Chapter Thirty-One
Dear Mary,
I am so sorry.
Cannot you understand what a predicament
I must apologise heartily for my
I know you did not understand my reasoning, but I felt obliged to
I miss you.
Charlotte
Now that one obstacle was out of the way, Charlotte knew she’d have to face the much more complicated matter of how to address Mary. Writing countless letters hadn’t provided the clear answers she required, so she was finally forced to acknowledge that she ought to visit. If she could only persuade Mary to give her a moment, a single chance to apologise from the bottom of her heart, perhaps she could begin to undo some of the damage she had wrought previously.
That morning, Lady Lucas decided to pay a call to another family friend who lived around the corner, but Charlotte begged off, claiming a mild headache. After her mother had left the house on foot, Charlotte slipped out and used the Palmer-Parkers’ carriage to travel across town to Mary’s house. It took her a long moment to pluck up the courage even to step out of the carriage and walk up the steps, and longer still to knock on the door.
Pitt answered, and his face told everything Charlotte had been afraid of. “Good morning, Mrs Collins,” he said, stiffly, not moving to let her inside. “May I help you?”
“Who’s that, Pitt?” a woman called.
Charlotte froze. Had Mary moved on so soon?
“It is a—” his lip curled with distaste “—a friend of Miss Bennet’s, Mrs Langley.”
Charlotte had entirely forgotten that Aunt Cecily was supposed to be returning home. “Oh, I—”
“Let me see.” Aunt Cecily appeared in the doorway, and Pitt moved aside. She was dressed in a simple ivory gown, trimmed with ivory lace, the buttons polished to such a shine that Charlotte could see twenty tiny versions of herself reflected in them; each one looked terrified.
“Pardon me. I ought not to have come,” Charlotte said, backing away hastily.
“No, don’t think you’re getting away so easily. Come in, girl, and let me have a look at you,” Aunt Cecily commanded. Charlotte had no choice but to obey, her mouth dry. In the foyer, a tall man and a red-haired woman hovered outside the door to the drawing room—this must be her husband, George, and their lover, Edith.
“Hmm,” Aunt Cecily added, eyeing Charlotte with disdain. “So you’re the chit who’s broken my Mary’s heart.”
“Um…” said Charlotte, wishing she were dead.
“Cecily,” Edith scolded.
Mr Langley rolled his eyes. “And they tell me that the En-glish are well-mannered.”
“When we mean to be, certainly. And when we intend to get our point across, I believe we’re as blunt as the French. You’ll stay for tea.”
“Oh I really couldn’t—” Charlotte began, but Cecily had already swept into the drawing room.
She followed, feeling only slightly better after Edith and Mr Langley shot her sympathetic glances.
Pitt served tea with his usual civility, though Charlotte had the distinct impression that he would very much like to pour the contents of the pot over her head. Cecily lounged on the couch, Mr Langley beside her, while Edith wandered about the room, apparently unable to sit still. Charlotte sat opposite, twitching. She had made love in this very room, on this very couch. She had found joy in this house and lost it here too. Tears prickled her eyes but she focused on the cup in front of her, determined not to weep.
“So?” Cecily asked. “What have you to say for yourself? It is an audacious move indeed to turn up here after what you did.”
“I never meant to hurt her.”
“If that is true, then why did you? And why have you not written since?”
“She threw me out,” Charlotte pointed out. “And I tried, but I… I could not find the words.”
“An apology would have been a good start,” Cecily snapped.
She deserved that. “Yes, it would have. Though I hardly think I could ever apologise enough. And besides, I could not be sure that anything I wrote would actually be read.” The idea of Mary recognising her handwriting, and throwing a letter into the fire without so much as opening it was a painful one. “I came to say that I will be accepting the position Mr Mellor offered me, and will therefore be living at Amberhurst, if Mary would like to visit me there.”
“You ought to ask her yourself.”
“I was trying to,” Charlotte muttered, and for the first time Aunt Cecily’s lips twitched in amusement.
“Hmm. Well, far be it from me to interfere. If you should come again this time tomorrow, I believe you will find her here. Though I cannot say with any certainty that you will find her open to any apology you care to give.”
“I understand.” Charlotte rose. “Thank you for the tea. It was nice to meet you all.” She forced a smile. “I have heard so much about you.”
“Before you go—” Cecily gestured to the butler, whose expression had melted into something far less mutinous. “Please fetch the box, Pitt.”
Charlotte frowned. What box? The question was answered quickly enough when Pitt vanished and returned with a large white box Charlotte immediately recognised as the dress Mary had bought her.
“I believe this is yours,” Aunt Cecily said. “No, no—” when Charlotte tried to protest. “I know my niece, and she is not unkind. She wanted you to have it and take it you shall.”
“Thank you,” she said, and meant it.
Pitt led her back into the foyer, but before he opened the front door, he hesitated. “I cannot pretend to understand what happened, nor is it my place, ma’am. But I do think you ought to finish this,” he said, pressing Barton’s diary into her hands.
“Oh, I cannot possibly—”
“I strongly suggest that you do, ma’am. We cannot move on from a situation until we accept that things are what they are, not the way we wish them to be.” His eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I would give anything to have one more moment with Simon. And if that is not the way you feel about Miss Bennet, then—” He studied her. “Though we both know that it is, do we not?”
Charlotte nodded. “I swear I would not be so foolish a second time.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He opened the door and bowed as she exited.
* * *
Back in her room at the Parker-Palmers’, Charlotte put the box in the wardrobe and closed the door, without so much as a peek. She could have asked Cecily whether Mary had insisted on this gift, or whether it had been a casual suggestion, though she did not think Cecily would have told her which. Instead, she opened Barton’s book and began to read the final chapter. Barton was failing, his words becoming more stilted, the sentences less coherent. Still, his mind shone through in glimpses. He wrote of his great love for the natural world, and his sinking feeling that he would never live to see his dear homeland again, nor his beloved P. In amor speramus , he had written, and though Charlotte’s Latin was rather poor, mainly gleaned from the lectures and readings her late husband had given, even she could understand this sentiment: in love we trust.
She got up and paced about the room. That was it, ended. Mr Barton lived no more. And yet…
In love we trust.
Charlotte crossed the room and took the box from the wardrobe. Setting it on the bed, she lifted the lid. There was a drawing of a violet inside, and the words I know what this means. Do you? scrawled underneath.
Faithfulness , she thought, a spark of hope igniting in her chest. It was possible that she still had a chance with Mary, if only she could find the right words.
Charlotte sat at the desk and pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment. All the words which had been lodged inside her flowed onto the page in a stream of incoherent thoughts, followed by a trickle of tears which smudged the ink. She wiped her face, blew her nose, and began again. She told Mary everything in her heart; how afraid she’d been, how shamed. How stupid she had been. How in love she had been. How in love she still was. How the thought of never telling Mary exactly how she felt, of never getting a chance to confess her innermost desires, was worse than death. She’d thought she was protecting Mary, that Mary would move on and find someone new, someone better than Charlotte, without all her foibles and anxieties, someone clever and brilliant and beautiful, to match Mary.
And then I had sense knocked into me, several times, she wrote. I was wrong. I was so wrong. Please forgive me. Please allow me to tell you how deeply I adore you, every day, with every flower that means such a thing. I will lay bouquets at your feet so that they will never touch common ground again.
She hadn’t known she possessed such poetic sensibilities, but the letter hadn’t been written to impress; this was her heart, slashed open on the page. She could only hope now that Mary would see it for what it was.
Exhausted, Charlotte leaned back in her chair. The afternoon sunshine had warmed the room, and she felt rather drowsy after expending so much effort on the day. She wandered downstairs to find the house empty of everyone but servants. Uncertain when her mother would return, Charlotte donned her bonnet and set out for a nearby café. A nice cup of tea in a pleasant location would provide a change of pace. The Parker-Palmers were very nice people, and their house was lovely, but what little tea they drank always tasted of soap.
After ordering a pot of tea and rejoicing that it did not smell or taste at all like something one might use in a bathtub, Charlotte sat at a small table adjacent to the window and stared out at the street. Her hands trembled with possibility and terror in equal measures; it might be her heart slashed open on the page, but that was no assurance that it would be enough to appease Mary. She was just wondering whether she ought to rewrite it to add something else, when a blonde woman with sharp cheekbones stepped inside, accompanied by a friend. Oh no , Charlotte thought, the moment Mrs Tremaine locked eyes with her.
“Why, Mrs, uh, Chalmers,” Mrs Tremaine piped, while her friend moved towards the counter to order. “How lovely to see you.”
Charlotte didn’t bother to correct her; the name had been mistaken on purpose. “Mrs Trendley,” she said with a broad smile. “How are you?”
Mrs Tremaine’s left eye twitched, her smile slipping for a moment. “Whatever are you doing here?”
She stared down at her teapot and cup; the table was otherwise empty. “Writing letters, of course.”
“I—” Mrs Tremaine frowned. “Indeed.”
Feeling guilty for being so rude, though it was terribly entertaining, Charlotte cast about for something polite to say. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen our mutual friend lately, have you?”
“You’re not staying with her?” Mrs Tremaine’s eyes narrowed.
Charlotte gritted her teeth. You must be careful around her, Mary had said, for your words will turn into skittering mice and she will be the hawk who catches the least fortunate one.
“Now that you mention it,” Mrs Tremaine added, “I did see her recently in the company of Miss Carlisle, who has recently returned from Austria.” She sighed ostentatiously. “Such a dashing figure, Miss Carlisle. There is no one in London as fashionable as she, nor as cultured. What a great pity you have not had the chance to make her acquaintance yet.”
Charlotte’s stomach dropped through her shoes. “Indeed.”
“Have a pleasant day, Mrs Coolidge.” Mrs Tremaine smirked, and spun on her heel, joining her friend at the counter where they began to giggle.
Charlotte forced herself to finish the remainder of her tea before leaving in order to prove that Mrs Tremaine had not managed to get under her skin, though of course the blasted woman had done exactly that. She returned to the Palmer-Parkers’ to find the family returned, but not her mother. Making an excuse to return to her room, Charlotte read and re-read the letter to Mary. When she was done, she paced the room, eventually halting before the fire. She stared into the flames, her heart aching all over again. Was it unfair to send such a letter? Mary deserved happiness and yet, in return for her love and kindness, Charlotte had broken her heart, had let fear override her decisions. What right had she to ask for another chance? On the other hand, perhaps this was just another wrong turn down a road so already full of them. Even now, the fear of yet another rejection might be pulling on the reins of her soul, guiding her into a future more lonely than the past she had left behind.
She rubbed her eyes, feeling suddenly exhausted. No, she would not send it. Mary deserved better. She took out the letter and held it over the flames, but could not bring herself to drop it. Tears welled up as she tucked it back into her pocket.
It would serve as a constant reminder of all her past mistakes.