Miss Jane Bennet.
He penned a quick note to Mrs. Bennet, brief and cordial, requesting the pleasure of her daughter’s company for a drive. It was delivered at once.
She accepted.
Of course she did,he thought with a mixture of satisfaction and irritation. Mrs. Bennet wanted a wealthy suitor for her eldest. And Jane Bennet was kindness itself. She never refused when courtesy was involved.
When she appeared at the drive, pale blue gown and straw bonnet perfectly suited to the gentle weather, Charles felt a flicker of the old warmth stir within him. She was beautiful—everyone said so—but more than that, she was good—steady and reliable.
She would make an excellent wife,he told himself firmly.And once Darcy is bound—
He assisted her into the phaeton with practiced ease and took the reins. The horses set off at a measured pace, wheels crunching softly over the gravel before turning onto the road.
They spoke at first of innocuous things. Of the weather and then of the previous evening at Lucas Lodge.
“Sir William seemed quite pleased with his discovery,” Jane said carefully. “Though I fear the excitement has grown rather…unwieldy.”
Charles laughed shortly. “Unwieldy? Nonsense. A little enthusiasm never hurt anyone.”
Miss Bennet’s hands folded in her lap. “I am not certain that is true.”
He glanced at her sidelong. Her expression was composed, but there was a tension about her mouth he did not like.
“And still,” he said lightly, “it does make one wonder what else might be found. Hertfordshire has not been so thoroughly explored as people suppose.”
Jane did not answer at once. The silence pressed.
“You grew up here,” he continued, his tone sharpening despite himself. “You must have heard stories. Roman roads, old settlements—such things leave traces.”
Miss Bennet turned her face toward him then, and he saw it: the flicker of alarm she could not entirely suppress.
“I have heard stories,” she said slowly. “As everyone has. But stories are not facts.”
There,he thought.That was it.
“You look quite weary,” he remarked. “Have I touched upon something delicate?”
“No,” Jane said at once, too quickly. “I simply do not care for speculation.”
Charles’s grip tightened on the reins.
“Speculation is not so very different from curiosity,” he pressed. “And curiosity is natural. Particularly when one considers how often such treasures are…concealed.”
Jane shifted in her seat. “I do not know what you are implying, Mr. Bingley.”
He smiled, though there was little warmth in it. “Only that some families might prefer discretion to honesty.”
Jane’s color rose. “That is unkind.”
“Is it?” he countered. “Or merely inconvenient?”
She turned fully toward him now, her voice firm despite its softness. “If you suggest that my family—or any family here—would behave dishonorably, I must insist you stop.”
The horses slowed as his attention wavered. He had not intended to press so hard—yet the certainty had seized him, fueled by every whispered rumor, every knowing glance.
They are hiding something,he thought.I can feel it.
“I meant no insult,” he said stiffly. “But your reaction speaks volumes.”
