Chapter Fifteen
My dearest friend,
I think of you often, and with not a little consternation. This may be partially due to the long hours I have lately spent in the nursery, though I am delighted to relay that our son is much improved. In truth, I am aware that you and Mary are so very different, and in herding you together without forethought, I may have created an uncomfortable situation. Perhaps I ought to have encouraged Jane or even Kitty to visit you. Alas, that a bell cannot be unrung!
Lizzie
The carriage was indeed waiting outside. Mary took the seat beside Charlotte, ostensibly so she could point out buildings of interest on the way, though it was difficult for Charlotte to pay attention when Mary’s thigh was pressed so firmly against her own.
The journey took just over an hour, though in Mary’s company the time flew, and soon enough they were stopping outside a house. The road was busy with carriages stopping every minute, regurgitating its passengers onto the pavement. It wasn’t necessary to clutch Mary’s hand in order to descend the steps, but Charlotte relished the opportunity to do so anyway.
The Cromleys’ house was two-thirds as large as Netherfield, Jane and Bingley’s grand house, with short wings on either side. If this was what Mary considered modest in comparison to Miss Abbott, Charlotte was glad indeed that she had selected this ball. The gentlemen were dressed in the dark jackets and tan breeches now so fashionable amongst the haute ton , while the ladies peacocked in bright shades of sapphire, ruby, and gold which dazzled the eyes. Charlotte breathed an inward sigh of relief; her black silk dress would not stand out here, but it would not shame her either. She peered through the dim evening at the gardens, though she could see but little; the bright moon was shrouded in thick clouds tonight. “If we can escape later,” Mary murmured, taking her arm, “then I shall show you Mr Cromley’s prize roses. Prized by him, of course, although Mr Mellor has bested him in the annual competition for the last eight years.”
“I would like that very much,” Charlotte whispered back, and they ascended the steps, smiling at each other.
Inside, servants dressed in fine livery stood to attention, while the cheerful crowd bustled in and out of a stately room. Charlotte saw at once why Mary preferred such a ball to something stuffier and more formal; the atmosphere was one of charming amiability rather than the haughty judgement which tended to overshadow any Rosings event. A string quartet in the corner played a lively tune, and the dancers whirled and spun in perfect time. The air smelled of a hundred different perfumes, though Mary’s violet scent seemed to Charlotte to be the most pleasing.
“Ah, there are our hosts,” said Mary, jerking her chin to indicate a handsome couple at the other end of the hall. “I shall introduce you in good time. Let us fetch some punch first, and then—oh, there is Delia!”
The young woman who came towards them was perhaps seven-and-twenty, dark, with a broad nose and uncommonly pretty green eyes which sparkled with animation. Charlotte compared the girl to the drawing she’d seen in Mary’s letters, but even a cursory recall proved that this girl was a different person entirely. Perhaps she was the artist, or perhaps this was another one of Mary’s intimate friends. And just how intimate is she with her friends? the little voice asked. Even if it were possible, would you simply be one amongst many? How could you ever hope to compare to all these beautiful women?
“Miss Highbridge,” Mary said, beaming, “I am delighted to present you with my good friend, Mrs Collins.”
Charlotte couldn’t help blinking in surprise at the introduction; she had forgotten that Mary only referred to her married name amongst company. “Why, Mrs Collins, it is a pleasure indeed!” cried Miss Highbridge. Her dress matched her eyes, the late-summer sheen of dry bracken, and her slender waist was encircled with a pine-coloured ribbon. “Miss Bennet has told me so much about you.”
“Has she?” Charlotte couldn’t help wondering what had been said. The look which passed between Mary and Miss Highbridge spoke louder than words, though in a language which Charlotte could not decipher. “All bad, I suppose,” she teased.
Miss Highbridge feigned surprise. “On the contrary, she could not praise you enough. Why, she holds you in great esteem indeed.”
“Enough, Delia,” Mary murmured, a pink flushing creeping up her neck. “I have only just arrived and already you are embarrassing me.”
“There is nothing embarrassing about a truthful compliment,” said she, cheerfully ignoring her friend’s scowl. “And how long are you in town, Mrs Collins?”
“I assume Mrs Tremaine isn’t here tonight?” Mary asked, changing the subject before Charlotte could answer.
“Oh, I do hope not.” Miss Highbridge snorted. “We are safe for an evening at least, although I believe she has petitioned to chair the next salon meeting.”
“I had already volunteered to do so,” Mary said, a muscle in her jaw jumping.
“Pfft. Tell that to Mrs Tremaine.”
“I would give quite a lot to never say anything to Mrs Tremaine ever again,” Mary muttered, causing Miss Highbridge to snort again. “Hark, a ship sails near.”
Charlotte frowned, baffled by this sudden statement, but the meaning was made clear in a moment. A young man was heading through the crowd towards them, his eyes intent upon Mary. “Good evening, Miss Bennet,” said he.
“Good evening, Mr Hillinghead.”
“Would you care to dance?”
“I am afraid I must abstain for the moment, sir,” she said politely and the young man’s smile turned rueful. He gave a jerky bow before marching away back to his fellows, who slapped him on the back with comradely good cheer.
“One of that group try to win you over every time.” Miss Highbridge shook her head. “One must admire their determination, at least.”
“That is one of the many reasons why I would never encourage their suits,” Mary declared. “A young man must learn from his mistakes, and not keep making the same ones over and over. Besides, none of them wish to dance with me for the pleasure of my company, but only to be the one to break me first, like some sort of wild horse. It is but a game to them. It will not be long before Mr Hillinghead realises that a far better companion awaits him.” She nodded towards a girl on the fringes of a large group, gathered near the punch bowl, who was watching the young man with longing writ large across her face. “Miss St Clair has been quite in love with him for two years, and he is a fool not to notice it sooner, perhaps because he is too busy making sport with his fellow fools.”
“Well, we do not always recognise what is right in front of us,” Miss Highbridge said archly.
Mary shot her another warning glare. “Would you like a glass of punch, Charlotte? It is quite warm in here and my throat is terribly dry.”
Charlotte agreed, but before either could move, a man in a captain’s uniform stepped into their path, who Miss Highbridge introduced as Mr Harold. “He is married to my cousin Abigail,” she said, smiling at him before turning. “You know Miss Bennet, of course, and this is Miss Bennet’s friend, Mrs Collins, who is in town for the week.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you.” Mr Harold bowed. His waistcoat was a warm cream colour, his black boots polished to such a sheen that they reflected the movements of the crowd above. “Do you dance, Mrs Collins?”
“I do.”
“Then perhaps you would gratify me with a dance?” He held out his hand.
Now? Charlotte thought, dismayed, though she forced a polite smile and took the offered hand. Mary’s expression flashed something, though Charlotte could not tell what, as Mr Harold led her onto the dance floor. The band struck up a song she knew, for which she was grateful, and they began to dance in two long lines. “I have only just arrived at the ball,” said he, bowing. “My dear lady wife is unable to accompany me tonight, though she insisted I come. And what about yourself?”
“I am only visiting from Kent,” she explained, as they circled each other.
“I adore Kent! I am there often, visiting a dear cousin. Which part of the country?”
“My late husband was the parson at Hunsford, across from the de Bourgh estate, Rosings. Perhaps you know it?”
“Know it?” cried he. “Why I spent two summers there as a young man. I was great friends with Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy in my youth—we came up together at Cambridge, you see. I don’t suppose you’re acquainted with him?”
“Indeed I am, sir,” said Charlotte, smiling, “for he married my best friend.”
A little further questioning proved that Mr Harold knew Lady Catherine too—of course he did, Charlotte thought ruefully, for even in another city she could neither escape the shadow of the Darcys nor the keen eye of the de Bourghs—and this provided several minutes of diverting conversation.
“I was hunting with Sir George the other day, and I…” Mr Harold gave her a queer look. “Why, you would not be the Mrs Collins he spoke of, would you?”
“I cannot say for certain that I am the woman in question, though I am Mrs Collins,” Charlotte confessed. Why on earth would Sir George be talking of me?
He laughed, as if she’d said something funny. “You are every bit as modest and charming as he claimed, Mrs Collins. And Mr Innes was most keen to impress upon me his good opinion too. Why, he said that—”
“Oh, you know Mr Innes as well?” Charlotte swallowed. Of all places, she’d expected Canterbury to be free of such reminders: that she must return soon, that people would expect her to try to land another husband before settling into her status as an burdensome widow, that Canterbury was but a dream and she must soon wake to the realities of life alone in a place where Mary did not live.
“Indeed I do. He is a fine fellow, do you not agree?”
“I think him very fine indeed,” Charlotte agreed, and then, concerned about how such a statement might be perceived, added, “He was most kind to me when we met, which was not long after my late husband’s passing.”
Mr Harold could not have failed to notice that Charlotte’s black dress was a mourning one, but the reminder was helpful, just in case he mistook her cheerfulness for some particular attention to what Mr Innes had said. He began to talk of his own wife in lively terms, but Charlotte’s attention was caught by Mary whispering with Miss Highbridge in a dim corner. Charlotte couldn’t help her eyes drifting to that corner with each spin, and as a result floundered in the dance, too distracted to keep up with Mr Harold’s conversation. Her stomach ached with something sour and green; perhaps she had overeaten at dinner.
Mary leaned in and whispered something in Miss Highbridge’s ear, causing them both to break out into giggles, and then they both sidled out of the room and disappeared from view. Mr Harold insisted on a second dance, and though Charlotte found his company pleasant, the strange feeling in her stomach grew and grew. After the second dance ended, Charlotte made polite excuses to Mr Harold, and edged into the hallway. No one here was paying her any attention, and the group of young men talking in loud voices at the end of the corridor provided perfect cover. Charlotte inched forward until she caught the sound of Mary’s voice on the balcony outside. She peered around the corner as much as she dared, and caught a flash of Mary’s dark purple dress.
The two friends were speaking in hushed whispers. “I never saw you act so, my dear Mary,” Miss Highbridge declared. “Why, you sound entirely in love. Will you confess it?”
“I will do no such thing.” Mary sounded amused, though a little chagrined. “You must cease larking about, Delia. This is serious.”
“Whatever will Anne say?”
A slight hesitation, marked by a moment of silence. “What Anne says is no longer any business of mine. And what I feel is no longer any business of hers, either.”
“Ah! So you do not deny your feelings?”
A rustle of skirts. Mary’s voice sounded again, slightly further away, as if she’d walked a few paces in the opposite direction. “How long have we known each other? Seven years?”
“It will be eight in the springtime,” Miss Highbridge corrected.
“Ah, yes. Always looking forward, never backwards. And how often have you known me to be—” Mary’s voice dropped so that the last few words were lost in the tumult of the young men’s voices. Charlotte frowned, wishing they’d hush up.
“In truth? Just the once. Apart from now.” The tease was evident though the speaker’s face could not be seen from Charlotte’s current position.
“So you know that I do not say such things lightly.”
“I do not believe you have said anything at all, lightly or otherwise. You have always been the bolder of the two of us. What halts you now from speaking your heart?” Mary murmured something which Charlotte could not hear, and Miss Highbridge laughed. “You may glare at me as much as you like, Mary, but it will not change matters.”
This is lover’s talk, is it not? Charlotte knew she should leave, lest she be discovered eavesdropping, but it was extremely difficult to pull herself away. So she’d been correct, at least a little, regarding the mysterious Anne. Evidently that lady’s opinion had meant a great deal to Mary once upon a time, even if something had happened in order to change that situation. Had Mary wanted Anne? Had Anne wanted Mary? Had one of them denied the suit, or had they both entered into it willingly? The ache in Charlotte’s stomach soured further. Her throat was as dry as old bone, and she headed for the table which held several large punch bowls. A drink will put me right. An elderly gentleman with white whiskers offered to pour a glass for her and she gratefully accepted, sipping the spiced drink with relief. It was strong—far stronger than she was used to, but it helped calm her racing thoughts. No matter what had happened in the past with Anne, Mary was evidently interested in Miss Highbridge now, and with good reason. The young lady was beautiful, charming, witty…everything, in short, that Charlotte was not.
The punch curdled in her stomach.