Chapter Fourteen
Dear Charlotte,
I hope you received my last letter with my condolences. Maria says that you will soon return to Lucas Lodge, which made us wonder whether we ought to send all the children there for a week or two. After all, whatever will you and Mama and Papa do with your long, empty days? We are quite prepared to do you this kindness.
Do remember that I always favoured you.
Your brother,
John
Upon their return to the house, Miss Brodie sent up fresh scones, accompanied by cherry jam and clotted cream. Charlotte fetched Barton’s diary from her room, intending to read a little once she’d eaten her fill, and laid it beside her plate in the dining room. Though the cover of the book was rather nondescript—a pale brown, almost fawn, with the author’s name stamped in small gold letters on the front—the butler flinched when he saw it. Yet the next moment Pitt covered his reaction so admirably that Charlotte wondered if she had simply imagined his response.
Puzzled, she spread jam on her scone while Mary complained about the batch of letters she’d received that morning; apparently some new finding had all the mineralogists at her salon ablaze with excitement. “It was the same after Cuvier and Brongniart published Description Geologique des Environs de Paris ,” said she, staring gloomily down at the pile of envelopes at her elbow. “You couldn’t get any sense out of them for months. I shall have to do a little reading before I respond to some of these, but—” casting an eye at Barton’s diary “—I see you have your own book to occupy you. What say we retire to the drawing room for an hour or two?”
Certain that she wouldn’t understand the new scientific discovery even if Mary had explained, and secretly rather glad that her friend had not even bothered to try, Charlotte agreed to the notion with delight, and was once again pleased by the strong smell of mignonette pervading the drawing room. She seated herself on one of the couches. Mary sat next to her rather than on the opposite seat, close enough for their elbows to brush. Had it been anyone else, Charlotte would have minded a great deal, and would have, at the first available opportunity, made her escape to another chair. Here, she felt no such urge. If anything, she wanted to be closer, and so, when Mary shifted, Charlotte inched sideways a little, so that they were elbow to elbow. Repressing a sigh at the thrill which fizzled through her veins at a mere touch, Charlotte opened Barton’s diary.
* * *
The first third of the book had been taken up with the voyage, but Barton had now landed on a pretty little island and evidently been enthralled with all the flora and fauna he found there; monkeys, lemurs, great trailing vines, and tall trees crowned with leaves as long as the naturalist’s forearm. They’d had a warm welcome from the islanders, who held a feast in their honour and presented the captain with a carved trinket box; it sounded very much like the one in Aunt Cecily’s study, though Barton had described this one as being encircled with strange, long-legged birds rather than rabbits. He himself had been gifted a wooden statue, carved in the shape of an old man with a beard, which he had received with the tenderest appreciation.
Trading between the crew and the islander took place over several days, and it was plain that Barton did not care a fig for the process, preferring instead to join some of the young native men to learn how they fished and harvested. Every few pages there was some new delight—a drawing of a bird with a voluminous crest, or a description of a broad fish so heavy it took two men to carry back to the main camp. Barton’s passion shone through with every word, and Charlotte found herself both pleased and envious of his innocent joy, and his ability to travel anywhere he liked at any time without worrying about impropriety. Surely no woman, no matter how rich or connected, would have been allowed to undertake such a journey. And yet, someone always had to be the first to break a rule, did they not, for the rest to come tumbling after?
Mary turned a page, her elbow brushing Charlotte’s. A sideways glance confirmed that Mary was intent upon the page, which contained several complicated-looking tables of numbers and unintelligible paragraphs; her forehead was furrowed in concentration, a sight which Mrs Bennet would surely have remarked upon with consternation, had she been present.
Charlotte knew that she herself frowned while she read—though her family had remarked on it with amusement rather than reprimands—and her late husband had thought it sweet to lean over and smooth out the frown with his thumb before returning to his own book. Charlotte had always smiled and thanked Mr Collins, but privately the action had irked her. Did she have to maintain a perfectly smooth face whilst reading, lest it perturb him? Was it not enough that she presented a perfectly pleasant air in company and while alone with him? She had often felt that she had stepped into the role of Wife, a role any worthy woman might have filled for him with little to distinguish her. Why, if Jane or Lizzie or some other Meryton girl had consented to marry him, he would have been just as happy, perhaps even more so. She’d known this only too well, and so had strived to be the most dutiful wife in every way, never to give him trouble or cause him to regret his decision. The result had been achieved, but at what cost?
She glanced up to find dark eyes studying her intently. “I like the way you look when you are deep in thought,” said Mary. “I should like to draw you again, if you would permit me to do so. No, wait—” for Charlotte had smoothed out her expression as she had done so many times before, “do not change on my account. Please.”
“Well now I wish to smile, and I’m afraid the two expressions cannot exist on my face at the same time. Although, now that you have mentioned a desire, I feel I must mention my own in turn.”
“Oh?” A strange expression flashed across Mary’s face, as fast as a bird flitting past a window. “What desire is that?”
“I believe at Hunsford you promised that in exchange for accompanying you to the salon later this week, you would accompany me to a ball.” Charlotte smiled in what she hoped was her most charming way. “You did promise, did you not?”
“Ah. Yes.” Mary sighed. “I suppose I did.”
Pitt materialized as if from nowhere, three cards in his hand. “Ma’am, you received three invitations this morning.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And why am I only hearing about them now?”
“It must have quite slipped my mind, ma’am.”
“Your mind seems lubricated only at inconvenient times,” Mary muttered, but took the proffered cards anyway. “Very strange that you should have separated them from my letters.”
“You have an unfortunate habit of tripping and throwing said invitations into the fire, ma’am,” he said, face politely blank, “which luckily does not often happen with your letters.” He tilted his head, looking the very picture of helpfulness. “I thought the presence of Mrs Collins might alleviate your usual clumsiness.”
Mary scowled at him. Charlotte watched their interplay with amusement. Mrs Waites had often employed the same kinds of underhanded tactics, though to different ends, and Mary seemed indignant rather than genuinely irritated by the butler’s behaviour.
“He thinks I do not go out enough,” said she, to Pitt’s retreating back as he left the room. “He believes that, left to my own devices, I would be some sort of mad hermit.”
“Given what you told me in the garden earlier, it seems as if he might be correct,” Charlotte pointed out.
“Do not join forces with him, please. A war on two fronts is not easily won.” Mary sighed again. “Look, here are two balls to choose from. The other invitation is merely a luncheon with a friend of my aunt’s who is rather lonely in her old age. She will not mind if I put our meeting off for another week or so.” She offered the cards to Charlotte. “I shall attend whichever ball you choose.”
“I confess I am at a disadvantage here, for I know neither name nor the history of their acquaintance with you.” Charlotte held up the cards so that Mary could see them plainly. “However, if you tell me a little about each, then I shall be able to make a sensible decision about which one we ought to attend.”
Mary inspected the first card. “Ugh. This one is from Miss Abbott, a friend of Mrs Tremaine’s.” She pulled a face.
Charlotte had not heard her mention either name before, nor look with such evident disdain. “You do not care for Miss Abbott?”
“Her mind is a vast blue sky and not a single cloud of thought dims its brightness,” Mary said, her tone still slightly sulky.
Charlotte snorted. “I see. And what about Mrs Tremaine? Is your opinion of her any better?”
“I…” Mary trailed off, which was odd given how freely she had spoken of Miss Abbott’s faults just a moment before. “In that lady’s case the situation is more complicated. She is…how shall I put this? She is ungracious and uses her natural charms in the pursuit of younger quarry. Her husband is a sweet, if gullible, man which makes her behaviour all the worse.”
“Oh dear! She sounds dreadful. And the other invitation?”
Mary glanced at the second card. “Ah, this ball is being held by Mr and Mrs Cromley. They are good souls, and though their ball will not be as lavish as Miss Abbott’s, who has more money than sense, it will be a very pleasant time.”
“I think the choice is clear, though I cannot say I am not a little intrigued by your description of Mrs Tremaine. Surely she cannot be as bad as all that?”
“You are too willing to think the best of everybody, Charlotte. Doubt me if you must, but you shall discover the truth for yourself. She will be at the salon next week, where she does her best to be the reigning monarch of our little republic.”
Charlotte frowned. “But a republic needs no monarch.”
“Precisely,” Mary pronounced, using the same sort of forbidding tone she’d used to describe the great danger presented by a small gathering of owls.
* * *
At around six on the clock, they ate a fabulous dinner of pigeon breasts in a rich, velvety sauce, with buttered potatoes and pickled cucumbers to accompany. Charlotte retired to her room to dress in her black silk, her only suitable option, and stared at herself in the looking-glass. She was not beautiful, certainly, but she was clean and presentable, with a cheerful countenance and a pleasant smile.
Mary was waiting downstairs in the hallway when Charlotte descended the stairs. She was wearing a purple gown, lush and dark, which suited her complexion exceedingly. The neckline of the dress was edged in thistles. Charlotte arched an eyebrow. “Interesting choice. Do the flowers represent devotion or suffering?”
“Why not both?” Mary smiled. “I am devoted to your happiness, so I am honour-bound to suffer through a ball.”
“Oh.” Charlotte’s own smile faded. “If you would really rather not go—I mean, I would not wish for you to do anything on my behalf that would cause you pain.”
Mary waved a careless hand. “Do not take me so seriously. Besides, a little suffering is healthy, is it not? If God wanted me to stay inside all the time, He would have granted me a snail-shell to carry on my back. On the contrary, I thank you for reminding me that one must step out into the world from time to time and enjoy all it has to offer.” She produced a pink carnation. “I felt,” said she, blushing, “that you might need a little colour to brighten up your gown. Of course, you cannot change your mourning dress but I thought, well… Here, allow me.” She stepped closer, far closer than she needed to be. “This has a hook attached here, so you are in no danger of having your dress punctured by a pin. See?” Mary tucked the pink carnation into the hook and fastened it.
Charlotte watched her fingers work, and swallowed hard. She looked up. Mary was still very close—close enough to see each golden fleck in her dark eyes. Pink carnation, meaning I will never forget you . It also meant longing, though she hadn’t mentioned. “You remembered.”
Mary raised an eyebrow. “It was only this afternoon. Or do you think my memory as bad as all that?”
“No, not at all.” She was shy but pleased. “I appreciate your efforts to make me look inviting.”
“You need no help with that, I assure you.” Her fingers lingered, brushing the petals, her voice dropping to a murmur. “Black rather suits you, although I do look forward to seeing you wearing bright colours again. I recall you once wore a pretty lavender dress to a ball at Netherfield, and I remember thinking how—”
Behind Charlotte, Pitt cleared his throat. Mary straightened, a flash of annoyance crossing her face. “The carriage is outside, ma’am,” the butler announced.
“Thank you, Pitt.” She extended an arm to Charlotte as Pitt strode ahead of them and opened the front door. “Shall we proceed?”