Chapter Twelve The North and South #2
"He is currently the owner of a silent instrument," Tepper pointed out.
"I need a strategy." Charles began to pace. "I need a reason for her to play it. A reason that does not involve me falling to my knees and confessing that I bought a hundred-guinea instrument because I adore the way her eyebrows furrow when she hits a C-minor."
"You could invite the family to dinner," Tepper suggested, returning to his flowers. "As a neighbourly gesture. The pianoforte is here. It would be rude not to ask the only accomplished musician in the room to test it."
"A test!" Charles halted. "Yes! Precisely! I shall claim ignorance. I shall say... I shall say the instrument arrived by accident? No, that is absurd. She knows we had one here last year, before Caroline claimed it at Thornwood. Shall I say I inherited it? No, my ancestors have no musical legacy."
"Perhaps," Tepper said, picking up the empty tray, "you might simply say that Netherfield felt too quiet. And that a house without music resembles a man without a soul—empty, echoing, and in need of a good tuning."
Charles stared at his valet. "Tepper, that is brilliant. 'A house without music.' It is deep. It is profound. It is exactly the sort of thing a man who reads travel journals would say."
"I endeavour to give satisfaction, sir."
Charles turned back to the Broadwood. He reached out and pressed a single key. A low, resonant note rang out, hanging in the warm air of the room. It was a lonely sound.
"She will fill it," Charles whispered. "She will make it speak."
"We must first get her through the door, sir," Tepper reminded him, moving towards the exit. "And perhaps ensure there are plenty of biscuits. I understand musicians require sustenance."
"Order the biscuits, Tepper!" Charles cried, his optimism restored. "And polish the keys! Everything should be ready for her!"
Colonel Edmund Lindon arrived at Netherfield Park prepared for a rescue mission.
He had received letters from Charles Bingley that were increasingly concerning—missives filled with ramblings about "sub-soil composition," "the integrity of oak," the "philosophical implications of drainage," and "Charles in fur.
" The Colonel had assumed his friend was suffering from an acute case of rural boredom, a condition usually cured by a swift return to St James's Street and a bottle of good claret.
He did not expect to walk into a War Room.
A massive map of Hertfordshire dominated the north wall of the study, pinned directly onto the silk damask with a disregard for the upholstery that would have made a weaker man weep. The map was covered in pins, flags, and aggressive circles of ink.
Standing before it was Charles Bingley. He was holding a pointer in one hand and a half-eaten biscuit in the other. He was less a gentleman of leisure and more a general contemplating the invasion of an entire continent.
"The gradient is the key, you see," Charles was muttering. "If we conquer the gradient, we conquer the mud."
"Bingley," the Colonel announced from the doorway, leaning against the frame. "I must say, I expected many things. A new hound, perhaps. A newfound obsession with watercolour painting. I did not expect to find you plotting the annexation of the Home Counties."
Charles spun around, the pointer clattering to the floor. "Colonel! You are here!"
He rushed forward, seizing the Colonel's hand with a grip that was surprisingly formidable. His palm was rough, calloused, and—the Colonel noted with a raised eyebrow—faintly stained with ink.
"I am a Man of Depth, Colonel! Just as you suggested at White's! I have embraced the soil. I have wrestled the clay. I have a very complex emotional relationship with a drainage ditch in the North Pasture."
The Colonel extricated his hand and inspected his friend. Bingley was tanned—a deep, golden bronze that made his eyes startlingly bright. He was broader in the shoulders, and there was a definitive lack of the "puppyish" panic that used to define him.
"Depth suits you," the Colonel admitted, walking into the room and eyeing the map. "You seem... solid. But tell me, does 'depth' require you to turn your library into a strategic command centre for agricultural reform?"
"It is not just reform, Colonel," a dry voice drifted from the corner.
Tepper, Bingley's valet, was seated by the window, methodically polishing a pair of riding boots that appeared to have been dragged through a swamp backwards.
"It is a Campaign," he clarified, offering the Colonel a minimalist bow. "Mr Bingley is currently besieging the county with good works. We are fixing fences. We are donating tea-cakes. We are, I believe, attempting to purchase the affection of the populace one roofing slat at a time."
The Colonel turned to the valet. "Tepper. You are weary. I assume the laundry has been a battlefield?"
"A massacre, sir," Tepper replied smoothly. "The master believes that mud is a badge of honour. I, however, believe it is merely dirt that ruins the velvet. But we persevere. The master has found a purpose."
"A purpose," the Colonel repeated, eyeing the circles on the map. He walked over and tapped a specific location marked 'The Ditch of Despair.' "And does this purpose have a name? A name that perhaps rhymes with 'Perry' or 'Larry'?"
Bingley flushed a brilliant, guilty scarlet that clashed violently with his tan. He snatched the pointer from the floor. "It is... local politics, Colonel. The social fabric of the village requires mending. I am merely applying the principles of structural integrity to the... the..."
"To the Bennet family?" the Colonel supplied, arching a blond eyebrow.
Bingley sighed, the fight going out of him. He collapsed into a leather chair. "Is it that obvious?"
"Bingley, do you even remember what your letters to me included?
And I walked past the drawing room," the Colonel pointed out.
"There is a Broadwood in there the size of a frigate.
Unless you have secretly become a virtuoso in the last two months, that instrument is a very large, very expensive love letter. "
"It is a trap," Bingley corrected miserably. "A lure. For Miss Bennet."
"Are you absolutely sure, my friend? You described her as quiet and sombre. Tell me you have not bought a grand pianoforte for a woman whose idea of a good pastime is a lecture on morality?"
"She does not just read sermons!" Bingley shot up, his eyes blazing with fierce protectiveness. "She plays like a storm, Colonel! I heard her. She has a great, crashing, beautiful symphony inside her, that she hides behind spectacles and pinched lips."
He looked at his hands. "I wanted... I simply wanted to give that symphony a place to live."
The Colonel regarded Tepper. Tepper regarded the Colonel. A silent communication passed between them—the weary, affectionate understanding of two men tasked with keeping a puppy from running into traffic.
"He calls her a 'storm in a teapot'," Tepper provided helpfully. "He also claims she has opinions on turnips."
"She understands trade routes!" Bingley insisted. "She respects the wool industry!"
"Well," the Colonel said, pulling up a chair and pouring himself a glass of brandy from the tray Tepper had silently provided. "Let us assess the battlefield. You have the mud. You have the Broadwood. You have a purpose. Why is the instrument silent?"
"I cannot just ask her to play!" Bingley cried, pacing the rug.
"It would be presumptuous. It would reveal that I listened at the door in London.
I need an excuse. A social manoeuvre. I cannot simply say, 'Miss Bennet, please come and touch my ivory keys because I think you are the only person who understands my very soul. '"
"That would indeed be forward," Tepper agreed. "And alarming."
"You need a dinner party," the Colonel decided, taking a sip of his brandy. "And you need me."
"You?"
"I shall be your distraction. I shall charm the mother.
I shall listen to the serious sister. I shall distract the village.
" The Colonel pointed his glass at Bingley.
"And you, my muddy friend, will take Miss Bennet to the music room.
You will tell her that the instrument is new, and tragic, and requires a scholar's touch to ensure it is not defective. "
"Defective?" Bingley blinked. "But it cost a fortune!"
"Mr Bingley has a great talent for drama when he wants a biscuit," Tepper noted from the corner, holding up a gleaming boot. "I imagine he can apply the same technique to Mozart."
Bingley looked between them—his valet and his best friend, his two torturers, his two guardians.
"Actually, there is a card party where you could be invaluable," Bingley said rubbing his jaw pensively. "A circular attack. You think it will work?"
"I think," the Colonel said, standing up and clapping Charles on the shoulder, "that you have dug enough ditches, Bingley. It is time to stop playing with the dirt and start playing the music. To the Campaign."
"To the Campaign," Bingley whispered, staring at the door where the silent pianoforte waited. "And to the depth."