Mary's flush returned, a vibrant and undeniable heat that started at her throat and climbed to the roots of her hair. She looked at him, at the dust on his coat and the sincerity in his eyes, and found she could not look away.
"It was a team effort, Mr Bingley," she managed to say, her voice sounding far more breathless than she liked. "You provided the tan and the literal fence-mending. I merely provided a citrus-coloured distraction to ensure the lady's attention remained where it was needed."
"The distraction was excellent," Mr Bingley whispered. His eyes remained fixed on hers, the world narrowing to the dusty road and the sound of his horse's breathing. "I shall see you at the card party? I find I am looking forward to it with a great deal of anticipation."
"We shall be there," Mary promised.
He gave a sweeping bow from the saddle, nearly losing his balance as Jupiter performed a sharp, celebratory step. With a final, lingering look that seemed to pull at Mary's very soul, he turned the horse and galloped back to Netherfield.
Kitty turned to Mary, her serious façade crumbling for a second into a mischievous grin. "He rumbles, Mary. He rumbles like a very happy bumblebee. And I believe this bumblebee has a very clear idea of which flower he prefers."
When they arrived back at Longbourn, they found Mr Bennet in the study, his chair positioned to catch the rare, cooling breeze that drifted through the open window. Mrs Bennet was reclined on the chaise longue opposite, her eyes bright with an expectation that even the oppressive heat could not dampen.
"Ah, the conquerors return." Mr Bennet looked up from his book with a dry, appreciative smile. "I trust the Lucas fortress has fallen? I have heard reports of a yellow-green apparition haunting the lanes, causing a great deal of distress to the local birdlife."
"It was a success, Papa." Mary stepped into the room. She was tired, her feet ached from the unaccustomed lightness of the slippers, but it was a good, productive fatigue. "Lady Lucas has invited us to a card party next week."
"That is excellent," Mr Bennet remarked, leaning back and closing his book over a finger to mark his place. "The village is currently buzzing with the news of Mr Bingley's industry. It is a remarkable performance. Apparently, there is not a single widow's fence in the county that has not felt the bite of his hammer or the application of his paint. He has spent the last week in a frenzy of repair, as if the maintenance of the parish depended solely on his own two hands."
He paused, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes.
"And his charity! He has supplied the tea-cakes for three consecutive Sunday services—cakes of such superior quality that the congregation is currently ignoring the sermon in favour of the icing. I understand the vicar is prepared to eat out of his hand, largely because Mr Bingley is currently making plans to fix the church roof before the first frost. He is quite literally building his way into the collective heart of the village."
Mr Bennet let out a short, cynical laugh. "It is a fascinating study in the mechanics of social acceptance. It seems money can truly buy everything—even the undying affection of a village that, only a short time ago, was prepared to burn him in effigy for the crime of being a Londoner."
Mary felt a sharp, sudden needle of irritation. The lightness she had felt on the road had vanished, replaced by a defensive heat that had nothing to do with the sun.
"It is not just the money, Papa." Mary's voice rose with a passion that surprised even her.
Mr Bennet raised an eyebrow. "Is it not? A new roof is a very persuasive argument for a man of the cloth, and a fixed fence is a definitive proof of merit to a woman with an open garden."
"He does it because he is good-hearted!" Mary defended, her voice now a firm, resonant note in the quiet room. "He does it because he wants to belong. He has spent his life being frivolous. Now he is trying to be a man of the land. It takes a great deal of courage to fix a fence with your own hands when you have never held a tool in your life. It takes heart to care for a village that has been cruel to you, to offer tea-cakes to people who have whispered behind your back, and often in front of you."
She stopped, her breath coming in short, quick bursts. The room was silent, the only sound the fluttering of Mrs Bennet's fan.
"He is not buying them, Papa," Mary whispered. "He is earning them. And if you cannot see the difference, then perhaps it is your own depth that is lacking."
She turned and left the room, her borrowed skirts rustling with angry energy.
In the study, the Bennets exchanged a long, meaningful look. Mrs Bennet's mouth opened, her eyes wide with the realisation of what she had just witnessed—not a lecture,but a declaration.
Before she could utter a single syllable, before she could even begin to formulate a prediction regarding weddings and lace, Mr Bennet raised his hand.
"Not a single word, Frances." His tone was quiet, firm, and entirely devoid of his usual mockery. "No expectations. No predictions. Nothing. We shall allow them to proceed without the interference of our own hopes."
He returned his gaze to his book, but as the evening shadows filled the room, he did not turn the page.
