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.
Not anymore, Charles thought, tightening his grip on his hat. I am a meteor. Or at least a very heavy rock.
Charles cleared his throat—a sound intended to be authoritative but emerging as a polite squeak.
Darcy finished a sentence, dotted the page with a sharp, decisive stab of ink, and finally raised his head. He offered a smile that was tight but genuine. He set the quill down and leaned back.
"Bingley."
Charles marched to the chair opposite the desk and sat. He placed his hat on his knees. He looked at the vast array of papers—leases, investments, letters from stewards. It was a kingdom of paper, and Darcy ruled it with a bored sort of mastery.
"I have been to White's," Charles announced, needing to fill the silence before it judged him. "I spoke with Colonel Lindon. Excellent chap. You remember him from The Chase. We discussed the nature of purpose."
Darcy raised an eyebrow, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the arm of his chair. "Indeed? And what did the good Colonel decide? Is purpose a type of brandy?"
"Purpose," Charles repeated, enjoying the weight of the word. "It is a heavy concept, Darcy. Very heavy. I have decided that I have been floating too long. Like a cork. Or a feather. Or a very expensive handkerchief dropped from a balcony. I intend to acquire ballast."
He looked around the room. This was ballast. The heavy velvet curtains, the dark wood, the globes that showed the entire world as something to be measured and managed.
Charles wanted that. He wanted to sit in a room and have people worry about disturbing him.
Currently, people only worried about disturbing him if he was standing in front of the tea tray.
"Ballast is useful," Darcy agreed, his tone without mockery, though his eyes held a flicker of amusement. "It keeps the ship upright in a storm. Do you expect a storm, Bingley?"
"I am creating one."
Charles leaned forward, widening his eyes in a way he believed to be full of serious intent. "I am tired of the calm, Darcy. The calm is boring. The calm is where I buy coats I do not need and let my sisters decide where we dine. I want the waves. I want the pitchforks."
"Pitchforks?" Darcy blinked. "Is there a peasant uprising I should be aware of?"
"Metaphorical pitchforks," Charles clarified, waving a hand. "Though actual ones would also be acceptable. I need a challenge."
Darcy reached for a crystal decanter and poured two glasses of amber liquid. He slid one across the desk.
Charles took the glass. He stared into the liquid. It seemed like courage distilled into glass. He drank it. It burned—a sharp, grounding heat that settled in his chest and told him he could handle estate management and possibly a duel.
"I am going back." Charles let his voice drop deliberately, aiming for a baritone of resolve. "To Hertfordshire. I shall become a country esquire, as my father intended for me. I shall be rustic. I shall wear kersey."
Darcy did not flinch. He did not offer a polite excuse or a warning about the dangers of rural society (which mostly consisted of fierce mothers and bad roads). He simply nodded, a single motion of acceptance, that carried the weight of a blessing from the Archbishop of Canterbury.
"Then you shall need all the help you can get. And perhaps a sturdier coat for the mud."
Charles smiled. It was the first time in months he was not just visiting his friend's life, but actually starting his own.
"I will not be able to join you this time, Bingley. I am a married man, and in a few weeks, my family and I will remove to Pemberley. Elizabeth has plans for the gardens, and I have plans to avoid the neighbours."
"I am not asking for your presence, Darcy. I only wanted to tell you that I am not just going back for the summer," Charles said, the words rushing out before his courage could retreat back into his boots. "I visited my solicitor this morning."
Darcy looked up at him, his expression sharpening.
"I have instructed him to draft the papers." Charles took a deep breath. "I am buying the estate. Netherfield Park. I never gave up the lease, as you know. I am purchasing the freehold."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Charles waited for the laughter. He waited for the sensible list of reasons why this was a terrible idea. Bingley, you have the attention span of a squirrel. Bingley, you do not know a carrot from a tulip. Bingley, you will be bored within a week and brawl with your valet for pastime.
Darcy did not laugh. He looked at Charles, and a slow respect dawned in his eyes, replacing the usual patient indulgence.
"A freehold," he murmured. "That is permanent, Bingley. That is roots. That is a seat. It is significant."
"I know." Charles stood up and began to pace, his energy too great for the chair.
"I want roots. I want to argue with a steward about fences.
I want to care about the price of corn. I want to be the man who stays.
I ran away last time. I let my sisters and you.
.. I let everyone tell me what to do. And I left a mess behind. I left unhappiness."
He did not say Jane's name. He did not need to. The ghost of her disappointment hung between them; a spectre Charles had carried for months like a stone in his shoe.
"I cannot fix the past," he continued, stopping by the window to gaze out at the bright London sky. "I know that. Miss Bennet is happy. She is Lady Keathley now. She has a husband who adores her. I am happy for her. Truly."
He turned back to the room.
"But I hate the man who ran away, Darcy. I hate him. He was weak. He was a leaf in the wind. Buying Netherfield... it is my way of killing him. The next time I face a difficulty, I shall not be able to pack my trunks and flee. I shall own the roof, own the land. I shall have to stand and fight."
Darcy stood and walked around the desk. He extended his hand.
Charles took it. The grip was firm, solid, an anchor in the storm he was inviting.
"Congratulations," Darcy said. "Netherfield could not ask for a better master. It has been waiting for a man who cares enough to stay."
"I am terrified," Charles admitted, a grin breaking through his solemnity. "I have no idea how to run an estate, Darcy. I think cows confuse me. They have very large eyes and they chew sideways."
"You will learn." Darcy released his hand. "And you will make mistakes. But they will be your mistakes. That is the privilege of ownership. And Bingley?"
"Yes?"
"Do try to avoid buying any more coats. The mud in Hertfordshire is notoriously unforgiving of velvet."
After the better part of an hour of friendly banter with his old friend, Charles felt lighter, as if he had shed a heavy winter cloak he had been wearing for most of his life.
He walked with Darcy towards the main hall, chatting with great animation about the structural integrity of carriage wheels.
"I shall need a sturdy vehicle," Charles was saying, gesturing broadly with his gloves.
"The lanes near Meryton are horrible. I recall my sister complaining that the ruts were deep enough to swallow a pony.
I shall need springs of steel, Darcy. Perhaps I should commission a chariot.
Like a Roman. Do you think a chariot is too aggressive for a vestry meeting? "
They reached the top of the grand staircase. The house was quiet, the servants moving with that invisible, friction-less efficiency that Darcy House was famous for.
Then, the sound hit him.
It was not a noise. It was a physical sensation. A chord, deep and resonant, floated up from the corridor that led to the music room. It was followed by a melody so mournful, so achingly hollow, that it seemed to suck the warmth right out of the air.
Charles stopped dead. His foot hovered over the first step, suspended in mid-descent.
"Is that Miss Darcy?" he whispered, clutching the banister as if the house were suddenly tilting. "It sounds like a ghost. A ghost who is terribly upset."
He had heard Miss Darcy play many times. She was perfect. Her notes were pearls on a string—smooth, identical, and lovely. This was different. This was raw. It stumbled. It hesitated. And then it soared with a desperate, clawing hunger that made his chest ache.
Darcy had stopped as well. He tilted his head, listening. A strange expression crossed his face—a mixture of brotherly pride and a peculiar sort of resignation.
"No. It is not Georgiana. Though I believe she is in the room, likely cowering."
The music shifted. The mournful cry turned into a storm. The notes came faster, tumbling over each other, a cascade of minor keys that sounded like rain lashing against a windowpane during a hurricane. It was angry. It was lonely. It was the most beautiful thing Charles had ever heard.
"I must see," Charles breathed.