collarbone, sending prickles of a different nature down her spine. “The lavender has quite overpowered it. A shame, really. I shall have our maids do the same as your excellent Mrs Waites suggests.”
Instead of pulling back, her hand lingered, fingers skimming over the curve of Charlotte’s neck. Charlotte’s own fingers twitched, brushing the fabric of Mary’s dress. Their eyes met, their noses only inches apart, and she was forcibly reminded of the moment back in the parsonage when she had wiped the charcoal off Mary’s cheek. Something had crackled between them in that moment; a tiny flame, which had grown since into a steady, low blaze. Perhaps Mary did not see it, or, if she saw it, perhaps she had failed to recognise Charlotte’s affection as something more than mere friendship. The thought washed over her in a cold rush—to be noticed would be bad enough, but to be noticed and rejected, as she no doubt would be, would be a fatal humiliation.
Feeling rather short of breath, Charlotte offered a quick, forced smile and made her escape to the window overlooking the street. That morning, the light had been too dim for her to properly appreciate the elegance of the houses, but now she could see the neat brickwork and black iron railings which guarded every home. Carriages rumbled past, while gentlemen roved in small packs past tittering ladies in elaborately decorated headwear. Focusing on these small details allowed her breathing to calm, and to recognise the stuttering of her heart as the precursor to desire.
Since they had held hands last night in the inn, Mary had acted differently. She brushed against Charlotte more often, or found more reason to touch her; or was that merely Charlotte’s imagination? Perhaps Charlotte was simply more aware of Mary now, of every breath and movement. Was I ever so aware of Mr Collins? she wondered, though she already knew the answer. In those frequent moments when he had been close to her, she had felt an urge to wriggle free rather than to lean in further. Certainly holding his hand or sniffing his neck had never produced such a low heat in her belly. It was all so very different, and though she told herself that it meant nothing, she couldn’t help worrying that it did in fact mean something.
This was a dangerous path to walk. Sooner or later there might come a moment when she would make a mistake, reveal her true nature, and that might ruin everything. Mary, having grown up with four sisters, was probably so used to feminine affection that she had not even considered it strange. Only Charlotte could be so foolish and touch-starved to consider it anything other than simple friendship. She was probably mortifying herself already, and vowed to keep on her guard against future incidents, though the promise was short-lived when Mary slid warm fingers into Charlotte’s own, entwining them and squeezing.
“Come,” her host entreated, seemingly unaware of her guest’s innermost thoughts. “We have much more to see.”
* * *
The dark hallway between drawing room and dining room only led down to the kitchen, Mary informed her, and so they crossed the hall and entered the library instead. This room was also blue, albeit a different shade than the drawing room—more a bright cornflower blue, though the walls were so covered with shelves that the effect of the paint was rather spoiled. Charlotte exclaimed over the presence of so many books, and despite the room being only a third of the size of the great library at Rosings, most of these looked as if they had been thumbed through at least in the last century. Mary walked from one end of the room to another, trailing her fingers along the spines and pointing out the ones she’d read which might be of greatest interest, though the titles meant nothing to Charlotte. There was also a large oak desk, spattered with ink, which held a neat stack of books and a fresh candle.
“This is the room where Aunt Cecily talks of business with visitors,” Mary said. “She always says that the drawing room makes them too comfortable.”
Charlotte blinked. “Does she not wish her visitors to be comfortable?”
“She always says she’d prefer them afraid. I disagree—I think a person who considers himself comfortable might let a little more slip than someone who is on their guard, but what do I know of such things?”
Not quite sure whether Mary was joking or not, Charlotte wandered over to a large curio cabinet. Inside, three shelves groaned under the weight of odd little trinkets and assorted items. “These are the most treasured things Aunt Cecily has brought back from her travels,” Mary continued. “See that carved wooden box? She traded one of her prettiest dresses for it.”
Charlotte leaned closer and inspected the box. It certainly was beautifully carved, with tiny hares leaping around the rim of the lid. The inlay on top was a delicate, curving pattern which reminded her of tangled roots, and must have taken the carver a considerable time to achieve. “What about this?” she asked, pointing to a long pipe.
“She refuses to elaborate on that one, though she smiles every time she looks at it. My personal suspicion is that she and the rest of her party indulged in some local, herbal delicacy leading to a bacchanalic experience best not discussed in polite company.”
“I had no idea such things existed.” Charlotte blinked. The local, herbal delicacy, whatever it had been, was surely a long, long way from anything grown in Mrs Waite’s vegetable patch.
“I have one myself upstairs, though it is not so large,” Mary said, interrupting her thoughts.
“A pipe?”
“A curio cabinet.”
“And what treasures have you?”
“I shall show you, though I beg you to lower your expectations. I’m afraid I myself have never indulged in bacchanalian revels.”
Charlotte followed Mary out of the library, casting a last glance over her shoulder at the pipe. “What precisely qualifies as bacchanalian?”
“I’m sure the definition varies from one person to the next,” Mary said, the back of her neck reddening a little. “Come, there are some wonderful paintings on the second-floor hallway.”
The paintings were indeed wonderful. Aunt Cecily evidently had quite the eye for landscapes, particularly those with brilliant sunrises or sunsets, and family portraits hung between each in an alternating fashion. “This is my great-grandmother,” Mary said, pointing to an amiable-looking woman dressed in a high collar and pearls, with two children playing at her feet. “And the stern gentleman over there, the one with his boot on the deer’s neck, was a favourite of one of the royal cousins, about fifty years ago, though I believe it ended in some sort of scandal. There are a few more paintings at the end of the first-floor hallway, which you did not see last night, as well as a rather lovely bust. Come, I shall show you.”
“You have not shown me your own chamber,” Charlotte reminded Mary, as they descended the stairs. “Or is it a thorough mess of books, papers, and paint-smudged sheets?” Unbidden, her mind produced an image of Mary in bed, frowning and rumpled, ink-stains reaching all the way down her forearms and vining over the pale flesh of her shoulders and—
She cleared her throat.
“It is not as bad as all that,” Mary grumbled, though she was smiling. “Though in truth you are not far off. If you insist upon seeing it, I shall grant you the honour.”
Mary’s bedroom was painted a delicate pink, in contrast to the strong blue which permeated so much of the rest of the house. Her four-poster was covered in a pink blanket, and before the fireplace lay a plush rug in a similar shade. Apart from the desk—which was as Charlotte had expected, so overrun with books and papers and drawings that there was scarcely an inch on which one could conceivably write a letter—there was not a single chair in the room.
“Why, you have no chairs except the one at your desk,” cried Charlotte. “And this is such a pretty place to sit, too.”
“Oh. Well… I confess I had the servants move my best chairs into your room.” Mary’s smile was nervous as she scratched the back of her neck. “I was rather hoping you wouldn’t notice. I thought you would be more comfortable that way.”
Charlotte swallowed, touched by how thoughtful the action had been. “You are far too kind to me, you know.”
“Nonsense, it’s just a couple of chairs.”
“No.” She took Mary’s hand, pressing it earnestly. “It is far more than that. You comforted me in my time of need, and you have been such a good listener, and I—” She bit her lip. “Thank you. For everything.”
Without thinking, she pulled Mary into an embrace. She felt the body in her arms stiffen, and then relax. “You are very welcome,” Mary murmured, her warm breath brushing a sensitive spot under Charlotte’s earlobe.
Charlotte gritted her teeth. She had meant the hug as a friendly gesture, but the feel of Mary’s body against hers set every nerve alight. “I find myself quite thirsty,” said she, detangling herself. “Might it be time for a spot of tea?”
“Why, you fairly read my mind!”
Forcing a smile, Charlotte followed Mary out of the room, really hoping that would never be the case.