Chapter Twenty
My dear Mrs Collins,
I hope you will not stay away long, for the weather here has been very fine for the last few days, and I have hit upon a wonderful scheme for your return—with a small party, we shall walk across to Primrose Hill and take a picnic. How wonderful does that sound? I am feeling well of late and must take the opportunity to indulge where I can, for soon enough the headaches will be upon me again. Mr Innes and Sir George have already agreed to attend and I decided that you would be the perfect companion to make up our foursome. Canterbury cannot be so fine in comparison to the glorious Kentish countryside, nor from the pleasant company of two handsome and most agreeable gentlemen. I know you will agree!
Your friend,
Anne de Bourgh
They spent the next couple of hours in a romantic haze, kissing endlessly, swinging from languid to vigorous, though neither Mary’s hands or mouth wandered from their chaste positions. She was always careful to stop whenever things were becoming too heated, and although Charlotte longed for a little more, she was grateful for the brief breaks and nervous about what might come next. She’d participated in marital activities with Mr Collins, though her duty had been mainly to arrange herself appropriately during the act and offer plenty of praise afterwards. If her dream about Mary was anything to go by—and she hoped it was—then her participation here would be much more on equal footing.
While Mary poured tea, Charlotte winced at the recollection of her first few times in bed with Mr Collins; the graceless awkwardness of both parties, the lack of ardor on her part which she had tried to make up for by commending his efforts in a ladylike manner. It had all been so calculated, she saw in hindsight. The keenness with which she sought to prove that she was a good wife, worthy of being selected after all, sprung from her own insecurities. The deep discomfort she’d felt with his hands on her flesh, which she’d tried to cover by reassuring herself that most wives felt this way, that there was nothing wrong with her, that only husbands really enjoyed the marital act. She had known perfectly well that last fact wasn’t true at all, had heard as much insinuated amongst married ladies of her acquaintance, but denial was a powerful tool, and the one she’d used most often to cull the ever-growing field of her anxieties.
Mary didn’t bring up the subject of what might come afterwards, which made Charlotte wonder if she was perhaps not interested in taking matters further. However, she was too shy to ask for clarity, and too grateful for all that she was receiving already.
That evening, they said goodnight with chaste kisses, and Charlotte sat for a while in an armchair in front of the fire, staring into the flames. She’d spent so long convincing herself that her desires were wrong, that she ought to be ashamed for desiring her friend in such a perverse way, that allowing herself to enjoy these experiences now left her feeling strange and dizzy. To complicate matters, while it was one thing for well-off Great-Aunt Ethel to have a companion, and likewise for Mary, who had means at her disposal, it was quite another thing for Charlotte. She knew now that she could never marry again without much regret, though perhaps she would not have much choice in the matter. As long as her parents were alive, she would have a place at Lucas Lodge, but after they passed her brother, John, would inherit, and he already had a large family. Charlotte would merely be in the way, only useful as a sort of secondary mother to his brood. Her options, therefore, were limited. Her one hope was that Mary might want her to visit often, though she could not count on her friend’s interest remaining steady forever. Hearts wavered and changed like the tides, and who was she to hope for something so wonderful as Mary’s eternal devotion?
She sighed. That was the future; this was now. There was no point crying over what she could not change, and if she spent all her time in Canterbury moping, then what little time she had with Mary would be spoiled. Determined not to waste a single second more, Charlotte got ready for bed, and vowed to meet the new day with all the courage she possessed.
* * *
The next morning, Charlotte joined Mary in the dining room, and over a breakfast of fresh fruit and toast, they made a plan for the day. Mary insisted that she had been a dreadful hostess thus far due to the sheer mound of work heaped upon her, and had to remedy this immediately. “I did promise to make it up to you, did I not?” said she, arching an eyebrow, and Charlotte couldn’t help blushing as she thought of all the ways in which Mary might do so.
Unfortunately, none of these licentious thoughts turned out to be part of Mary’s plan, which encompassed first a carriage ride to Canterbury Cathedral, where Charlotte marvelled at the grand old building. She recalled a little history about the place, though her recollections were mainly the darker deeds which tended to stick in the mind, particularly the shocking murder of Thomas Becket inside the building itself in 1170. Mary provided the rest, leading Charlotte around the interior and pointing out where the monks had once done their sleeping, eating, and charity work. The stained-glass windows were particularly fine on such a bright day, and Charlotte lingered to admire the effect.
“I have heard it said that the northwest tower is dangerous and ought to be pulled down,” Mary said, pointing at the tower in question. “Though it will take them an age to rebuild such a thing, and will cost an immense amount. I see why they are loath to do so.”
“Whatever for? It is quite lovely.”
“Some sort of structural damage.” Mary shrugged. “I do not supposed it can be fixed, if there is talk of tearing it down entirely. And that over there is the medicinal herb garden.”
The herb garden turned out to be exactly that, and after wandering through the cloister gardens, Charlotte declared that the place was most agreeable, if rather devoid of flowers. “Surely even monks must have enjoyed a bouquet from time to time,” she added, picturing the poor men in their bare cells, with not even a single flower to ameliorate the spartan surroundings.
“A hard life, indeed.” Mary nodded. “Now, I must ask, for it relates to our next activity—you are not fond of horse-racing, are you?”
“I confess I am not. It is too terrible when one falls, and must be put out of its misery.”
“I’m glad to hear it. We may pass over that entirely, and move on to something that interests us both. What about a little shopping, and then a concert?”
Charlotte agreed that both sounded delightful, and so they returned to the carriage and drove through town to Mary’s favourite dressmaker, Ashbrook’s, where the employees were only too delighted to see them. After perusing several new bolts of cloth, including a dark blue the exact colour of a summer night sky, Mary insisted on having Charlotte fitted for a new dress. “No, please,” Charlotte protested. “I could not possibly let you spend so much money on me.”
“What is money for if not to help a friend?” Mary leaned in while the dressmaker bustled off to aid a new customer. “I’d like to buy you something that isn’t black.”
“I won’t be able to wear it for months yet.”
“Then it will be something to look forward to. How about this?” Mary held up a green silk which reminded Charlotte of a just-snipped stem.
Charlotte sighed. “If you must have your way—”
“Indeed, I must.”
“Then…well…” She stroked the dark blue. “This would be lovely, especially with a little silver or gold sewn into it.”
“Celestial,” Mary remarked, and then lowered her voice even further. “You will look ravishing in it.”
Charlotte blushed, but before she could think of a charming reply, the dressmaker bustled back over, and the next few minutes were taken up with measuring and marking. Once they had exited the shop, Charlotte insisted on paying Mary back in a small way by purchasing both tickets to a concert at a nearby guild hall. The music was delightful—an orchestra, accompanied by a young soprano—and though Charlotte did not know enough to know whether the girl was really good or not, it certainly sounded wonderful in the echoing space.
* * *
At home, before the drawing room door had quite closed, Charlotte had leaned in and tugged Mary flush against her, seeking her mouth for a passionate kiss which turned out to be a little harder than she had first intended. “I apologise,” said she, when it was over. “I simply could not wait any longer.”
“Please do not apologise for something so delightful,” Mary murmured, and leaned in for another.
A soft knock sounded, and they extracted themselves from each other in just enough time before Pitt entered the room to announce that dinner was ready.
Miss Brodie had surpassed herself again, this time with fish, so beautifully cooked it flaked at the slightest pressure from Charlotte’s fork, atop a bed of braised greens. Dessert was a raspberry trifle, light and creamy. Although the fare was excellent, Charlotte hardly tasted any of it. Nothing existed that was not Mary’s eyes, Mary’s mouth, Mary’s hands, and she found herself relieved when the meal was over and they could retire into the drawing room together.
“Come,” Mary said, and arranged herself on the couch so that Charlotte could comfortably lie in her arms. “Is this too much?”
“Not at all.” She wanted to ask for more, but shyness again prevented her. It did not take long for them to become entangled, much like Charlotte’s dream, only these kisses were sweet and short. It was all very pleasant, but immensely frustrating. Charlotte shifted position; winding her fingers into Mary’s hair, she tugged experimentally. Mary gasped, her body arching towards Charlotte.
She froze, panic rising. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” Mary’s cheeks were flushed with high colour, her eyes darker than ever before. She licked her lips once, twice, her chest heaving. “No, you did not hurt me.”
Charlotte leaned in, tentatively, and pressed a gentle kiss to Mary’s lips. “Then what is it?”
“I am… You make me…” Mary huffed. “Do you really not know what you do to me?”
“No, not at all.” Charlotte stilled her face, made it politely blank. “Pray tell.”
“You’re a monster,” Mary mumbled, burying her face in Charlotte’s shoulder, eliciting a giggle. “Very well.” She looked up into Charlotte’s eyes, desire writ plain across her face in every line of strain. “Every touch of yours sets me alight. Every kiss is another coal on the fire, and I can only let it burn so long before it threatens to consume me entirely. There, that’s pretty language to say something plain. Are you satisfied?”
Charlotte’s heart was hammering so hard she was certain Mary would hear it. “Not in the slightest.” She smiled, then bit her lip. “Then…may I ask…”
“Why I am holding back?” Mary sighed. “It is not from lack of desire that we have not gone to bed together. I thought I had made that clear. It is simply that I am, perhaps, slower than most to bare my body and soul in such a way. I do not take lovers casually, as some do. I hope that is acceptable.”
“Of course.” Charlotte blinked, surprised. The idea of taking a lover casually had never occurred to her, though she had expected Mary to be a little less formal in this regard. There was something she was missing in this explanation, she was certain—some obvious fact staring her in the face, but she could not quite work out what it was. “I’m happy to be with you in any respect.”
“Give me time,” Mary said, pressing another kiss to the corner of Charlotte’s mouth, eliciting another smile. “I will endeavour to be worth it.”
“I have no doubt that you will.”
And yet , Charlotte thought, time is a currency fast running out. She was aware they had talked of her staying for a week or two, though Mary had said nothing beyond this and besides, even if invited to linger, Charlotte had responsibilities to attend to. She would have to return to the parsonage to oversee the packing of boxes for the journey back to Hertfordshire. She would have to say tearful goodbyes to Bessie and Mrs Waites, as well as Anne de Bourgh. She could put it off a little longer, perhaps another week, but at some point she would have to face the truth: her parents would be expecting her at Lucas Lodge, and she would have to once again don the guise of Mrs Collins, widow and burden, rather than Charlotte, free to kiss whomever she pleased and go wherever she liked with not a single thought given to the rules and expectations that governed polite society.
“What is it?” Mary murmured.
Charlotte shook off the thoughts and forced a smile. Mary must be as aware as she of their impending separation. There was no need to mar happy times with a reminder. “Nothing a good kiss cannot fix.”
“Well then, come here.”
Breathlessly, Charlotte acquiesced, and the next few minutes were spent exploring all the healing properties of a very good kiss.
“I have something to tell you,” Mary murmured, catching her breath once they’d parted. “I hope you will not find this habit too strange, but once a week I have lunch downstairs with the servants.”
Charlotte gaped at her. “Really?”
“Is that so odd?” Mary frowned, her tone defensive.
“Not at all,” Charlotte hastened to reassure her. “In fact, I have spent many a pleasant hour in the kitchen with Mrs Waites.”
“You do not think me queer?”
“I do, but not for this.” Charlotte grinned at the way Mary’s eyes rolled in amusement.
“The thing is…” She shifted uncomfortably on the couch. “Over the last year I have rather lost touch with some society friends. It is a long story, and I—well. Suffice to say that these weekly lunches were a tradition begun by Aunt Cecily and I have enjoyed continuing them in her absence. After all, the servants and I may be separated by class, but there is something deeper which binds us together. I find it cheering to have more people around who understand my particular situation, and I theirs. Does that make sense?”
“It makes the most perfect sense in the world,” Charlotte declared.
“Would you care to join us tomorrow?”
She blushed with pleasure. “I would be delighted to.”
* * *
Lunch began quietly, with each member of the party seated around the long kitchen table. Strips of pork belly, well-seasoned and flavourful with a crispy, crackling skin, were accompanied beautifully with buttered new potatoes liberally sprinkled with thyme. Though the meal was excellent, Charlotte worried that her presence was inhibiting the servants from being their usual selves. She needn’t have worried. Before long, the footmen—Henry and Thomas—began to chatter excitedly about a dance they intended to attend, and begged Miss Brodie to join them on the excursion, since the young housemaid who was apparently their usual companion had gone home to visit her parents.
“I notice you have not invited me,” Pitt said, passing a bowl of glistening peas along the table. Charlotte caught his quick glance at Miss Brodie, who looked uncomfortable.
“We do not invite you any longer because you never come,” Henry said, tucking a lock of dark hair behind his ear. “Why, you are quite in your prime, sir, and any man in the place would surely—” Thomas elbowed him hard. “Ow! It was a compliment, do not jostle me so.”
“I would rather not go out,” Miss Brodie murmured, her voice barely audible. “But if Miss Bennet would not mind terribly, I wondered if my friend might visit for a few days? He has secured a little leave from Mrs…” she swallowed, “from my former place of employ.”
“Ooh, Nancy, a special friend!” Henry cried, and earned himself another elbow in the ribs from Thomas. The two footmen descended into giggles.
Mary smiled. “Of course. I am glad that you have someone dear to you.” She mock-glared at the footmen and moved her chair away. “Tell me, boys, is your silliness contagious?”
They grinned, unabashed, and Henry dropped a quick kiss on Thomas’ shoulder. The rest of the meal continued in much the same way, and Charlotte discovered that the servants had at their disposal immense pools of gossips, like great fungal networks, reaching across Canterbury and beyond. Indeed, even shy Miss Brodie seemed to possess a wealth of knowledge about all the nearby families, especially who among them employed a decent cook. Mary chimed in from time to time, looking more comfortable and relaxed than Charlotte had ever seen before. This was clearly a cosy, familial space that Mary had been unable to create while living with the Bennets. Here, she was among her people, and it suffused Charlotte with a warm pleasure to know that class boundaries were, at least in the privacy of this house, not so strictly observed.
Afterwards, once she and Mary returned to the drawing room, she said how pleasant and agreeable the atmosphere had been. Mary looked relieved.
“It is not that I do not have friends of my own rank,” said she, as though preempting an argument that Charlotte had not actually made. “There is Miss Highbridge, of course, but though I treasure Delia greatly, she has her own life to lead and cannot spend every afternoon lunching with me. Besides, she too has a new beau.” Mary smirked. “And I quite understand the desire to be sequestered away with the object of one’s desire.”
“Indeed, I quite understand the notion myself.” Charlotte leaned in for a long, slow kiss, full of tender warmth. “How did Miss Brodie come to your aunt’s employ? She does not seem the type to present herself at the door and make her case.”
“Ah.” The smile vanished from Mary’s face. “Nancy—Miss Brodie—was working as a kitchen boy for a friend of Mrs Tremaine’s, a Mrs Grendel, who espied her more feminine side and made one too many romantic overtures towards her. I have never known precisely what happened, nor do I wish to, but the result was that Nancy fled. The butler at the house, an old friend of Pitt’s, asked him to do what he could, lest the poor girl be homeless. Pitt brought her here,” she shrugged, “and that was that. Once Aunt Cecily had tasted her cooking, there was never any question of trying to find her another position.”
Charlotte’s jaw dropped. “Why, how terrible! And she is such a dear, sweet little thing. I cannot imagine her saying boo to a goose.”
“The sweetest nestlings make for the quickest meals,” Mary said darkly. “I’ve had them make it clear to the rest of Mrs Grendel’s staff that should such a thing happen again, any one of them would be welcome here. I also warned Mrs Grendel herself, which went over about as well as you can imagine.” She sighed. “Sometimes I would like to burn society down entirely. I know I cannot change anything myself, but if I can provide a small safe haven then perhaps I can claim to have at least improved the lives of a few.”
“You are a noble and courageous knight,” Charlotte said, unable to help a fond smile. “No wonder I have become quite besotted with you.”
The cloud over Mary seemed to lift a little. “Is that so, fair maiden? Do you have any dragons you need slain?”
Her hands wound around Charlotte’s waist as the fire crackled, and the next kiss scorched them both.