Chapter Twelve
Though Mary had been with Charlotte the whole time and had no spare moment to instruct the butler in anything, when Pitt pulled out Charlotte’s chair for luncheon, it was next to Mary’s at the head of the table. Sitting so close, it was unavoidable that their knees brushed, just as they had that first evening in the parsonage. Charlotte caught the odd glance Mary shot Pitt, though his attention was fixed on the careful adjustment of a candlestick which seemed to Charlotte to be perfectly situated already.
The footmen were nowhere to be seen, and when Charlotte mentioned this, Mary waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, I gave them the day off. They worked hard to get the house back in order, and they deserve a rest.”
“That is most kind of you. Many would not even think of such a thing.”
“Well,” said she, “I was always troubled by the way my mother ran a house. Our servants at Longbourne only had one day off a month and even that was given grudgingly. Now that I am the mistress of this house, I can do as I please.”
They enjoyed a light meal of salad, dressed beautifully and featuring cubes of fresh, crisp cucumber littered amongst strips of mange-tout. The meal was a little earlier than Charlotte was used to, though she finished everything on her plate with satisfaction. “Dinner will be three courses at least,” Mary warned, “though I have not the slightest idea what Miss Brodie is planning.”
Miss Brodie? Charlotte raised an eyebrow. This was a very strange house indeed. Cooks, at least in her experience, tended to be middle-aged and married at least once. She must be rather young, or perhaps very talented, or both. “You do not instruct your cook?”
Pitt entered the room and headed straight for the top of the table, collecting Mary’s plate and cup. “Heavens, no. I let her do what she pleases, and the result is an excellent one for all parties concerned.” Mary smiled. “Thank you, Pitt. So, now that you have had your tour, will you give your opinion?”
“I suppose you already know what I will say. It is a beautiful home and I quite envy you living here.” She couldn’t help adding, slightly mischievously, “In spite of all the blue.”
Mary laughed. “If the constant presence of blue is the price I must pay, then pay it I shall. You are quite right; it is a lovely home. Aunt Cecily has done very well for herself, though she is rarely in the country long enough to appreciate it. And I cannot say I blame her.”
“Why so?”
“The Americans are a little more free in some ways,” Mary explained. “And I have to say, I quite agree with their thinking. Why, I am a grown woman of four-and-twenty—what need have I for a chaperone? Men do not require them at any age, even when they are little boys, but may gad about as they please. Even married women in England do not have the sort of freedom married women in America do, and I confess it is rather vexing to hear her describe her adventures when I am so confined here.”
“Such conditions are intended to protect us from salacious gossip,” Charlotte pointed out, as Pitt slid back into the room like a well-tailored ghost. “Or ardent suitors too keen to press their desires.”
“That rather sounds to me as if men should work a little more on keeping themselves in check, rather than women hiding themselves away.” Mary smiled. “If only the world were so easily fixed as that. I confess that while I am grateful for Aunt Cecily’s kindness which allows me greater liberty than I enjoyed in Meryton, I am still bound by the confines of English society. Had I never heard countless tales of the adventures she has undertaken across the ocean, I might have been content. One does not know what one misses if one is kept ignorant of it.”
Charlotte’s smile was pained, for she had recently become familiar with the same sentiment. Before she could inquire whether Mary had plans to travel to America, her host smiled back. “Now, I hope you do not mind,” Mary continued, “but I must write a few letters this afternoon. I should be finished by dinnertime. If you require any entertainment, I can recommend diversions.”
Pitt leaned past Charlotte to remove her plate and now-empty cup. “Please do not trouble yourself on my behalf,” said she. “While I shall of course mourn the loss of your company, I admit I am eager to return to Mr Barton’s book.” Pitt fumbled the saucer—the first time Charlotte had ever seen him do anything without grace—and his eyes flashed towards Mary before he continued out of the room. Charlotte hesitated. What was all that about? “He has such a way with words,” she continued, seeing that Mary was listening attentively. Perhaps she did not notice. “He makes me feel as if I am there beside him.”
“Barton was a wonderful storyteller. The world is a far dimmer place without his light.”
“Why, you never told me you knew him.”
Mary shifted in her seat. “I’m afraid he passed away two years ago. He was a good man, and an adventurous one, and he caught some sort of sweating sickness. He died after a week, though thankfully he had not been awake during most of it.”
“I’m so very sorry to hear that.” Charlotte bit her lip. This was a blow indeed. She’d grown rather fond of Barton, and hoped Mary might be able to introduce them at the salon.
* * *
Mary departed soon afterwards, with a promise to return as quickly as she was able. Charlotte, who despite the tour did not feel able to occupy space in someone else’s drawing room while they were not present—at least, not yet—retired to her bedroom. She sat in the armchair, remembering that Mary had given up her own comfort readily to ensure Charlotte’s own. The idea suffused her with a warm glow, and it was long minutes before she remembered to even open the book on her lap. Immersing herself once again in Mr Barton’s adventure, Charlotte ignored the pang of grief she felt about the author’s death, and concentrated on his life. Barton, who had apparently grown up somewhere near the Dorset coast, was not the sort of gentleman to sit idly by while others worked. He had been told off by the captain for getting so involved—the captain apparently preferred a more distinct boundary between the crew and any upper-class passengers—but Barton had taken the scolding with good cheer, and the captain had eventually relented. He had been permitted to assist with navigation, which seemed like very complex work to Charlotte, who had never been aboard anything bigger than a rowboat on a calm lake.
When Barton was not assisting the crew with physical tasks, he was writing notes late into the night on all that he had seen and heard so far: the screech of sea birds, strange winged fish dragged aboard in nets, and the ever-changing colours of the water. Grey is my least favourite , he’d written, for it heralds bad weather. Charlotte frowned, picturing grey waves rising higher and higher. She shuddered, and was pulled from her reverie by a soft knock upon the door.
Mary poked her head around the door. “Pitt has just told me that dinner will be ready shortly. Would you like to join me downstairs?”
Charlotte blinked, startled. “Have so many hours passed?”
“You must be enjoying that book, then.” Mary grinned. “I have been gone almost two and a half hours.”
Charlotte rose, rolling her shoulders and finding her neck a little stiff. “Gracious, I must have been entirely engrossed. It is a compelling read.”
She followed Mary out of the room and downstairs, feeling her stomach rumble. “I do hope you enjoy dinner,” Mary said, as they entered the dining room. “My cook is glad I have a visitor, for I never eat so much or so well by myself. I believe she has gone to a bit of trouble to impress you.”
“Impress me?” Charlotte blinked, surprised. Why would anybody bother to try to impress me?
Mary did not elaborate, and in a few moments, overseen by Pitt, the footmen brought out a first course of spiced turnip soup, swiftly followed by veal cutlets, liberally buttered new potatoes, and roast asparagus. The accompanying wine was a delicate white, smooth on the palate, with a hint of smoky oak.
“This is simply sumptuous,” Charlotte announced. “Why, I cannot remember the last time I had veal so delicious. It quite melts on the tongue.”
“You must have eaten well at Rosings, surely? Did you not dine there often?”
“We did,” Charlotte conceded, “but unfortunately Lady Catherine does not believe in having a light hand with a cow. I believe she would have served us all blackened slices if she thought she could get away with it. She seemed to prefer her meat done so well the animal was entirely unrecognizable.”
“That is a terrible shame indeed.” Mary speared a piece of veal and lifted it into the air. Blood pooled on her plate. “I myself prefer it rare. In fact, if the cow has only just stopped mooing, that may be a touch too late for me.”
Charlotte couldn’t repress a chuckle of amusement. “It is exceptional fare,” said she, “and you ought to tell your cook so. Why, I was alone often at Hunsford but that never stopped Mrs Waites from creating the most marvelous dishes, or me from enjoying them. One does not have to be in company to savor a good meal.”
Mary picked up her wine glass and swirled the contents thoughtfully. “Was Mr Collins gone often?”
Not as much as I would have liked , Charlotte thought, and swallowed a hasty forkful of potato to stop herself from saying it. “Oh, certainly. He liked to go on small visits to the surrounding village, as well as the next few over. On several occasions he was gone for weeks at a time.”
“Did you not have any particular friends in Kent?”
Charlotte’s stomach clenched. “We hosted people passing through, and met many distinguished guests at Rosings who stayed with the de Bourghs.”
Mary studied her. “That is not what I asked.”
Charlotte chewed, delaying her response in the hope that her host would move onto a different subject, but the silence merely lengthened. Mary watched her, apparently satisfied to wait until she had an answer. She sighed. “Not really. Anne de Bourgh is very kind, though I would not call us close. And there was not anyone else of my own age or class within walking distance.” Her pleasant friendship with Mrs Waites was something that Charlotte’s acquaintances would likely find bizarre or gauche; having friendships across class boundaries simply was not done, particularly with one’s own servants. Even Mr Collins had been kept unaware of the depth of their camaraderie, for he would have undoubtedly seen it as pity and kindness on Charlotte’s part, and would have been unable to comprehend the real value that Mrs Waites contributed. She shrugged. “My job was to be a good wife for my husband, and to allow him to continue his work unimpeded. It hardly mattered what I wanted.” Nor has it ever , she thought.
“It sounds like rather a lonely life.”
Charlotte wasn’t quite sure what Mary was getting at. She’d forgotten how these statements could feel rather like judgements. “Perhaps it was. Are you not alone here? Do you ever feel lonely?”
Mary sipped her wine. “I would like to introduce you to a few of my acquaintances while you are here. Miss Highbridge is a particular friend of mine and I believe you shall get on famously.”
Miss Highbridge. The name sent a sharp shock through her chest. Miss Anne Highbridge, perhaps? She wondered how she would feel if she saw in person the woman from the nude drawing. Would she be able to look her in the eyes? You told Mary you were not a prude , the little voice inside reminded her. I do not believe that I am , she argued back, but there is something rather different about seeing a woman’s body unclothed before you have even been introduced to the lady in person.
Hmm, the little voice said. And it is nothing to do with the fact that Mary might have seen her nude? Also, she did not answer your question.
Unable to answer that, Charlotte curled her fingers into fists under the table, doing her best to ignore the thrum of discomfort pulsing through her stomach.
“Now, shall we eat a little dessert?” Mary asked.
A little dessert turned out to be a glass of brandy and an enormous slice of rum cake. Charlotte took a large mouthful of the latter, and was astounded by the familiar taste. The cake was sweet without being cloying, and spiced perfectly. “Why, this is just like Mrs Waites’! However did you manage it?”
Mary grinned. “That’s because I asked her for the exact recipe. I wanted you to feel most welcome here. I do hope my cook did it justice.”
Charlotte halted mid-chew. In all her life, she could not think of anyone doing anything half so kind and thoughtful for her and, intriguingly, Mary had somehow managed what half the village could not, and obtained a recipe from Mrs Waites’ fiercely defended collection. “How on earth did you convince her to give that to you? I would swear God Himself would have to ask for Mrs Waites to even consider sharing. And even then, I believe she would have to think twice.”
“I told her it was for you.” Mary shrugged, but her eyes watched Charlotte nervously. “I was fully prepared to beg, but she gave it up rather easily after that. Do you like it?”
“Indeed I do. Please give my deepest thanks to Miss Brodie.” Charlotte picked up her brandy and sniffed, picking up delicious notes of dried apricot and nutmeg. The first sip sent a pleasurable warmth rolling through her mouth, coasting down her throat. “And how goes your letter-writing?”
“I am afraid I did not finish them all in time.” Mary looked tired, though her eyes were still bright and her features animated. “I had more to say than I thought and… Well. Tis no matter. I will finish them tomorrow.”
“I would be perfectly happy to amuse myself this evening,” Charlotte suggested, afraid that Mary would feel obliged to put off her letters in order to entertain her guest. She sipped the brandy again, feeling the effects already. Lord, but this is rather strong stuff. Another glass and I will be asleep where I sit.
“If I am perfectly honest,” Mary’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “I would much rather spend time with you. What say I write one or two, and then come to your chamber?”
“An agreeable compromise.” Charlotte shot a sly look over her brandy glass. “Why, you would make a very amiable husband, Miss Bennet.”
“You flatter me far too much,” Mary laughed, though a faint flush crept up the side of her neck. Under the table, her knee brushed against Charlotte’s once, twice, and then stayed there. “Perhaps I only compromise because I want something, like most husbands.”
“Whatever could you want from me?” Continuing the game, Charlotte batted her eyelashes coquettishly, unable to repress a smile.
“Your time and attention, of course. What could be a sweeter reward than that?”
“I’ve changed my mind. You might be an amiable husband, but anyone who talks with such poetry is surely up to something devilish.” Charlotte rose from the table, amused by the way Mary stared up at her in faux-outrage.
“How dare you impugn my character as an upstanding gentleman?”
“Yes, dear. Whatever you say, dear.” Charlotte smirked as Mary’s outrage turned to indignation, and before her host could splutter a reply, she leaned down and pressed a kiss to Mary’s cheek. “I shall see you upstairs, then.”
* * *
In her chamber, Charlotte allowed herself a single minute’s reflection on the way Mary had smiled at her, the way Mary’s cheek had felt under her lips, before she turned her attention back to Barton’s diary. The fire was bright, the window open and delivering a cool breeze with the dark-edged smells of the night. She was so engrossed in a passage recounting an incident where a dead gull had plummeted onto the deck, sending the crew into a frenzy of superstitious panic, that she startled when the door opened. Mary sidled into the room, holding a decanter and two glasses. “May I join you? I have, of course, brought an offering to tempt you away from your book.”
“Yes, of course.” Charlotte studied Mary as she settled into the opposite armchair. “Did you know you have ink on your chin? And charcoal on your forehead? And something I cannot name just under your left eye?”
“Oh for goodness’ sake.” Mary sighed. “You must think me a slovenly wretch indeed. Have you a towel?”
“I think no such thing,” Charlotte chided. “Here, let me.” She fetched a towel which had been neatly folded next to the empty washbasin, and some water from the pitcher. Dipping the corner of the towel into the water, she took her time gent-ly cleaning Mary’s face. Those dark eyes watched her all the while, and although it was a dangerous moment, Charlotte took her time, unlike the first time she had ever done this back at the parsonage.
Her other hand held Mary’s chin in place, and she could not help moving very slightly, the fingers stroking infinitesimally. Mary blinked, long and slow, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. It was so strange, Charlotte thought, that when they were together like this, a bubble formed, and they really did feel like the only two people in the world. Jane had once described her marriage to Bingley in a similar way, but that had been a marriage—a love connection sought, established, and built upon—rather than a friendship.
By the time she was finished, she was quite reluctant to let go. “There, now you are quite clean.”
“Thank you.” Mary’s knuckles were white around the arms of the chair, though her voice was calm and collected. “Shall I pour us a glass?”
“What is it?”
“Whisky. Aunt Cecily’s preferred Scottish brand, no less. She claims the Americans made a very decent rye whisky, but I personally think the Scots have the right of it.”
The spirit proved to be excellent indeed, and soon enough they abandoned the armchairs in favour of sitting side by side on the rug in front of the crackling fire, discussing people they had known in Hertfordshire. “Do you recall Emma Sallow? Yellow hair, rather tall?” Mary asked. “She was a friend of Jane’s in their youth, though I think she turned quite mean-spirited later.”
“I think so. Did not she marry a baron?”
“An earl, if the rumours are true.”
Charlotte swallowed another mouthful of whisky, savouring the burn. “It just goes to show that kindness is not always rewarded.”
“Indeed. In fact, Lydia used to say…” Mary trailed off. A muscle in her jaw jumped, and she raised her glass to her lips, then lowered it without drinking.
Charlotte touched Mary’s arm tentatively, and was relieved when Mary smiled at her, eyes softening. “I understand that we all have our secrets, but if you should wish to talk to anyone, I am here.”
“I know that you would never tell anyone. It is just…” Mary sighed. “Well, here is the truth. Lydia went off with the militia, and slipped her chaperone one night. She and Wickham ran off together, and they…well, suffice it to say that they did not immediately marry.” Charlotte gasped, her mouth flying to her mouth as Mary continued. “Darcy found them and made them undertake the ceremony immediately. I suppose I should not be surprised that Lizzie did not tell you herself. She never told me either. I heard it from Jane, who eventually caved under my questioning.”
“Lizzie and Darcy are a very good match.” At one time, that sentence would have pained Charlotte, but now it seemed like some faraway dream, lost to the clouds of time. “In his place, I believe she would have done the same thing. She always did have a very strong sense of justice.”
Mary gulped down the contents of her glass, and poured another. “Indeed.”
“Thank you for confiding in me.” The words hardly seemed to do the sentiment justice, for the scandal would have been a huge one and destroyed the family’s name and the opportunity of all of the girls to make a match. Lydia had always been headstrong, but to run away at fifteen with a man she barely knew went far beyond the foolishness of youth.
“I trust you, Charlotte.” Mary shrugged, as if it were as simple as that. “I would be surprised if you had not already guessed at something similar.”
“I had,” Charlotte confessed. “Though of course I never would have pried.”
Not to her face, anyway, but you are bold enough to go through papers and trunks when it pleases you , the little voice in her head reminded her, causing her stomach to clench unpleasantly.
“I was angry with Lydia for a long time,” Mary admitted. “I still am.” She tapped her glass absently with a finger, staring into the low flames as they danced. “It’s just like her to do something rash and not care a whit about the consequences of her actions for herself or anyone else. She believes that she is the only one who has ever felt passionately about anything and therefore all her actions may be explained away in the name of love.” She scoffed. “I do not believe it ever was love, not really. She is too flighty and he too cunning for that. It will be a miracle if they do not separate within five years, or have some other scandal.”
Charlotte sipped her drink and waited. Mary was on the verge of saying something, she was certain of it. Mary lay back on the rug, crossing her hands behind her head, and after a moment Charlotte did the same. “You feel passionately about things, too,” she prompted.
“Of course I do, but I have been careful to pursue them in secrecy, to keep my family name free from any whiff of impropriety. I would never—” She broke off, turning to face Charlotte, who mimicked her movements. “Have you never thought of what you might do, if you thought nobody would discover it?”
Charlotte bit her lip. “Does not everyone?”
Suddenly Mary’s eyes were sharper than they had been. Charlotte wilted under the steady beam of that penetrating gaze. “To whom do you tell your secrets, Charlotte Lucas?”
“To—to no one,” she stuttered, “though they are not interesting ones, I am sure.”
“I doubt it. I find you quite—” Mary’s eyes dropped to Charlotte’s lips “—fascinating.” Her gaze flickered back up and held Charlotte’s own.
The moment stretched out unbearably. Charlotte was acutely aware of her every breath catching, and the placement of her body, so close to Mary’s that a single movement could bring them into intimate contact. Was it her imagination or was Mary leaning closer? Or was she? The situation was rapidly getting out of hand. For a moment, she wondered what might happen if she simply leaned in. She might aim for a goodnight kiss on the cheek, and who would mind terribly if her aim—imperiled by the spirits—was a little off? She was shocked to find she was actually considering this as a potential course of action, and even more surprised to find Mary close enough for Charlotte to feel warm breath on her lips.
“Would you say these spirits are strong?” Mary asked.
An odd question , Charlotte thought. Her head was clear enough, though her senses were pleasantly fuzzy and her courage apparently high. “A little.”
“You did not answer my earlier question. What would you do if you thought no one would ever find out?”
“I am quite tired,” Charlotte said, rolling backwards abruptly, and gaining her feet in a rather ungainly way. “Perhaps it is time for bed.” If she had not been looking directly at Mary, she would have missed the strange expression that flickered across her friend’s face. As it was, she saw it, but could make no sense of it. “You know, I rather miss the sound of your snoring,” she teased, keen to alter the mood.
“Oh, do you, indeed.” Mary grinned. “Cannot you hear it well enough through the walls?”
“I am afraid it is not quite loud enough to wake the dead. You shall have to improve upon the volume.” She hesitated, the spirits giving her courage to suggest something she ordinarily would not. “Would you stay with me tonight? It was such fun in the inn, though I understand if you desire your own bed. You were away from home for more than a week already.”
“Of course.” Mary studied her. “And I suppose you were very used to sharing a bed at Hunsford.”
“Not as often as you might think,” she murmured, and was surprised to find that tears had sprung to her eyes. Mary’s arms were around her in an instant and the tension from earlier transformed into a comfortable fire, burning steadily and brightly.
She inhaled the scent of violets, and felt Mary’s chest rumble with a chuckle. “Enjoying my scent again?” Charlotte hummed, neither willing to confirm or deny the act. “Let me change,” Mary added, disentangling herself, “and I shall return momentarily.”
In bed, Charlotte wondered why she had chosen to put herself in such a position again; the first time had not been her choice or fault, and yet she had asked for this torture. Mary, already blinking sleepily, dark hair fanned out across the pillow, reached out and touched her hand. Charlotte allowed their fingers to become entwined— perfectly friendly , she told herself, perfectly normal —and she faded into unconsciousness with a smile, delighting in the slight pressure of Mary’s warm fingers against her own.