"Miss Darcy! Mrs Annesley!" he cried, bowing with a flourish that threatened the safety of a nearby pedestal. "What a marvel! I was just looking at that painting. It is so... tall! Very tall indeed. A significant amount of canvas."
"Mr Bingley." Georgiana's smile was genuine. "This is Mary—Miss Mary Bennet. You remember her?"
Mary executed a curtsy that was less a greeting and more a declaration of war. It was as cold as a Hertfordshire frost.She straightened and stared at him through her wire-rimmed spectacles, examining him like a biological specimen she had hoped was extinct.
"Of course! Of course I remember. How do you do, Miss Bennet?" he beamed.
"I remember you too, Mr Bingley." Mary's voice was flat, monotone, and dry enough to start a fire. "Your departure from our neighbourhood was so swift that I believe the local population is still coughing from the dust your horses kicked up."
Mr Bingley's face fell. His smile flickered like a candle in a draughty corridor.
"Ah. Yes. Hertfordshire." He looked pained. "I have been thinking about it a great deal. I am trying to be a Man of Depth now, Miss Bennet. My friend Colonel Lindon says it is a worthy goal. I am cultivating gravity. But the portraits are difficult. Everyone is smiling, even the ones who are dying. It is very confusing."
"Perhaps they are just relieved the artist finally stopped talking to them," Mary suggested.
"Mary!" Georgiana whispered, scandalised.
"I am merely being accurate," Mary shrugged.
Mr Bingley did not leave. By all rights, he should have retreated to the safety of the portraits, but he stayed right there, staring at Mary with a confused, honest kind of fascination. It was disconcerting. Men usually fled when she started being accurate.
"Accuracy," he repeated, tasting the word. "Yes. Deep. I want to be accurate, Miss Bennet. I want more substance. But I do not know where to find it. I tried the statues in the entryhall, but they just look cold. And poorly dressed for the climate."
He followed them as they walked by a series of framed maps. Mary kept her head up, her profile resembling a cliff face against which waves of nonsense would break and die.
"What is this?" Mr Bingley asked, pointing at a large, complex chart. "It has a great many lines. Why are there so many lines? Is it a labyrinth?"
Mary sighed. She turned to him, her face completely still.
"It is a map of trade routes, Mr Bingley. It is not a labyrinth. It is commerce. The lines show where ships take silk, spices, and tea. Red is for England. Blue is for France. Where the lines cross is where the arguments happen."
She waited for him to say something silly about the colours. She waited for the inevitable comment about how pretty the blue was.
Instead, he leaned in. His eyes were bright, and he was not looking at the room or the crowd. He was perusing the lines.
"The arguments?" he asked. "Why fight? Is there not enough silk for everyone?"
"Trade is a game of winners and losers, Mr Bingley," Mary explained, speaking slowly, as if she were addressing a very small child or a friendly pigeon. "To get what you want, you must often stop someone else from getting it. It takes planning. It takes strategy. And it takes a very strong backbone. I do not think you would like it. It is very tiring."
"Planning! Backbone!" Mr Bingley clapped his hands together, startling Mrs Annesley. "Gosh! That is exactly what I need! I never had any of that. I usually just have impulse. Which makes it very hard when things change."
His eyes held so much honest attention that Mary felt a strange, unfamiliar thump in her chest. For years, she had talked and people had walked away. Her sisters laughed at her moralising. Darcy looked over her head.
But now, she had an audience. She had Georgiana (young and eager), Mrs Annesley (paid, therefore obligated), and Mr Bingley, who was staring at the map as if it contained the secrets of the universe, and at her as if she were the guardian who held the key.
"And these little numbers?" he urged, pointing a gloved finger. "Are those the arguments too?"
"Those are the depths, Mr Bingley." Her voice came out a little softer. "They show how much water is under the boat. It tells you if you are safe. If it is too shallow, you hit the bottom. If you stay in the deep water, you are safe, but you might never get to the beach."
"Deep is safe," Mr Bingley whispered, as if he had just discovered fire. "I told you! I need to be in the deep water, Miss Bennet! I shall read things! Big books! I shall face the pitchforks!"
Mary fumbled with her reticule, buying herself time to come up with a not-too-snarky answer. The man was a total catastrophe of a person. He was a walking exclamation mark.
"I would start with a small book, Mr Bingley," she advised dryly. "And I do not know what you mean by 'pitchforks,' but I suggest you avoid them until you have finished the first chapter."
The room was getting too hot. It smelled of too much lavender water and too many opinions. Mrs Annesley pointed at the door with her parasol, signalling a retreat.
"The exhibition is very educational." Mrs Annesley fanned herself with one gloved hand. "But I think we need some fresh air. The sun is very strong today, and Mr Bingley's enthusiasm is quite warming."
