Chapter Twenty-Two
“You see,” Mary said, in the carriage on the way home. “I did warn you about Mrs Tremaine.”
“She certainly had her claws out tonight.”
“It is nothing to do with you, really.” Mary sighed. “She has taken it upon herself to be as unkind as possible to me and all my acquaintances, no matter who they are. Apart from Mr Mellor, whom she is afraid of.”
“Oh. I had no idea.” Alarm prickled between Charlotte’s shoulder blades. “Do you think she suspects us of being more than friends?”
“Only because she suspects me of bedding every friend I dare spend time with.”
“I am sorry that I did the same thing.” Shame roiled in Charlotte’s stomach. “I thought you were with Miss Highbridge, and then—”
“You are nothing like Mrs Tremaine,” Mary said, her tone sharp. “In any case,” her voice softened a little, “I am grateful that you attended the salon and, I must confess, deeply amused that you were the one to put her in her place. These meetings have meant a great deal to me in the past years, and lately she has been intolerable.”
“Then it is I who is honoured.” Charlotte leaned closer. “Would you like to stay with me tonight?”
“I’m afraid I have a bit of a headache.” She waved a hand in the air. “All that smoke, you see. I do so hate the smell of pipe tobacco, but one cannot expect a gentleman to forgo pleasure in the safety of his own home.”
“Of course.” Charlotte bit her lip. Is that really true , she wondered, or was it the mention of Anne Carlisle which has caused her to shut down?
The rest of the carriage ride was silent, though they held hands the entire way home. Mary did at least kiss her goodnight in the hallway before returning to her room and closing the door without a backwards glance. Worry plagued Charlotte for the rest of the evening, though she could not precisely pinpoint the reason—she did not even know for certain that Miss Carlisle and Mary had had a former attachment, yet it seemed plain enough from the clues she had gathered. Just how attached had Mary been? The notion kept Charlotte awake until the small, hours of the morning; she tossed and turned interminably before finally falling into a broken, troubled sleep.
* * *
In the morning, Charlotte came to breakfast to find Mary scowling over a letter. “Good morning,” said she, throwing the parchment aside with a vehemence that was quite unexpected. She did not look up at Charlotte, but instead stared at the plate of eggs in front of her, which lay untouched. “Did you sleep well?”
Pitt gave his mistress an odd look as he poured the tea. Nothing was obviously wrong, but a certain tension in the room made the hair on the back of Charlotte’s neck prickle. “Yes, thank you. Though I missed you terribly last night. How’s your head?”
“What?” Mary continued to stare into her eggs. “Oh, yes. Fine.”
Pitt cleared his throat. “Would you like me to reheat your food, ma’am?”
“You needn’t hover over me like a nursemaid,” Mary snapped. “If the eggs are cold, it is my own fault for leaving them so long, is it not?”
Pitt raised an eyebrow, his lips thinning. “Of course, ma’am.”
Charlotte stared at Mary, perplexed, as Pitt marched out of the room. “What on earth is wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You once told me I ought not to say nothing when something evidently was wrong.” She meant it to be teasing, but Mary only glowered at her.
“Anne wrote to me. Miss Carlisle, I mean.” She sighed. “I cannot expect you to understand all the ways in which this news discomfits me. I had hoped Mrs Tremaine was merely needling me for sport last night, but…”
“I see.” Charlotte buttered a piece of toast, though her appetite was gone. “You needn’t tell me anything you would rather not share. I understand that Miss Carlisle,” oh, and how that name tasted like ashes in her mouth, “was important to you once upon a time.” And evidently still is , she thought.
She was rather hoping Mary would correct her, but no such correction came. Mary continued to glare at her eggs as if each one had personally affronted her. “She sent me a drawing of herself a few weeks ago. Someone else drew it, of course—it was not done in her hand, which is far less expert. She meant to make me jealous, for she thinks that by doing so she can pick me up again like a book whenever she returns to Canterbury.”
Charlotte had always known this was coming, though she’d thought it would happen weeks or months from now, long after she was back in Meryton. She had already pictured the letter which began Dear Charlotte and ended I hope you will understand , and done her best to make peace with the idea. Their own brief romance of a few days could not compare to what had evidently been a complex relationship, to say nothing of the fact that Miss Carlisle had likely become well acquainted with Mary’s body over their time together, while Charlotte still had no experience whatsoever. The notion stung like a wasp. Mary was kind and tender-hearted, and the idea of letting Charlotte down, however gently, was no doubt troubling her.
“I will leave you to your thoughts,” Charlotte said, rising abruptly from the table. She could feel the prickle of oncoming tears at the back of her nose, and she would not make things harder for Mary by crying about the situation in front of her. “I do believe I have a book to finish reading.”
She forced a chuckle, and fled the room before Mary could say another word.
* * *
Despite this, it was only an hour or so before Mary found Charlotte in the latter’s bedroom. Charlotte had spent the better part of that hour weeping—better to get it all out now, and compose herself so as not to embarrass her hostess—and after splashing her face with cold water, was feeling thoroughly drained. She looked up when the door opened, the unopened book still lying in her lap.
“Am I bothering you?” Mary asked, hovering in the doorway.
“Of course not. Come in.”
Mary crossed the room, but rather than seating herself in the opposite armchair, she leaned in for a kiss. Charlotte blanched, unable to help herself. It was too much to be expected to perform these familiar, sweet actions now that she knew she was only a placeholder until Miss Carlisle returned.
“Why do you pull away?” Mary frowned. “Surely now—I thought we had an understanding.”
Charlotte rose, sidling past Mary. “Perhaps I ought to take a walk in the garden. Some fresh air would be lovely.”
Mary glanced at the fully open windows, through which a gentle breeze blew, and back at Charlotte. One eyebrow arched in disbelief. “Indeed. If you give me a moment, I shall accompany you.”
“There is no need,” Charlotte said hastily, feeling tears prickle again. “I would not like to bother you.”
“Good grief, what is going on?” Mary snapped. “First you run from breakfast, then you don’t want to kiss me, then you avoid spending time with me.”
“I should think it was obvious.”
“You may think what you like, but that does not make it so. Pray, give me an explanation.” Mary stepped closer, the familiar scent of violets flooding the air. “Why are you acting this way?”
“Because I want you,” Charlotte cried, startling herself with the violence of her own temper. “I want you and I should not. Have you never thought what it must be like for me? To discover that there is a world with you in it, far less a world where you desire me even for a moment—me, plain old Charlotte Lucas, who was never anything to anyone—and then I discover that other women want you too and—” Her chest heaved, her lungs short of breath.
“You’re jealous,” Mary breathed, as if the idea had never occurred to her before. Her forehead wrinkled. “Dearest, I—”
Charlotte was tired of this charade. “Of course I am jealous! And you wouldn’t take me to bed, so you needn’t pretend I am not lacking in some way. I just wish you would have told me why, so I could have attempted to correct it, or at least—”
I wish I could have had you, she thought, her chest aching with unspoken words, even once. I would have spent the rest of my life dreaming of that moment.
“Please, stop. Please. Let me speak. I did not think—I mean, I hoped that…” Mary reached for Charlotte’s hands, held them tightly. “That is to say, I am very fond of you, and I do not say such things lightly. My friends would tell you as much, were they here, though I am glad that they are not.”
Though sweet, the words barely made an impact. Of course Mary had prior relationships. Of course she had experienced such things with other women. Had kissed them, had taken them to bed. Had felt bare womanflesh pressed against her. Had sought enjoyment and given pleasure. Knowing it was one thing, picturing quite another. Mary’s mouth on Miss Carlisle’s neck; Mary’s hands unbuttoning Miss Carlisle’s dress. The jealousy Charlotte felt now was hot and sickening and entirely new.
“Did you love her?” Each word dropped like a mossy stone into a fathomless well. She waited to hear the impact.
“I did, once.”
Splash , Charlotte thought , nausea simmering in her stomach. I ought to throw myself in too.
“I suppose I should tell you a little about it, though I would rather not,” Mary continued, guiding Charlotte onto the rug, where they sat side by side with their backs against the sturdy armchair. “In short, Anne and I were together for two years, though we broke things off several times. It was rather tempestuous, for we were ill-matched, and rather than see sense from the beginning, we kept trying to make the relationship work. She was charming and persuasive, but her word meant nothing.” Her laugh was bitter. “After each fight, she would go off chasing any society lady she thought might be useful to her or elevate her rank in some way. Anne succeeded in bedding a couple of my friends, too, though I did not discover this until after we ended things for good. One I think she simply bedded for fun, and one I know she must have chosen to hurt me, for they often flirted together in front of me. She even tried to woo Delia Highbridge, though Delia would never have been interested even if Anne were the type of woman she found attractive.”
“That is deplorable behavior indeed,” said Charlotte, shocked beyond belief. “I cannot believe you would ever stand for such a thing.”
“Behaviour I can only attribute to the weakness of love. And yet, I never felt as if I really knew her, or that she knew me. And worse, when Mrs Tremaine first came to town, Anne bedded her too, even though she and I were together. After I had broken things off with Anne for the last time, almost a year ago, Mrs Tremaine tried to pursue me, first by befriending me by using my perceived vulnerability, which was bad enough.” She rolled her shoulders, evidently uncomfortable with the memory. “Then when I refused to succumb to her advances, she tried to persuade me that bedding her would be a great revenge on Anne. It was not a notion I cared for, and it was all rather a mess, in the end.” Mary tried to smile, though it did not extend as far as her eyes. “So perhaps now you see why I have been rather reticent to go to bed. I have not taken a lover since.”
“Of course.” Charlotte’s mind was in turmoil. Mary had been badly wounded and although it was something of a relief to discover that Charlotte was not the cause of her reticence, she felt terrible that Mary had been put through something so horrible by someone who purported to love her. “Please allow me to reassure you that your comfort is my foremost concern.”
Impulsively, she wrapped her arms around Mary, who leaned in with a sigh. “We shall never do anything you are not certain of, and rest assured that I would wait as long as you wanted. Forever, if that were the case.”
“You are too kind. I ought to be the one saying such things to you.”
“I am not some blushing virgin,” Charlotte reminded her. “I was married for four years. Though I do not pretend to know what I am doing in this particular instance, I am sure that if we ever reach that stage, you will be so kind as to instruct me in the subtle arts of lovemaking.” She pressed a kiss to Mary’s cheek. “I apologise for my behaviour. I was so jealous, I could hardly think straight.”
Mary turned her head so that her lips were pressing against Charlotte’s neck. Her breath was warm, tickling the sensitive spot under Charlotte’s earlobe. “You have no reason to be, you know. Before you came along, I had sworn off love entirely.”
Charlotte’s heart sped up.
“And, without realising that there was any encouragement on your part,” Mary continued, “I discovered my thoughts were dangerously full of your every look and word. I quite fell for you, Charlotte Lucas. I mean, I am falling.”
“I believe you mean those things, I do. It is simply that…” She swallowed, then reached up and stroked Mary’s hair, her hands trembling as Mary’s lips pressed against soft flesh, kissing a trail down to her collarbone. “You know full well that even before my late husband, I had never been courted. And I had certainly never experienced the kind of passion that I…that we…” She tipped her head back, biting back a moan, then shifted so that she could gaze into Mary’s eyes. “I suppose it is no secret that I think the world of you.” Her cheeks flamed at the admission. “You’re beautiful and brilliant and funny. You could have anybody you wanted.”
So why me? she didn’t add, though she dearly wanted to.
“I wish you could see in yourself what I see, for then you would understand why I adore you so completely. I have only been obstructing my own path forward, for fear of…” Mary’s eyes were dark and thunderous, her fingers digging into Charlotte’s hips in a way that was at once pleasurable and painful. “Perhaps we have been doing too much thinking and talking and worrying, and not nearly enough feeling. How do you suggest we remedy that?”
It was less a question than a suggestion, to which there could only be one answer. Is this really happening? Charlotte swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Mary said without hesitation. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then follow me.”
* * *
In Mary’s bedroom, shafts of sunlight peeked through the half-opened curtains, illuminating Charlotte’s shaking hands as she unbuttoned Mary’s dress, fumbling with excitement and nerves. Mary’s hands were far more skilled, peeling the dress from Charlotte in moments, the petticoats soon following. Her mouth never stopped moving, kisses peppered over Charlotte’s shoulders and collarbones, brushing the cusp of her ear as they tumbled backwards onto the bed. Words rushed out as if Mary had kept them in all this time; a swollen river finally bursting its banks. “You are so beautiful,” she said, again and again. Charlotte blushed to hear such compliments, and yet Mary’s eyes glittered so fiercely that she half fancied that Mary meant it, really found her pretty, saw something in her that the rest of the world had overlooked. “What do you like?”
Charlotte wasn’t sure how to answer the question. Wasn’t sure she could, really, not with her heart hammering so hard it ached and Mary’s palm trailing over her bare hip, palming the underside of her breast. Mary’s warm thigh pressed against her own. “I do not rightly know.”
Mary paused, resting her forehead against Charlotte’s, her breathing ragged. “Shall we find out together?”
“Yes, please.”
Mary’s fingers dipped down until they reached soft, slippery heat. A single moment of pressure and Charlotte was lost in the inferno, burning up, desperate for more, grabbing Mary tightly. Letting out an irrepressible, guttural groan, she buried her face in Mary’s shoulder, smothered every inch of skin she could find with desperate, panting kisses while the fingers between her legs pressed and stroked and finally, achingly, entered her. She wriggled one hand free, desperate to touch Mary in turn, and was shocked and delighted to feel the same aching heat. Mary’s moans undid her, breathing Charlotte’s name over and over as Charlotte’s fingers slid over soft flesh, discovering a new place to enter the world. “Inside,” Mary begged. “Please.”
Instead, Charlotte drew rough, shaky circles, never quite dipping where she was needed, until Mary groaned, her free hand digging into the sheets, clawing at the bed, her teeth grazing Charlotte’s shoulder.
“Darling, please, I beg you,” she gasped, and Charlotte marvelled that she had this power, this novel ability to reduce another person to such helpless, mewling gasps, and tried not to think of how the single word darling had sent a fresh wave of fire sweeping through her chest. “Don’t tease me,” Mary growled through gritted teeth. “I’ve wanted you for so long. Touch me. Take me.”
No one had ever desired her before. Not like this, with a raw, urgent need. “Call me that again,” she whispered, half bold, half afraid that Mary would make fun of her.
Those fine, dark eyes weren’t laughing now. “Darling. Please.”
Charlotte did as she was bid, her fingers pushing inside, and was rewarded with a long, shuddering sigh that was brighter and more melodious than any music she had ever heard. She clenched around Mary’s fingers as they slid inside her again and again, the wonder of some familiar and previously banal action becoming something new, something that built inside her like water brought to a steady boil.
She clutched at Mary again, their mouths finding each other, as the strange feeling crested inside, building to a crescendo. In a single moment of lucidity at the top of the wave, time stood still. Charlotte opened her eyes and met Mary’s. She knew she had been forever changed, that she would never, could never forget this, that the life she had been living prior had been little more than a shadow self comprised of grey shades. Bright colours exploded behind her eyelids as she squeezed them shut, a shiver rippling through her body. She cried out as a sharp feeling—a cousin of agony but much, much sweeter—shuddered through her, and she clung to Mary, clung and clung and never wanted to let go.