Chapter Twenty-Six
Charlotte had been in glasshouses before, though her memories had left her unprepared for the tidal wave of humidity which swallowed her whole. The heat felt like a physical presence, squeezing her from all sides, but she had to admit the effect was rather pleasant once one got over the initial shock. She fanned her face with her hand, creating only a draught of warm air against her cheek, and wished that she was wearing fewer layers, propriety be damned.
Orange trees lined one side of the building, their branches heavy with almost-ripe fruit, while lemon trees lined the other. The air was sweet with the smell of citrus flesh, yet bitter with the scent of its peel, and Charlotte breathed in the heady aroma with a sigh of contentment.
“I’m partial to the entire family, I admit,” Mr Mellor said, wandering deeper into the glasshouse. Henry stood quietly by the door, looking perfectly content to wait until he was given his next order. “We grow pineapples here too, see? Though I’m afraid I cannot give you a taste today, for they are not yet ripe.”
Charlotte had never tasted pineapple, though she’d heard it adorned the tables of those in the finest circles of society, and was intrigued by the strange, scaly fruit and its spiky crown of leaves. After admiring the lemons, already a stark yellow with only a touch of green, they stepped back out into the sunshine, which felt rather cool after the heat of the glasshouse, and strolled along the path until they came to the second glasshouse. “Now,” Mr Mellor said, while Henry opened the door. “This is where I keep my tropical plants. We had to dispose of some which were too badly damaged to be of use to anybody, but we saved a great deal thanks to you, Mrs Collins.”
Charlotte could smell the dill before she even stepped over the threshold, and sure enough, planted between each row of flowers were slender green stalks, each branching into heads of several fronds. She had always thought that dill looked a little like a sea of waving arms, eager to be noticed, but these had been eaten back until they were only elbows. Here and there, a shiny insect crawled over the pots. The flowers themselves were exquisite: slender orange and white orchids, pink hibiscus, and beautiful red camellias. There were violets, too, though not at all like the violets Charlotte was used to—their petals curved so that each flower resembled a small bowl. The air was distinctly floral in here, in stark contrast to the first glasshouse, though this too was pleasing.
“Now, Henry.” Mr Mellor gestured the young man forward. “Could you fetch us one of those blasted insects? A dead one, ideally.”
Henry dispatched an insect quickly and handed it to Charlotte, who flipped it belly-up in her palm. The shell was an odd, iridescent black, while the body proper was matte black. The six legs were uniform, the head small compared to the body, the wings neatly compact. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said at last.
“May I?” Mary took it from her and studied it closely, before shaking her head, evidently coming to the same conclusion. She handed it back to Henry before turning to Mr Mellor. “I do hope one of the gentlemen you mentioned can shed some light on this case.”
“As do I.” He sighed. “As you can see, the dill has been most effective in keeping them from the flowers, but I confess the entire situation puzzles me. Where did they come from? And why, when we have gone to such pains to rid ourselves of them—for I even had a crew helping me to handpick the damn things off the flowers at one point—are they still appearing? It is like some terrible sort of magic.”
Catching a glimpse of another wooden cabinet in the corner, Charlotte gestured towards it. “You keep curios in here too?” Unusual , she thought. Most people kept such valued objects in a drawing room or library, where they could be admired by visitors, though probably most visitors to Amberhurst ended up in the glasshouse sooner or later.
“Indeed. Of course, the humidity limits what I can store in here. No books or preserved specimens, lest they grow mould. I mostly keep rocks in that one, though you might be interested in the object on the second lowest shelf.”
The item turned out to be a wooden statue of an old man with a long beard that trailed all the way down to his bare feet. Charlotte hummed thoughtfully. “This might be an odd question, but was this one of Mr Barton’s possessions, by any chance?”
Mr Mellor gave her an odd look. “It was, but how could you possibly know that?”
Charlotte straightened, frowning. “In his diary, Mr Barton talked of a lingering headache and a fever that spread through the crew. He even gave up his rations so the working men could eat a little better.”
“A kindness which probably killed him,” Mr Mellor said. “What a shame that good intentions so often lead to terrible outcomes.”
“I agree, sir.”
“But how does that relate to the statue?” he asked.
“Well, Mr Barton also made note of the fact that the return journey on the ship was troubled by a plague of insects which ate their way through the stores of food, causing the shortened rations in the first place.” She bit her lip, thinking it over. “It was odd, since the captain had ordered everything checked carefully for any mites or pests, to stop that very thing from happening.”
Mary studied Charlotte, her eyes alight with interest. “Go on, darling.”
“Well,” Charlotte said, turning her attention back to the cabinet. “It’s possible that…well, let me see.” She reached out and ran her fingers over the wood, noting every bump and whorl. There was no hole that she could see, and the glass remained intact on the front. “Hmm. Help me turn this, would you?”
Mr Mellor and Mary put their shoulders to the cabinet and in moments had spun it enough so that the back was exposed.
“There,” Charlotte said, pointing to a small hole in the wood. She bent closer, and saw that the edges of the hole were ragged—surely not made by any tool, but by the hungry jaws of a thousand newly-hatched insects desperate for freedom.
“No wonder we had no idea where they were coming from!” he exclaimed. “Good gracious!”
“And now would you mind unlocking the cabinet, sir?” Mr Mellor produced a set of keys and unlocked it without question, watching Charlotte with renewed interest. “Now we shall see,” she said, pulling the door open and reaching for Barton’s statue.
The statue was much lighter than she had expected, feeling almost entirely hollow. She handed it to Mr Mellor, who exclaimed in surprise. “Why this was much heavier when I purchased it. Henry!” he called, “Bring an axe, my dear boy.”
Henry soon located an axe, and Mr Mellor laid the statue on the floor. A single well-placed swing sliced the wood clean in twain, and there inside were traces of larvae which had not lived to see freedom.
“An unexpected Trojan horse,” Mary suggested. “Though the previous owner would not have intended anything of the sort.” She smiled at Charlotte, adoration writ large over her face. “You have an extraordinary ability to see what nobody else can.”
“I rather thought that was your talent, Miss Bennet,” Charlotte teased, and was rewarded with an arched eyebrow and a twitch of the lips that promised sweet retribution later.
“Your instincts have proven to be correct once again, Mrs Collins.” Mr Mellor shook his head admiringly. “I really don’t know how I am to repay you.”
“Perhaps, if it is not too much trouble, I could visit again before I return to Kent?” Charlotte suggested.
“Mrs Collins, I am quite of a mind to never let you leave at all. In fact…well… I do not wish to offend you with assumptions, my dear, but I believe I understand a little of what your circumstances must be now that your husband is dead, and I would be delighted to offer you a place to live here at Amberhurst, as well as a sizable wage, in return for your expertise and care.”
A job , Charlotte thought, stunned. Money. Freedom.
Shame .
“Oh, sir, that is very kind of you, but I could not possibly take advantage of your, um—” she stumbled, not quite sure what to call it “—your generous nature.”
“Charlotte,” Mary said, giving her a reproachful look, “perhaps you might like to walk around the rest of the gardens?”
The butler had appeared from nowhere, and without actually moving a muscle, appeared to communicate with Mr Mellor. “Please excuse me for a moment, ladies. Miss Bennet, you know the path well enough by now—please show Mrs Collins around.”
“You mustn’t be so modest, darling,” Mary said, as soon as Mr Mellor was out of sight. “Come, I shall show you the prize-winning roses that are the bane of Mr Cromley’s existence.”
Charlotte made a noncommittal sound, and was relieved when Mary began to ramble about the various kinds of lichen which had lately been discovered in America. This amused them until they arrived at the rosebushes, which were indeed the wonder they had been purported to be. They spent long minutes exclaiming over each shade, from scarlet to palest ivory; Charlotte had never seen such velvety petals, nor smelled such a strong scent from any rose she herself had grown. She made a mental note to question Mr Mellor on his gardeners’ choice of fertilizer, and whether they added something like bone meal, for she had heard this encouraged growth.
She stopped to pick a tiny bouquet of cornflowers at the end of the garden. Giddiness overtook her and, laughing, she presented Mary with the bundle. “In return for the gift of holly you gave me once,” she teased. “Pray tell me what these mean, if you know.”
“You think to test me with something so easy,” Mary replied congenially. “Even I know that oftentimes young suitors wear them, and if the flower fades quickly, it is taken as a sign that their love is unrequited.” Her gaze found Charlotte’s and held it. High colour flooded her cheeks, though they had not exerted themselves on the walk. “What say you to that?”
Charlotte’s hands trembled. She was aware of every leaf rustling around them, every shrill chirp from the branches above. “And what if the flower did not fade?” she asked, heart hammering in her chest, scarcely believing her own boldness and terrified of the answer.
Mary grabbed Charlotte’s hand and drew her into the shelter of a great oak. “Do you think we can be seen from here?” Her voice was low, conspiratorial.
“No,” Charlotte said, puzzled, her pulse quickening. “Why should it—”
Mary stepped closer, touching the underside of Charlotte’s chin with two gloved fingers. A desperate thirst, unquenched. “I am not one for speeches,” she murmured. “But know that nothing need fade. If you feel even half what I—Oh, Charlotte. Only say the word, and I am yours, indefinitely.”
She could not get enough breath in her lungs to answer anything more than a nod. Not a heartbeat passed before Mary kissed her; not gentle, after all, but a firm, encompassing embrace that stole the last remaining air from Charlotte’s body. She sagged, limp, knees buckling under the onslaught of passion. She returned the embrace clumsily, fingers wending into the hair at the nape of Mary’s neck, and oh, the sweet agony of being truly craved, truly perceived, truly loved was enough to pierce Charlotte’s heart in a thousand places, sending shafts of light into its most secret chambers.
A shout in the distance startled them from their embrace and they pulled apart, staring at each other.
“What lovely flowers,” Mary said, adjusting her gloves as if nothing had happened. The puffiness of her lips and the flash in her dark eyes were the only signs that something had taken place. “Shall we return to the house and say farewell to our host?”
Charlotte stammered an agreement—somehow the days of prior kissing and lovemaking had done nothing to prepare her for this—and followed Mary as quietly as a well-heeled dog. They said a fond farewell to Mr Mellor, who was clearly reluctant to let them go, though Charlotte could not meet Mary’s eye without blushing.
“You have not grown shy now, have you?” Mary asked, once they were alone in the carriage. “Did I go too far, darling?”
“No, not at all,” Charlotte said, blushing even harder. She had felt already like she was falling in love, and had done her best not to think about it. Now, avoidance was an impossibility. Her affection had grown immensely, and her desire for Mary was more than a passing fancy. Every kiss, every glance, every heartbeat confirmed her fate. “It is simply—”
“No need to explain,” Mary interrupted. “I understand. We have all the time in the world, and I do not want you to think I am rushing you.”
Charlotte opened her mouth to correct this statement, then closed it. Of course Mary believed that her love was indefinite, but once Charlotte was out of sight and out of mind, she would surely feel differently. It would be churlish to point this out, for Mary remained stubbornly insistent on seeing the rosy side of everything. Charlotte smiled, rather than spoil the moment, and they held hands all the way back to Canterbury.