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had spent nearly the whole of the day at Longbourn, in the company of Miss Elizabeth and her father. Richard, as was often the case, had accompanied him; yet by midmorning, he had slipped away without a word—a habit he had of late adopted with growing frequency. His manner throughout this visit had been somewhat peculiar, and resolved to speak to him on the subject that evening, once they were alone over their port.

As they neared the gates of Netherfield, the sound of hooves coming from the direction of Meryton drew their attention.

“Bingley,”

said , with evident relief.

“Thank Heaven.”

Richard, who had been observing the carriage, remarked.

“It would seem he has kept his word to Miss Bennet, for it is now five days since he departed for London.”

Then, as though the notion had only just struck him, he added.

“I wonder whether Miss Bingley is of the party.”

sighed, for the prospect of Miss Bingley’s presence could scarcely be expected to raise his spirits.

“Since Bingley knows I remained at Netherfield, and that you have arrived, he would doubtless have mentioned it to his sister. It seems most likely she forms one of the party.”

Richard’s countenance assumed a more resolute air. “Good,”

he said.

“, permit me to speak with Miss Bingley. If you still have the letter Miss Bennet entrusted to your care, I pray you, let me have it. We shall first confer with Bingley, and afterward, address his sister.”

turned toward his cousin.

“Richard, what precisely do you mean to do?”

“, as Georgiana’s guardian, I hold the authority to act should anyone endanger her reputation. Moreover, I am the son of the Earl, and my parents enjoy considerable influence within the ton. You and I both know the surest way to curb Miss Bingley’s ambitions is to threaten that which she values most—her aspiration to rise in society. Leave her to me. I assure you, Bingley will be grateful.”

considered his cousin’s words and, after a long pause, gave a reluctant nod. Richard had ever excelled in such matters—his methods, though not always orthodox, rarely failed. Whether in military or domestic concerns, he did not scruple to employ tact and precision where needed.

The carriage came to a halt, and Bingley alighted, his step brisk and his countenance as cheerful as ever.

“! Richard! Well met,”

he called.

Before another word could be spoken, Miss Bingley’s fair head appeared at the carriage window, surveying the scene with studied elegance. Richard stepped forward at once to assist her.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam, it is a pleasure to see you,”

she said, in her most flattering tone.

“And you, madam,”

Richard replied with easy politeness.

Miss Bingley had just turned her attentions toward when a second gloved hand appeared at the carriage door. Richard moved again to assist, but halted abruptly.

“Mother,”

he exclaimed, astonished.

glanced up to see his aunt, the Countess of Matlock, standing in the carriage doorway.

“Richard,”

she said sharply.

“do not stand there gaping like a simpleton. Help me down at once.”

At this, a soft giggle came from within the carriage. A moment later, Georgiana’s fair head appeared beside her aunt’s. Richard assisted both ladies, then leaned forward to peer within, as though fearing another relative might spring forth.

“No, . Aunt Catherine is not inside,”

he murmured, casting his eyes heavenward in exaggerated relief.

Georgiana giggled again as she stepped into ’s embrace. Miss Bingley slowly led the party inside, while Lady Matlock approached and murmured “Later”

before sweeping past.

lingered behind as the party entered the front parlour. Richard remained at his side, hands tucked into his coat, as though bracing himself against a storm.

“There ends my peaceful retreat,”

said he, with a tone half resigned, half amused.

“I shall commiserate with you, Richard,”

replied .

“But now that your mother has arrived in full regimental splendour, ought we to delay our interview with Bingley? That letter in her hands may well prove the undoing of Miss Bingley.”

“On the contrary,”

Richard said.

“She must see the letter before Bingley does. I never meant to shatter Miss Bingley’s hopes, only to suggest as much—enough to keep her wary.”

gave him a sidelong look.

“A bluff, then.”

“A warning,”

said Richard.

“There is a difference. My mother may be formidable, but not unkind. If anyone can administer a proper fright without drawing blood, it is she. Her presence lends weight to our threat, sparing us the need to execute it.”

Thus, some time before dinner, found himself ensconced in Bingley’s study with Richard, having requested their host’s absence for private family business. Lady Matlock swept in at the appointed hour.

Without ceremony, Richard placed the offending letter in her hands. The Countess received it with the air of a woman well prepared for folly and suspecting no small degree of mischief. Her brows rose at once, climbing ever higher with each successive line as her gaze travelled down the page.

“This,”

she declared.

“is clearly the handiwork of Miss Bingley. I presume Miss Bennet is the young lady Mr. Bingley praised with such fervour throughout the journey?”

Richard laughed heartily.

“Oh, Mother! That would have made for a most uncomfortable journey.”

Lady Matlock shook her head, amused.

“You cannot imagine the half of it. Your friend is thoroughly besotted. Miss Bingley made a most determined, if transparent, effort at civility. The strain was plain; it was evident she would sooner expire than countenance such a connection.”

“Indeed, Mother,”

replied Richard with a more sober air.

“we intend to speak with Bingley regarding this letter—and with his sister also. Such conduct cannot be allowed to pass unchallenged.”

“Quite so,”

the Countess agreed.

“Include me in your discussion with Mr. Bingley. I shall insist upon it. When do you propose to speak to him?”

Richard glanced about.

“Where is Georgiana?”

“She is resting. Her maid will rouse her in time for dinner,”

returned the Countess.

“Then I can think of no better moment,”

said Richard as he rose to summon Bingley. But he had scarcely reached the edge of the carpet before his mother raised one imperious hand.

“A moment, Richard. Before you send for your friend, there is another matter that must be addressed.”

She turned to .

“William, speak to me of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. I gather she is the sister of the young lady to whom Mr. Bingley is so attached?”

regarded his aunt with mild astonishment.

“How do you know of Miss Elizabeth?”

he asked, striving to appear unconcerned, though a wary note had crept into his voice.

“Georgiana told me,”

she replied, with a knowing air of maternal pride.

“When one’s so reserved a brother mentions a particular young lady in his letters, even gentle Georgiana could not help but take note. She confided in me, and I at once set about arranging my journey hither.”

“And how came you to travel with Bingley’s party?”

asked Richard.

“I had intended to journey with Georgiana,”

Lady Matlock returned, with an air of mild indifference.

“But that very evening, I endured an insufferably tedious dinner at Lady Arabella’s townhouse, where I happened upon Mr. Hurst. In a moment of rare coherence, he let slip that Mr. Bingley had but lately arrived in town and would soon depart for Hertfordshire. That, I thought, was news worth acting upon. I sent a man to his townhouse and arranged to join the party myself. But I stray from the point—William, what is afoot between you and Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”

sighed. Lady Matlock, after all, was Richard’s mother—sharp as a blade and no less relentless.

“I am calling upon her,”

he said slowly.

“with her father’s permission. I had intended to bring Georgiana here, that she might meet Miss Elizabeth properly. But there is more. Wickham is here.”

Lady Matlock stilled, her expression sharpening.

“Wickham? Here? Surely not! What can that odious creature be doing in this part of the world?”

cast a glance at Richard, who offered the barest nod. Thus encouraged, he recounted his experiences from the moment of his arrival in Meryton—concealing nothing, for he thought it best that his aunt should hear the matter from his own lips.

When he finished, his aunt regarded him with astonished eyes.

“You are truly in love, are you not?”

she said, with a tenderness seldom heard in her voice.

“William, I have never before seen that look in your eyes. You have ever been so reserved, so grave. You cannot know how it gladdens my heart to see such warmth in you.”

“Indeed, Aunt,”

replied quietly.

“I am in love with her—most sincerely. And yet… she does not love me. Until quite recently, she regarded me with disdain. I have much to overcome, if I am to hope for even a small measure of her regard.”

Lady Matlock gave him a look of such ardent affection that it struck him to the heart.

“Then you must pursue her, my dear, and do so well,”

she declared.

“Charm her, win her. And whatever you do—do not brood. It is not as alluring as you think, whatever the poets may say.”

At this, Richard gave an unceremonious snort, earning a sharp glance from his mother.

“Well, I like her already,”

she continued with a grin.

“Young ladies deserve to be courted, not collected like ornaments. I made quite sure your uncle courted me for no less than sixteen months.”

raised an eyebrow.

“I recall a somewhat different version of events, Aunt, from your letter.”

“Ah, my dear William,”

she replied with a slight smile.

“Perspective is a curious thing, for there may be many. And speaking of perspectives,”

she added, her eyes gleaming.

“I should like to offer one concerning Miss Bingley. If all proceeds as we hope, Mr. Bingley shall one day be your brother. And in that case, Miss Bingley will likewise become part of the family. What that poor girl needs, and has likely never known, is kindness. I do not think she received much of it from her parents—least of all from her mother, if rumours are to be believed.”

Richard turned to with the measured look of a man savouring a silent confirmation of his prediction.

“And,”

continued the Countess.

“a further reflection for you, William. You ought to relate this story again—but this time, to Georgiana.”

looked up in surprise.

“She must know,”

his aunt said with firmness.

“It will do her good to learn that her brother is no statue nor oracle, but a man—liable to error, and capable of misjudgement. She must not let one youthful folly define her life, nor be treated as if her nerves were so fragile as to be broken by a breath. Confide in her the truth, and you may find her stronger than you expect.”

After a moment’s thought, he bowed his head.

“I shall tell her, Aunt.”

There was a brief silence, broken by Richard.

“Very well, then,”

said he, brushing an invisible speck from his sleeve.

“Shall we call for Bingley?”

“Yes, Richard,”

replied the Countess with a decisive nod.

“Let us be done with this.”

With a nod, Richard moved to the door and spoke to the waiting footman, who withdrew at once. A few moments later, the door opened to reveal Bingley, who took one look at the assembled faces and halted.

"What," he asked, after a pause, "have I walked into?"

Longbourn

Mary

Mary closed the door behind her, the latch falling gently into place. Yet her thoughts would not be stilled. For all her reserved disposition and modest hopes, she could not wholly reconcile herself to the astonishing truth: a gentleman—a Colonel in His Majesty’s army and the son of an Earl—had shown a marked interest in her society. Not by chance or idle whim, but by deliberate design.

For three successive days he had waited—yes, waited—by that quiet glade near the pond, the one place where she felt most herself. That such a man should seek her company, and speak with her—steadfastly, and with the utmost civility—seemed almost beyond belief.

And yet he had been clear from the first: it was friendship alone he sought—nothing more. It was, she supposed, a kindness that he had spoken so plainly; for it prevented any misunderstanding, though in her case, such precaution had been needless. He was no clergyman, after all.

Still, she could not claim to be wholly unmoved. A quiet, insistent sensation stirred whenever he came to mind. What, indeed, could these sensations mean?

And then came the question that refused to lose its hold: why? Why should a man like him—a Colonel, a gentleman of established standing and experience—seek any manner of acquaintance with her? It was a mystery she could not fathom.

She was certain he had seen her that day, in the shaded quiet of the grove—without her spectacles, her hair unbound, her usual appearance softened by solitude. Yet such outward trifles could not disguise the truth: she was still Mary—plain, unnoticed, and without consequence.

Surely he had known women—handsome, accomplished, graceful in manner, and pleasing in conversation. Why, then, should he take notice of her?

She was aware that Mr. was calling upon Lizzy, which might, in time, render her but a distant relation of the Colonel. Yet even so, it would be a remote tie at best. It was not one to require any particular familiarity. They might meet once or twice a year at most—scarcely often enough to form a friendship.

No, she reasoned, it was as the Colonel himself had said. He was simply curious. That day by the pond, he had seen a side of her seldom shown to the world. He sought to make sense of the contrast. To him, she was an oddity—a mere subject for curiosity. And when that novelty wore away, he would no doubt return his attentions to ladies such as Lydia—youthful, headstrong, impetuous, and undeniably diverting.

Indeed, since his arrival at Longbourn, he had walked nearly every day with both Lydia and Kitty. It was possible he had grown weary of their ceaseless prattle and now sought, for a time, to escape it. Mary could not, in fairness, blame him; her younger sisters were a trial to any sensible person. Perhaps he looked to her for a respite from their folly.

The thought, however, brought its own burden: she must contrive to distinguish herself, particularly in conversation. Yet to her dismay, she knew not what to say. Surely he could find no pleasure in discourse on sermons.

It struck her then, with considerable alarm, that she had no notion how to converse with gentlemen.

Her troubled thoughts were checked by a gentle knock at the door. Rising and composing herself as well as she could, she opened it to find Lizzy and Jane in the passage. Without waiting for an invitation, they entered, Lizzy quietly securing the door behind them.

“Mary, what has come over you?”

Lizzy asked without preamble.

“I beg your pardon?”

Mary returned, puzzled.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You know well enough,”

said Lizzy, her tone brisk yet kind.

“Why do you withdraw as soon as the gentlemen are announced? You used to remain in the parlour when the officers or the Netherfield party visited—silent, perhaps, but present. Now, the instant Mr. or the Colonel enters, you hasten away. Why?”

Mary did not know what astonished her more—that her behaviour had been so clearly noticed, or that her sisters cared enough to confront her.

“Mary, do tell us, dear,”

said Jane gently, her voice warm and tender as ever.

To Mary’s mortification, tears gathered unbidden in her eyes.

Netherfield