"Apologies." Charles forced his attention back to the cards. "I was wool-gathering."
"By the Colonel, no doubt," Mrs Bennet noted, following his gaze. Her expression softened, though the calculation remained. "He is very charming. Very lively. A man who knows how to entertain a room."
"He is," Charles agreed, his voice tight. "He is excellent company."
"But charm," Mrs Bennet said, turning back to him, "is often like a soufflé, Mr Bingley. Delicious while it lasts, but liable to collapse if one opens the oven door too quickly. Stability... well, stability is a roast beef. It is not exciting, but it sustains."
She glanced at his hands—tanned and rougher than they had been two months ago—resting on the baize.
"I hear you have started mending the roof of the church," she added, almost casually.
"We have secured the timbers, Madam. The lead work begins on Monday."
Mrs Bennet nodded. It was a single, definitive motion. She picked up her trick. "A dry church is a blessing. It saves a great deal of coughing during the sermon. You play well, Mr Bingley. Better than you used to."
It was not an embrace. It was not a declaration of acceptance. But it was a truce. The Matriarch had lowered the drawbridge, just an inch.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of whist and polite conversation. Charles won the rubber, largely because he was playing to prove he could be trusted with the family silver.
When the carriages were finally called, he stood by the door, hoping for a moment—just a single moment—to speak to Mary. He wanted to tell her about the Broadwood. He wanted to tell her that her ribbon was lovely. He wanted to ask why she smiled at the Colonel and not at him.
But the Bennet departure was a military operation of shawls and bonnets. The Colonel was there, offering his arm to Mrs Bennet, charming Miss Kitty, and ensuring Mary had her reticule.
"Bingley!" The Colonel called out, winking. "Excellent game. Though you seemed a trifle serious at the end there."
Mary paused as she passed him. For a second, her eyes landed on him.
"Goodnight, Mr Bingley," she said softly.
"Miss Bennet." He took a step forward. "I... the music... that is..."
"Come along, Mary!" Mrs Bennet called from the carriage. "The night air is perilous!"
Mary offered him a quick, apologetic grimace and hurried away.
Charles stood on the steps of Lucas Lodge, watching the carriage disappear into the darkness. The evening had been a success. He had won the mother. He had established his depth.
But as he turned to his own carriage, where the Colonel was lounging with a satisfied grin, Charles felt a hollow ache in his chest. He did not want only to be deep. He wanted to be the reason she laughed.
