Chapter Fourteen The Storm and the Shelter #2
Mary had a sudden, visceral image of Mr Bingley—her muddy, eager, ridiculous Mr Bingley—staggering through the rain, his weight doubled, his usually smiling face set in a grimace of effort.
The Ledger updated itself with violent force.
Item Four: The Gentleman is not merely a fop. He is Atlas.
Correction: He is my Atlas.
"Netherfield?" Mrs Bennet shrieked. "He is at Netherfield?
But who will nurse him? Mr Bingley is a bachelor!
I cannot send my daughters! The servants will steal his watch!
And if he dies... oh, the entail! Mr Collins will arrive within the hour!
I can feel it! He smells disaster like a bloodhound smells a fox! "
"Mamma, please." Mary's voice sounded strange to her own ears—hollow, distant, but undeniably steady.
"We shall be in the hedgerows by Tuesday!" Mrs Bennet wailed, collapsing onto the settee she had just saved from the rain. "I must write to my Son! The Viscount must know! He will save us from the Collins monster! Kitty, fetch my quill! No, fetch the smelling salts! No, fetch the Viscount!"
"You are not destitute yet, Madam," the Colonel intervened, his voice rising over the lamentation. "Mr Jones is already on his way. I rode ahead to inform you."
"The apothecary?" Kitty sobbed into a cushion. "He uses leeches for everything! Even for head colds! Father hates leeches! It is a tragedy! A gothic tragedy!"
"It is a broken leg, Miss Kitty, not a haunting," the Colonel countered, though he looked helplessly at the weeping girl, clearly realising that facing a French cannon was preferable to facing a hysterical Bennet.
Mary walked past them. She moved through the panic like a ghost passing through a wall. Her mother was screaming about real estate law. Kitty was mourning the current medical practises. The Colonel was dripping on the rug.
None of it mattered. The logic of the situation was absolute. Her father was hurt. Mr Bingley was exhausted. The Ledger required a balance.
She reached the door.
"Mary!" Mrs Bennet cried out, spotting her retreat. "Where are you going? Do not leave me in my hour of affliction! Who will mix my salts?"
Mary turned. She adjusted her spectacles, which had slid down her nose.
"I am going to Netherfield," she stated.
"Netherfield?" Mrs Bennet gaped, her mouth forming a perfect 'O'. "Unchaperoned? In a storm? Think of your reputation! Think of the mud!"
"I am thinking of my father," Mary replied, tying the ribbons of her bonnet with precise, angry movements. "And I am thinking that Mr Bingley has carried enough weight for one day. He requires ballast."
She turned and walked out, leaving the pandemonium behind her, marching into the rain.
*
Mary Bennet swept into the entrance hall of Netherfield Park. Her sodden hem dragged across the black-and-white marble, leaving a trail Mrs Nicholls would likely mourn for weeks.
A footman, pale and young, moved to intercept the dripping intruder, but halted as a streak of angry orange fur shot past his ankles.
Charles-the-cat had entered the premises.
He stopped in the centre of the rug, shook his wet coat with the disdain of an emperor inconvenienced by the weather, and effectively anointed a priceless tapestry with rain water.
"Miss Bennet!"
Charles Bingley appeared at the top of the stairs.
He was a ruin. The "Man of Depth" had become a "Man of Sediment.
" Clay caked his breeches, smeared his waistcoat, and darkened the red curls plastering his forehead.
He did not look like a host. He looked like a golem constructed entirely of optimism and topsoil.
He vibrated with the raw energy of having just run a mile with a patriarch in his arms.
Mary ascended the stairs, her hand gripping the banister until her knuckles turned the colour of old parchment.
"Where is he?"
"The Green Room." He reached for her hand, then pulled back, noticing his own filth. He wiped his palms on his breeches, which only succeeded in redistributing the geology of Hertfordshire. "Mr Jones is setting the bone. It... it is not a quiet process."
"I am not here for quiet, Mr Bingley." Mary marched past him. "I am here for my father."
Mr Bingley scrambled to follow, his boots squelching on the plush runner with a sound like a wet sponge hitting a wall.
"Your mother?" he asked, his voice cracking. "Is she..."
"She is currently drafting a letter to the Viscount regarding the entail. She believes we are to be evicted next week." Mary did not slow down. "She sends her regards, and a request for brandy. For herself."
"Right. Of course." He gestured to a maid who was shrinking into an alcove. "Towels. Immediately. Send a footman with a bottle of brandy to Longbourn. And... perhaps a saucer of milk?" He stared at the orange cat trotting determinedly at Mary's heels.
They reached the heavy oak door. A low, ragged groan emanated from within.
Mary froze. The sound stripped away the "Mule" armour for a heartbeat, leaving her trembling.
Mr Bingley stepped closer, his presence a wall of heat and wet linen at her back.
"He is strong, Miss Bennet," he whispered. "He complained about my drainage strategy halfway here. He said my gradient was optimistic. I believe he insulted my shovel usage while semi-conscious."
A dry, hysterical sob caught in Mary's throat. "He would."
She pushed the door open.
The room smelled of laudanum and wet dog (though the dog was, in fact, Mr Bingley). Mr Jones, the apothecary, stood by the bed, his sleeves rolled up to reveal hairy forearms. He held a splint.
"Ah! Miss Bennet!" Mr Jones beamed, oblivious to the grim atmosphere. "A clean break! A marvel of geometry! The tibia has snapped with remarkable precision. I have seen lesser fractures in men half his age. It is a textbook snap!"
Mr Bennet lay pale and still against the pillows, his breathing shallow. His leg was propped up, a grotesque parody of comfort.
"Is he in pain?" Mary moved to the bedside, ignoring the apothecary's manic grin.
"The laudanum has taken the edge off," Mr Jones assured her, tying a bandage with a flourish. "He will sleep. I considered leeches for the bruising, but Colonel Lindon threatened to defenestrate me."
"The Colonel is a wise man," Mary murmured. She took her father's hand. It felt cold, calloused, limp.
Mr Bingley hovered by the door, unsure of his place. He watched her, his eyes dark with a mixture of fear and reverence. He seemed to want to approach, but felt unworthy to intrude on the family grief while covered in half the county.
"Mr Bingley." Mary did not turn. "Come here."
He started, then crossed the room. He stood on the opposite side of the bed.
"You carried him." It was not a question.
He flushed beneath the dirt. "The cart would have taken too long. The storm... the lightning was striking the oaks. I could not leave him."
Mary raised her eyes to his. She saw the exhaustion etched into his features, the mud that stained his skin, the sheer, undeniable reality of him. He was not a poet. He was not a dashing rake. He was a man who had lifted her father out of the mud and run through a storm because it was necessary.
Item Five, her mind noted automatically. Atlas is a Gentleman.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"I would have carried him to London if I had to," he shrugged, and then winced as his shoulder cracked.
A low rumble came from the bed. Mr Bennet's eyelids fluttered. He groaned again, shifting slightly. The cat, sensing movement, hopped onto the coverlet and settled near the injured leg, purring like a small, orange engine.
"Papa?" Mary squeezed his hand.
Mr Bennet's eyes opened. They were glassy, unfocused, floating on a sea of opiates. He blinked at the ceiling, then drifted his gaze to Mary, and finally to the muddy figure of Mr Bingley.
"Charles," Mr Bennet rasped.
"I am here, sir." He leaned in, anxiously.
"Your North Pasture," Mr Bennet whispered, his voice slurring slightly. "It is... excessively muddy."
"It is, sir," Mr Bingley laughed, a sound that was half-sob. "It is a swamp."
"Good." Mr Bennet closed his eyes again. "Excellent for... growing... character."