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“More tea, Miss de Bourgh?”
Charlotte smiled as she spoke, a lightness in her eyes that nobody else cared to notice. But Anne did. Anne always noticed.
She spent her days counting the minutes until she could see Charlotte again. Her nights were spent in tangled sheets, desperately seeking relief from the desire she refused to acknowledge anywhere else.
It would not do. There must come a time where she could not hide it any longer.
But that was a problem for another day.
She had never been so grateful for her mother’s tendency to ignore almost everyone around her. She was far too busy scolding Mr Collins to give any attention to her daughter.
“Thank you, Mrs Collins,” she murmured, holding out her cup and ignoring the trembling in her fingers.
Anne watched Charlotte hungrily, cataloguing the way her hands moved, the slight upward turn of her lips. Anne felt a thrill of longing and indulged it freely.
“Please, Miss de Bourgh,” their hands brushed as Charlotte handed her the cup, “call me Charlotte.”
“Well then you must call me Anne,” she replied eagerly. “Tis only fair.”
“Very well,” Charlotte said, smiling broadly. “Anne.”
“Charlotte,” Anne whispered happily. “Charlotte.”