Chapter Sixteen
Before she could do much more than thank the elderly gentleman for his courteousness, the Cromleys approached. “We have not been introduced,” Mrs Cromley said, and then added, “Oh, Miss Bennet! I wondered where you had got to.”
Mary had appeared at Charlotte’s elbow, smiling widely. “That is my fault entirely. This is my dear friend Mrs Collins, who is visiting me from Kent.” Unlike many others Charlotte knew, Mary did not add anything about Mr Collins, or Rosings, or the de Bourghs, but merely allowed her to exist on her own. She rather appreciated the gesture, even if Mary was not aware she was doing it.
“Any friend of our Miss Bennet is welcome any time,” Mrs Cromley said, patting Charlotte on the arm.
“And how do you like Canterbury, Mrs Collins?” Mr Cromley asked.
“It is beautiful. And you have a beautiful home,” she added, keen to impress upon her hosts that she was having a good time. “I hear you grow exceedingly pretty roses, Mr Cromley?”
“That I do!” cried he. “Though I am always bested by our Mr Mellor, unfortunately. Still, I think my roses the prettiest, as one ought to when one has tended to their growth so long and laboured over their upkeep.”
“Much like children.” Mrs Cromley arched an eyebrow.
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” said he, earnestly. “For I never put a sack over our children’s heads when the frost crept in.”
She rolled her eyes at him good-naturedly, and he grinned back at her. Charlotte turned to Mary, and was surprised to see her watching the Cromleys with a slightly wistful expression.
“Come on,” Mary whispered, while someone called Mr Cromley’s name and distracted the couple. “I shall take you to the garden now. Unless you wish to dance again?”
Charlotte shook her head, and followed Mary outside. The gardens were dark and empty, with only a few stragglers lingering at the entrance of the house. The candlelight inside stretched golden fingers out to the hedges but fell short, so that by the time they reached the rosebushes, Charlotte was obliged to stop for a moment and close her eyes to adjust to the darkness. They had wandered off the path a little, and the grass underfoot was spongy and soft. “I admit this was not one of my better schemes,” Mary said regretfully. “I ought to have brought a candle, or we ought to have arrived earlier when there was still light.”
“It was a sweet thought, nonetheless.” Charlotte felt Mary’s hand brush hers, and the fingers entwine with her own. To be standing here in the dark, in a beautiful garden, holding hands—was this not what lovers did? Did they not sneak off together? She wondered what Miss Highbridge would think if she saw them now, and reflexively tightened her grip. Mary responded with a squeeze of her own, and as Charlotte’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, she was able to perceive the myriad shades of roses. An occasional shaft of moonlight lent the scene a magical air, like that from a fairy tale.
“Pink roses?” Charlotte guessed, leaning over to inspect the nearest bush more easily. Though the night was dark, the air was warm, and she had hardly any need of the shawl slung over her shoulders. The sound of the string quartet inside was only just audible, adding to the strange, dreamlike quality of the moment. “And yellow?”
“You have sharp eyes. I suppose that roses, like carnations, have different meanings with each of their colours?”
“Indeed. Let me see…pink means grace and joy . Yellow stands for friendship . Red, of course, is love but also respect . There are more too, for a rose is more than just its colour.”
Mary’s fingers twitched. “What do you mean?”
“Well, a single rose can mean I love you , whereas a rose plucked of all its thorns can mean it was love at first sight .”
“Charlotte,” Mary said, and her voice was not the charming tone she’d used with the Cromleys, nor the amused way she’d spoken to Miss Highbridge, but something lower, rougher, rawer. She turned to face Charlotte, her face a mask of shadows and silhouettes. “If we had a pair of scissors right now, which would—”
Light flashed across the gardens, throwing them into relief. Charlotte let go of Mary’s hand instantly, stepping back to put appropriate distance between them. Raucous shouts echoed as the group of young men stumbled past, each carrying a lamp, heading for the bottom of the lawn where a tall hedge seemed to mark the end of the estate.
Mary smoothed down her dress, though it was not ruffled, and stared up at the sky for a moment. “Would you like to go back inside? We could find you another dance partner.”
She’s probably keen to get back to Miss Highbridge , Charlotte thought, and gritted her teeth. She was probably about to ask which rose she should cut for her dear Delia. “Yes, of course.”
Her suspicions were correct, for Miss Highbridge found them quickly once back inside, and while Charlotte acquiesced to dance with two men, neither Mary nor Miss Highbridge seemed to want to do anything but sit and chat with each other. In fairness, they included Charlotte too, but she was so aware of every glance and word that passed between them that sitting in their company felt like agony rather than a pleasant evening.
* * *
In the carriage, on the way home, Charlotte responded to each of Mary’s questions with polite, but abrupt answers. After the third, Mary studied her, frowning. “Are you well?”
“Yes, quite well. Perhaps a little tired.” She needed to get away, to sit alone and put her thoughts in order, to sift through the chaos and identify what was really bothering her. Good manners would see her through for now. “And did you have an agreeable time? You did not dance even once.”
“I am not a terribly good dancer,” Mary said. She seemed about to add something else, but instead stared out of the window at the darkened sky before glancing back at Charlotte. “Besides, you looked rather cosy with Mr Harold, and those other gentlemen. Far be it from me to keep you from enjoying yourself.” Her fingers drummed her knee for a moment before stilling.
Charlotte blinked. “During my first dance with Mr Harold, we discovered we had a friend in common, so I do not think his asking a second time was anything other than an excuse to talk a little more, and to dance with a safe partner in his wife’s absence. The others were merely being polite, I am sure.”
“You and Mr Harold have a mutual acquaintance?”
“He knows Mr Darcy well, and the de Bourghs somewhat,” Charlotte added, and then, though she felt some strange anxiety about mentioning the topic, “and he also seems to be acquainted with both Sir George and Mr Innes, whom you met at Rosings.”
“Oh, Mr Innes.” Mary bit her lip. “I see.”
Charlotte desperately wanted to retort, though she knew not precisely what she wanted to say: that she had no interest in Mr Innes, or that Mr Innes’ potential interest in her signified nothing, or that she was surprised Mary had even noticed what Charlotte was doing since she had spent most of her time paying attention to Miss Highbridge, or—
Charlotte was jealous. Stomach-churningly, green-bitter, truly jealous. The notion knocked the breath out of her, and she pressed a hand to her chest, struggling to draw air. The small prickles of jealousy she had felt before were mere grass snakes compared to this dragon. And why ought she be jealous, really? It was unfathomable, unless—
Unless she was beginning to fall in love.
“What is the matter?” Mary was beside her in a moment. “Are you ill?”
“No,” she choked. The carriage was already so small, and Mary was right there, the smell of violets tickling her nose again, overwhelming her senses. “Just a momentary dizziness. It will pass.”
“Here,” Mary said, and took Charlotte’s hand, pressing two warm fingers against the flesh of her wrist. “Why, your heart is beating so quickly. Shall I ask the coachman to halt a moment, so you can get some fresh air?”
“No need.” She closed her eyes, against the urge to weep. “Miss Highbridge seems pleasant. Have you known her long?”
“Seven years,” Mary said.
“I would like to know her better,” Charlotte said, keen to smooth over her strange fit of pique. “Any friend of yours must be worth knowing.”
“You flatter me. Besides, you are my dear friend, and you are worth knowing. I was eager for her to make your acquaintance as much as for you to make hers.” Mary’s fingers were still pressing against Charlotte’s pulse. “There, your heart is slowing down a little, though it is still far too quick for my liking. What can I do for you?”
“Nothing,” Charlotte assured her. “The punch was a little strong for my tastes is all.”
“Those infernal boys! They likely spiked it. I knew they were up to no good.”
“Do not worry,” Charlotte said, opening her eyes. The jealousy simmering in her stomach cooled a little when she saw the look on Mary’s face: concerned, compassionate, caring. “I simply need to rest and I will be right as rain.”
“I shall put you to bed the moment we get home,” Mary promised, and Charlotte laughed.
“Will you stay with me again?”
Mary blinked. “Do you want me to?”
She nodded, feeling a blush creep up her neck and invade her cheeks.
“Then I would be delighted to.” Mary pulled her closer, wrapping an arm around Charlotte’s shoulders. “Just close your eyes and rest for now.”
True to her word, Mary stayed in Charlotte’s bed again that night, and made such a fuss of her with cold compresses and iced drinks that Charlotte began to feel rather guilty for allowing herself to be so spoiled when nothing was wrong. It hardly signifies , she told herself, for in a week or so I will be gone from her life forever. At least I may allow myself the tiniest shred of comfort now. Their conversation was quiet and limited, lest Charlotte’s “dizziness” become worse, but Mary never stopped watching her, which forced Charlotte to act more amiable than she felt. It was unfair, really, to play pretend in such a way with Mary, who had done nothing wrong, and had no idea of the way Charlotte felt. In truth, Charlotte herself had not even understood the depth of her feelings until that moment in the carriage, and the idea had shaken her to her very foundations.
Once the candle had been blown out and Mary’s breathing had evened, Charlotte turned on her side, facing away. She had so rarely been jealous in her life that she had mistaken the first inklings for something else—envy, perhaps, of a freedom to experience things that were so beyond her ken, and of an unruffled attitude which refused to conform to the rules of society in the way that most people did. Maybe it was both envy and jealousy, all tied into one unpickable knot. The only thing she was certain of was that her infatuation with Mary was not the silly, girlish crush she had once thought it, but something far more serious. The bud has begun to bloom , she mused, pursing her lips. And it is entirely my fault for not snipping it off in the first place.
And yet, despite the horrible way her jealousy had stung, it was somehow tempered by the ecstasy of every touch, every look, every smile. If this was love, then Charlotte had never felt it before—had never even come close—and no wonder people went mad in pursuit of love, did ridiculous things, made elaborate and desperate speeches to convince another of their desires, their needs, their hearts. She drifted off into a troubled, though thankfully dreamless, sleep, and awoke to the gentle touch of Mary’s hand on her shoulder.
“Good morning.” Mary looked tired, though her eyes were still bright. She was still in her nightgown, and there was a streak of charcoal on the left side of her chin. “How are you feeling?”
Charlotte sat up, and Mary immediately leaned over to help prop a pillow behind her back. “I am quite well, thank you,” she said, smiling. “I promise I have not become an invalid overnight.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Mary rubbed her eyes, then covered a yawn.
“Have you been awake long?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I am afraid I did not finish all my correspondence yesterday. I had much more to say than I thought, and… Well. Tis no matter. I shall finish it all today and then we shall have the rest of the evening to ourselves, and tomorrow too. Would you mind terribly if I left you alone for breakfast?”
“Of course not! Do not worry about me. I would relish the chance to get a little more reading done.”
“You are a dear. I promise to make it up to you later.”
Charlotte arched an eyebrow. “In what way?”
She’d meant it as a joke, but it came out sounding unexpectedly sultry. Mary’s eyebrows rose until they were practically in her hairline. “Why, in any way you want.” She grinned. “I shall be entirely at your disposal around, say, two on the clock?”
After a solitary breakfast of eggs and ham, accompanied by hot buttered toast, Charlotte spent the morning in the drawing room. By now, she had only a quarter of Barton’s diary; the naturalist had visited several more islands over the last pages, and his journey seemed to be drawing to an end. Though the mentions of his dear P —Penny, perhaps? Peggy? Prudence?—were infrequent, Charlotte could not help the sense that P, whoever she was, was always on Barton’s mind. Whether he was describing some new iridescent beetle or the gift of the hollow wooden statue which the islanders had bestowed on him or a trick the crew had taught the ship’s cat, he did so in the manner of one imparting a much treasured story. No detail was too unimportant to include, and yet he never rambled or lost the thread of his tale; it was quite a remarkable feat.
Charlotte halted at the second-to-last chapter, and hesitated before putting the book down on the couch. She wanted to finish the book and find out whether Barton married his dear P upon his return, but at the same time she was loath to finish the book. There was something so final about a last page, an ending confirmed, particularly when she already knew that the man in question had passed away. Delaying the ending felt like a way of keeping him alive a little longer.
Instead she got up and wandered over to the window, staring out at the sky. The day was warm but grey, the breeze which ruffled the curtains as tepid as a yawn. There was no clock in the room, so she could only make a cursory guess at the time. She did not wish to disturb Mary, for it could only have been an hour or so since they parted, so she ought to amuse herself in other ways for a while longer.
* * *
Charlotte had only just descended the stairs into the foyer when Pitt greeted her, a letter in his hand. “This arrived for you, ma’am.”
“For me?” Puzzled, Charlotte accepted the letter, though her confusion cleared when she saw her sister’s handwriting. Mrs Waites must have sent it on the moment it arrived at Huns-ford, thinking it a matter of familial importance. “Ah. Thank you, Pitt.”
“Shall I bring you tea?” he offered.
“No, thank you.”
He nodded and withdrew. Charlotte broke the seal before sitting down on one of the blue-upholstered couches. She wasn’t quite sure what she had been expecting from Maria, and braced herself for the answer to her question.