Mary's mind was a tangle of discordant thoughts. Lydia learning social warfare in Kent. Kitty struggling with her self-imposed gothic gravity. And underneath it all, a persistent, un-scholarly preoccupation with a certain gentleman whoseagricultural tan and earnest smile had thoroughly disrupted her equilibrium.
Without entirely meaning to, her feet followed the gentle slope of the land eastward, carrying her away from the safety of Longbourn's immediate gardens and towards the boundary line.
She stopped when the sound of shouting voices reached her ears. She was nearing the Northern Pasture. Through a break in the trees, she could see the distant figures of workmen, waist-deep in a trench, hauling stones and wrestling with the stubborn clay.
Panic flared in her chest. She could not go out there. Propriety strictly forbade a young lady from wandering into a field full of labouring men, and her own newly fragile nerves forbade her from accidentally encountering Mr Bingley while he was covered in mud and radiating that absurd, blinding cheerfulness.
She pivoted sharply, her skirts swishing, and retreated into a dense copse of oak and ash trees that bordered the two estates. The shade here was deep and cool, a green sanctuary hidden from the punishing sun and the prying eyes of the world.
She walked a few paces into the quiet grove, intending to catch her breath before returning home, when she stopped dead in her tracks.
He was there.
Charles Bingley was lying on the ground, his back resting comfortably against the broad trunk of an oak. He had abandoned his coat entirely, tossing it carelessly over a nearby bush. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, and the sleeves of hiswhite linen shirt were rolled up past his elbows. His hands were tucked behind his head, and his eyes were closed in deep, peaceful slumber.
Mary froze. She should leave. It was wildly inappropriate to stand alone in a secluded copse of trees watching a sleeping gentleman. It was a breach of every rule in Fordyce's sermons. It might also be an eleventh commandment for all she knew.
But her feet refused to obey her brain.
She stared. Unhindered by the social requirement to look away, Mary observed him with meticulous attention, like a complex piece of sheet music.
He was remarkably lean, the line of his torso elegant even in repose. But it was his arms that held her attention. Exposed to the dappled sunlight, the muscles of his forearms were corded and defined—a testament to the hours he had spent wrestling with fences and digging in trenches. He did not look like a soft London beau. He looked capable. He looked entirely male.
A breeze rustled through the canopy above, ruffling his unkempt, carrot-coloured hair, sending a few stray locks tumbling over his forehead. His mouth was slightly parted in sleep, losing the anxious, eager-to-please tension he usually carried. He looked peaceful. He looked beautiful.
Mary felt a sudden flutter in her stomach, a sensation akin to missing a step on a staircase. She was transfixed.
Then, disaster struck.
Charles-the-cat, who had been prowling silently behind her, spotted his namesake. Calculating the trajectory with feline precision, the orange beast launched himself into the air like a furry cannonball. With a yowl of surprise, the catlanded squarely, his claws extended for purchase, directly onto Mr Bingley's chest.
Mr Bingley woke with a violent, panicked shout, his arms flailing as he attempted to throw off the sudden, heavy weight that was currently digging ten tiny daggers through his linen shirt. He scrambled backward against the tree trunk, panting, his eyes wide and unseeing.
The cat hissed indignantly, then settled into Mr Bingley's lap, washing a paw as if the entire incident had been no one's fault.
Mr Bingley blinked, his chest heaving, trying to orient himself. His gaze darted from the orange cat to the surrounding trees, and finally, it landed on Mary.
He stared at her. His hair was sticking up in every direction, his shirt was rumpled, and the sleep had not yet cleared from his eyes. He offered a slow, hazed, incredibly unguarded smile.
"Miss Bennet," he murmured, his voice thick and rough with sleep. "Are you real?"
Mary felt her face flood with heat. "I am quite real, Mr Bingley. And I apologise for the assault. Charles has no manners."
Bingley let out a breathy chuckle, rubbing a hand over his face. He looked at her again, his expression softening. "I thought you were a dream. I was just dreaming of you." He blinked, as if realising what he had just said, but he did not retract it. Instead, he offered a helpless shrug. "I suppose it is because my mind is so firm on the plan. The strategy."
Mary swallowed hard. She gripped her skirts to keep her hands from shaking. "I understand, Mr Bingley."
She turned, desperate to escape the intimacy of the copse, the heat of the day, and the devastating honesty in his sleep-hazed eyes. "I must return to the house."
"Wait."
The word was spoken softly, but it arrested her movement as surely as a physical tether. Mary paused, her back to him, her breath caught in her lungs.
She heard the rustle of leaves as he stood up. When she finally turned, Mr Bingley was on his feet. Charles-the-cat was now draped comfortably over his shoulders like an orange, purring stole. Mr Bingley did not seem to mind. He simply supported the animal's weight with one hand.
"Can you sit with me for a while?" he asked. The confident, eager-to-please gentleman of Meryton was gone. In his place was a man who looked genuinely, simply lonely. "I would like someone to talk to who is not Tepper. He is too judgmental."
Mary looked at him. She looked at the muddy boots, the rolled-up sleeves, the treasonous cat, and the pleading in his eyes. Every instinct of self-preservation screamed at her to flee. But the scholar in her, the woman who had spent her life observing from the shadows, could not deny him.
