Chapter Seven The Matriarch’s Gate #2
He regarded Charles for a long, measuring moment. The silence in the study acquired tangible presence, broken only by the measured ticking of the mantel clock and the distant, muffled crescendo of Mrs Bennet lamenting her nerves in the drawing room.
"Assistance," Mr Bennet said at length. "You seek assistance from the very man whose household you transformed into a lamentation factory for half a year."
Mr Bennet reached for his port. He took a slow, deliberate sip, his gaze never departing from Charles's face. The earlier amusement had vanished, replaced by a keen, dissecting edge, fully prepared to enjoy the careful evisceration of an intriguing specimen.
"Tell me, Mr Bingley," he began, his tone deceptively conversational, "why should I extend aid to a gentleman who has wrought such exquisite disorder upon my domestic tranquillity?"
Charles felt a prickle of unease along his spine. "I... do not quite follow, sir."
"Do you not? The arithmetic is elementary.
You arrived at Netherfield. You danced. You smiled.
You issued promises with your eyes that your resolve proved unable to honour.
And then you departed." Mr Bennet gestured vaguely towards the door.
"The ensuing chaos, forgive me, the ensuing disorder, has been prodigious.
I have endured months of Mrs Bennet's nerves.
I have heard the name 'Bingley' invoked more frequently than my own.
I have resided in a house whose chief manufacture was sighs and whose primary consumption was lavender water. "
Charles studied his hands, clasped tightly in his lap. "I am acutely aware of the distress I caused."
"Distress in my daughter's heart, perhaps," Mr Bennet continued. "But more pertinently, distress in my own ears. I prize my silence, Mr Bingley. I regard this study as a bulwark against the emotional theatrics of the world. You breached that bulwark. You delivered the campaign directly to my desk."
"I did not intend—"
"Intentions are the indulgence of the shallow," Mr Bennet cut in smoothly.
"Results are the currency of the deep. You departed.
Jane suffered. Mrs Bennet lamented. And I was compelled to listen to every note of the symphony.
Why should I assist a man who has demonstrated such mastery of the abrupt exit? "
The barb struck true. Charles felt its cold precision, the unflinching truth of his former vacillation. He saw himself reflected in Mr Bennet's eyes: a creature of caprice, likely to vanish once more the instant the clay grew too adhesive.
"I remain now. I am purchasing the estate," he said for the hundredth time, with a voice low yet unwavering.
"Purchasing it!" Mr Bennet's laugh emerged crisp. "An extravagant method of avoiding an awkward exchange! I suppose when one commands metropolitan fortunes, one may acquire an entire county merely to persuade the neighbourhood one possesses a soul."
Charles felt heat rise to his ears. The remark echoed Mrs Philips's earlier thrust, Hertfordshire's collective verdict, now cloaked in scholarly irony.
"I am not purchasing it to prove anything." Charles lifted his chin. "Only because I have discovered I belong here. I have learned that I am not solely a man of leisure, but a man of lasting commitment. I wish to render Netherfield prosperous. I wish to become a neighbour who contributes."
"A commendable ambition," Mr Bennet observed, though his expression retained its veil of scepticism.
"Yet neighbours generally offer stability.
They do not descend upon the county with the momentum of a cannonball and the resonance of a regimental band, only to evaporate into London mist when the breeze shifts. "
Charles met Mr Bennet's gaze steadily, the weary lines etched around his eyes, and the protective armour he had constructed around his books and his peace. He understood then that Mr Bennet was not merely mocking. He was probing, searching for evidence of genuine substance.
"I have no excuse for November."
The admission hung in the air, heavy as an unspoken confession.
Charles Bingley, erstwhile master of amiable excuses and graceful deflections, had finally exhausted his supply of words.
He sat in the hushed sanctuary of Longbourn's study, facing the father of the woman he had so thoughtlessly abandoned, and felt the full, crushing weight of his own shortcomings.
"There is no excuse for fleeing," he repeated, his voice recovering a measure of its natural warmth.
"I was too easily swayed. I permitted the opinions of others to outweigh the evidence of my own heart.
I perceived the indifference I was told existed, rather than the affection that stood plainly before me.
I was a coward, sir. I was a weathercock. "
Mr Bennet observed him closely. The glass of port hovered midway to his lips. For the first time, the customary amusement in his expression faltered, giving way to a reluctant, tentative respect.
"A weathercock," Mr Bennet murmured. "A severe judgment, Mr Bingley. Though not inaccurate."
"I am not here to defend the past. I am here to request a clean slate. I wish to demonstrate that I am now a man of decision. I have laboured in the fields. I have endured the scorn of the village. I have endured the frozen reception of your drawing room. And I remain."
He leaned forward, his hands clasped with unmistakable earnestness. "I intend to stay. I intend to transform Netherfield into a true home. And I intend to become a man worthy of this family's regard, and in particular, of your daughters'."
Mr Bennet set down his glass. He rose and crossed to the window, gazing out upon Longbourn's gardens. The July sun dipped toward the horizon, casting elongated golden shadows across the lawn.
"Jane is married now," Mr Bennet said, his back to the room. "She is a viscountess. She is content. Keathley possesses depth, albeit tempered with a rakish streak. He dotes upon her."
"I know," Charles replied, a sharp pang of regret twisting within his chest. "I rejoice in it. She deserved a gentleman who required no sister's permission to declare his love."
Mr Bennet turned. He studied Charles anew, the unguarded honesty in his eyes, the sincerity threading his voice, the literal earth still clinging to his person.
He beheld the prodigal visitor who returned, and recognised that the man now seated before him was no longer the boy who had departed.
Charles could see everything written on the older man's face.
"A clean slate," he mused. "A rare commodity, Mr Bingley. The world generally prefers to keep meticulous accounts."
"I am asking you to prove the exception, sir."
Mr Bennet crossed to a heavy oak cabinet in the corner.
He unlocked it with a small key drawn from his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a roll of yellowed parchment.
Returning to the desk, he unrolled it with care.
The document revealed itself as a detailed survey of the valley field, annotated in precise handwriting with observations on soil composition and drainage patterns.
"This field remained a swamp for years," Mr Bennet explained, his tone shedding its former frost. "The silt embodied a geological obstinacy that thwarted three generations of Bennets.
I devoted two years to studying the water's movement.
I expended a small fortune on stone and labour. And I prevailed."
He met Charles's gaze directly. "If you are in earnest about the north pasture, you must grasp the principles of sub-soil irrigation. You must be willing to immerse yourself in the mud if you hope to reap the harvest."
"I am prepared," Charles affirmed.
Mr Bennet tapped the parchment with one finger. "Then we shall begin here. Monday morning, six o'clock. I shall meet you at the gate to the north field, the boundary between our estates. And I shall expect you to have studied these notes thoroughly by then."
Charles experienced a sudden, buoyant surge of triumph. He had breached the fortress. He had secured an unlikely alliance. He had been granted the very chart to his own redemption.
"Thank you, sir," Charles breathed.
"Do not thank me yet," Mr Bennet cautioned, his dry wit resurfacing.
"Hard labour lies ahead of you. And I have a considerable reserve of silence to reclaim from Mrs Bennet's ongoing productions.
Should your enterprise falter, I shall hold you personally accountable for every subsequent festival of nerves in this house. "
Charles rose and bowed to Mr Bennet. He emerged from the study having traversed a battlefield only to discover a treasure map awaiting him on the far side. He strode through the hallway, offering Hill a nod of tentative triumph, and stepped out into the warm, honeyed glow of the evening.
A weight settled in his chest, distinct from the lingering residue of mud. It was depth, solid, undeniably deep depth. He was a man with a plan. He was a man with a map. He had become a creature of the soil.
He made for Jupiter, who waited patiently by the gates.
The air around him was still and heavy, saturated with the perfume of summer roses.
Charles felt almost heroic. He imagined himself confronting any baker or blacksmith in the county, informing them with calm authority precisely where they might deposit their scorn.
Just as he neared the gate, a voice floated to him, a soft, melodic murmur that appeared to emanate from the shrubbery beside the east wing.
"Charles, darling? Are you quite well? You have had such a terrible time, have you not?"
Charles halted abruptly. His heart executed a leap that threatened to expel the air from his lungs. He knew that voice.
It belonged to Mary Bennet.
And she had addressed him as darling.
She had enquired after his welfare.
A dizzying wave of joy surged through him. She had recognised the depth!
He pivoted towards the bushes, arranging his features into what he trusted was an expression of humble gratitude. He squared his shoulders. He readied his voice for a declaration of unwavering devotion.
"Yes, darling, I am perfectly well!" Charles proclaimed, advancing upon the foliage. "I am entirely prepared to—"
He stopped short.
Mary Bennet was not gazing at him.
She crouched in the earth, her amber silk skirts irretrievably soiled, her spectacles perched precariously on the bridge of her nose. In her arms she cradled a furry bundle, orange, indignant, and emitting a low, perpetual rumble of displeasure.
A cat.
The creature was shivering, his coat matted with leaves and his tail thrashing. He fixed Charles with a yellow-eyed glare that conveyed imminent plans for the overthrow of human dominion.
Mary glanced up. Her eyes met Charles Bingley's, taking in his frozen posture, his expression of stunned deflation, and the durable coat catching the last rays of the setting sun.
"Oh." Mary's tone reverted to its customary measured neutrality. "Mr Bingley. I was unaware you were visiting."
Charles regarded the cat. He regarded Mary. He regarded the earth staining her gown, the very earth he had worn as a badge of honour upon his person.
"I... I was just departing," Charles managed, his heroic composure dissolving into mortification. "I thought... I heard a voice."
"I was addressing Charles," Mary explained, administering a precise scratch behind the cat's ears that transmuted his growl into a reluctant purr.
"He has quarrelled with a lime tree. Trees prove remarkably obstinate, Mr Bingley.
They exhibit no patience for those who attempt ascent without adequate preparation. "
Charles absorbed the layered implication.
He studied the cat, the beast bearing the name of his former failings, and experienced an unexpected surge of fellowship.
Both were orange. Both contended with unforgiving terrain.
Both presently endured instruction from a woman armed with an unyielding stare.
"I shall leave you to it, then." Charles bowed and retreated towards his horse.
"Good evening, Mr Bingley."
Charles mounted Jupiter. He was sweaty, dishevelled, and temporarily the second-most significant Charles at Longbourn. Yet as he rode back to Netherfield beneath the deepening twilight, a sharp, invigorating sense of purpose coursed through him.
He was not departing. He possessed a map. He possessed an appointment at six o'clock with a field of intractable clay. And he possessed a feline namesake.
He was a man of depth.
And he had only begun.