Chapter Seven The Matriarch’s Gate
Chapter Seven: The Matriarch's Gate
The gravel of the Longbourn driveway crunched beneath Jupiter's hooves with a sound that struck Charles Bingley's sensitive ears a marching drumroll.
He straightened the collar of his durable coat, inspected the mud on his boots—now of the respectable, productive variety—and attempted to summon an expression that proclaimed, "I possess deep, unshakeable roots.
" In truth, he felt less a rooted oak and more a feather attempting to breach the gates of a fortress.
"Mr Bingley to see the family," he announced to Hill after he handed over the reins to the stable boy.
Hill regarded him with an impassive gaze which indicated she had witnessed every variety of gentlemanly folly and was impressed by none.
She had seen Charles Bingley in his November glory—smiling, amiable, promising the world with a careless nod.
Now she beheld a man with sun-reddened skin, clay stains on his cuffs, and the determined set of a jaw that had recently spent two hours wrestling a ditch into submission.
She did not smile. She merely stepped aside, admitting him to what felt unmistakably a lion's den.
Charles entered the drawing room.
The atmosphere within was not merely cool.
It resembled a sub-arctic front that had settled over the parlour and refused to budge.
Mrs Bennet occupied the centre of the settee, clutching a handkerchief as though it were the last remnant of her composure.
Miss Kitty sat beside her, her gaze darting between her mother and the doorway with wide-eyed alarm, not knowing what to expect of the visitor.
"Mr Bingley."
Mrs Bennet's voice emerged sharp and brittle. She did not rise and did not extend a hand. She merely adjusted her lace cap with a gesture that suggested she was arming herself for a thorough cross-examination.
"Mrs Bennet." Charles bowed low, deeper than strictly necessary. "Miss Kitty. I trust you are both well."
"Well?" Mrs Bennet emitted a laugh that resembled a dry branch snapping beneath the July sun.
"I am as well as a woman can be when her nerves have been torn to tatters.
My nerves, Mr Bingley, have staged a theatrical production these many months.
I have suffered. I have languished. I have endured the echoing emptiness of this house, once filled with laughter and prospective proposals, now reduced to silence and accumulating dust."
Charles shifted his weight from one boot to the other. "I am deeply sorry to hear of your... distress."
"Distress!" Mrs Bennet leaned forward, her eyes fixed upon his face with the intensity of a hawk sighting a field mouse.
"It surpasses mere distress, sir. It is the consequence of transience.
It is the direct result of gentlemen who arrive in a blaze of sunshine only to depart in a sudden fog, leaving honest families to wonder whether the entire acquaintance was a dream—or worse, a cruel jest."
Charles felt the full weight of her disappointment settle upon him, heavy as wet wool. It was a masterclass in maternal guilt, delivered with the precision of long practise.
"I have returned to Hertfordshire with the firm intention of remaining." He lifted his chin. "I have purchased Netherfield outright. I am no longer a tenant. I am a master of the soil, rooted as firmly as any oak in the county."
"A master of the soil," she echoed, her lip curling in faint disdain. "Wealth can indeed purchase a great deal of dirt, Mr Bingley. Yet can it buy back a reputation? Can it erase the receipt you issued us in November? For it was a receipt, sir, of the most painful nature."
Charles blinked, momentarily adrift. "A... receipt, Madam?"
"A receipt!" she cried, brandishing her handkerchief as though giving farewell to a traveller upon a ship to the Colonies.
"A receipt of your character! One that revealed precisely how much value you placed upon a mother's peace of mind!
To vanish without a word—to flee while my poor Jane was—" She halted abruptly, her face contorting into a mask of theatrical misery.
"But I shall not speak of it. I have dignity.
I do not dwell upon the past receipts of those who treated our hospitality as a temporary lodging house. "
Charles experienced a sudden, sharp urge to explain—to protest that he had been misled, misguided, spun by the winds of stronger wills. Yet he perceived that Mrs Bennet sought no explanations. She sought only the performance of her own injury.
He cast his gaze about the room in search of rescue, and his eyes alighted upon a vase of yellow flowers arranged on the sideboard near the window. They glowed with vibrant cheer, utterly incongruous amid the prevailing gloom.
"Those are handsome blooms," he ventured, steering towards what he hoped were calmer waters. "From your gardens?"
Mrs Bennet's expression shifted from accusation to a guarded, almost proprietary pride. "They are a gift. A London gentleman of considerable depth and discernment dispatched them to my Mary. He is, I am certain, a man of significant substance. He does not flee. He sends flowers that remain."
Charles felt a prickle of heat surge through his chest. He studied the flowers anew—rare, bright yellow blooms, accompanied, he recalled with painful clarity, by a card that read Thank you for the depth.
He longed to laugh aloud. He longed to proclaim that the mysterious "man of depth" currently stood in her drawing room, perspiring beneath a muddy coat and praying the floorboards would not creak beneath him.
Yet he caught, in his mind's eye, the narrow-eyed stare Miss Mary deployed frequently—a stare that could silence a room—and he realised that silence remained his only viable weapon.
"I am glad to hear Miss Mary has attracted such insightful acquaintances," Charles managed, his voice remarkably steady. "But I have not come to discuss flora. I have come to speak with Mr Bennet. Is he in his study?"
Mrs Bennet regarded him as though he had requested to borrow the family silver for a picnic. "He is ensconced in his fortress, Mr Bingley. Though I doubt he wishes to be disturbed by the ghosts of November."
"I shall take my chances," Charles declared, turning to the door with more resolution than he felt.
As he stepped into the corridor, the yellow flowers seemed to lend him their support.
The walk from the drawing room to the study was for Charles a passage between two distinct realms. If the drawing room evoked a theatre of frayed nerves, the hallway served as a neutral corridor, and the study door stood as the portal to a sanctuary of leather-bound volumes and pointed silences.
Charles knocked.
"Enter," rumbled a voice from inside, dry and steady, the sound of someone deeply occupied with the serious business of remaining unimpressed.
Charles pushed the door open.
Mr Bennet was situated in his large armchair, a book balanced against one knee and a glass of port resting on the table beside him. He did not glance up at once. Instead, he turned a page with deliberate, almost ceremonial slowness, as though Charles had interrupted a sacred rite.
"Mr Bingley," he said at last, peering over his spectacles. "I was informed you had returned to the county. Rumour has it that you are presently engaged in draining the local topography."
"Yes, I have been in the fields, sir." Charles stepped further into the room.
The weight of the book-lined walls pressed upon him, the scent of aged paper and polished leather thick in the air.
It reminded him of Darcy's study. "Greene and I are digging in the north pasture.
But I am afraid I lack the expertise, or it is a matter of geological stubbornness. "
"Geological stubbornness." Mr Bennet flashed a crooked smile. "An admirable phrase. It describes a considerable portion of the local populace. Do sit, Mr Bingley. You appear to have emerged from a campaign against a particularly tenacious clod of earth."
Charles lowered himself into the opposite chair. The leather seemed to bond at once with his still-damp breeches. July heat seeped through the windowpanes, and he felt, more acutely than anything, the urgent need to demonstrate that he was no longer the pliable weathercock of the previous year.
"I have come to request your assistance, sir," he blurted.
Mr Bennet's eyebrows shot up in question. "My assistance? I am a man of books and sarcasm, Mr Bingley. I am hardly equipped for manual labour. If you require aid with digging, I recommend a fellow with fewer opinions and a sturdy shovel."
"It is not the shovel I seek. I have labourers aplenty," Charles answered. "It is the expertise. Greene informs me that Longbourn successfully drained the valley field a decade ago. He claims the plans were yours. I wish to examine them, to understand how you overcame the silt."
Mr Bennet leaned back, his eyes narrowing.
He studied Charles: the residual mud on his boots, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the unaccustomed resolve in his posture.
He searched for the familiar vacancy, the eager puppyhood of the prior autumn, and discovered instead a new gravity, a weight that had not existed before.
"The silt," Mr Bennet murmured. "You wish to discuss silt. In the midst of a July heatwave, when a gentleman of your fortune might be in Brighton, sampling costly wines and avoiding the indignities of the countryside."
"I have found the reality of soil considerably more compelling than the realities of the Pump Room," Charles replied.
"Is that so?" Mr Bennet emitted a short, arid chuckle. "A revolutionary sentiment indeed. I suppose next you will declare an admiration for the internal structure of a turnip."
"I hold turnips in the highest respect," Charles said, the image of Mary Bennet rising unbidden in his mind.
Mr Bennet stilled.