Chapter Six The Gospel of Clay
Mr Bingley's Journal
The carriage rattled through Meryton like a reluctant debutante at her first ball—hesitant, overdressed, and drawing ruthlessly assessing stares.
I, Charles Bingley, sat inside, my new riding coat buttoned to perfection, my boots polished to a shine that mocked the dusty road outside.
Tepper, my valet and occasional oracle of doom, perched opposite me, his face a mask of stoic suffering as he clutched a valise that contained, among other essentials, three spare cravats and a treatise on estate management I had impulsively purchased in London.
"Tepper," I spoke, peering out of the window at the familiar facades of the village, "behold Meryton! It has not changed a whit since last November. The bakery still looks as though it is judging one's choice of pastry, and the inn—ah, the Green Man—remains a bastion of ale and unspoken regrets."
Tepper adjusted his spectacles, which he wore not for vision but, I suspected, to lend an air of intellectual superiority to his judgments.
"Indeed, sir. Though one might argue that Meryton has endured your absence with remarkable fortitude.
The villagers appear to have continued breathing without interruption. "
I laughed, a bright sound that echoed in the confined space. "You wound me, Tepper! But fear not—I return not as a fleeting visitor, but as a man of substance. Depth! I shall prove to all and sundry that I am an anchor. A very well-dressed anchor."
Tepper smiled. "An anchor, sir? One hopes it does not sink entirely."
"Have faith in me, Tepper!" I slapped my knee for emphasis, nearly dislodging my hat.
"Certainly, sir. I have it in abundance."
As the carriage trundled past the bakery, I caught sight of the baker—Mr Pyman, was it? —glaring at my steel-sprung equipage. I waved cheerfully. He turned away, pretending to rearrange a tray of loaves.
"See that, Tepper? The man is overcome with joy at my return. Positively overcome."
"If you say so, sir," Tepper murmured, folding his hands in his lap.
The carriage finally creaked to a halt before Netherfield Park, its grand facade looming in silent judgment of my return.
I alighted with a flourish, my boots crunching on the gravel as though announcing a royal procession.
The servants had assembled in a line—footmen, maids, the housekeeper Mrs Nicholls—all staring at me with polite blankness.
These people had dusted the same furniture for months without a master to appreciate it.
"Mrs Nicholls!" I beamed, striding forward. "How splendid to see you! Netherfield looks immaculate. Positively gleaming!"
Mrs Nicholls curtsied, her expression as warm as a January dip in the Thames. "Mr Bingley. We were not expecting you until the morrow. The linens are aired, but the silver is still in the vaults."
"Excellent! We shall polish it together. I am here to stay, you see. Permanently. No more flitting to London like a migratory bird. I am a fixture! A very eligible fixture."
A murmur rippled through the line—a footman coughed; a maid adjusted her cap. Mrs Nicholls's eyes narrowed fractionally. "Permanently, sir? The lease is for a year, as I recall."
"Ah, but I intend to purchase!" I clapped my hands, sending a small cloud of road dust into the air. "Netherfield shall be mine. Ours! We shall cultivate the earth and host balls and become the envy of the county."
The servants exchanged glances that spoke volumes—volumes entitled The Transient Follies of Young Gentlemen. Tepper, disembarking behind me with grace, while carrying six trunks of exquisite waistcoats, cleared his throat.
"Shall I see to the unpacking, sir? Or would you prefer to address the staff on the philosophical merits of permanence?"
I waved him off. "Unpack, Tepper! And prepare my sturdiest coat. Tomorrow, we conquer the soil."
As the servants dispersed—slowly, as if hoping I might vanish in a puff of smoke—I retired to the drawing room and surveyed the expanse of the room critically. Tepper joined me shortly, bearing a tray with tea and an expression of mild exasperation.
"Tepper," I said, sinking into a chair, "what think you of my reception? The villagers seemed... reserved. As though I had once promised them a fête and delivered none. Though I did host a grand ball before leaving."
Tepper poured the tea with precision, his movements a ballet of efficiency. "Reserved, sir? One might say glacial. You departed rather abruptly last November, leaving behind a trail of unanswered invitations and, I believe, certain expectations among the local mammas."
I winced. "Ah, yes. The Bennets. Jane—er, Lady Keathley now—is happily wed, but the others... I was a weathercock then, Tepper. Spun by my sisters and Darcy. But no more! I shall prove my depth. Starting with the steward. Fetch Mr Greene, would you? We must discuss the north pasture forthwith."
Tepper bowed, but not before delivering a parting shot. "Depth through dirt, sir? A novel approach. One hopes it does not bury you entirely."
Mr Samuel Greene arrived promptly, his face as weathered as an old saddle and twice as unyielding. He carried a ledger under one arm and an air of scepticism that filled the room under the other.
"Mr Bingley," he greeted me, his voice dry as autumn leaves. "I was informed of your return. You are interested in the north pasture, I presume?"
"Precisely!" I leaped to my feet, gesturing grandly. "Drainage, Greene! We shall transform that bog into a paradise of wheat. Or whatever thrives in drained clay."
Greene opened his ledger with a snap. "Clay does not drain easily, sir. It clings. It resists. As do certain tenants' opinions of transient masters."
I blinked. "Transient? I am staying, Greene. Purchasing! Tell me what we need—men, materials, a very large shovel?"
He eyed me over his round nose. "What you need, sir, is presence. The previous tenant had a fine sentiment about a sheepdog breeding program. He lasted four months and left behind three very confused collies."
"I am no sheepdog enthusiast!" I protested. "I am a man of action. We begin at dawn. Six o'clock sharp."
Greene's eyebrow arched. "Six, sir? An ambitious hour for a gentleman of leisure."
"Five-thirty, then!" I countered, feeling a surge of reckless resolve. "We shall greet the sun like warriors."
He closed the ledger. "Very well. I shall bring the plans."
As Greene departed, I felt a thrill of victory—or possibly tummy ache from the tea. Tepper reappeared, bearing my evening coat.
"A productive meeting, sir?"
"Enormously! We shall venture out at dawn. Five-thirty. Prepare my most durable attire, Tepper. Something that says, 'man of the soil' without screaming 'fashionable.'"
Tepper held out the coat. "Depth is a burden one chooses, sir. But remember: even anchors rust."
The master bedroom was a cavern of luxury, its massive bed a sea of linens that threatened to swallow me whole. I lay there, staring at the ceiling's swirling plasterwork, which seemed to mock my newfound resolve. Moonlight crept across the floor resembling a burglar testing the windows.
"Tepper?" I called into the darkness of the dressing room. "Are you still there?"
A sigh emanated from the shadows. "I am a fixture of the night, sir. Much like your insomnia."
I propped myself on an elbow. "Do you think she liked the flowers? Miss Mary Bennet. Yellow, you see—not a rose's demand, but an inquiry. Of depth."
Tepper's voice drifted back, laced with dry amusement. "Yellow signifies friendship, sir. Or, in some lexicons, jealousy. Or perhaps an apology for one's own confusion."
I smiled. "Confusion no more! I call on Longbourn soon. First, the clay. Though... I do not actually know what I am supposed to do. I hope Greene knows. But it shall be my gospel, Tepper. My testament to permanence."
"A muddy scripture, sir. Sleep now. Dawn approaches faster than you think."
I closed my eyes, dreaming of ditches and yellow blooms.
The infernal clock struck five-thirty, and I awoke to Tepper's merciless ministrations—curtains wrenched open, shaving water steaming, and a coat that looked as though it had been designed for a particularly rugged explorer.
"Tepper," I groaned, "the sun is still abed. Why must we rise before it?"
"The clay waits for no man, sir." He yanked back the covers. "And Mr Greene is downstairs, fortified by porridge and purpose."
I dressed in a haze, each button a battle. By the time I descended, my legs moved as reluctant participants in this charade. Greene stood in the hall, the expression he bore was one of suspicion.
"Good morning, Mr Bingley. The air is fine for conquest."
We rode to the north pasture, the July dawn a faint grey that burned into oppressive white heat. The trench awaited—a jagged scar in the earth, lined with rubble and brushwood that looked heavier than my regrets.
"The soil is stubborn, sir." Greene gestured to the pit. "Geological defiance."
I stepped in, and mud seized my boots with a wet suck. "Stubbornness meets its match, Greene!" I declared, though sweat already prickled my brow.
Greene seemed to know what he was doing, and I pretended I understood everything he said, nodding gravely as he spoke.
For hours, we laboured—I prodded clods, inspected holes, listened to lectures on irrigation while the sun baked me.
My coat clung to my skin, my cravat a limp rag.
But beneath the grime, I felt... substantial. Filthy, yes, but rooted.
"We ride to Meryton now," I announced, wrestling one boot free from the clay's embrace. "We need supplies from the local merchants. Netherfield's coin is theirs."
Greene nodded, a flicker of approval in his eyes. "They will be surprised, sir. Masters rarely arrive with so much earth upon them."
The village received us like a dubious aunt eyeing a prodigal nephew who had returned smelling strongly of the stables. Meryton had not forgotten my abrupt departure last November, and the memory lingered.