Chapter Thirty-Two
After promising that they would write frequently, Charlotte and her mother shared a tearful goodbye. “I am very proud of you, darling,” her mother sniffled. “I do not say that enough.”
“Oh, Mama, I do not believe I had really done anything to earn it before now.”
“Nonsense,” Lady Lucas said, and pulled her into another tight embrace. “Now, I shall have to run before I miss my coach. I will arrange to have all your things packed and sent down to Amberhurst at the earliest possible convenience.”
After her mother left—carrying a letter of sincerest thanks to Mrs Waites and a promise that Charlotte would visit the very next time she passed through Kent—Mr Mellor’s own carriage arrived to collect Charlotte. Upon her arrival at Amberhurst, Mr Mellor showed her a variety of rooms from which she could take her pick. Charlotte selected a pretty room on the south side of the house, which guaranteed the most sunlight, and additionally overlooked the glasshouses and lawn below. “I did not ask about Miss Bennet in front of your mama, of course,” said he. “Are you and she…”
Charlotte shook her head.
“Ah. I’m sorry to hear that.” He patted her on the shoulder. “The course of true love never did run smooth, eh?”
Though Mr Mellor did his best to make her feel at home, the moment she was left alone Charlotte could not help drifting off frequently into awful daydreams of Mary and Anne Carlisle together. Perhaps Mary’s heart had been broken so badly that she had run straight back into the arms of a philanderer; if so, Charlotte blamed herself even more.
Her possessions arrived two days later, and unpacking everything proved a welcome distraction, as did her work in the glasshouse. Under Henry’s supervision, Charlotte learned how best to maintain the exotic fruits and plants, for each one required some different kind of attention. At night, she borrowed books from Mr Mellor’s library on the subject of hothouse flowers and frequently fell asleep in one of the room’s large, winged armchairs. It gave her no small amount of pride to do a good job, to say nothing of the physical exertion of working with her hands all day, which left her too exhausted to dream.
The days passed. The blisters on her hands became hard-won callouses, and she could soon identify every flower by scent alone, as well as recite the soil type and quantity of sun it required to thrive. At last, she felt as if she was contributing something, that she was no longer a burden on anybody, but a free, independent person all her own. The first wage she received was twice as much as she’d expected, but Mr Mellor refused to negotiate down, and laughed off her every attempt.
One morning, while Charlotte pored over a book at the breakfast table and idly spooned porridge into her mouth, Mr Mellor slid a batch of papers across the table. “I had my lawyer draft a new will,” said he.
“Oh?” Charlotte flipped the page, wondering whether she might experiment with fertiliser to see whether she could increase the size or speed of blooms. It was entirely possible that—
“I’d like to name you as my heir. What say you?”
Her spoon hit the bowl with a clatter. She stared up at him, her mouth hanging open.
“Come now, do not leave an old man waiting for an answer,” said he, his blue eyes crinkled in amusement.
“I do not know what to say, sir,” Charlotte gasped, putting a hand to her chest. “Why, you hardly know me.”
“That response is precisely why I want you as an heir, Mrs Collins. Anyone more mercenary would have agreed without a single protest.” He smiled, genuine affection writ large over his face. “You are a kind soul with a keen mind and an eye for problem solving. I believe you will take excellent care of the estate. And though your heart was recently broken, you have not allowed that grief to shatter your spirit. I have watched you, day after day, toiling away in pursuit of a beautiful bloom with tireless enthusiasm. Besides, you understand that a flower is a temporary thing, do you not? The passage of time can never be slowed or stopped. All things must die eventually, and so shall I. At the very least, I wish to pass knowing that my beloved garden will be in safe hands, not packaged up and sold to the highest bidder, or to some high-born idiot who will tear everything down to make way for his or her latest fancy.”
Charlotte took his hand and squeezed it between her own. “I am so grateful, sir, for the opportunity to work in your garden. It is a reward in itself.”
“A sweet sentiment, Mrs Collins,” said he, smiling, and reaching for the quill. “But a needlessly penurious one.”
She could not bear to hear that name anymore. “Please, call me Charlotte.”
“Very well, Charlotte. And in turn, you may call me Maxwell. Care to add your name?” He offered her the quill.
She hesitated, feeling as if it were all some fabulous dream, before signing the papers.
“Incidentally, I am attending a ball tomorrow night in Canterbury,” Mr Mellor continued, “and I would like you to pick a wide variety of flowers for it. I would also like you to accompany me.”
Charlotte hesitated. She couldn’t very well say no now, though the absolute last place she wanted to be was at a ball, surrounded by crowds of people.
“I insist,” he added. “It will be for your own good, my dear girl, I promise you that.”
* * *
The following afternoon, Charlotte stood in front of her wardrobe, frowning. The dress Mary had purchased for her still lay in the box, unworn. Her mourning period was not yet over, but she was already sick of black. With an aching heart, she slipped into the dress and buttoned it up, recalling with a pang the tender way that Mary had once taken the garment off her. She sighed. No, she could not possibly wear this dress—not now. Not until she’d spoken to Mary and set things right between them.
A soft knock at the door startled her. “Yes?”
A maid entered, carrying a dress over one arm. “Mr Mellor sends his regards, ma’am, and asks that you wear this tonight.”
Charlotte took the dress and stared at it while the maid bobbed a curtsey and scuttled out. At first glance she had thought it black, but in fact it was an extremely dark green silk. Someone had carefully embroidered tiny red tulips around the sleeves and neckline, which made the garment look less foreboding. A declaration of love, Charlotte thought, frowning. But to whom is this declaration made? With no one to answer, she sighed, and put the dress on. It fit her perfectly, and the effect in the looking-glass was stunning.
“Aha!” Mr Mellor cried, when she descended the stairs. “You look the very picture of beauty, Charlotte.”
“I thank you, sir.” She blushed. “How did you know my measurements? And why red tulips?”
“I have my secrets,” said he, tapping his nose with one finger, “and you have yours. Come now, the carriage awaits!”
* * *
The ball was an elegant affair indeed, taking place on an estate about half the size of Amberhurst, just outside Canterbury town proper. The sun had only just set, the last orange gasps highlighting the underneath of fluffy clouds. Inside the ball, candles illuminated cheerful countenances as dancers spun to a lively jig. The air was full of floral scents, and when Charlotte saw the flowers she had so carefully picked arranged about the rooms, a thrill of pride warmed her heart. She had just turned to Mr Mellor to say as much, when she caught a glimpse of Delia Highbridge.
Charlotte’s heart stuttered. Where Miss Highbridge was, Mary was sure to be. “Excuse me a moment, sir,” she said to Mr Mellor, and sidled through the crowd until she was within touching distance of Miss Highbridge. “Good evening.”
“Oh! Good evening, Mrs Collins.” Her tone was not as frosty as Charlotte had expected, but it definitely held a glacial chill.
“I wondered if you knew where I might find—” Charlotte began.
“Delia.” Mary’s voice came from behind Charlotte. “Perhaps we might move outside for a moment? It is a little crowded in here.”
Charlotte could hardly bear to look at Mary, and the scent of warm violets in the air fairly took her breath away. Realisation struck her. The red tulips on her dress—Mr Mellor’s message must be to encourage her to speak her piece. He must have known Mary would be in attendance. She bit her lip. Now or never. “May I speak with you for a moment in private, Miss Bennet?”
“I do not think that wise.”
Charlotte forced herself to look up. Mary’s eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks pale and gaunt. “Please,” she murmured, her voice full of raw need. “Please, let me have a moment of your time.”
Mary sighed. “Very well.” She led Charlotte into a side passage and into a large room fronted by even larger curtains, which swept the floor regally.
* * *
In other circumstances Charlotte would have taken the time to appreciate the scarlet walls, the potted plants in the corner, and the portraits of the hosts above the unlit fireplace, but all distractions must be set aside until her task had been achieved. Even the long tables against the wall, which held a range of her most elegant bouquets intended for the host’s luncheon on the following day, could give her no reprieve.
“I cannot imagine what you need to say to me,” said Mary, half-closing the door and heading towards the window. Her voice was steady, though her hands were trembling.
Charlotte pulled the letter from her pocket. Mary backed away even further. “Do not worry, I won’t read it to you,” Charlotte said hastily. “I simply beg a chance to explain why I made such a stupid and terrible mis—”
A man’s voice sounded in the corridor outside. “This way, you say? Are you quite sure?” The voice was familiar, but there was no time to think about that now. Charlotte turned, ready to shoo whomever it was out instantly, and came face to face with Mr Innes. Of all the people , Charlotte thought in despair. Poor man, he has the worst timing.
“Ah, Mrs Collins!” said he, emerging through the doorway. “I thought it was you. I did not expect to see you until my return to Kent, so this is a very pleasant surprise.”
“Um,” said Charlotte, glancing back over her shoulder. Mary had vanished, though a twitch of the curtain fabric gave her position away. “Good evening, Mr Innes. If you’ll give me just a moment, I really need to speak to—”
“Actually, Mrs Collins,” he said, and stepped closer, “I have a question to ask, and I hope you will give me a favourable response.”
Oh no. This cannot be happening here and now. Charlotte cast about wildly, wondering what she could possibly do to stop this from happening. Mr Innes smiled down at her. He smelled of wood smoke and pine needles; a winter scene, cold but not unpleasant. “I would like to become much better acquainted with you.”
“Any friend of the de Bourghs is a friend of mine,” she offered blandly, watching his smile fade a little.
“You are most gracious,” he said, hesitating. “Yet I must confess I was hoping for a deeper intimacy. Perhaps I could call upon you in Hertfordshire?”
I need to get him out now, before he ruins my last chance with Mary. She pitched her tone carefully. Grateful, but not encouraging. “I am flattered, sir, but you must recall that I am recently widowed.”
“Yes, of course.” He looked flustered, as if he had not expected such resistance. “I had not thought—but of course. Do you think that you might ever be able to find a place in your heart for me? I am willing to wait as long as need be.”
Charlotte took a deep breath and turned slightly towards the window. Courage, now, if I ever possessed it. “You did not know my husband, Mr Innes, so allow me to share something with you. He was a clever man and a wonderful speaker, yet he listened to all I had to say. He sought to understand himself, and to find the beauty in the world’s darkest places. He was the kind of man who noticed a single lonely flower in a vast meadow of far more beautiful blooms. I—” She flushed, heart hammering. These words were like bricks, obstructing the obvious path of her future, yet at the same time building a new, unexpected road. “Though the time we spent together was comparatively short, I do not think anyone could ever compare to him. I intend to remain loyal for the rest of my life.”
A tiny gasp, quickly stifled, came from the general vicinity of the curtains.
“I understand,” Mr Innes said, a little flushed himself. “I confess myself disappointed, but the way you talk about him makes me sorry I did not meet him myself. I would have liked to better myself by his example.”
“We all may do so.” Charlotte smiled, her vision blurry.
He bowed deeply. “Then I shall take my leave. Good day, Mrs Collins.”
No sooner had the door closed behind him than Mary appeared, her gloves crushed in clenched fists. She opened her mouth to speak, but Charlotte interrupted. “A wise woman once told me that she preferred to see a flower in full bloom shivering in the breeze, rather than a lifeless bloom pressed in a book.”
Mary swallowed. “I did, but—”
“What do you say, darling? Is it time I planted myself outside? Or is the season already past?” A heartbeat of silence passed, their eyes locked on each other, and Mary did not offer a response. Charlotte’s heart hammered even faster. “I heard you were lately seen with Miss Carlisle,” she added. “I hope you did not—at least I hope that I did not push you to—” She drew a deep breath. “If you assure me that you’re happy and that she has changed her deviant ways, then I will gladly step aside.”
“Who told you that?” Mary demanded.
“Mrs Tremaine,” Charlotte admitted ruefully. “Else I would have come back the next day, like your aunt told me to.”
“Your mistake was believing anything that awful woman said.” She swallowed. “I told you the truth of what Anne did to me last year, and I thought it would have been evident that I would never agree to partner with her again. She tried to accost me upon her return from Austria, and I told her as much. We were never out together—not like that.”
Relief flooded Charlotte. She could never have forgiven herself had she pushed Mary back into the arms of someone who did not care a single fig for fidelity. Perhaps there is still a chance. She held up the letter again, and this time Mary did not flinch.
“You cannot imagine how many of these I wrote and did not send, for none of them contained even a tenth of my true feelings. I turned up at your house and your aunt gave me a very hard time indeed, though nowhere near as hard as I deserved. Mary, if I believed that another woman could ever make you happier than I, I would not be here now.” She took a deep breath. “And yet I have still not said anything to you worth hearing. I see now that my mistake was trying to use English, when I ought to have been using the language I speak best.” She turned her back on Mary, and strode to the longest table. “A red tulip,” said she, plucking one, “for I wish you to believe my declaration of love. A handful of forget-me-nots, to represent all the memories we’ve shared.” She added the flowers. Mary’s eyes had begun to fill with tears again, and Charlotte’s own lip was wobbling. “I would add fern if it were here,” her voice quavered, “for all the shelter you gave me, to say nothing of the confidence you instilled in a pathetic wallflower.”
“Charlotte—”
“I am not finished,” she said, smiling. “I must add violets, for the perfume that bewitched me from the start, and to signify my faithfulness in turn, should you wish it. I was foolish, and I did not see all the opportunities life had gifted me. I am so, so sorry I hurt you. Can you ever forgive me?”
She presented the bouquet and Mary accepted it, her cheeks glistening. “I can,” Mary said, her voice wavering. “Could you ever love me?”
Charlotte pressed her forehead against Mary’s, her breath ragged. “Darling, I never stopped.”
“I told you once that I was yours, indefinitely,” said she, “and I meant it.”
“I know you did.” She sighed. “I am only sorry that I did not start forever sooner.”
The bouquet slipped from Mary’s grasp as their lips met. The kiss was long and sweet, promising of more to come. The scent of violet drifted through the air, mixing with the smell of apple blossoms. “I prefer you to all others,” Charlotte murmured, smiling. “Hmm. I did not include those in my selection for this evening. Was this your doing?”
“No,” Mr Mellor said from the doorway, making them both jump in surprise. “It was mine. Though I confess it was prompted by your love of meanings, Charlotte.” He turned and threw a backwards glance over his shoulder, grinning. “I’ll watch the door while you two young fools sort yourselves out.”
Charlotte buried her face in Mary’s neck, holding the woman she loved close. “I love you,” she breathed. “I have loved you since your knee first touched mine, since you drew me with such exquisiteness, since you went out of your way to find flowers you knew would enchant me. I should have said all this far sooner.”
“How I have longed to hear you say those words.” Mary’s breath caught, her voice hitching, her arms tightening around Charlotte’s waist. “I love you too.”
Charlotte knew that the path ahead would not be easy, but happiness was never a smooth road. The important thing was that she was finally where she belonged; planted firmly, ready to bloom.