Chapter Thirteen The Roast Beef
The drawing room of Lucas Lodge had, over the years, witnessed many things: the slow decay of Sir William's anecdotes, the desperate manoeuvring of unmarried daughters, and the occasional strategic spilling of tea to avoid a difficult question.
Tonight, however, it was the stage for the next phase of the Netherfield Campaign.
Charles Bingley stood in the doorway, his heart hammering a rhythm that was entirely too fast after his newfound agricultural stoicism.
Beside him, Colonel Lindon adjusted his cuffs with a serene expression which indicated that he treated social gatherings as a light skirmish—amusing, but hardly dangerous.
"Remember, Bingley," the Colonel murmured, his voice pitched low enough to be audible only to Charles and perhaps a nearby potted fern. "You are not a supplicant. You are a neighbour of substance. You own the estate. You control the drainage. You are the Lord of the Clay."
"I am an impostor in clean linen," Charles hissed back. "I have spent so much time in the ditch I feel I should be apologising to the carpet."
"Nonsense. The carpet is honoured. Now, locate the target. And for heaven's sake, try not to burst into song."
They stepped into the room. Sir William descended upon them beaming, because he had secured two eligible bachelors for the price of one invitation.
"Mr Bingley! And Colonel Lindon! Capital! Capital!" Sir William bowed, nearly colliding with a footman. "You are just in time. I was telling Mrs Long about the time I stood next to the Duke of York near a very drafty window at St James's. The resilience of the aristocracy is truly remarkable."
Charles murmured the appropriate pleasantries, but his eyes were already surveying the room. He bypassed the fluttering fan of the Lucas girl, ignored the stoic profile of Mrs Long, and finally landed on the corner near the harpsichord.
The Bennet family was assembled in full force. Mrs Bennet was holding court on the settee, regal and imposing in purple silk. Miss Kitty sat beside her, maintaining a posture of tragic seriousness that was somewhat undermined by the way she was eyeing a tray of macaroons.
And there was Miss Bennet.
Charles stopped breathing.
She was not wearing the yellow-green muslin that had caused his brain to seizure the previous week.
She was back in brown, a colour so aggressively neutral it seemed designed to blend into the wallpaper.
It was the uniform of the "Invisible Woman," the armour she wore to signal to the world that she was not a participant in its follies.
But Charles saw the flaw in the armour.
Beneath the modest neckline of the bodice, threaded through the dull fabric, was a ribbon of deep, vibrant crimson.
It was a small thing. To anyone else, it might have been a trimming. To Charles, it was a shout. It was a flag of revolution planted in the landscape of her propriety.
And her hair—usually pulled back so tightly he feared for her scalp—was softer. A few tendrils had been allowed to escape, framing a face that was flushed with the heat of the room and, he hoped, the anticipation of his arrival.
"She is wearing a ribbon," Charles whispered, unaware he had spoken aloud.
"Women often do," the Colonel noted dryly. "It is a standard structural component of the garment."
"No, Colonel. It is red. It is passionate. It is the colour of a heart beating beneath the chest."
"Good God, you have it bad," the Colonel sighed. "Go to her. Tell her you admire her haberdashery. It is a start."
Charles took a step forward, his intention clear: he would march across the room, bow to Mrs Bennet, and then immediately engage Miss Bennet in a conversation about the emotional capacity of pianofortes.
But the universe had other plans.
"Colonel Lindon! It is so good to see you again!" Mrs Bennet's voice cut through the air. She had spotted the new arrival, and her maternal acuity had identified a fresh target. "Do come and sit!"
The crowd shifted. Charles was separated from his objective by a wall of muslins and cravats.
He tried to navigate around Mrs Long, but found his path blocked by Sir William, who had remembered a second anecdote involving a minor royal and a spilled soup tureen.
The man could not keep food off his garments to save his life.
Helpless, Charles watched as the Colonel—the traitorous, charming, effortless Colonel—executed a perfect flank manoeuvre.
He slid through the crowd, bowing to Mrs Bennet, offering a compliment to Miss Kitty that made her drop her serious mask for a giggling second, and finally coming to rest before Miss Bennet.
Charles watched, and a sharp, unfamiliar pang of jealousy twisted in his chest.
He saw the Colonel smile—that easy, London smile that opened doors and hearts with equal facility. He saw him speaking to Mary—she was Mary in his head.
And he saw her flush. She adjusted her spectacles, dropped her eyes down at her lap, then up, and smiled.
It was a small smile, but a smile nonetheless. She was speaking to the Colonel. She was looking at the Colonel.
"He is doing it for you, you fool," Charles told himself, gripping his wine glass until the stem threatened to snap. "He is being the distraction. He is my second."
But it did not feel like strategy. It felt like a failure.
He saw Mary say something that made the Colonel throw his head back and laugh—a genuine, loud laugh that drew the eyes of the room.
She is being accurate, Charles thought miserably. She has said something devastatingly true, and the Colonel is delighted by it.
He stared down at his clean hands. He had spent weeks in the mud. He had built fences. He had studied drainage. He had become a Man of Depth.
But standing here, on the edge of the carpet, watching his best friend charm the woman he loved with a few well-chosen words, Charles Bingley felt very much like the boy he thought he had left behind—shallow, hesitant, and stuck on the outside looking in.
"Mr Bingley?"
Lady Lucas appeared beside him, her smile thin and assessing.
"We are sitting down to cards. I have placed you at the main table." She gestured towards the centre of the room. "With Mrs Bennet. I recall you are friends with the family?"
Charles regarded Mary one last time. She was still talking to the Colonel, her hand unconsciously touching the red ribbon at her breast.
"Yes." Charles straightened his spine and turned to his hostess. "I suppose I am."
The whist table was, by its very nature, a theatre of judgment. It was a place where character was revealed not through grand declarations, but through the decisive play of a trump card or the trembling of a hand while sorting a suit.
Charles sat opposite Mrs Bennet, acutely aware that he was currently undergoing a trial far more rigorous than any he had faced in the North Pasture.
Gone was the Mrs Bennet of the previous autumn—the woman who had fluttered and fawned, who had practically offered him her daughter on a silver platter garnished with compliments. That woman had vanished along with his own reputation as a reliable suitor.
In her place sat a matriarch of formidable reserve.
Her fan did not flutter. Her eyes, usually darting about in search of gossip, were fixed on him with steady, unnerving scrutiny.
She was measuring him. Not for his fortune—she knew the size of that down to the last shilling better than himself—but for his ballast.
"It is your lead, Mr Bingley," she said, her voice lacking the melodic trills she usually reserved for eligible bachelors.
"Of course." Charles selected a card. He did not rush. A Man of Depth did not play whist erratically. He played with gravity.
He laid down the King of Hearts.
Mrs Bennet studied the card. She studied his face. "A bold lead. But risky, if you do not hold the Ace."
"I prefer to declare my intentions early, Madam," Charles replied, meeting her gaze evenly. "It prevents confusion later in the game. I have found that waiting only complicates matters."
A flicker of surprise, perhaps, or grudging respect, crossed her face. She played her card. "Indeed. Confusion is a terrible thing. It leaves a household in a state of nerves that requires a great deal of lavender water to soothe."
The subtext was as subtle as a brick, but Charles did not flinch. "Then I hope to provide a game that is predictable this time, Mrs Bennet. Steady. One might even say... rooted."
Across the room, a burst of laughter erupted. It was a bright sound that cut through the murmurs of the card players.
Charles's eyes flickered involuntarily to the corner near the fireplace.
Colonel Lindon was leaning against the mantelpiece, infuriatingly at ease, surrounded by a semi-circle of muslin.
Miss Kitty was giggling behind her fan, her serious phase forgotten entirely.
Maria Lucas was gazing at him as if he were a deity who had descended to explain the mysteries of the cravat.
And there was Mary.
She was not giggling. She stood a little apart, her hands clasped in front of her gown, the red ribbon rising and falling with her breath. She was looking up at the Colonel, and her expression was one of rapt attention. The Colonel said something, gesturing with his wine glass, and Mary smiled.
It was not the polite, pained smile she wore at parties. It was a real smile. It reached her eyes behind the spectacles.
Charles felt a sharp twist in his gut.
"Mr Bingley?" Mrs Bennet's voice snapped him back to the table. "We are waiting."
"Apologies." Charles forced his attention back to the cards. "I was wool-gathering."
"By the Colonel, no doubt," Mrs Bennet noted, following his gaze. Her expression softened, though the calculation remained. "He is very charming. Very lively. A man who knows how to entertain a room."
"He is," Charles agreed, his voice tight. "He is excellent company."
"But charm," Mrs Bennet said, turning back to him, "is often like a soufflé, Mr Bingley. Delicious while it lasts, but liable to collapse if one opens the oven door too quickly. Stability... well, stability is a roast beef. It is not exciting, but it sustains."
She glanced at his hands—tanned and rougher than they had been two months ago—resting on the baize.
"I hear you have started mending the roof of the church," she added, almost casually.
"We have secured the timbers, Madam. The lead work begins on Monday."
Mrs Bennet nodded. It was a single, definitive motion. She picked up her trick. "A dry church is a blessing. It saves a great deal of coughing during the sermon. You play well, Mr Bingley. Better than you used to."
It was not an embrace. It was not a declaration of acceptance. But it was a truce. The Matriarch had lowered the drawbridge, just an inch.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of whist and polite conversation. Charles won the rubber, largely because he was playing to prove he could be trusted with the family silver.
When the carriages were finally called, he stood by the door, hoping for a moment—just a single moment—to speak to Mary. He wanted to tell her about the Broadwood. He wanted to tell her that her ribbon was lovely. He wanted to ask why she smiled at the Colonel and not at him.
But the Bennet departure was a military operation of shawls and bonnets. The Colonel was there, offering his arm to Mrs Bennet, charming Miss Kitty, and ensuring Mary had her reticule.
"Bingley!" The Colonel called out, winking. "Excellent game. Though you seemed a trifle serious at the end there."
Mary paused as she passed him. For a second, her eyes landed on him.
"Goodnight, Mr Bingley," she said softly.
"Miss Bennet." He took a step forward. "I... the music... that is..."
"Come along, Mary!" Mrs Bennet called from the carriage. "The night air is perilous!"
Mary offered him a quick, apologetic grimace and hurried away.
Charles stood on the steps of Lucas Lodge, watching the carriage disappear into the darkness. The evening had been a success. He had won the mother. He had established his depth.
But as he turned to his own carriage, where the Colonel was lounging with a satisfied grin, Charles felt a hollow ache in his chest. He did not want only to be deep. He wanted to be the reason she laughed.