"The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid."

Jane Austen

Charlie stared down wide eyed and uncertain at the unpacked boxes at his feet. The room was dark and rather cold for a French chateau. Albeit a run down, drafty one. Even though he had flung the windows open wide when he arrived the midday sun had yet to light the house and the damp smell of moth balls still permeated the air. With a huff he bent to open the boxes, his not-so-lithe limbs aching as he did so, when he stopped and stayed stooped uncomfortably. Charlie thought back to the events of the past few weeks and he was thankful for the little run down chateau that had all too often become his unexpected haven. He had bought it on a whim, when he was younger and slightly more successful writer, to escape to when city life and writing bogged him down. However, it had soon become his haven (or retreat) away from those mind-shatteringly bad breakups. Yes, he had broken up with Katya and in some ways he saw it as for the best. Although she wasn't particularly happy about having to move out, it had been for the best. Of course, there had been some screaming and sniffles. Charlie had also lost a few pieces of his Grandma's crockery in the process.

It wasn't as if it had been a heart-wrenching breakup or that he even missed Katya. In all honesty he could never really miss someone so shallow and self-obsessed. What did irk Charlie was how cataclysmically bad he was at relationships. No, at maintaining relationships. It seemed that whoever Charlie dated and however he acted something always went wrong. Charlie had had three "serious" relationships in his life (apart from Katya) and all of them had gone pretty sour as the months went by. First, there was Lucy. They had dated from first year at University and had even decided to move in together. It had seemed alright, Charlie supposed. If not great. That however was apparently only in Charlie's mind. After Charlie had failed on countless attempts at convincing anyone to buy and publish his first novel, Lucy had decided that Charlie had failed at making her happy too. It seemed his failure had begun to taint her as well. In Lucy's words, Charlie had become a loser of the first degree and after all who would want to be hitched to a failure? She called off their relationship fairly soon after that and had conveniently started dating one of the publishers that had declined his novel, Robert Ferrars.

The second relationship went far more smoothly than it had with Lucy – and it was over fairly quickly too. They had met at a vegan supermarket when Charlie had gone through his eco-phase. He could remember her clearly; curly brown mousey hair, freckled skin, dimples, khaki clothing and nervous blue eyes. They had bonded over the spice counter and after a couple of vegan-shakes down at the nearest vegan friendly café they had begun to date. It got pretty serious from the beginning. Meeting the parents was only the start. Soon they were taking vacations to far off countries in need of aid-relief after natural disasters, providing what they could for them and trying to rebuild communities. In that relationship Charlie felt like he'd given Maria everything she wanted, or at least tried to. He had given up his writing, even though he managed to scribble something down here and there on scraps, but he was not fully devoted anymore. Nor it seemed was Martha. Soon after their arrival back in the UK, Maria felt like she wanted to do more than build a few shelters. She left two weeks later. After that, it was all Charlie could do to put his full heart into writing. He scrapped the old manuscript and began again. This time it was a success and soon his success paid for itself.

That's when he met Elizabeth Elliot. They had meet at Charlie's book launch. White tie and everything. Charlie that night had been especially uncomfortable in his tux and his collar, if he remembered correctly, had chafed around the neck. Liz was striking, blonde hair piled on top of her head with high cheekbones and pouted lips. Liz was several years older than Charlie, which had never really bothered him. It was however detrimental to their relationship. Liz wanted the young successful guy, the one who she could show off to her father and her friends. What she got in Charlie however was a bumbling, socially awkward poor writer who was far more comfortable behind his old typewriter than he was mingling at a charity event. Sooner or later, Liz found that out too.

It seemed that whatever Charlie did, he was always seen as inferior by the women he had loved. And for the last relationship, well…that didn't really need much explaining. All relationships were different, but all had one common thread. He had come here, his dingy chateau, for solace.

"Alone again, naturally." Charlie said as he surveyed the dusty room around him. He stood again and placed his hands on his hips, not really sure on where to begin with this dusty place. Judging by the layers of dust coated along the surfaces, this place hadn't see air or light in a very long time. Charlie couldn't blame anyone but himself. He had never been one to clean. Like his life, his living environment was a disorganized jumble.

He vaguely wondered when Eleanore would kindly bring one of the elderly locals to act as his housekeeper and unconfirmed mother. It had been the same every year since he had bought the run down chateau in the south of France. Eleanore, the village matriarch, had taken it upon herself to sort the young, heartbroken English boy with ginger floppy hair and holey jumpers. Mostly by trying to marry him off to any of the local girls in the nearby village. Soon those summers grew, Charlie never settled, and soon Charlie wasn't the young floppy New York Times bestselling author anymore. Instead, he was the slightly frumpy, mid-thirty year old man who still wore holey jumpers and who had recently begun develop a widows peak. Over the years it was obvious that poor French matriarch's hopes for him had dwindled. Soon, instead of the rosy cheeked greeting of ten years ago, it had become a dreary sigh and a pat on the back. If Eleanore, the most cheery women in all of France had found fault in Charlie's love life, how could Charlie ever find hope in it again?

Just then, the front door swung open abruptly. Nearly scaring Charlie out of his skin. At first he thought it was the wind, but when the soft smell of bread and cheese with a hint of rose scented perfume hit his nose he knew Eleanore would not be far behind. As soon as that, the large woman with greying temples and smiling wrinkles around her eyes barged into the room.

"Monsieur Bingley?!" Eleanore shouted into the dim hallway as she pushed the door wide letting it hit the wall with a heavy thump. Charlie must have a hint of Bloodhound in his family, as like his nose had detected, Eleanore had brought freshly baked bread and lovely cheese with her as a welcoming present.

"Monsieur Bingley!?" she shouted again. She pronounced Bingley like "Bing-lee" with a happy emphasis on the "lee." Eleanore had been an opera singer in her youthful days and quite often you could hear it plainly in the tones of her voice. Everything she said almost rang out like a melody. The French accent only emphasized that aspect.

"Bonjour, Eleanore!" Charlie said with a smile on his face. He moved to greet her, took the items from her cubby hands and placed several kisses on either of her cheeks.

As Charlie walked into the kitchen to store the cheese and bread in the pantry, Eleanore followed. Her footsteps where surprisingly light for a woman of her size. "Monsieur Bingley…" she said as her head bobbed around inquisitively from room to room. "Do you not bring a lady guest this year?" She had asked it very innocently but it was obvious what she was angling at.

Charlie came out of the kitchen not before popping the kettle on and proceeded to roll up his sleeves to move some boxes out of Eleanore's way.

Charlie smiled, and moved a deceptively heavy box. His voice was strained slightly as he replied, "No, afraid not. Change of situation and all that." He placed the box down in the corner with stiff arms and legs, "Just me."

"Oh" Eleanore said as she made herself comfy in a high backed armchair, "Am I sad?"

Charlie chuckled slightly, "Not surprised would be more like it."

"Are you staying for long?" Eleanore asked with no real interest.

Charlie went to pick up another box. Lift with your knees this time, he told himself. That other box had almost done his back in. "I suspect it's going to be a long one this time," he grunted as he lfited the box which he suspected had the last remains of his grandmother's chinaware inside. No way was he leaving that in the flat after Katya had her way with it.

Without any warning or sign that it was going to happen, Eleanore suddenly shot out of her chair and rushed across the room and out the door again like she had forgot something extremely important. The move brought Charlie's knees and the box he was carrying down to the ground. With a thud the box crashed to the floor making a horrible shattering noise. "Damn," he muttered as he bent to check the contents of the box. Eleanore by that point was back in the room, flapping around with a red face and bedraggled breath. The box of china however could not be salvaged even if he tried. Well there goes the family heirlooms, Charlie thought with a beat-up sigh.

"Ah, here," Eleanore said as she tried to level her breathing, "I find you a perfect cleaner for the house!" Charlie's lip quirked as he stood from the shattered china box, wondering what Eleanore had brought to him this time. Even though he was ever grateful for the help, having the widows dozen from the village come to inspect him and feed him, and more likely gossip about him, was sometimes a strain.

"This is Jane." Eleanore said almost in a shout which Charlie thought rather strange.

The women that walked towards him now was no old nattering French biddy. No, instead she was the pinnacle of youth and loveliness. She stood with her hands tucked neatly inside of her checkered green baggy blazer which came down to her knees, her eyes were pointed down slightly as if she were too shy to look up. Her hair was hard to see as it was pulled back from her face, but from the loose dangling tendrils that had escaped from her bobble Charlie could see it was the perfect shade of honey.

Charlie dusted off his hands on his jumper and went forward to greet her, "Bonjour, Jane."

She simply nodded and looked up at him with a small smile. That small smile was enough for Charlie to see the heart shaped line of her face and the straight bridge of her nose which was framed by rounded rose-kissed cheekbones.

For a moment Charlie stumbled, "Er, je suis, er, tres heureux de vous avoir ici." His French was never very good, even at school his old professor had said that his accent was terrible. It was the only French he would at this present moment.

Eleanore huffed, probably at his atrocious attempt at French, and addressed him, "She cannot speak French…just like you." She held her hands below her bosom and huffed again, "She's deaf."

That's when Jamie noticed the two nude coloured hearing aids on each of Jane's ears. Well, Eleanore was wrong in some respects, Jane was probably partially deaf. Eleanore continued, "She can read lips well enough," she began to shout and open her mouth wide when she addressed Jane, "but you can't hear very well!"

Ignoring Elenore's ignorant display, he turned back to Jane. He knew little sign language from his relief days. Some of the kids, particularly in post-war countries, had suffered hearing damage after bombings and shell blasts during either unfortunate riots or attacks, so Charlie had picked up a few signs here and there.

Placing his hands together he started to sign something simple. My name is Charlie, it is nice to meet you. He was pretty sure he had spelt his name out wrong, as he always got the sign for 'a' and 'r' mixed up. However, with a small laugh at his mistake Jane laughed and replied, Hello, I'm Jane. It's nice to meet you too.

She smiled slightly and her eyes told him she was pleased with his effort. She began to sign again but when she realised that Charlie was finding it hard to catch up she held out her hands openly to him and looked at him with a question in her sea foam green eyes. Let me show you? He gave her his hands willingly and she began to spell out his name correctly for him, her smooth hands fitted perfectly against the back of his.

C-H-A-R-L-I-E.

It was in that moment that Charles Bingley knew that his life would never be entirely the same again.

Well thank fuck for that, Charlie thought as he pressed his hands a little closer into Jane's.

Gardiner paced back and forth on Darcy's cream carpet in his private living room. Mrs. Reynolds would not be pleased if Gardiner marked it, Darcy thought as he watched the black sole dig into the sides of the carpet. It was her pride and joy of the household. Darcy would often find her inspecting it when she thought no one was looking. She even on occasion gave Darcy the "take your shoes off" look when he walked into the area. Which of course, he did. Mrs. Reynolds would never intentionally ask Darcy to do it, she respected him. And likewise he respected her. That's why at that moment he told Gardiner to take his shoes off and stop pacing like a caged lion or be damned.

Five minutes later, Gardiner was hunched on the sofa looking shoeless and woeful. "I honestly do not see the problem in all of this Gardiner. It is not like he is going to pull a fast one on us. He's the President of the United States, for Christ sake!"

Gardiner chuckled, "That's exactly why I'm worried. George Wickham is a very charming man, that is no doubt, but he's also a conversationalist. He can make almost anyone see his side. He is relentless in that aspect. The old administration failed to deal with him properly, they gave into his demands…and well, you know how that ended." Gardiner pulled his scruffy greying hair back from his forehead and scratched his head.

"Do you doubt me that much, Gardiner? Do you doubt the party?" Darcy asked straightforwardly.

"No, god no!" Gardiner exclaimed, "It's just that, Will, I have dealt with him before. Do not let him push you into making a deal that suits his needs, and not our own. We need the people on our side for the next general election. We cannot afford mistakes, not now."

Darcy watched Gardiner, and he saw that the man was genuinely worried. "Fine," Darcy said as he leant back into the cushy cream sofa. Cream was a definite favourite for Mrs. Reynolds. "Tell me what you know, and I shall be wary of him."

In all honesty, Darcy did not see the threat in the President Wickham. Sure, he had heard stories of the Southern raised, Republican President who had unfortunately only come into power because of his running partner, John Denny, pulled out due to illness. Wickham, although not first choice, was picked as one of the prominent replacements. However, with winning internal debates and becoming popular with the public for being handsome and smart he soon outshone his opponents. He too had been in the army and had served abroad which gave him a hard yet sympathetic stance in the public eye. Darcy had done his homework on the President and how he has so far served in his term. For all intents and purposes, Wickham was the golden boy, however his administration was lacking and with the opposition of the Democrats not many of his proposed bills had made it through Congress. Yes, Wickham was the man of the moment, but he was weak and flawed in his execution in state matters. Darcy knew that the visit to the UK would not only give Wickham the opportunity he needed to look successful within government but it would also boost public opinion for America's next presidential vote.

Gardiner began, his left leg was shaking rapidly. Darcy wasn't sure if it was anger or anxiety. "He is immoral," Gardiner said, "an extravagant liar who has no problem what so ever with using and ruining other people to accomplish his own ends."

Darcy laughed, "He's a politician!" He stood and moved over to where someone (Elizabeth?) had left a pot of coffee and some chocolate covered biscuits on the desk. He smiled slightly remembering the night in the office as he picked one up and examined it. And then he frowned and put the biscuit back down, "Aren't we all like that?"

"No, not all of us." Gardiner said shaking his head. Gardiner eyed Darcy and then went back to looking his ruddy hands. There was something meaningful in that statement, but Darcy couldn't place it. Instead of dwelling on what Gardiner meant, he handed him a cup of coffee and two biscuits.

A/N: I going with people's advice to keep going with the story, so thanks guys! Okay this one hopefully isn't too short, but I want to be able to build on the President's visit hopefully in a next few chapters or so. Wickham needs more show time than half a chapter after all! Don't you agree? :D I'm literally writing this in-between essays, lectures and presentations – so sorry if there's errors anywhere! Anyway, hope you guys enjoy!