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“You are quite different—special.”
She nodded again. How many other women had heard those words?
“Drat!” He launched himself from his chair and paced the open floor before her seat. “I am making a mull of this.”
Not understanding the source of his agitation, Jane was unsure what to say.
“Caroline and Louisa—even Darcy—fault me for always succumbing to the impulse of the moment,” he said, running both hands through his hair. “Which I suppose I do sometimes. I never know what to write in a letter; they are always full of cross outs because I am forever changing my mind. And there have been times when I fancied myself in love.”
He was deliberately looking away from Jane, down the long transom, but she forced herself to nod her understanding. Was he intimating that his feelings for her were the result of infatuation? Jane’s hands tightened in her lap. I pray to God I do not begin to weep here in the cathedral.
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Mr. Bingley continued, “When my sisters and Darcy approached me…it was the work of a moment to be convinced of an infatuation in Hertfordshire. They reminded me of those other women when it came to naught. When I was apart from them, such women occupied my thoughts but little.”
Jane nodded numbly. Do not cry. Do not cry.
“I believed my departure from Hertfordshire would yield the same result….” Jane braced herself for tears. “But it did not.”
It took Jane a moment to realize the blow from the sword had not fallen when expected. She lifted her head to meet Mr. Bingley’s eyes, twin blue flames intently fixed on her face. “It did not?” she whispered.
“No.” He held her gaze. “After departing from Hertfordshire, I brooded my way through Christmas and Twelfth Night. Every day I wondered what you were doing and how you fared. Every day I considered creating a pretext for returning to Netherfield. But whenever I suggested it, Caroline assured me that you had already forgotten me.” An odd catch in his voice tugged at Jane’s heartstrings.
“I never forgot you,” she said in a low voice, angry at Miss Bingley once again. “Not for one minute.”
“I believe that now.” He dropped again into the chair beside her and took both her hands in his. “I would ask you a question, but it is too soon I think. Both your family and mine would think me precipitous and might object.”
A thrill shot down her spine. He meant to propose! Still, she commended his caution. This was only their third encounter since he had left Hertfordshire; they should not be too hasty. There was no need to rush. Deep inside, Jane felt a sense of perfect certainty. When she was in Mr. Bingley’s presence, something inside her rang true—like a pure note from a bell—telling her, “this is right.”
The naked emotion in Mr. Bingley’s eyes suggested it rang true for him as well. He leaned closer, and Jane was very aware of the proximity of his lips, pale pink and perfectly formed.
For a moment, she was certain he would kiss her, but at the last moment he turned his head away and thrust himself to his feet. “I must have activity!” His voice exploded from him forcefully. “Or I might do something inappropriate right here—under the dome of St. Paul’s—and the priests would not be appreciative.”
Jane was tempted to laugh at the declaration, but she could not. If he tried to kiss her, she would not have the willpower to refuse him.
“Would you like to climb up there?” He pointed upward where a railing suggested the existence of a balcony circling the dome. “A few hundred steps to climb would provide sufficient activity for me, I believe. It is called the Whispering Gallery.”
Jane squinted in the light. “Why does it have that name?”
“Come.” His warm hand engulfed hers. “I will show you.”
***
Jane marveled at the view. Only minutes before she had been standing in the nave surveying the magnificent dome. Now she was leaning against the railing of the gallery that ringed the dome and peering down at the floor of the church. “Somehow the distance seems greater from this vantage point.”
“Yes,” Mr. Bingley agreed.
The gallery itself was wider than she had supposed: a round balcony, complete with a stone bench attached to the wall. They were currently the only occupants, and the illusion of privacy provoked a sense of giddiness and recklessness in Jane.
Craning her neck, she stared upward; the rest of the dome appeared just as impossibly high as it had from the nave. “The stairs lead to the top of the dome?” she asked.
“Yes, the view is magnificent. Especially on a clear day like today.” Mr. Bingley’s tone was a bit wistful. “I am afraid there are a great many steps.”
Why had he mentioned that—? Oh. “Is your knee giving you pain?” He had injured his knee in a fall from a horse; in Meryton he had mentioned that it occasionally gave him trouble.
“What? No, not at all. I assumed you would not wish to make the trek.”
“But this is thrilling!” Jane spread her arms wide, encompassing the entire gallery. “Why would I not want to go higher? I envy the birds; how marvelous it must be to see the world from such heights.”
