“What do you think?”
Bingley had taken Jane about the house, favouring rooms she had not seen during her stay and being careful to avoid anywhere they might be heard from Caroline's rooms, of course. Oddly, they had not come across Lizzy or Mr. Darcy, but perhaps they, too, had been going from room to room, and they had all missed one another.
Now Jane stood in the middle of the back parlour, which she had just entered for the first time in more than a decade. During old Mrs. Thorne's residency, the room had been much plainer and, to Jane's mind, much more comfortable. Bingley had explained as they entered the room that the owner had given him leave to do whatever he liked with this parlour, for the wallpaper had been sadly worn. He had not needed to inform her that he had in turn given Caroline leave to do what she would, for her taste for splendour was everywhere in evidence.
Jane looked about her once more before answering Bingley's question. Her gaze flitted from one unappealing piece of furniture to another and lingered on the wallpaper for several seconds. “Rather ostentatious,” she said at length.
Bingley's eyebrows went up.
“Have I surprised you?” Jane asked him.
“I do not know that I have ever before heard you speak...well, slightingly”—at this word there was as much reluctance in his looks as in his speech—“about any thing.”
“I always speak what I think.” At least Jane believed so. Those eyebrows, however, made her wonder. She recollected a few recent conversations and frowned, considering what had been said and what had not. She was convinced she was open when confiding in one she loved, but she could not say the same when conversing in larger company. She did not lie on those occasions, but neither was she frank. That seemed natural, but was this the whole of it? Did she instead appear sometimes to be dissembling?
Would she, more to the point, have been frank had Caroline been the one to ask her about the furnishings?
No. She would have chosen words that could not give offence, and she could not say she would have made her meaning clear to the listener.
“Perhaps I do not,” she admitted in a small, uneven voice, “and you are right to be surprised. I wish I knew myself better.”
“I do not mind surprises,” said Bingley. His voice was as soft as hers had been but quite steady. “And I also wish I knew you better.”
She turned to him and looked into his eyes for a long moment. What she saw seemed at once familiar and new. From the beginning of their acquaintance, there had been that in his regard which she had found pleasing. That regard now had the added allure of possibility: not feather-light flights of fancy, but sober, careful consideration of what might be. Sober—what a word to associate with the ebullient Charles Bingley!
They were not smiling at each other, but Jane felt a lightness of heart all the same.
Bingley looked away, and Jane watched him in fascination, for he was far more interesting to observe than any thing else in the room. His gaze moved from one item to another. At last he gestured towards the wallpaper and said, “It is not quite...quite, eh?” He laughed a little. “I have seen worse in London drawing-rooms, to be sure, and in the homes of gentlemen wealthier than I. Caroline said she would manage the business, which suited me. I believe I looked in once after she had sent the workmen away, and at the time I congratulated her on the completion of her project. I do not know that I have stepped foot in this room from that day to this, and I certainly never gave a thought to my opinion of the alterations.” He looked again at some of the furniture. “That chair is not so bad, and I rather like the carpet, at least at second glance.” He turned back to her with a slight grimace. “But altogether it is a bit much.”
In the next moment he was smiling again and looking a little sly. “Let us start on those letters,” he said, “before something in this room puts you out of countenance and you change your mind.”
Jane laughed as she took his arm.
She had known men who would have used the opportunities this day afforded to take liberties with her. Bingley looked as if he wished to take liberties. His eyes communicated words he had not yet ventured to speak. He behaved, however, at all times as a gentleman, and she felt quite comfortable with him.
She could never wish Bingley to be ungentlemanly. But would she like it if he were to address her familiarly? Pull her close? Try to steal a kiss?
The way she was feeling at this moment, Jane feared he would not have to steal it. She might give it all too willingly.
Once in the study, they quickly got to work. Bingley dictated and paced, and Jane sat and wrote, until a neat stack of replies filled the space where the most urgent post had been. At length they began a reply to one of Bingley's relations. After some entertaining silliness on his part in which he sought to recommend 'the lovely Miss Bennet' with many flowery speeches to said relation rather than addressing the matter at hand, Jane took up her half-begun missive to throw on the fire and told Bingley that he must pen the reply himself.
As she moved aside for him, one thought warmed her. Of all the things she had begun to learn on this marvellous day, the most important might be that she loved this man, and he just might love her in return.
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