Chapter Nine The Strategy
At six o'clock on a Monday, the world was a study in shades of grey and indecision, yet Charles Bingley stood on the border of the Northern Pasture, attempting to appear as if the day were already conquered and he were now merely waiting for the rest of the universe to catch up.
Internally, he was weeping.
He had always considered "morning" to be a concept that began loosely around ten, preferably with a tray of toast and a warming fire.
This current hour was not morning. It was merely the tail end of the night that had forgotten to stay in bed.
The air was thick with the July heat that clung to his face, making him sweat like a pig.
Greene, the Netherfield steward, stood a few paces away, clutching a roll of canvas and observing Charles with the suspicion one might afford a performing dog that had suddenly started lecturing on the merits of the Corn Laws.
Greene had lived on this land for forty years, and in his experience, gentlemen of fortune did not appear in the pastures until the sun was well above the trees and the heavy lifting was done.
He had said so the moment he saw Charles.
"Are you quite well, sir?" Greene asked.
"Never better, Greene!" Charles's voice sounded entirely too bright for the atmospheric conditions. "A bracing start! The air is refreshing."
It was a lie. The air was a menace. But Charles Bingley was a man of decision.
He was a man of depth. He had spent the previous evening huddled over Mr Bennet's notes, determined to understand the mechanics of drainage and the placement of stone.
He had not merely appraised the diagrams. He had wrestled with them.
He had Tepper wrestle them. They had decoded the meticulous and neat writing until the mysteries of the subsoil began to reveal their secrets.
He checked his pocket watch. Six-fifteen.
Just as he was considering the possibility of a brief, standing nap, a figure emerged from the south.
It was Mr Bennet, walking with a brisk, lean energy that Charles found both admirable and slightly frightening.
The master of Longbourn was dressed in a serviceable coat, carrying a walking stick with a silver head that glinted in the morning light.
"Mr Bingley." Mr Bennet stopped at the fence line. He studied Charles, then Greene, and then the utter absence of anyone else in the vicinity. "I had expected to find a phantom, but here you are, a solid, if somewhat damp, reality."
"Good morning, Mr Bennet!" Charles performed a bow that resulted in a squelching sound from the mud beneath his heels. "We had an appointment, sir. I would not miss it."
"So I see." Mr Bennet leaned on his stick. "I admit I did not have much faith in you being here at this hour. I stand corrected."
Charles straightened his shoulders. "I have been reading your notes, sir. I find your theories on the porous nature of the lower strata to be quite compelling."
Mr Bennet's eyebrows shot up. For a second, his habitual mask of dry cynicism faltered, revealing a flash of genuine surprise. "Compelling? My notes are usually described as 'the ramblings of a man with too much time and not enough hay.' You actually read them?"
"And understood them," Charles added, feeling a surge of pride that warmed him far more than the sun. "I have already instructed Greene to begin with the stone drains along the eastern ridge. We found the saturation level exactly where you predicted."
Mr Bennet stepped closer, his gaze sharpening. He appraised Charles not as the rich, pliable bachelor who had jilted his daughter, but as a fellow practitioner of a difficult art. It was an expression of cautious respect, and to Charles, it was as if being invited to join a very exclusive club.
"You have started with the drains?" Mr Bennet asked.
"We have. We are following your insight regarding the slope. It seemed the most logical course of action."
Mr Bennet gave a slow, appreciative nod. "Insight, is it? Most call it interference. You are correct about the ridge. However, if you do not account for the overflow from the lower pond, you will merely be moving the problem from your pasture to my barley field."
"I had not thought of the pond," Charles admitted, his confidence dipping.
"Few do." Mr Bennet smiled. "Come. Let us walk the boundary. If you are determined to be a man of labour, you might as well learn how to do it without drowning my crops."
Charles fell into step beside him, Greene trailing behind.
As they walked, Charles found his attention fixed on the older man with a sense of wonder.
Mr Bennet was sharp and unpredictable, yet in this early hour, he felt like a mentor.
He felt, Charles mused with a sudden, sharp pang of longing, almost like a father.
It was a dangerous thought, but one he could not quite shake. He wanted the man's respect. He wanted to prove that he was capable of more than just a well-timed smile and a large bank account. He was a Bingley, but he wanted to be a Bennet—or at least, the kind of man a Bennet might tolerate.
They walked the jagged line where Netherfield ended and Longbourn began, a boundary defined by ancient stones and a deep irrigation ditch currently brimming with the morning's heat.
"You have a keen eye for the fall of the land, Mr Bingley," Mr Bennet remarked, pausing near a cluster of gnarled hawthorns. "It is a rare quality in a man who prefers the glare of London's ballrooms to the glare of a sodden meadow."
"I have found the meadows have a far more honest glare, sir," Charles replied, his chest swelling with the praise.
He watched Mr Bennet, and the expression on his face was one of such undisguised devotion that it bordered on indecent.
He hung on every word, every gesture, as if the older man were an oracle delivering the secrets of the universe.
Mr Bennet turned, his gaze catching the intensity of Charles's hero-worship. A flicker of amusement, bright and sharp as a needle, danced in his eyes.
"Careful, Mr Bingley." Mr Bennet's voice dropped into that tone of playful malice that Charles was beginning to recognise as a warning sign.
"If you continue to regard me with such reverence, I shall be forced to start charging you for my company.
Or worse, I might start believing the things you think of me. "
Charles flushed. "I merely... I respect your experience, sir. And your wisdom."
"Wisdom is simply the name we give to our scars," Mr Bennet countered.
He began to walk again, his pace quickening.
"But it is good that you are taking an interest in the local politics of the village.
My daughters tell me you have been visiting the library.
A dangerous place for a man of your energetic constitution. "
"I met Miss Bennet and Miss Kitty," Charles said eagerly, seeing an opening to share his progress. "They have been most helpful. Miss Bennet has even suggested a campaign to win back the affections of the village. She is very thorough."
Mr Bennet stopped, his stick poised above a patch of clover. He observed Charles with an expression of feigned concern.
"A campaign?"
"Yes, sir. And we have agreed on a meeting, up in Oakham Mount, but I wanted to ask your permission aforehand." Charles looked at the older man's eyes, hoping to convey sincerity.
"Indeed?" Mr Bennet's smile widened, becoming truly formidable.
"Tell me, Mr Bingley, is it your intention to court all my daughters in alphabetical order?
Or do you simply find the Bennet name so industrious that you wish to sample the entire collection?
I must warn you, if you eventually set your cap on Mrs Bennet, I shall be forced to object on purely logistical grounds. "
The suggestion hit Charles straight on the forehead. The image of courting the lace-clad, hysterical Mrs Bennet flashed through his mind, followed by the realisation that Mr Bennet was laughing at him—and worse, that he had just accused him of being a serial pursuer of the family.
"I—I—" Charles stammered, his brain scrambling for a denial that did not sound like a confession of insult. "I had no such—I mean, Miss Bennet is—Kitty—Mrs Bennet is—"
In his haste to defend his honour, Charles stepped backward without checking the terrain.
His heel caught on a hidden root, his arms flailed resembling the wings of a flightless bird, and with a sound that was less of a splash and more of a definitive, sucking thud, he disappeared backward into the irrigation ditch.
The water was not deep, but the mud was aplenty.
Charles lay there, his legs pointing towards the sky and his breath knocked clean out of his body. The world was nothing but the grey sky and the sound of his heart pounding.
A second later, Mr Bennet's head appeared over the edge of the ditch. He was not merely smiling. He was vibrating with the force of his own internal mirth.
"A most decisive move, Mr Bingley." Mr Bennet reached down with his stick to offer the handle. "Though I suspect the mud will have more luck in claiming you than any of my daughters."
Charles took the handle, his face burning with a heat that threatened to dry the mud on his cheeks instantly. With a groan and a great deal of ungraceful straining, he was hauled back onto solid ground. He stood there, a dripping caricature of a gentleman, his coat ruined and his pride in tatters.
To his surprise, Mr Bennet clapped him on the shoulder, his touch firm and kind.
"I appreciate the information, Charles," he said, using his Christian name for the first time.
"And I give my consent for this strategic meeting.
Mary is not easily swayed by nonsense, and if she has decided to assist you, it is likely because she has found a glimmer of value beneath all that silk and pomade. "
He turned to leave, his laughter trailing behind him.