The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of Netherfield Park, casting a warm glow across the polished floor. Mr. Bingley sat near the fireplace, a book open in his lap, though he had not turned a page in some time. His gaze was fixed on the maid arranging flowers by the far window.

He had noticed her presence more and more. The way she moved through the room, the efficiency of her work—it drew his attention in ways he hadn’t anticipated. Each passing day brought a growing awareness, a quiet pull he could not explain.

"Charles," Caroline Bingley interrupted, her voice sharp. “Are you listening?”

He blinked, startled. “Yes, of course. Only thinking.”

Later, in the hallway, he saw the maid again. She was carrying a small bundle of linens, her steps quiet against the wooden floor. As he approached, she dipped her head respectfully and made to pass him without a word, as she always did.

“Miss,” he said, his voice softer than he intended, halting her mid-step.

She paused, turning to face him with composed attention.

Bingley hesitated, his fingers twitching slightly at his side. “I realize this may be quite unusual,” he began, his tone careful. “But I have found myself looking forward to the brief moments when our paths cross. I... I would very much like to speak with you properly.”

She said nothing, only watching him with a stillness he could not quite read.

“If you would allow it,” he continued, “perhaps a short walk in the garden? There is no expectation, only my wish to know you beyond these passing glances.”