Page 207 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"Deep is safe," Mr Bingley whispered, as if he had just discovered fire. "I told you! I need to be in the deep water, Miss Bennet! I shall read things! Big books! I shall face the pitchforks!"

Mary fumbled with her reticule, buying herself time to come up with a not-too-snarky answer. The man was a total catastrophe of a person. He was a walking exclamation mark.

"I would start with a small book, Mr Bingley," she advised dryly. "And I do not know what you mean by 'pitchforks,' but I suggest you avoid them until you have finished the first chapter."

The room was getting too hot. It smelled of too much lavender water and too many opinions. Mrs Annesley pointed at the door with her parasol, signalling a retreat.

"The exhibition is very educational." Mrs Annesley fanned herself with one gloved hand. "But I think we need some fresh air. The sun is very strong today, and Mr Bingley's enthusiasm is quite warming."

"Ices!" Mr Bingley cried out. He was suddenly full of energy again. "Gunter's! I shall take you all for ices! They are in Berkeley Square. And the ices are just the thing... they are very cold! Really cold!"

"Ice is famous for being cold, Mr Bingley." Mary's voice was as sharp as a pin. "Well done for noticing."

Mr Bingley laughed. It was a big, honest laugh that made a man nearby jump. He looked at Mary like she was a prize he had just won.

"She is so funny!" Mr Bingley turned to Georgiana. "Miss Bennet is a wit! I had no idea! I thought she was just the quiet one. But she is sharp! Like a little knife!"

Mary felt her face get very hot. For years, her cleverness had been a secret. It was the armour she wore so she would not be the "plain sister." Having Charles Bingley actually celebrate it was the strangest thing that had ever happened to her.

"I am not a knife," she muttered as she followed him to the carriage. "I am a person with an education. Education is a shield, not a weapon."

"It can be both!" Bingley grinned. "A shield with a point! I shall get one of those. It sounds very deep."

As they drove across London, Mary sat in the corner and watched the streets roll by. Georgiana was murmuring politely about the merits of theboulangère. Mr Bingley was talking with unbridled zeal about the philosophical differences between peach and apricot.

"The apricot is reliable," he was arguing to a bewildered Mrs Annesley. "But the peach has a certain reckless charm. It is the cavalier of fruits."

Mary was the audience, as usual. But for once, she felt as if the person on the stage had glanced into the pit, seen her sitting in the dark, and waved.

She decided to test the theory.

"The portraits." Her voice cut through the babble of the carriage like a—well, like a knife.

Mr Bingley stopped talking about fruit. He looked at her, waiting.

"I found them remarkably insipid," Mary declared, staring straight ahead. "The gentleman in the red sash seemed as if he had been painted during a notably violent bout of gout. And the Countess in the blue silk possessed the intellectual expression of a turnip."

Everyone went quiet.

Georgiana was shocked, her hand flying to her mouth. Mrs Annesley studied the pivot of her fan with intense fascination.

Charles Bingley laughed.

He did not just chuckle. He roared. He laughed until he had to wipe his eyes with his silk handkerchief, shaking his head in delight.

"A turnip!" he gasped, leaning forward so that his knees almost brushed hers. "Miss Bennet, you are a marvel. I saw that woman! I thought her bored, but you are right! It was vegetable in nature! I shall never look at a Countess the same way again. I shall always check for the turnip."

Mary gazed out of the window so they would not see her face. It bore a very small, barely perceptible smile.

She had spent her whole life waiting to be noticed, standing on the shore while the ships sailed past. And now, quite by accident, she had finally found the only man in London who was lost enough to see the lighthouse.

Chapter Four: The Practice Room

The library at Darcy House had a specific gravitational pull. In there, decisions were made without hesitation. Charles Bingley stood in the doorway, clutching his hat as though it were a shield against the overwhelming competence of the room. He took a breath. He was a man of depth now. Men of Depth did not feel the urge to flee simply because a single shelf in Darcy's study contained more books than they had read in a lifetime.

He stepped across the threshold. His boots clicked against the parquetry, a hollow sound that seemed to announce his lack of substance to the busts of Roman emperors lining the mantelpiece. Marcus Aurelius looked quite judgmental.

Fitzwilliam Darcy sat behind a desk the size of a small barge. He was writing a letter, his quill moving with impressive, rhythmic speed.Scratch. Dip. Scratch.He did not look up immediately. That was the difference between them. Darcy was a planet, fixed in his orbit, unbothered by nebulous matter. Charles was that very matter, drifting wherever the wind of public opinion blew.