Chapter Twenty-One
Dearest daughter,
Of course, we understand very well that spending some time away from the parsonage will do you good.
Mary Bennet always seemed a quiet, steady sort of girl.
Just remember that we are ready to receive you with open arms, and one or both of us are quite prepared to travel down to Kent to help you pack your belongings.
With fondest regards,
Mama and Papa
The next day passed in a blur of kissing, punctuated only by breaks for meals, reading and correspondence, and a little playing upon the pianoforte. Charlotte found it difficult to sit even an inch apart from Mary, so deep was her craving, and only the raptures of Miss Brodie’s cooking kept her from pulling Mary into her lap at mealtimes.
Pitt had warmed to her too, now that it was obvious the relationship between Charlotte and Mary had changed; he watched his mistress with far less anxiety than he had once done, and more than once Charlotte had caught him looking at their linked hands with a kind of wistful longing. How hard it must be for him, she thought, to have loved so deeply and lost such a sweet, fascinating man. She would have liked to question him about Barton, but to open such a wound would no doubt be very painful.
When the clock struck ten that evening, Charlotte was astonished that the last hours had passed by so quickly. “Would you stay with me again?” she asked Mary. “I find I do not wish to let you go so soon.”
“Of course. Would you prefer your room or mine?”
“Yours,” Charlotte decided.
They prepared for bed in separate rooms before Charlotte tiptoed along the hallway, feeling like a forbidden lover in a Shakespearian play, and slipped in without knocking. They cuddled up together under the sheets, Charlotte marvelling once again at how hot Mary seemed to run—a wonderful contrast to her own cool hands and feet, which never seemed to warm much regardless of the season. She had hoped for at least a little kissing, and therefore was disappointed when Mary merely slung an arm over her waist and tucked her head under Charlotte’s chin. Time is ticking , the voice in her head whispered. In a few days you will have to leave her, and once you do, things will never be the same.
All the more reason to enjoy things as they are now , she argued back, and though the voice fell silent, she did not feel entirely reassured.
* * *
The day of the salon dawned bright and sunny, though the humidity left Charlotte feeling unpleasantly clammy. Pitt had thrown open the windows in the drawing room, and the wonderful smell of mignonette had paled under the smell of the street below—the sour stench of chimney smoke from a hundred kitchens mixing with the sweet-bitter stink of horse manure.
“Summer will be upon us soon,” she said aloud.
Mary looked up from her page, her quill slowing its scratching. “And yet you sound unhappy about it.” She leaned over and pressed a kiss against Charlotte’s shoulder. “Do you prefer winter? Snow outside and roaring fires?”
By winter, I will be a mere footnote in the book of her life , thought Charlotte. “No,” she said, and forced a smile. “I much prefer spring, truth be told. Everything fresh and new, with little buds sprouting everywhere and darling lambs in the fields.” She sighed. Back when we first met. If I could only live these last few weeks all over again, I would stop being foolish far sooner.
“Is something bothering you?”
Charlotte returned to the present to find Mary studying her, brow furrowed in concern. “I was just wishing that I had sooner realised my…” My what? she wondered. My inclinations? My feelings? “Everything, really.”
“You poor dear.” Mary reached for Charlotte’s chin, tilted it up, her thumb swiping over her bottom lip. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. We have lofty expectations impressed upon us from the moment we begin to walk and talk. It is not easy to break free from such things or to realise what truths lie hidden in our hearts.”
“You make it look easy. You make it feel easy.”
Mary’s eyes glittered in the light. Though neither had moved a muscle, the air between them grew thick. “I’m glad you think so.”
Charlotte bit her lip. “Please put your quill down, lest I ruin your dress.”
Mary cast it aside without looking to see where it landed, and the stack of papers on her lap went the same way. A heartbeat later, their mouths met in a scorching kiss which seared Charlotte all the way down to her toes. She pushed Mary back on the couch, slotting her body into the gap between Mary’s thighs. The kiss deepened, Mary’s breath hitching as Charlotte pulled her closer, pressing them together so tightly that she could feel the thud of Mary’s heart.
“If we continue down this path,” Mary murmured, her voice rough, “then I shall keep you in bed all day and we will never make it to the salon tonight. Have mercy, dear one. I am barely holding myself back as it is.”
Charlotte couldn’t help a whimper catching in her throat at the insinuation, her hips rolling forward once without her quite meaning to do so; Mary made a half-strangled noise under her, and then they were kissing again, harder than before, hands grabbing at each other with fierce abandon, and by the time they broke apart, both gasping for air, Charlotte was quite prepared to ignore that such a thing as a salon had ever existed, far less that they were obliged to attend one. However, Mary had been kind enough to take her to the ball at Mrs Cromley’s, and now Charlotte had to act the part of the amiable husband in turn.
“Very well,” she said, smiling, though she had never wanted to attend an event less than she did right now.
“Are you sure?”
Charlotte bent and kissed Mary, marvelling at how easy it felt to do so, how sweet and already familiar. “Of course. Anything for you.”
Lest she tempt them both into a situation from which neither wished to retreat, Charlotte did her best to behave well in the hours that followed. She occupied her hands with the pianoforte while Mary wrote, playing soft lullabies and lively tunes, and even began to compose a little something of her own. It was hardly Bach, but it passed the time, and when she grew tired of that, Mary offered to lend her the key to the shared garden so that she could pick a bouquet.
“Not today, but perhaps I shall do tomorrow.” Her hands were too restless for flower arranging, her mind still simmering with the heat which had blazed between them during their last kiss. It had been a while since she had picked any flowers, and a thought struck her as she closed the lid of the pianoforte. “Do you recall that when you returned from Meryton, I made a wreath for the table? White peonies and purple pansies?”
“You did. I thought it odd that you did not tell me what they meant, though I had supposed you were too amused by my mimicry of my mother to remember.” Mary glanced up, a slow smile spreading over her face. “Was it a secret message?”
“Of sorts. Pansies signify a lover’s thoughts unspoken, while the peonies represented new beginnings.” She blushed. “And perhaps a certain bashfulness on the part of the giver.”
“Why Charlotte Lucas, you utter romantic.” Mary chewed the end of her quill. “And what flowers would you choose now? Would they differ?”
Fortunately, Charlotte was saved from having to produce any sort of coherent response by the entrance of Pitt, who announced that dinner was ready, and by the time the first course was served, Mary appeared to have forgotten she’d asked the question in the first place. Charlotte put it to the back of her mind, vowing to consider the matter later; such a weighty thing as the perfect bouquet could not be rushed.
* * *
After dinner, they travelled in the carriage to the Wilberforces’ home, which was in the eastern part of the town, in quite the opposite direction they’d taken to attend the Cromleys’ ball.
The Wilberforces owned a townhouse much like Mary’s, though theirs was precisely in the middle of the row. The foyer was not quite as grand as Aunt Cecily’s, and the walls were painted a deep scarlet which Charlotte knew had been all the rage a few years prior. The chandelier which lit the room was a beautiful specimen, all loops and curves supporting a set of flickering candles, while the staircase they passed was constructed of a fine dark wood, and the bustling maids had a plump, healthy look to them. The drawing room was a large one, though the presence of some twenty people made it feel rather crowded. Charlotte could not see a pianoforte, which was unusual, but a grand harp in the far corner suggested that this family’s musical tastes tended towards something quieter.
She had expected to recognise the young woman from the nude drawing, but there was no trace of a dark mane amongst the women present. “Oh no,” Mary muttered, as a blonde woman in a bright green gown made a beeline for them. She was attractive, in a way, with high cheekbones and pouting lips, but something about her reminded Charlotte horribly of Caroline Bingley, whose snobbery had almost caused Jane Bennet to lose a happy love match.
“Good evening, Miss Bennet. And who is this?” the woman asked, eyeing Charlotte as if she were something the kitchen cat had dragged in.
A muscle jumped in Mary’s jaw—a sign of frustration, Charlotte knew by now—but her voice was calm. “This is Mrs Collins, a friend of mine from childhood. Mrs Collins, this is Mrs Tremaine.”
“Indeed? And what branch of science are you pursuing, Mrs Collins?”
“Oh, I am not pursuing anything,” Charlotte said, embarrassment warming her cheeks. “I am here merely to listen and learn.”
Mrs Tremaine sniffed. “You do know, Miss Bennet, that these salons are for scientific discussions and not simply another event on the social calendar. I am sure there is very little here to interest those not interested in the advancement of science in all its glory.”
“Mrs Collins is too modest about her myriad talents,” Mary said, her dark eyes narrowing. “And besides, we were all beginners once.” She hesitated only slightly before adding, “Some of us still are. Come, Charlotte, we must present ourselves to our hosts.”
Leaving Mrs Tremaine glowering in their wake, they moved towards a large fireplace, encircled by three leather couches. Mary steered Charlotte towards the occupants of one couch. “You mistake me, sir,” a lady in a large pink hat was saying to a grey-haired gentleman smoking a foul-smelling pipe. “I am not saying nobody can criticize him for producing what seemed like a sound theory ten years ago. I simply think that we ought to carefully consider whether the mark of a good scientist is one who proposes a theory, or one who discards a theory when it is proved wrong.”
“And yet some who cling to their arguments and weather the storm of protest are found to have been correct long after the fact,” said he, blowing a cloud of blue smoke. “There is something admirable about tenacity, is there not?”
“Not in the face of evidence to the contrary, no,” the lady disagreed. “Oh! Here is Miss Bennet, whom I am sure will provide a sensible argument.”
“You flatter me.” Mary grinned. “There is something to be said for both sides, is there not? It is only hindsight which proves whether the endeavour has been worthwhile.”
“You do not often play the diplomat,” said the lady, peevishly. “I wish you had chosen another day to do so. And who is your friend?”
“I’m delighted to present Mrs Collins, who is visiting from Kent.”
Charlotte smiled, and the next few minutes were taken up with introductions, which revealed that the man and woman were their hosts, Mr and Mrs Wilberforce. She was surprised to hear that this was the case, and wondered if they might be only related by marriage—a brother and sister-in-law, perhaps. “I know what you are thinking, but in fact they are married to each other,” Mary murmured, leading Charlotte back across the room, “though one would never think it to hear them talk. I hear they argued all through their acquaintance, and their engagement, and the wedding too. And yet they are happy as lambs, twenty years later.”
Charlotte glanced back to find the lady fussing over the gentleman’s lapels while he tried to escape her attentions, though both were smiling at each other with good humour. “Love is certainly a mystery, is it not?”
Mary only smiled in response, for they had arrived in front of a gentleman with white hair, white whiskers, and piercing blue eyes which crinkled with pleasure at the sight of them; Charlotte liked him at once. Mary introduced the gentleman as Mr Mellor, then introduced Charlotte so warmly that she flushed with equal parts pleasure and embarrassment. “Miss Bennet is too kind,” she said, “I am merely here to observe and educate myself a little.”
“That is what we are all here for, Mrs Collins,” said he, smiling. His jacket, beautifully cut to encompass his portly frame, was a striking bright blue that Charlotte had rarely seen on a man, emphasising his eyes to greatest effect. If she had to guess, she would think him no younger than five-and-fifty, though his exuberance was that of a much younger man.
“The foxgloves that enraptured you came from Mr Mellor’s collection,” Mary confessed. “I believe the faded reds were your favourite?”
“You recall perfectly,” Charlotte agreed, smiling. “I must thank you, Mr Mellor, for granting the favour. I was very taken with them.”
“You are very welcome, my dear! I was only too happy to help Miss Bennet with her request. She tells me that you are very fond of your garden back in Kent.”
“I am, sir. Though I am not a botanist, merely a humble gardener.”
“Well, then it seems we have more than one thing in common.”
Charlotte blinked, not quite sure what was meant by such a statement, but before she could work out how best to answer, Mr Mellor turned to Mary. “And where is Miss Carlisle? Still in Austria?”
For a moment, Mary looked stricken at the question, but the next moment her face smoothed out entirely. “I believe so.”
Ah, so her name is Miss Carlisle , Charlotte thought, jealousy stinging. Miss Anne Carlisle, then, who sent Mary a drawing—either of herself or of someone else, but evidently designed to cause jealousy in the recipient—and whom Miss Highbridge thought important enough to mention in their conversation on the balcony at the ball. “Whatever will Anne say?” Miss Highbridge had asked, and though Mary had replied that Anne’s opinion had no bearing on her current situation, Charlotte was not so sure that this was the entire truth.
“In fact, Miss Carlisle is already on her way home from Austria.” Mrs Tremaine had edged into the conversation. Her emerald necklace caught the light as she shifted from foot to foot, feigning astonishment, though her smile was snide. “Miss Bennet, I expected you to know such things.”
“I confess it is news to me.” Mary had paled, though her voice was still steady.
“Why, that surprises me a great deal, what with you two being such good friends and all,” Mrs Tremaine clucked, shooting a sly glance at Charlotte before sashaying away.
Mr Mellor glanced at Mary, and the two exchanged arch looks. “If we were not in polite society,” said he, “then I would have words for that lady which would set her hair ablaze.”
“Hellfire cannot harm the devil,” Mary muttered, causing Mr Mellor to snort. Charlotte brushed the back of Mary’s hand with her own gloved one, in a vain attempt to give comfort, and was rewarded with a small smile. “I shall fetch us drinks while you two become better acquainted.”
As Mary disappeared into the crowd, Mr Cromley appeared, mid-argument with a dapper gentleman in a red tailcoat. “My dear Monford,” he cried. “You cannot still be holding to Werner when Hutton has made such a compelling argument.”
The man in the red tailcoat shrugged. “As a chemist, I feel bound to look at things a certain way. And it seems to me—ah, Mellor! I have a bone to pick with you later.”
Mr Mellor offered a slight bow. “Pick away, dear fellow, pick away.” He seemed relieved that the men had not stopped to talk, but continued towards a long table at the back of the room, which held bowls of fresh fruit and trays of biscuits. Charlotte eyed the pistachio queen cakes and millefeuille with interest, and vowed she would try at least one or two. “So,” Mr Mellor said. “You have a keen interest in flowers, do you?”
“I do indeed. I love flowers for their own sake, whether fresh or dried, but I am particularly interested in their meanings. I have no doubt been boring Miss Bennet with all my talk on the subject.”
“Oh, I suspect Miss Bennet would listen to you for hours upon any subject,” said he, and winked. Panicked, Charlotte flushed, but the gentleman lowered his voice and added, “Do not worry, Mrs Collins. I am part of the same club. That is why I have no heir, and why I have devoted much of my life to creating vast, interesting collections. The flowers in particular have been splendid, and I have won many prizes for them. Do you like roses?”
She felt rather light-headed. It felt strange to have a stranger openly acknowledge some part of herself that had remained hidden for so long. “Very much.”
“She did not tell me anything,” said he, seeing the anxiety on Charlotte’s face. “I merely guessed by your face when I mentioned Miss Carlisle that you and Miss Bennet might be…close. Though I already had some idea when she specifically requested flowers for you.” He leaned in slightly, looking apologetic. “I do hope I have not upset you by mentioning the lady.”
“I am not…that is to say, that I have never met her.” Charlotte forced a smile. “You are most astute, sir.”
“Well, that reminds to be seen.” He winked again. “You must come to visit my estate and view my roses, Mrs Collins. It is not too far from here. I shall insist that Miss Bennet bring you before you leave town.”
“Oh, I—”
“Bring her where?” Mary asked, materializing at Charlotte’s elbow and offering them each a glass of sherry
“To view my collection.”
“Of course! We shall come whenever it is convenient for you. I say, have you seen Miss Highbridge anywhere?”
“I believe she sent her regards to the Wilberforces. A sudden head cold, though nothing serious.”
“Poor thing,” Charlotte said, feeling rather guilty. She’d been so busy suspecting Mary of being in love with Miss Highbridge that she hadn’t spent as much time getting to know the girl. “Ought we to send her something? It is dreadful to be sick abed with nothing to entertain you.”
“What a wonderful idea.” Mary smiled at her, though she still looked pale. “I shall have Pitt arrange something tomorrow morning.”
After a few sips of sherry, the warmth of the drink began to relax Charlotte’s nerves; apart from Mrs Tremaine, no one seemed to mind at all that she was there, and visiting such a vast floral collection was an exciting prospect. However odd and anxiety-provoking it had been to be acknowledged by Mr Mellor, it had also been rather nice—like becoming a member of a secret society, existing in plain sight. They were soon joined by Mr Cromley and the gentleman in the blue tailcoat, who struck up a conversation about the latest theory of strata. Charlotte was glad that Mary had explained at least the basics to her, though she could not follow the more complicated references they made. Likewise, Mary seemed to be having trouble paying attention—she spoke when spoken to, but otherwise appeared distracted, her gaze wandering off into the distance.
“I say, Mellor,” Mr Cromley said, “it’s been a glorious season for my roses. Perhaps this is the year I finally best you, eh?”
“It might well be,” Mr Mellor admitted. “I’m having trouble with some of the flowers, though I cannot for the life of me work out what to do about these confounded insects. They’ve already eaten their way through my pink lilies, which as you know I was breeding apart in the hope of—”
Mrs Tremaine had sidled into the group, a simpering smile plastered onto her face. Mr Mellor hesitated before continuing. “Anyway. The blasted creatures are everywhere, and my gardeners claim they’ve never seen anything like them. No idea where they came from, either. If I do not find a solution, then indeed, Cromley, you may have me beat this year.”
“Then I shall beg everyone not to help you,” Mr Cromley joked, raising a laugh.
“Have you tried poison?” Mrs Tremaine asked.
“Of course.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Tried everything.”
“Dill,” Charlotte said, without thinking. All eyes turned to her.
Mr Mellor blinked. “What was that, Mrs Collins?”
She swallowed. “Those kinds of insects seem to love dill.”
“We’re not trying to feed the creatures,” Mrs Tremaine smirked. “We’re trying to eradicate them. That means destroy , you know.”
Temper rising, Charlotte met Mrs Tremaine’s eyes coolly. “That’s the beauty of this approach. They love dill so much that they’ll leave your other plants alone and congregate there.” She smirked back. “That means gather , you know.”
Mary choked on her sherry, hiding a splutter of laughter behind a hastily raised handkerchief.
“What’s this?” Mr Mellor cried, his forehead furrowed with surprise. “Is it really that simple? Have I wasted half a fortune employing horticultural specialists who could not cure the problem, and never thought simply to move it elsewhere?”
Charlotte blushed. “It has worked many a time in the gardens I have known. Some insects are staved off by the use of mint or basil, but some cannot be dissuaded by any means except death, and they often reproduce in numbers so great that extinguishing them entirely is a lengthy and time-consuming endeavour. In such cases, encouraging them to withdraw to a dill plant at least has the advantage of leaving your other flowers alone. You could use marigolds too, but those would take longer to grow.”
“What an excellent military tactic. Draw the enemy to a particular point—a point which they believe to be most advantageous, then strike once they have gathered in numbers.” Mr Mellor stroked his white whiskers, thinking the idea over. “Yes, I see how it might work. My, my. You ought to have been a military commander, Mrs Collins. The enemy would have been shaking in their boots after such a manoeuvre.”
Charlotte laughed while Mrs Tremaine slunk away into the crowd, scowling. “I do not know about all that. It is a simple enough remedy, and one which ought to work, though I make no promises.”
“Now I must insist that you come and visit my collection. If what you say works, then I shall be in your debt forever.”
“Very well,” said she, delighted by the invitation. “If it’s not too much trouble, Miss Bennet?”
“Hmm?” Mary smiled, though there was still a crease between her eyebrows. “Not at all. We shall come two days hence, if it please you?”
Mr Mellor agreed that the date did please him, and so the matter was settled to everybody’s satisfaction. By the time Mary had drained her glass, she was looking well again, chattering away as lively as ever, though Charlotte knew that there was something wrong. She just didn’t know how to fix it.
Or perhaps she was the problem.