Chapter Seventeen
Dear Charlotte,
Congratulations, sister, it has only taken you one-and-thirty years to notice something plain as day to most. Well done!
Jesting aside, I do hope that you will not hold this fact against Great-Aunt Ethel, for she did as her family bid and married twice to please them, though I do not think it pleased her one whit either time. Here in the north things are not quite so restricted and while I cannot say that these people live without any kind of nuisance directed at them for something they surely cannot control, certainly it is rather an open secret in polite society. I assumed you must have realised that not everyone is happy living as society prescribes, though perhaps your late husband was against such behaviour on principle. Whatever made you think to ask about this?
Your loving Maria
Charlotte re-read the letter to make certain she had not misunderstood, but the words remained the same. So Great-Aunt Ethel had a female lover after all. She’d thought getting an answer to this question might make her feel different—less confused, perhaps—but she was more confused than ever. Folding the letter up again, she sat staring into the flames for a few minutes before getting up and pacing the room. Why did I even ask? she wondered, tapping her fingers against the arm of the couch. What difference does it make to me? Neither of her parents had ever mentioned it, though Maria had called it an open secret; had Charlotte been the only one who hadn’t known? And why would Maria think her so close-minded that she might hold this secret against a long-dead aunt? Besides, Great-Aunt Ethel being in love with a woman in secret changed nothing for the family. It was not even close to the same sort of scandal Lydia had courted by running away publicly with Mr Wickham.
She paused by the window and looked out. A few children were playing together in the street with a hoop and stick, darting this way and that. The sky was clear, with only a couple of fluffy clouds meandering across the blue expanse, and the sun was blindingly bright. Slipping the letter into the pocket of her dress, Charlotte left the room, walking across the foyer and into the library, where she once again admired the full shelves. She read the spines of some, though they sounded rather dull or too complicated for someone like her to understand. The Great-Aunt Ethel question continued to bother her immensely; if everyone had known and everyone had accepted it, might they accept the same thing about Charlotte? After all, that had been thirty years ago. Times had changed, surely for the better. Although perhaps Ethel had been the exception to the rule—after all, she’d had enough money to live on even without her companion’s income supplementing their lifestyle.
Money is the key , she thought glumly, and unfortunately it is money I do not have. Having a fortune of one’s own permits a host of choices not permitted for the poor, and keeps the wagging tongues of society silent.
Sighing, she checked the time. It was only a quarter past one, and Mary had said she would likely be finished around two on the clock. Though the day was lovely, she did not know where Mary kept the key to the garden, or she might have gone there instead. She ought to have asked this morning, rather than bother Mary now when she was no doubt in the middle of important correspondence. Hmm, she thought . How might I occupy myself for another forty-five minutes? Hovering in the doorway of the library, Charlotte spied the dark hallway leading down to the kitchen, and a sudden idea dawned.
She descended the few stairs leading to the kitchen and emerged into a large room, stone-bricked and swelteringly hot. A slender youth in an apron was rolling out dough with practiced strokes, and looked up, panicked, at Charlotte’s appearance. “I am looking for Miss Brodie,” said she, gazing around with interest. Something delicious wafted from a nearby pot; something creamy, laced with—if Charlotte was not mistaken—rosemary and black pepper.
“I—” The youth stood stiffly, flustered. “I… Miss Brodie is out at the moment, ma’am. May I take a message?”
Charlotte’s gaze slid down to the apron, adorned with the initials A.B. She saw no other apron in the room, nor had Mary mentioned other kitchen staff. “I just wanted Miss Brodie to know that I appreciated her rum cake very much, and I shall tell my own cook, Mrs Waites, that she did the recipe justice.”
The youth’s eyes lit up, confirming Charlotte’s suspicions. Names were often more difficult than people imagined, and came laden with societal expectations and baggage in every way. A little kindness could go a long way; Maria’s letter in her pocket reminded her of that. “Do pardon me if this is a rude question, or an odd one,” she said, making sure her tone was gentle, “but…are you Miss Brodie?”
The youth’s eyes flickered from side to side, as if looking for an escape. “It’s quite all right if you are,” Charlotte added hastily.
“I… Yes. I am.” Miss Brodie’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though she still looked as if she were awaiting a blow or a scream. “Thank you, ma’am. The recipe was a very good one. I would do quite a lot to get my hands on another.”
“You and a hundred others,” Charlotte joked, and was relieved when Miss Brodie graced her with a small smile. “I apologise, I should not have intruded on your domain.”
“Not at all, ma’am. It’s not—I mean, they don’t often come down here. The guests. Not that Miss Bennet has many of them,” Miss Brodie blurted, and then stopped, looking terrified. It was evident that Charlotte had caught her off guard.
“I shall leave you to your marvelous creations. May I ask what is for dinner?”
“Chicken in a creamy white wine sauce, with carrots and green beans. And,” Miss Brodie gestured to the pastry under her hands, which were trembling, “an apple pie.”
“Gracious, I can hardly wait.” Charlotte exchanged a last smile with the timid cook before exiting.
She’d hoped to spend a bit more time in the kitchen, but it was clear that her presence put poor Miss Brodie on edge. She might as well wander around the house a little more—Mary had given her a wonderful tour, but it had been more focused on the paintings and busts, and Charlotte had spied an especially impressive set of antlers set onto the wall on the second-floor hallway Mary had only referred to as “Aunt Cecily’s quarters.”
Charlotte arrived on the second floor only slightly winded, and proceeded to admire the curved antlers up close. They were not deer, as she’d first thought, or at least were no breed she had ever seen before. Perhaps they belonged to the cervine creature in the background of Cecily’s portrait downstairs. A cool draught caught the back of her neck, and she turned to find the door opposite ajar. She bit her lip. Snooping was not ladylike, but then again, a quick peek surely could not hurt. Mary had said that the house contained many secrets—was this one of them? She sidled along the wall and pushed the door open, revealing a room much smaller than she’d expected. It was half the size of the guest room she was staying in, and the furniture was mostly covered with dust sheets. This must be just one of Cecily’s rooms, she supposed, which would be uncovered and cleaned by the servants prior to her arrival. Though all the furniture was covered, several portraits hung uncovered on the walls, and one leaned against a corner of the room.
Charlotte sidled towards the left-hand wall first, which held another portrait of Cecily alone. In this one, Mary’s aunt rested against a tree, facing a riverbank. The water was smooth and clear, the bank steep. Cecily was dressed in men’s trousers and a smart, dark jacket, her dark hair tumbling loose around her shoulders. Charlotte stared at the painting, trying to picture Mary in the same sort of clothes, and then tried to picture herself in them. She rather liked the idea—certainly it would make gardening easier if one could bend and kneel with impunity.
She turned to the centre wall, upon which hung a portrait of Cecily with her husband. This must have been their wedding portrait, for they were standing side by side looking stiff and formal. It was a far cry from the pictures of Cecily which Charlotte had seen so far. She tilted her head, examining Mr George Langley, who boasted fine bushy whiskers over a short, dark beard. His dark eyes were kind, and either the painter had been very generous or Mr Langley was quite a few years Cecily’s junior.
Charlotte turned towards the portrait in the corner and leaned down to take a closer look. She stared, confused, at the portrait of the three people: Cecily, Mr Langley, and another woman. A portrait of three was a little unusual, when it did not contain immediate family, and this woman—with her red hair and blue eyes—was surely no relation of either. The pose was an unusual one too; Cecily’s hand rested on the woman’s shoulder, and Mr Langley’s hand on Cecily’s shoulder in turn. It was as if they were all connected somehow, looped like a daisy chain. The woman was surely Edith, the friend Mary had mentioned who’d embroidered the blanket on the guest bedroom.
Charlotte stared at the painting, certain she was not imagining what she was seeing, or what it implied. Cecily had two lovers—her husband, and a woman. Perhaps they were all lovers together, three at a time. Now she understood precisely what had made Mary blush at the mention of Edith, and flush even more deeply at the mention of bacchanalic rituals.
Something burned inside her—knowledge, as yellow-hot as any newborn flame. This was the confirmation she needed, far beyond Maria’s passing comment about Great-Aunt Ethel. It was possible for women to like men or other women or both; how had she gone her whole life being so ridiculously unaware of the possibilities? The words swelled up inside her and she found herself dashing along the hallway, down the stairs, and towards Mary’s room. The door was closed but Charlotte burst in anyway, hardly knowing what she meant to say, only that she had discovered something glorious and new and—
Pitt’s hand was on Mary’s shoulder, and hers was on his chest, and they were laughing together, laughing so hard they were weeping, tears in their eyes. Mary turned towards the door, her expression fading into surprise and then horror.
“Oh, I—” Charlotte skidded to a halt, staring at them. “I’m so sorry. I should have knocked. I did not mean to—”
She backed out of the room, cheeks flaming with horrified jealousy; she’d thought at first that Mary’s lover must be a lower-class artist or worker, and then she’d suspected it was Miss Delia Highbridge. Never had she considered Pitt, who must be more than twenty years Mary’s senior. Charlotte bolted down the hallway to her own room and closed the door behind her. What a fool she had been, and now she had made a fool of other people too. They must have gone to great pains to hide their relationship and—
Quick footsteps sounded in the corridor. Before Charlotte could take more than a couple of steps into the room and spin, ready to meet the reprimand that was surely coming, Mary entered, her cheeks flushed.