Unless he likes it.
Noooooooo.Mary shuddered.That is impossible. No one likes accuracy that much. He is simply confused. He has mistaken my rudeness for charm. It is the only logical explanation.
The carriage jolted over a rut in the road, launching the yellow blooms briefly into the air. Mary caught the bouquet with one hand, steadying the aggressive optimism before it left its petals on the squabs.
"Hertfordshire approaches, Miss." Hobbs did not look up from her knitting, her needles clicking ominously. "We should arrive within the hour."
Home.
Mary closed her notebook and tucked it into her reticule, beside the card.
A headache began forming behind her eyes. She sighed dramatically but quietly, not wanting to attract the maid's attention.
She braced herself.
Longbourn appeared through the carriage window like an old acquaintance one had hoped to avoid at a party—familiar, slightly dishevelled, and demanding attention.
The house looked exactly as Mary had left it: white walls, climbing roses that were winning the war against the brickwork, and the same crooked shutter on the east wing that Mr Bennet had been promising to fix since the reign of Henry the Eighth. The garden was overgrown in the cheerful, haphazard manner of a household that had given up on discipline and embraced "botanical anarchy" as a design philosophy.
The front door burst open before the carriage had fully stopped.
Mrs Bennet emerged like a force of nature in muslin. Her cap was askew and her eyes wild. Her handkerchief was fluttering in the summer breeze like a white flag of a war only she was fighting.
"Mary! Oh, Mary! At last! I thought you would never come! I have been waiting and waiting, and my nerves, Mary, my nerves are in such a state that I cannot describe it, though I shall try, for the agony is considerable and must beexpressed—"
Mary stepped down from the carriage and was immediately engulfed.
Her mother's embrace was not a greeting. It was a siege. It was a combination of relief, accusation, and desperate clutching. Her mother had been denied an audience for her complaints and was determined to make up for lost time.
"Two daughters married, Mary! Two! Jane is a Viscountess—selfish girl, leaving me all alone for her happiness! Elizabeth is with Mr Darcy—who I still say is very tall and very frightening! And Lydia... oh, Lydia is at Rosings of all places, being reformed by Lady Catherine, which I am sure is a punishment for sins I cannot recall committing but must have been very serious indeed!"
Mrs Bennet released Mary just long enough to clasp her hands together in theatrical despair.
"And what am I left with? An empty house! Empty! Only Kitty—who coughs for attention—and your father. And your father is no comfort, Mary, no comfort at all. He sits in his study and reads his books and laughs at me. He treats my suffering like a spectator sport!"
Mrs Bennet sniffed, wiping a tear that might have been real, or might have been for effect.
"Thank heavens for mySon," she declared, her voice suddenly softening into reverence. "My Robert. He is the only joy I have left, Mary. The only child who truly understands his mother's heart."
Mary blinked, adjusting her bonnet which had been knocked sideways during the assault. "You mean Viscount Keathley?"
"I mean my Son!" Mrs Bennet clasped the handkerchief to her bosom. "He writes to me, Mary. Twice a week! He does not abandon me likesomedaughters. He sends me full reports of the Season. He told me that Lady Jersey wore a turban last week that looked like a tea cosy, and he is keeping a strict watch on Mrs Long's lace acquisitions. He knows that if that woman secures the Valenciennes before I do, I shall perish. He is an angel, Mary. A gossiping, titled angel."
"I am pleased to see you too, Mamma," Mary said dryly. "The journey was pleasant. The weather warm. Thank you for asking."
Mrs Bennet was not listening. She was examining the carriage, her eyes sharp enough to cut bread.
"What are those?" Her voice sharpened. "Flowers? You have brought flowers? Why would you bring flowers? We have a garden, Mary. We have roses. We do not need London flowers taking up space and dropping petals on my clean floors—"
"They were a gift."
The words emerged before Mary could stop them. She winced and bit her tongue simultaneously.
She watched her mother's face transform. It was a fascinating geological event. Suspicion gave way to calculation, calculation gave way to a terrible, dawning hope.
"A gift." Mrs Bennet breathed the word as if it were sacred. "A gift from whom? A gentleman? Mary, have you secured a gentleman? Is he rich? Does he have a carriage? How many pounds a year? You sly thing! Tell me at once, for my heart cannot bear the suspense!"
"The flowers are from an acquaintance, Mamma. A gesture of politeness. Nothing more."
