"I have plenty of terror," Mary muttered to the glass pane. "I merely prefer mine without chains rattling in the wainscoting. My terror is currently located in the North Pasture."
On the settee, Mrs Bennet let out a sound that could only be described as a coo. She held a letter of her own, pressing the paper against her bosom as if trying to absorb the ink through her bodice via proximity.
"My Son," Mrs Bennet breathed, gazing at the ceiling plaster as if expecting a cherub to descend. "Such a dutiful boy. He writes that he has purchased Jane a new carriage. Lined in blue silk, matching her eyes. He asks after my health specifically in the postscript."
She lowered the letter, beaming with a radiance that rivalled the sun which was currently failing to shine outside. "Viscount Keathley. To think, my Jane. Oh, I long for the day they will provide me grandchildren with titles. Little Honourables running about the nursery. We must write to him immediately, Kitty. Fetch my writing desk. I must tell him that the lace he sent was superior to Mrs Long's in every particular."
Mary rose from the window seat. The air in the room felt stifling, a thick soup of gothic fantasies and maternal ambition. She moved to the pianoforte, her sanctuary. She sat on the bench, her fingers finding the familiar ivory topography of the keys.
But the music would not come.
Instead of Bach, her mind conjured a mop of unruly, windswept red hair. Instead of arpeggios, she felt the phantom warmth of a hand touching hers in a library aisle.
She remembered the card party at Lucas Lodge. The way he had watched her across the room—not with the polite indifference of society, but with a hunger that had stolen the breath from her lungs. And then, the tactical error.
Item Four:Strategic Blunder.She had smiled at Colonel Lindon. She had done it to be safe, to be witty. To prove she could. And when she looked back, she had seen the light go out of Mr Bingley's eyes.
Was it jealousy? Or was it relief?
She wanted to march out of the house. She wanted to saddle a horse—or perhaps a mule, given her current mood—and ride to the North Pasture. She wanted to grab Mr Bingley by his lapels and demand a citation.
Did you look at me with longing? Do you love me? Or are you merely kind, and I am merely starving?
"Mary, do stop fidgeting," Mrs Bennet admonished, not looking up from the Viscount's prose. "If you are to play, play. If not, sit down and hem a handkerchief. Your restlessness is disturbing my nerves."
Mary slammed the lid of the keys shut. The sound was a thunderclap in the quiet room.
Kitty jumped, droppingThe Crypt of Eternal Sorrows. Charles hissed at Kitty.
"I am not fidgeting." Mary's voice trembled a little—a fracture in the porcelain. "I am thinking."
"Well," Mrs Bennet adjusted her cap, "try to think more quietly. You will give us all a migraine."
Before Mary could retort that her mother's nerves were selective enough to survive a hurricane if a Viscount was involved, the universe decided to intervene.
A genuine boom of thunder shook the house. The purple sky finally tore open. Rain lashed against the glass, transforming the garden into a watercolour smear of grey and green.
"The windows!" Mrs Bennet shrieked, clutching her letter. "The velvet drapes! Kitty, move!"
As her mother and sister scurried to save the upholstery, Mary stood frozen in the centre of the room. A cold, leaden weight settled in her stomach, pushing out the jealousy and the logic.
Mr Bennet was out there.
Mr Bingley was out there.
An hour passed, and the deluge continued with the persistence of a very boring guest who refuses to take a hint. Suddenly, under the drumming of the rain against the glass, a different sound grew louder.
"A horse," Mary whispered.
The front door slammed open. The sound reverberated through the floorboards, followed by the heavy, wet tread of boots invading the sanctity of the hall.
"Hill!" Mrs Bennet abandoned the window, smoothing her cap with frantic vanity. "If that is Mr Bennet, tell him to wipe his feet! We are not a stable!"
The drawing room door flew open.
Colonel Lindon stood on the threshold. Water streamed from the brim of his hat, carving rivulets through the dust on his face. His coat was sodden, black with rain, and his chest heaved as if he had run the last mile himself, dragging the horse behind him.
"Mrs Bennet." The Colonel did not bow. He did not smile. He stripped off his gloves, wringing them out with a brutality that sent a cascade of water splashing onto the rug.
