Epilogue
Charlotte dibbled a hole in the warm soil to the depth of two inches, marking the size with her thumb, then dropped a single seed into it. Filling up the hole again, she wetted the soil carefully, and sat back to admire her efforts. It had taken the best part of an hour to seed four rows, and she still had to examine a wilting orchid and oversee the pruning of Mr Mellor’s new topiary. Wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, she felt pride bloom in her chest. No matter how hard she worked, or how long the days, the fruits of her labour were there at every turn. The roses had won their usual prizes, and the citrus trees were producing even more luscious bounties than usual. Mr Mellor was delighted with her work, and Charlotte’s growing confidence had allowed him to hand over more and more responsibilities.
She exited the hothouse, sighing in relief at the breeze which cooled her sweaty skin, and caught sight of a familiar figure in the distance, sitting at the white table on the terrace. Waving, she trudged up the path and ascended the steps, arriving even sweatier than she had been minutes before. Upon seeing Charlotte, a handsome servant poured a second cup of tea and pulled out her chair.
Mary lowered her teacup, arching an eyebrow. “Hello, darling. Hard at work?”
Charlotte grinned. “Always. Thank you, William.”
She was still not quite used to having so much fortune at her disposal, though she had used it to gift her family in small ways—an exquisitely beautiful new dress for her sister Maria and four violins for the remainder of her brother John’s children. Two horses, well-muscled and even-tempered, had been sent to her parents as a thank you for all that they had done for her. Mary’s gift had taken her more time and thought. “I have something for you,” Charlotte announced, nodding to William, who trotted off in search of it.
“What a coincidence, for I have a gift for you too.” Mary leaned over and pressed a kiss to Charlotte’s damp cheek. “And whenever you have a moment, I’d like to lick every inch of you clean. You may consider that a second present, if you like.”
Charlotte swallowed, momentarily speechless, and was saved from having to make any coherent reply by William’s return. The servant hovered in the doorway behind Mary, and Charlotte indicated that he should stay there for the moment. “Your gift first, then.” She squinted, but Mary was holding no package, nor was there anything on the table or ground around her.
“Henry took it from me when I first arrived,” Mary clarified. “I am certain you will love it. They call it a tulip tree.”
Charlotte frowned. “A tulip…tree?”
“Indeed. When it has grown, the leaves will be a wonderful, buttery yellow. Once you have eaten something, for they tell me you have had nothing since breakfast, we can visit it. Aunt Cecily said it was quite the sight once mature. Not only has she forgiven you entirely, but I suspect she might actually be rather fond of you. She does not send entire trees back across the Atlantic for just anyone, you know.”
“Is that so?” Charlotte’s lips twitched. “I am glad indeed. I think I would rather face a thousand furious Lady Catherines than one mildly annoyed Aunt Cecily.”
“You are a very sensible woman, Charlotte Lucas. I have always thought so.” Mary picked up her teacup again, shooting Charlotte a lascivious look over the rim. Her fine, dark eyes made Charlotte feel as if she were being undressed in the midday sun, which was not an unwelcome idea. “And I bring with me an invitation to a special kind of dance next month, which will be attended only by our sort of people from all classes. It was really Delia’s doing, though my idea,” said she. “What a lark it will be to have a ball all to ourselves. You must show me those dance steps again, lest I embarrass myself in front of our sistren.”
A lark it might be, but Charlotte saw the seriousness of the matter underneath. To have a space to call their own was a rare thing, not easily obtained, and the driving motivation—to bring people together, to connect when so often the shame and secrecy kept people apart—brought tears to her eyes. She reached for Mary’s hand and grasped it tightly. “What a wonderful idea.”
Mary blinked back her own tears. “Yes, well. Perhaps it will become a regular thing, who knows? Now, you were saying something about a gift?”
Charlotte beckoned William forward. The young man carried the pot to the table and placed it carefully, turning it so that the black petals caught the light. The stem was narrow and pale, the petals themselves rounded with the look, if not the temperament, of a pansy. “This is something Mr Mellor—I mean, Maxwell—lately imported from China. A delicate specimen, though under the right conditions and with a little attention, it will flourish wonderfully. Do you know what it means that it is new to England?”
Mary looked blank before realisation dawned. “Why,” cried she, “that means it has no significance yet. It is a blank slate, as yet unlabeled, at least to us. Do you mean to assign some tender desire to it?”
“Ought it be a sweet, coy flower? Or a passionate declaration?”
“Perhaps it could be a message of optimism?” Mary suggested. “Or a desire for change?”
Charlotte nodded, understanding at once. “Dum spiro spero,” she murmured. “While I breathe, I hope.”
William sidled back into the house while Mary dragged her chair around the table, landing next to Charlotte’s, and pulled her close, pressing tender kisses all over her face. “Now that we are happy and settled, perhaps it is time we examine what might be done for others who are less fortunate.”
“You know,” Charlotte leaned in, feeling her heart flutter in that familiar way, “it is that kind of nobility of spirit which makes me fall in love with you all over again.”
Words faded until there was nothing left but the breeze, the sky, and the sweet, faint scent of faithful violets.
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