Page 14 of A November to Remember

Robert stared at her. Answering her meant meeting her eyes, and that would inevitably lead to him falling to his knees and offering her his title, his fortune, and his devotion, right there on Sir William Lucas’s rug.

He shifted his attention to her mother.

“Tell me, Mrs Bennet,” Robert drawled, his tone dripping with boredom, “does the three-legged horse prefer oats or barley? I must know how to provision my own stables should I decide to adopt the Hertfordshire fashion.”

Jane Bennet’s gentle smile faltered.

Charles Bingley gasped, staring at Robert, bewildered by the rudeness. Bingley had no defence against the Fitzwilliam brothers, but he had a protective instinct regarding angels.

“The musicians have arrived, and they are playing a country dance,” he announced loudly, stepping between Robert and Miss Bennet. He offered her his arm. “Miss Bennet, you promised me this set. We must not keep them waiting.”

“Of course, Mr Bingley.” Miss Bennet allowed him to lead her away, her posture upright, her grace undisturbed.

Robert remained rooted on the spot, the air in the room feeling impossibly thin.

As Bingley guided her to the crowded dance floor, Jane Bennet turned her head, glancing back over her shoulder. Her eyes found Robert’s across the distance.

The brief connection carried no anger, merely quiet, wounded puzzlement.

Robert averted his gaze instantly, fixing his attention on a particularly uninteresting candlestick decorating the mantelpiece. The heat rushed up his neck, burning his ears.

You are a blithering idiot, he told the candlestick.

Richard Fitzwilliam stood near the refreshment tables, a porcelain plate secured firmly in his left hand and a fork in his right. He was examining the available provisions, and the results were grim. The cold ham was acceptable, cut thick and reasonably tender, but it did not excuse the blatant failure regarding the offered bill of fare. Bingley had promised a roasted pork loin, and Richard had structured his night around the prospect of crackling and apple sauce. To arrive at Lucas Lodge and find only cold cuts was betrayal.

He chewed methodically, keeping his back to the wall. His relatives shared a disturbing propensity for dramatic emotional entanglements. Darcy brooded over an insult he had offered. Robert tumbled out of windows and engaged in verbal sparring matches with matrons. Richard, conversely, prioritised survival. Survival, tonight, meant claiming the buffet before the vicar devoured the remaining cheese.

His family viewed his appetite as a humorous eccentricity, a convenient jest for Robert to exploit at White’s. They did not understand. They had never frozen in a Spanish ditch waiting for dawn. The gnawing ache of starvation from the long marches through Portugal had never truly left his bones. He ate with dedication to silence the ghost of his imprisonment in an enemy camp long ago. He was aware of all that, but he could not stop himself. Additionally, it tasted good.

Across the cramped parlour, a dispute erupted at the pianoforte. The musicians had stopped for a brief interval, and the bespectacled girl—the middle Bennet sister, Mary, he recalled from earlier introductions—had taken the opportunity to sit at the pianoforte once more. She was engaged in an earnest musical performance, but the melody she produced had all the joyful buoyancy of a funeral dirge. Before she could complete the movement, a contingent of younger girls descended on her.

Miss Mary was displaced, but she did not panic, nor did she surrender to tears. She stood, gathered her sheet music with dignity, delivered a single audible sniff, and walked away from them.

She moved to his corner of the room and dropped into a chair three feet away from him. Crossing her arms over her chest, she fixed a sullen glare on the dance floor, where the musicians resumed their places and struck up a cheerful jig.

Richard observed her. She sat emanating disapproval, oblivious to the festive atmosphere. He swallowed his mouthful of ham, considering her predicament. She was isolated, demoralised by the recent dismissal, and clearly in need of a new direction.

He pointed his fork at her. “I have a passion for roasted pork loin.”

The girl blinked, startled by the unexpected address. She turned her head, pushing her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. “I beg your pardon?”

“Pork loin,” Richard repeated, using the fork to gesture at the buffet table. “I was assured on the highest authority that Sir William’s cook excelled at it. I arrived tonight anticipating a hot roast joint. Instead, I find myself confronted with cold ham. Do I enjoy ham? I do. It provides sustenance. But it is not pork loin. However, a sensible person must adjust to the circumstances. I strongly suggest you do the same.”

She examined the silver tines of his fork, then raised her attention to his face. “Are you comparing my musical performance to a missing piece of pork?”

“I am suggesting that when the situation demands a jig, playing a lament for the dead constitutes a tactical error,” Richard replied calmly. “You must adapt to the provisions available, Miss Mary.”

Mary let out a frustrated huff, her shoulders slumping. The rigid posture dissolved, leaving behind a weary young woman. “I understand the concept of adaptation, Colonel. But the reality is that no one ever wishes to hear my music. Not here, and certainly not at Longbourn. My sisters have no ear for serious composition. Even the hens in the yard scatter when I begin to practise my scales.”

Richard paused, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth. The image of chickens fleeing in terror from a pianoforte was tragic, yet he found it oddly endearing. The girl had no artifice. Miss Bingley would have feigned a headache; this girl admitted her own family refused to hear her playing.

A pang of sympathy struck him. He knew what it meant to be the unappreciated element in a loud, chaotic family. He knew the isolation of sitting on the periphery, guarding the supplies, while others commanded the centre, oblivious to the true cost of their comfort.

He lowered his fork and extended his porcelain plate towards her. “Would you care for a slice? It is not pork loin, but the mustard is surprisingly robust.”

Mary examined the plate. She did not recoil, nor did she flutter her eyelashes in the manner of the London debutantes who were constantly angling for a foothold in the Matlock family.

“I thank you, no,” she replied, her voice serious. “I should not wish to deprive you of your third-to-last slice of ham.”