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.
