Chapter Nineteen
The master gunner has taught the ship’s cat to stand upon his hind legs and weave to and fro, while Mr Hawthorn plays a lively tune on the fiddle; indeed, the creature dances better than many in London. It is by such means that we amuse ourselves in the evening, though when the crew have gone to their bunks, exhausted by their day’s labour, I often linger to admire the brilliant stars and to muse upon everything I have collected thus far. I could spend a decade devoted entirely to a single beetle, yet I have hundreds of species jarred. Why must men endure so briefly? Is it because we would otherwise take our lives for granted? I pray that I never do.
S. Barton, Travels of a Young Naturalist
Charlotte cried on Mary’s shoulder for almost a quarter of an hour, and by the time she’d dried up, she was quite embarrassed by her outburst.
“Come now,” Mary said, leading her to the armchair and settling her in gently. “Shall I call for some tea?”
Charlotte nodded and blew her nose hard on her handkerchief. She waited until the tea had arrived. Pitt glanced from one to the other with an air of consternation. “It’s all right, Pitt,” Mary said, waving him off, and he left the room, casting only a single backwards glance.
“Here,” Mary said, pressing a cup of hot tea into Charlotte’s hands. “Drink. You will feel better afterwards.”
“I’m fine,” Charlotte protested. “Really, I am.” Her hands trembled as she lifted the cup, betraying her nerves.
Mary smiled, her eyes full of concern. She reached out slowly, as if Charlotte were a wild animal she was afraid to startle, and brushed a curl of hair back from Charlotte’s face. Charlotte flinched before leaning into the touch; why not, after all? The floodgates were open, her secret out. Though, despite Mary’s prior declaration, she still could not believe that her friend was not just being nice out of pity.
“It takes time to adjust to a change, whether of the body or mind,” Mary murmured, her fingers sliding up into Charlotte’s hair and petting her with slow strokes. “I will never press you to say or do anything which makes you uncomfortable, but…do you feel as if you could talk to me about it?”
“Yes, although I do not know what kind of sense I will make.” Charlotte put down her cup and moved to sit on the rug beside Mary. They sat side by side, staring into the flames, much as they had only two nights before.
“So,” Mary prompted. “How long have you known you had these feelings?”
“I am not sure. I rather think you knew before I did.” A more evasive answer than Mary deserved, perhaps, but one which might shield her from close scrutiny, at least for the moment.
Mary made a half shrug, though she did not deny it. Her body had tensed a little. “It was Lizzie, wasn’t it?”
So much for shielding. “Yes and no.” Charlotte sipped her tea again, trying to get her thoughts in order. “That was the first time I felt something different, that I was sure I ought not to feel for another woman.” It struck Charlotte for the first time that Mary might have been feeling jealous at times too, of her own sister. Certainly the Bennet family had never esteemed their middle daughter. “But, to be clear, I was never in love with your sister.” This seemed like an important distinction to make.
“Ah.” Mary relaxed. “I did always wonder. It played a small part in the discovery of my own feelings—” she shifted a little “—though it wasn’t until I confided in Aunt Cecily that I began to see the possibilities of the world in a different light.”
“You do appear to have bloomed here.”
Mary smiled, picking up her own cup and pouring tea. “Yes, I supposed I have. And so it seems have you.”
“On the contrary, I started to bloom the moment you arrived at the parsonage.” Charlotte blushed to say such things out loud, but Mary’s expression was worth all the blushes in the world.
“Why? What was it that began things?”
“I hardly know, really,” said she, thinking back over those first days together. “You came in all grown up, and not at all what I had expected or remembered, and the change quite unnerved me to begin with. Then, the more we spent time together… I do not know, exactly. You made me feel like…” She struggled to find the right words. “A long unwatered plant being offered a drink. Though I tried not to feel such things, or look at you in such ways. In truth, I rather suspected you saw me as just another older sister.”
Mary, who had just taken a rather large gulp of tea, promptly choked on it. “Gracious!” she exclaimed, after coughing and spluttering for several seconds. “As a sister!” She descended into another fit of coughing, although this one was punctuated with merry laughter. “I assure you,” she said, wiping her streaming eyes, “that I never did such things with my own sisters, nor did I ever see you in that way. I always looked up to you, though I don’t think you noticed me then, and I cannot blame you for doing so. No, let me finish—” for Charlotte had opened her mouth to protest “—for I was doing my best to behave well, at least to begin with, and then I found myself growing fonder and fonder of you. I had, I must admit, quite resigned myself to the fact that you were untouchable, though some of your looks and manners gave me several sleepless nights. I thought I was imagining things, and that my feelings of hope were frequently getting the better of my common sense.”
“I felt the same,” Charlotte admitted.
“We are perfect fools together, are we not?”
Charlotte rested her head on Mary’s shoulder. Before long, the memory of the kiss came flooding back. For all its belated joy, it was still edged with anxiety and fear. Which is perfectly natural , she told herself. All those years suppressing my feelings will not simply vanish like morning mist under the heat of the sun. Her inner voice still warned her about perversities, about giving in to sinful thoughts and desires. Still, the feeling of the kiss overrode all sense. Something which felt so good surely could not really be bad.
“What?” Mary asked, turning to crane down at her.
“Nothing. It is just…” She blushed, her voice dropping to a murmur. “Our kiss.”
“What about it?” Mary’s voice had dropped too, and the air between them, what little there was, became thick and electric.
Charlotte swallowed hard, and forced herself to look away. It had been one thing to kiss Mary in a blind panic, and quite another to do so soberly. “You were very good.”
Mary’s eyes crinkled. “Thank you.” She put a hand to her chest, stuck her chin in the air, and did her best impression of Mrs Bennet. “Other young ladies in the neighbourhood may be much praised for their needlework but our Mary has added kissing to her impressive list of accomplishments.”
Charlotte laughed, though her stomach was churning. She did want to kiss Mary again, so why had she spoiled the moment? Why on earth did she find it so difficult to pursue what she wanted, and so easy to pursue what she did not?
“Come,” Mary said, rising to her feet and offering a hand to Charlotte to help her up. “It is my firm belief that after a good weep one needs to eat a tremendous amount of cake.”
She led Charlotte downstairs, chattering all the while, and Charlotte was grateful for the flow of easy conversation. She needed a little time to become accustomed to things, although she had no wish to shut herself away from Mary. If anything, she wanted to cling to Mary, to follow her around, to sit as close as possible. In the drawing room, Charlotte sat first and Mary hesitated, as if waiting for permission to join her. Charlotte patted the seat in encouragement, and Mary acquiesced with a look of relief. The chatter did not stop, however, and soon Charlotte was being drawn into a discussion of the flowers Barton had mentioned in his diary, and whether they bore any resemblance to flowers she was familiar with. She saw now what should have been evident to her before—the way Mary’s eyes lingered, the way her companion followed her every word and thought with great attention, the brief displays of affection with a shoulder pat. Charlotte had thought it simply friendship, which in hindsight had been a foolish interpretation. Though her other friends had always been affectionate, none of them would ever have been so frequent or overt about it.
She smiled to herself—Lizzie would have made so much fun of her for being oblivious to a suitor’s attentions—but then her smile faded. Oh no. I hadn’t considered Lizzie. How could Charlotte ever face her friend again, knowing that she’d kissed one of her sisters? Lizzie had never been a particularly staid person, or fond of old traditions when they did not suit, but this was quite a different kettle of fish. One was often more accepting of others’ oddities when they did not conflict with the social standing of one’s family.
“May I ask a question?”
Mary stiffened slightly. “Yes?”
“Does Lizzie know? About you?”
“Oh, yes. All except Lydia, for I did not trust her to keep it secret from our mother. I suspect even Father knows, though we’ve never spoken about it directly. He’s made several allusions to a boyhood friend that never married, and I am many things but I am not stupid.”
“Oh.” Charlotte fidgeted for a moment. “And was she—were they…”
“Accepting? Yes. Kitty took a little longer to come around, but even she did, in the end.” Mary inched closer, her arm stretching out on the back of the couch. “If you ever wanted to tell them, I know they would not love you any less.”
“That is quite a relief,” Charlotte admitted, leaning back into Mary’s embrace, glad that Mary was giving her plenty of time to get used to touches that actually might mean something. Everything was so new, but the thought that Mary wanted to be close to her, had perhaps even yearned to do so, was undeniably thrilling.
* * *
Dinner that evening was the promised chicken in white wine sauce, with apple pie to follow, and a final round of cheese and figs. They retired to the drawing room afterwards, and Charlotte collapsed on the couch next to Mary, rubbing a hand over her full stomach. “Your Miss Brodie is quite the treasure,” said she. “And a very sweet girl.”
Mary glanced at Charlotte so sharply that at first Charlotte thought she might be angry. “You met her?”
“I did. It was—oh, I never told you. There was a series of events which preceded me bursting into your room. I should have explained already.” Charlotte explained the events: the letter from Maria, meeting Miss Brodie in the kitchen, exploring and discovering the portraits of Aunt Cecily, Mr Langley, and Edith.
“Ah, I see.” Mary’s cheeks pinked. “No wonder you ran in as if your hair was on fire.”
“So… Edith?” Charlotte prompted, keen to steer the conversation away from her sudden and undignified entrance, and was amused to see her friend blush again.
“I confess I was rather infatuated at first,” Mary confessed.
“I thought as much. And no wonder, she is exceedingly pretty. Her hair is a glorious colour.”
“If you met her, you would see that her beauty pales in comparison to her mind. Aunt Cecily and George evidently were of the same opinion. A very sensible pair, actually.”
“Is she… I mean…” Charlotte couldn’t think of a tactful way to ask if Edith was Mary’s type. She recalled the nude drawing of the mysterious woman again, and compared the two in her mind’s eye. Certainly they were both beautiful, with large expressive eyes and wild manes of hair. A far cry from her own smooth curls and plain face. The contentment she’d felt since the kiss began to ebb at the thought.
“Charlotte?” Mary was studying her, eyebrows furrowed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You really ought to stop saying nothing when it is evidently something.”
“Well, I…earlier, you said you wanted to kiss me again.” Already, she could feel a hot flush creeping up her neck and spreading across her cheeks. “Surely you did not mean it.” How could she have meant it, when Charlotte was nothing in comparison to these women?
Mary stared at her, lips slightly parted, confusion writ large across her face. “Why not? You kissed me and I kissed you back. I told you that I had nursed hopes that you might return my affections. Good grief, what deeper expression of interest do you need? A brass band?”
They stared at each in mutual incomprehension. “Oh.” Charlotte bit her lip, a single tentative bud unfurling in her chest. Could it really be?
“May I kiss you now?” Mary’s fingers touched Charlotte’s cheek, then slipped down to her chin, tilting it up. “I’m quite willing to prove my interest, if you’ll let me. Though,” she added hastily, “I’ll happily wait until you’re more comfortable with the idea.”
“I confess you make me nervous,” Charlotte said, and Mary began to withdraw her fingers but Charlotte caught them, kept them where they were. In the candlelight, alone, everything which had seemed so frightening and far off earlier that day now seemed entirely possible. “That is not a no. I am simply—” She swallowed. “Perhaps a little shy. Perhaps you might help me become less so.”
Her heart beat a rapid tattoo, as Mary leaned in slowly, giving Charlotte time to back away.
Despite her nerves, she did not retreat. The second kiss was very unlike the first, which had been all fangs and claws and desperation. This one was the soft touch of a morning breeze, promising a beautiful day to come. Charlotte reached out blindly, her fingers finding the line of Mary’s jaw, the soft flesh of her neck, the sharp angle of her collarbone. No one had ever handled her so gently before—her parents had been jovial, Lizzie friendly, Mr Collins keen but unwieldy. Mary’s touch on her chin was barely there and yet something explosive crackled between them, veiled by sweetness.
Charlotte pulled back and studied Mary’s face; it was flushed, her sparkling eyes still edged with concern for Charlotte’s well-being—and oh, how that expression made her own heart swell in gratitude—and she wondered if she had been an utter fool all along not to see what was so obviously present.
Mary was a perfect gentlewoman for the rest of the evening. She made no secret of hiding that her eyes followed Charlotte around the room, but she made few overtures that had not already become part of their intimate friendship. If anything, she had pulled back a little, which made Charlotte’s heart sink. Perhaps Mary had not enjoyed the second kiss as much as the first. Perhaps neither had been up to the excellence she had expected. Perhaps Charlotte—who in fairness could not claim to be terribly skilled at such things—had been rather inept.
She had worried that conversation might be stilted now that there was something acknowledged between them, but in that respect Mary seemed just as she had before; just as witty, just as warm. “The salon will be held at Mrs Wilberforce’s home, in two days’ time. You will still accompany me, won’t you?” Mary batted her eyelashes, making Charlotte giggle.
“Yes, of course. What ought I to expect?”
“Well, the topic of the moment is a new theory based on strata.” Mary hesitated. “Do you know what strata are?”
“I confess I do not.”
“Do not worry, I shall explain it to you. Here, give me your arm.” Mary pushed the sleeve of Charlotte’s dress back, exposing her bare forearm, and placed two warm fingers at the elbow joint. “They are natural layers of rock and sediment in the earth’s crust. See, if we have a layer here,” she drew a line across the soft flesh of Charlotte’s arm, causing a slight shiver, “and then over time further sediments are deposited through various means—weather, water, and so on—then you will have a second layer on top of the first.” She drew another imaginary line, an inch down. “And so on,” another line, another shiver, “and so on. And therefore, when we examine these layers, we can use the thickness and the kinds of deposits made to determine the age and duration of that particular strata.” Her fingers returned to Charlotte’s elbow joint, and walked down the flesh until they stopped at her wrist. “The research into these layers gives us a more complete picture of the earth’s history, or at least the parts of it currently above water. That is the short version of the explanation. Does it make sense?”
“Completely,” Charlotte said, a little breathlessly, and when Mary sat back without kissing her, she found herself disappointed. “I… I ought to apologize,” she blurted, her chest tight with trepidation.
Mary’s eyes widened. “What on earth for?”
“I expect I’m no good at kissing.”
Before Charlotte could add any explanation, or beg for mercy, Mary snorted. “I do not know who gave you that impression, but I have found quite the opposite to be true.”
“So you did enjoy it?”
“Yes.”
She frowned, not following the logic. “Then why do you not pursue me?”
“My dear Charlotte, I was concerned that I might be pursuing you too much already. This is all very new to you, and, well… I want you to feel comfortable. Besides, I too like to be pursued. Well,” Mary corrected herself, “that depends on who is doing the pursuing, but in your case, rest assured that I am most receptive.”
Charlotte turned the idea over in her mind. This was a fair point—the situation was very new to her, and she was not yet free of the guilt she felt about having such feelings in the first place. Still, the fear and shame had lessened every time they’d kissed, and she thought that with more kissing, it was entirely possible they too would fade. “Ah yes, I remember the young man at the ball who asked you to dance.”
“It was not those silly boys I was thinking of, in all honesty.” Mary sighed. “It was Mrs Tremaine.”
Charlotte blinked, baffled. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I may as well tell you. When she first moved to town, over a year ago, she flirted with me incessantly,” Mary admitted. “She would not take no for an answer, and became quite a nuisance. Turning up places she knew I would be, trying to visit the house every few days to catch me at home, alone. I imagine someone less stubborn might have simply given in and been made a conquest, though the more she pushed, the more determined I was to push back.”
“But she is married,” Charlotte protested, astonished that anyone could act in such a way.
“That was not my only reason for rejecting her advances, though it played a large part. Look, you must be careful around her, for your words will turn into skittering mice and she will be the hawk who catches the least fortunate one.”
“She cannot be as bad as all that,” Charlotte said, and was surprised at how serious Mary looked.
“She is all that and much more. Be on your guard.”
“Gracious, I am well warned. Fear not, I shall be extremely careful around her.”
Pitt brought in tea—how he always knew when tea was most wanted, Charlotte had no idea—and the conversation turned back to the previous meetings at the salon, who had attended, and what had been discussed there. As Mary talked, Charlotte watched her keenly; her lips, her fine dark eyes full of animation, her hands fluttering back and forth as she talked, like courting birds.
“What is it?” Mary asked. “I do hope I’m not boring you.”
“Not at all.” Charlotte swallowed hard. She had been brave before, she could be brave again. Besides, Mary had assured her that she would be receptive to advances.
Plucking up her courage, Charlotte leaned forward, fear and excitement thrilling through her in equal measures, and cupped Mary’s face in trembling hands. Mary stilled, waiting, her lips slightly parted, eyes hooded. Kissing had generally been something that had been done to Charlotte, rather than something she sought, but this was different. She tilted her head and kissed Mary—not a tempestuous kiss like their first, or the second, more delicate one, but a soft, sweet kiss that spoke a kind of thanks.
When she drew back, Mary looked dazed and flushed. “What was that you were saying about being a poor kisser?”
“I do not recall,” Charlotte murmured, sliding closer on the couch. Heady desire had overtaken her anxiety, clouding her thoughts. “Perhaps we ought to do it again, just to be certain.”