Chapter Twenty-Four
The day passed in a haze of lovemaking, and after a beautiful dinner of spiced lamb, they retired to the drawing room, where Charlotte begged Mary to play the pianoforte. Mary did so reluctantly at first, then warmed to her task, playing first a song which Charlotte recognised as being from Bach’s The Well-Tempered Clavier , followed by a piece that Charlotte did not know.
“It is better that you do not know Haydn’s original,” Mary said, when Charlotte asked who the composer was, “for my rendition is so flawed and slow that it might as well be a different tune entirely. Come and show me your version of my piece, now—the one you improved upon in the parsonage.”
Charlotte seated herself beside Mary, planting a kiss on her lover’s cheek, and soon they were playing together in time. The room was candlelit, the curtains drawn, and with the rest of the house in silence, Charlotte felt once more like they might be the only two people left in the world.
“I find myself entirely fed up of reading and work. Shall we play cards instead tonight?” Mary suggested.
Charlotte agreed, closing the lid of the pianoforte, and they seated themselves at the small table in the corner, which had lain unused for the entire time Charlotte had been present. Mary spent the first hour teaching Charlotte to play piquet, which seemed rather complicated and required the memorization of many rules, though she picked it up as best she could. By the end of the hour, she had somehow managed to beat Mary twice.
“What say we make this a little more interesting?” Mary suggested.
“In what way?’ Charlotte arranged her cards neatly in her hand, planning her next move.
“How about…if I win the next game, you will permit me to do whatever I want to you.”
Charlotte stared across her cards, feeling a sudden urge to drop them and leap over the table. “And what if I win?”
Mary leaned back in her chair, smirking. “Then you may do whatever you want to me. Fair is fair, after all.”
Charlotte was blessed with an excellent hand, and though she could see her path to triumph clearly, curiosity overwhelmed her desire to emerge as the victor. “Well, it seems you have bested me,” she said, laying down her cards. “What now?”
Mary rose, offering her hand. “Come.”
She led Charlotte back to the pianoforte without elaboration. Are we going to play again? Charlotte wondered, with a twinge of dismay, but her disappointment soon vanished when Mary pushed her against the lid, the wood hard and unyielding against her back, the pain of the pressure adding to the pleasure. Her gasp was cut off by Mary’s mouth, meeting hers in a frantic, searing kiss. Mary pressed her body between Charlotte’s legs, her hands frantic at the hem of the skirts lifting them up to the shin, the knee, fingers skimming over Charlotte’s knees and then her thighs. Charlotte was on fire, writhing under Mary’s touch, her body in ecstasy and Mary’s fingers were stroking Charlotte’s inner thigh, close to where the flame burned brightest and—
Mary’s hands stilled.
“Please,” Charlotte gasped, “don’t stop.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Of course.”
“Then let me take the lead, darling. You’ll like this.” In the candlelight, Mary’s smile was the curve of a scythe, ready to harvest all that had been sown. “I promise.”
She dropped to her knees and licked a long, slow stripe up the inside of Charlotte’s thigh. Charlotte was already quivering, with no idea of what might come next. “What—what are you doing?”
“I want to worship you. May I?”
Charlotte nodded, and Mary bent her head devoutly, her mouth level with a part of Charlotte that a mouth had never touched before. Mary could not possibly mean to kiss her there, could she?
She could.
She did.
Charlotte slapped a hand over her own mouth, quelling an undignified shriek as Mary’s tongue worked its magic. The sounds turned to moans, spilling like candlelight, pooling in the ridges and furrows of her throat. Her other hand scrabbled uselessly at the smooth lid of the pianoforte, finding no purchase on the polished wood. She was babbling, she knew, though she hardly knew what she was saying in between gasps and groans, and before long she felt the ache rising, the crest of the now familiar wave building to a white-crested peak of sweet agony.
When she finished, her legs were shaking so badly she could barely stand. Mary caught her weight, and supported her over to the couch. “Good heavens,” Charlotte whispered.
Mary held her close, stroking Charlotte’s cheek with gentle fingers. “I confess I’ve wanted to do that since the first moment I saw you again. It has played no small role in my dreams.”
They lay together on the couch. Mary seemed half drowsy with contentment, a look of satisfaction on her face, but Charlotte had no wish to be an ungenerous lover. “Shall I return the favour?” said she, dropping a quick kiss onto Mary’s cheek.
Rarely had Mary looked so surprised. “Oh, not if you do not—I mean, not all women like to give as well as receive.”
“I want to.”
Mary hesitated, excitement flickering in her dark eyes. “Really?”
Charlotte tilted her head, puzzled by the back-and-forth. “Why, did your former lover not do so?”
“Well, no,” Mary admitted. “Often things were based around her pleasure and not mine. I am afraid I rather felt like that was my purpose.”
“I will not deny that your performance was magnificent,” Charlotte said, sliding onto her knees and hooking her thumbs under Mary’s skirts, “and that my own is likely to be the equivalent of a penny whistle played after the harmony of a full orchestra.” Mary snorted, the slight nervousness fading. “But I am nothing if not fair, Mary Bennet. And I intend to give generously.” She hiked the skirt up slowly, dragging her fingers over Mary’s flesh, causing her lover to suck in air with a gasp. “Pray allow me to become as proficient as you.”
“That might require a little practice.” Mary’s voice wasn’t quite steady, and the hand grasping the couch cushion was pale-knuckled.
“One must apply oneself,” Charlotte said, her lips twitching, as she pushed Mary’s skirts back, revealing the treasure she desired, “in order to get what one wants. Is that not so?”
She bent her head as Mary had done and nuzzled the soft flesh there, trailing kisses. The motion really did feel like devotion, in a way—connecting with something holy and unreal, her body thrumming with energy that could not all be her own.
“Faster, darling,” Mary gasped, her mouth open, her head thrown back in ecstasy. “Please. I cannot wait.” Charlotte obeyed, and was rewarded with Mary’s thighs twitching around her. “A little to the left, please,” was all Mary managed between incoherent moans, before Charlotte felt fingers tightening in her hair to the point of almost-pain, and she gave an appreciative hum as her own muscles twinged in sympathetic response. The sound seemed to send Mary over the edge, shuddering against Charlotte’s mouth, pressing a closed fist against her mouth to stifle a cry.
“Well,” said she, after she had caught her breath. “Though I do not think you need much practice, I would be more than happy to oblige.” The joke was covering something deeper, for Mary’s eyes were bright. Charlotte wriggled onto the couch, tugging Mary closer, and was not surprised when a few tears spattered her bosom. “I’m sorry,” Mary added, her voice muffled. “I don’t know quite what has come over me. You were wonderful.”
“I know what it is to feel overwhelmed,” Charlotte reminded her. “Especially when one’s deepest desires are finally acknowledged and reciprocated.”
“I suppose you are right.” Mary lifted her head, looking anxious. “Was it… I mean, did you enjoy it?”
Charlotte took Mary’s hand and led it under her skirts, to where she pooled excitement. “What do you think? Is that confirmation enough?”
“Oh,” she breathed, and began to move, but Charlotte stopped her.
“You have quite worn me out tonight,” said she, smiling. In truth she felt as if she was capable of managing another round, but the memory of Mary’s warm, broad tongue between her legs still lingered deliciously, and she did not want to forget the feeling so soon.
Mary pressed a kiss to Charlotte’s lips and she tasted herself, sweet-sour, mingling with the intimate scent of Mary. Charlotte brushed tear tracks from Mary’s cheek; her lover was gazing at her with adoration, radiating so brightly she wondered how she had ever missed such a thing in the first place. Love could begin in many ways, certainly—between Lizzie and Darcy it had been a seed of animosity, watered by mutual prejudice, which only blossomed into joy once both had gained a deeper understanding of the other’s character. Between Jane and Bingley, it had been instant and sweet. Between her own parents, who had married young but with the full encouragement of both families, it had been kind and respectful; Charlotte could not remember either ever having raised their voices. Mr Collins had loved her in his own way, though without any real depth. She had tried to love him back, and succeeded with that same shallow effect, but she had never felt like this. Anne de Bourgh’s friend Mr Innes had been handsome and his manners excellent, but nothing about him had ever sparked real interest in Charlotte’s heart. Whereas, whenever she looked at Mary, she felt less like a wilted flower, than an entire garden in bloom.
* * *
After breakfast the next morning, Charlotte picked up her book again, which she had been putting off for some days now. Her reticence had to be overcome at some point, whether she liked it or not. While Mary puzzled over a diagram that looked more like an angry scribble than anything with coherent intent, Charlotte sighed and began the second-to-last chapter. The crew were back aboard the ship and had begun the return journey to England, though the captain had suggested a last stop at an island group a few miles east of their route. Barton was apparently looking forward to visiting this last place, which he had been assured held many marvels, though he had mentioned already a strange headache which would not stop even after a good sleep. Charlotte’s fingers twitched around the jacket, but she took a deep breath and forced herself to keep reading.
The weather on-board had grown worse as they had headed up the African coast, back towards Portugal, and a strange, feverish sickness had spread through the crew. Barton complained of insects which had, unbeknownst to anyone aboard, buried their eggs in the hollow of wooden trinkets and gifts and had not revealed themselves for many miles. By the time they were discovered, many of the eggs had hatched, and the adults had eaten their way through several bags of grain. The captain, he’d written, had been inconsolable, blaming himself for the mistake, though the crew had been ordered plainly to check each new item brought on-board in case of this very event.
Though the captain, the ship’s doctor, and Barton volunteered to go without rations to preserve larger portions for the crew, meals were still much smaller than they had been, resulting in high tempers and a worsening of the fever amongst the sickest men. Charlotte’s eyes prickled with tears. Poor man. She laid the book aside. “I cannot bring myself to read the ending. I simply cannot do it, knowing what happens to him.”
“All things must end,” Mary said, glancing at her with sympathy. “Is that not what makes life so important? Without grief, anger, and fear, how would we appreciate the true delights of joy, gratitude, and security?”
“I suppose you are right.” Still, she did not open the book again, and after a moment got up and wandered about the room.
“If you are looking for something else to amuse you, there is always the pianoforte.”
“I can hardly look at one now without blushing,” Charlotte pointed out. “Might I peruse your aunt’s library?”
“Of course. Take whatever you like.” Mary glanced up. “She has quite a lovely selection of poetry on the shelves behind her desk.”
Charlotte meandered into Aunt Cecily’s room, where she did indeed discover a shelf of interesting poetry, as well as several plants which had clearly been dead for some time—much longer than Aunt Cecily had been gone. “Your aunt is not a gifted gardener then?” she called through the open doorway.
“Oh, no. She claims it is not her fault, and insists that there is a particularly vengeful ghost in that room that hates flowers and causes them all to die. She may well have a point, for nothing brought into this room in the past year has lived to tell the tale.” Mary appeared in the doorway, a streak of charcoal adorning her chin.
“That’s odd,” Charlotte said, stroking the crisp, dead leaves of what had probably once been a lovely begonia. She bent, examining the stalk, which was mottled and hollow, as if a hundred tiny bites had been taken out of it. “And they were never outside?”
“Not to my recollection. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t water them.” Mary shrugged. “Very strange. Now, darling, speaking of flowers—I received a reminder from Mr Mellor. Shall we go tomorrow?”
Charlotte straightened, the dead plants forgotten, and followed Mary out of the room. “Oh, yes! I cannot wait to see his collection. If it is even half as wonderful as you say, then it will be more like one of the seven ancient wonders than any old country garden.”
“I cannot wait to see what you think.”