"He is doing it for you, you fool," Charles told himself, gripping his wine glass until the stem threatened to snap. "He is being the distraction. He is my second."
But it did not feel like strategy. It felt like a failure.
He saw Mary say something that made the Colonel throw his head back and laugh—a genuine, loud laugh that drew the eyes of the room.
She is being accurate, Charles thought miserably.She has said something devastatingly true, and the Colonel is delighted by it.
He stared down at his clean hands. He had spent weeks in the mud. He had built fences. He had studied drainage. He had become a Man of Depth.
But standing here, on the edge of the carpet, watching his best friend charm the woman he loved with a few well-chosenwords, Charles Bingley felt very much like the boy he thought he had left behind—shallow, hesitant, and stuck on the outside looking in.
"Mr Bingley?"
Lady Lucas appeared beside him, her smile thin and assessing.
"We are sitting down to cards. I have placed you at the main table." She gestured towards the centre of the room. "With Mrs Bennet. I recall you are friends with the family?"
Charles regarded Mary one last time. She was still talking to the Colonel, her hand unconsciously touching the red ribbon at her breast.
"Yes." Charles straightened his spine and turned to his hostess. "I suppose I am."
The whist table was, by its very nature, a theatre of judgment. It was a place where character was revealed not through grand declarations, but through the decisive play of a trump card or the trembling of a hand while sorting a suit.
Charles sat opposite Mrs Bennet, acutely aware that he was currently undergoing a trial far more rigorous than any he had faced in the North Pasture.
Gone was the Mrs Bennet of the previous autumn—the woman who had fluttered and fawned, who had practically offered him her daughter on a silver platter garnished with compliments. That woman had vanished along with his own reputation as a reliable suitor.
In her place sat a matriarch of formidable reserve. Her fan did not flutter. Her eyes, usually darting about in search of gossip, were fixed on him with steady, unnerving scrutiny. She was measuring him. Not for his fortune—she knew the size ofthat down to the last shilling better than himself—but for his ballast.
"It is your lead, Mr Bingley," she said, her voice lacking the melodic trills she usually reserved for eligible bachelors.
"Of course." Charles selected a card. He did not rush. A Man of Depth did not play whist erratically. He played with gravity.
He laid down the King of Hearts.
Mrs Bennet studied the card. She studied his face. "A bold lead. But risky, if you do not hold the Ace."
"I prefer to declare my intentions early, Madam," Charles replied, meeting her gaze evenly. "It prevents confusion later in the game. I have found that waiting only complicates matters."
A flicker of surprise, perhaps, or grudging respect, crossed her face. She played her card. "Indeed. Confusion is a terrible thing. It leaves a household in a state of nerves that requires a great deal of lavender water to soothe."
The subtext was as subtle as a brick, but Charles did not flinch. "Then I hope to provide a game that is predictable this time, Mrs Bennet. Steady. One might even say... rooted."
Across the room, a burst of laughter erupted. It was a bright sound that cut through the murmurs of the card players.
Charles's eyes flickered involuntarily to the corner near the fireplace.
Colonel Lindon was leaning against the mantelpiece, infuriatingly at ease, surrounded by a semi-circle of muslin. Miss Kitty was giggling behind her fan, her serious phase forgotten entirely. Maria Lucas was gazing at him as if he were a deity who had descended to explain the mysteries of the cravat.
And there was Mary.
She was not giggling. She stood a little apart, her hands clasped in front of her gown, the red ribbon rising and falling with her breath. She was looking up at the Colonel, and her expression was one of rapt attention. The Colonel said something, gesturing with his wine glass, and Mary smiled.
It was not the polite, pained smile she wore at parties. It was a real smile. It reached her eyes behind the spectacles.
Charles felt a sharp twist in his gut.
"Mr Bingley?" Mrs Bennet's voice snapped him back to the table. "We are waiting."
