Page 56 of A November to Remember

“I will eat the bottom tier myself,” Richard promised solemnly. “For the good of the realm.”

Chapter Thirteen: Only Fools and Horses

November 7th, 1811

Charles Bingley sat at the desk in his study, staring blankly at the estate ledger open before him. The columns of numbers were useless. They did not form the shape of Jane Bennet’s smile, nor did they calculate the exact probability of her returning his affections. He had been staring at the same page for twenty minutes, achieving nothing but a sense of despair and a rather impressive inkblot.

They were just numbers, and Charles hated them.

He dropped his head onto the open ledger with a dull thud.

“Are you attempting to absorb the accounts through your forehead, Charles? You give a very literal meaning to the phrase ‘put your head down to work’.”

Caroline breezed into the study, a vision in rust-coloured silk, carrying a stack of fashion plates. She deposited them onto the corner of his desk and reached past him to retrieve a sheet of his best paper from the stationery box. “Louisa is weeping over a pickled onion again, and Mr Hurst has been asleep since he woke up. No surprises there. Now. I need you to look at these bonnets and tell me which one screams ‘I belong in London and not in this damp provincial nightmare.’”

Charles did not lift his head from the ledger. “Not today, Caro. Please. Just take the paper and leave me to my misery.”

Caroline stopped sorting the fashion plates. She looked down at him, the haughty lines of her face slipping into an expression of sisterly affection.

“Good heavens, Charles,” she sighed, pulling out the chair opposite him. “Are your brains in the sky? You look like an old man who has lost his favourite slipper. What is the matter with you?”

“The matter,” Charles groaned, sitting up and running a hand through his golden hair, “is that I want to ask her to marry me.”

Caroline smoothed the silk over her knees. “Well, yes. The entire county is aware of that. The local vicar is likely drafting a sermon on your lack of subtlety.”

“But I cannot speak to her!” Charles cried, throwing his hands in the air. “Every single time I set foot in that upstairs drawing-room, it is a parade of chaperones! Mrs Nicholls sits in the corner glaring at me! If Miss Elizabeth is not there watching my every move, the colonel wanders in looking for cake! I want five minutes alone with her, Caro! I want to ask her to marry me!”

“Then ask her,” Caroline said, her voice dripping with sympathy. “Though I confess, Charles, I wonder what exactly you expect her to say.”

Charles frowned, his hands dropping to the desk. “I expect her to say yes.”

“Of course you do.” Caroline tilted her head, her voice softening. “Charles, you have a good heart. You are generous, wealthy, and you offer a very fine establishment. Any young lady from a... modest background would naturally say yes. It is her duty to her family.”

“She does not care about the establishment!” Charles argued, though his voice lacked confidence.

“Does she not?” Caroline picked up a fashion plate, inspecting the trim with apparent idleness. “Miss Bennet is an angel. We all agree. She smiles at everyone. She smiled at the apothecary yesterday, Charles. The man smells of peppermint and wet wool, he makes her drink beef broth she hates, and she beamed at him as if he had just handed her the crown jewels.”

Caroline looked her brother directly in the eyes. “She is perfectly sweet, I give you that. But ask yourself: how do you know you are special? How do you know she actually wants you, Charles, and is not just too polite—or too desperate—to ask you to leave her be?”

Charles stared at his sister, the colour draining from his face.

“She smiles at the viscount, too broadly if you ask me,” Caroline continued. “She smiled at Mr Darcy when he inquired after her health. She smiled at the footman who brought her tea. It is a beautiful smile, Charles, but it is a universal one. Have you ever seen her display any specific, distinguishing mark of affection for you? Has she ever sought you out? Has she ever spoken a single word that indicated her heart is engaged, rather than merely her manners?”

Charles opened his mouth, closed it, and focused on his inkblot, the silence in the study deafening. He searched his memory for a moment of fiery preference, a stolen glance, a whispered confession. He found nothing but serene, gentle smiles.

“I thought...” he began, his voice barely a whisper. “I thought she was shy.”

Caroline reached across the desk and patted his hand. “You are a romantic, dearest. But a marriage built on a gentleman’s enthusiasm and a lady’s placid compliance is a very cold house to live in. You deserve a woman who loves you fiercely, Charles. Not a woman who accepts you politely.”

Charles pulled his hand away, rubbing his face with both palms, feeling hollowed out.

Caroline stood, gathering her fashion plates.

“I am going upstairs to check on Louisa,” she said, her voice brisk and cheerful. “Do not brood too long, Charles. The post will leave for London at three, and I must write to our jeweller. We shall be back in town before the month is out, I am sure of it.”

She swept out of the study, leaving Charles alone with his ledger, his inkblot, and the crushing certainty that Jane Bennet felt nothing for him at all.

Darcy stared at his reflection in the mirror, an untied strip of white linen hanging uselessly around his neck. Dawson had been missing for ten minutes. His valet vanishing in the middle of the morning toilette signified a severe natural disaster or a severe shortage of starch.