Because Jane and Bingley don't get enough attention, because I feel a bit mawkish, and because I am procrastinating heavily regarding college applications.

It's rather short and plot-less, but I hope you like it anyway. And I hope it isn't too mawkish.

Bonne lecture.

He could never quite pinpoint the reason.

He has been in love before, as his friend Darcy has said numerous times, always with the same long-suffering look. He has been in love before, and has—he is ashamed to admit it—acted on that love as well, with women who deserve it less than she does. He has been in love before, and has expounded those women's qualities from sunup until sundown.

But if that was love, then what he feels for her must be something else entirely, something ineffable, something so beyond words that to try to verbalise it would be to sully it. He waxes lyrical when he is with anyone who knows her; but with her, when he is speaking directly to her, he finds that words fail him. Nothing he says could possibly convey what he feels for her, what he thinks of her, what she means to him.

He cannot recall precisely the moment he knew he loved her. He remembers the ball, remembers the first sight of her, remembers dancing with her more than anyone else—but at the time she was simply the prettiest face out of many, a golden head and a pair of vivid blue eyes that were not so very extraordinary. There was no coup de foudre, no sudden understanding, no dramatic turn of feeling as happened with his friend and her sister. Just a quiet regard that grew brighter as the season grew darker.

She is not just a golden head and a pair of vivid blue eyes. She is a shy smile and a deep blush, a soft voice and a gentle disposition. She is a kind daughter and a wise sister, a loving wife and a wonderful mother. He talks to her for hours, sometimes, about nothing at all, and he knows he is rambling, but she never seems to care. She responds, and laughs at his terrible jokes, and kisses him so sweetly his heart feels too big for his chest.

Even now, even after a decade of marriage, he does not know the exact reason. He suspects their children do not know either, though they must feel it, too. Why else would their son cling to her skirts every morning when she comes into the breakfast room? Why else would their daughter practice her instrument daily, in hopes of playing well enough to please her mother? Why else would he, a fully grown man, secretly pocket her favourite fairy cakes at balls, just to see her face light up when he pulls them out later?

For the blush that suffuses her cheeks when he kisses her. For the tender look on her face when she combs their children's hair. For the patience she has with his sisters, when they drop in unexpectedly. For the genuine affection she has for her own sister who, thanks to close age, could have been a rival. For still being lovely, hopeful, good-natured Jane, even after ten years, two children, and a few broken household objects.

(As to the last of those, it seems that he is very clumsy around her. But every time he breaks something, she only smiles and tells him that she now has a definite idea of what to give him for a birthday present.)

Perhaps that is it, he decides. Perhaps he loves her because, with everyone else, he is thirty-something Charles Bingley, worth four or five thousand a year and owner of a rather grand estate in Derbyshire; yet with Jane, he is Charles, just Charles, worth four or five secret kisses when the children are not watching and owner of her heart.

That is all he wants, really. Love and family and a home.

(And strawberry scones. But that's quite another topic altogether.)