Chapter Twenty-Three The Gouty Cherub and the Dappled Grey
THE AIR IN THE NETHERFIELD parlour tasted primarily of pulverised gypsum and the lingering ghost of Miss Caroline Bingley’s aesthetic choices.
Robert Fitzwilliam, Viscount Keathley, was dangling from a ladder, a chisel clutched in his right hand, staring at a particularly egregious plaster cherub that adorned the cornice. It was fat, it was smug, and it was holding a harp at an angle that defied both anatomy and good taste.
“If you do not remove that winged monstrosity,” Anne stated from the safety of the sofa—a sofa which, regrettably, still bore the faint, musky imprint of Miss Bingley’s perfume—“I shall be forced to set fire to the wing. It is an affront to the eye. It looks as though it is suffering from a very severe case of gout.”
Robert wiped a smudge of white dust from his forehead, leaving a streak of plaster across his skin. “I am getting to it, Anne. Rome was not built in a day, and unfortunately, this monstrosity appears to be reinforced with iron rods.”
“Bingley’s taste was not merely bad,” Anne continued, her voice sharp enough to carve glass. “It was an act of aggression. Who hangs a portrait of a pheasant in a dining room? It is practically a threat to the appetite.”
“A pheasant is festive,” Richard called out from the doorway.
He was deep in a heated debate with Mrs Nicholls, the Netherfield housekeeper, regarding the precise boiling point of leg of lamb the cook must achieve.
“Mutton must be braised, not boiled. Boiling meat is a culinary atrocity, Mrs Nicholls. I was in the Peninsula. I have seen things. Do not make me see a boiled roast.”
Robert grunted, applying more pressure to the chisel. “Richard, if you frighten the staff into a mutiny, we shall be forced to eat nothing but raw turnips. Leave the woman to her devices.”
“I am merely preserving our standards, Brother!”
Darcy entered the room with Georgiana trailing in his wake. They were the only two people in the house who did not appear like they had just crawled out of a sweep’s soot-bag. Darcy was impeccable in navy, his cravat tied with such precision that it seemed to mock Robert’s state of disarray.
“You are being punished by the masonry, Robert,” Darcy observed, his voice holding that infuriating, contented lilt he had adopted since his engagement.
“I am fighting a war on two fronts,” Robert panted. “The cherub is winning and Anne is threatening to burn the house down.”
“Georgiana and I are off to Longbourn. The banns were read on Sunday, and we thought we might stop by to see if Elizabeth needs anything from the village,” Darcy said, while Georgiana beamed.
“Give her my regards,” Robert said, his voice tight. “And tell her that if she requires to move any more heavy furniture, she needs only ask. I have had a great deal of practice.”
“I shall tell her you are busy being a martyr,” Darcy chuckled. He leaned in, his voice dropping. “It has been one week, Robert, and you are still sweating through your shirt. Do you intend to call on her, or are you just going to redecorate the entire county of Hertfordshire?”
“I am building a foundation,” Robert muttered. “Literally.”
“You are building a house of cards,” Darcy countered, patting his shoulder. “Go and wash your face before you frighten the maids.”
They swept out, leaving behind a wake of polished refinement. Robert watched them go with a pang of jealousy. Darcy had his lady. Robert had a plaster cherub with gout.
He went back to work, giving the chisel a whack with the mallet. The cherub groaned, the plaster cracked, and with a sound like a pistol shot, the cornice piece gave way.
Robert had not expected the weight of it. The plaster came down like a falling gargoyle. He tried to leap clear, but his heel caught on the edge of the ladder.
He fell.
There is no graceful way to fall from a ladder while holding a mallet. He went down in a cloud of dust, limbs flailing, landing squarely on his back with a thud that knocked the wind out of him. The cherub landed beside him, its smug little face shattering into a dozen pieces.
He lay there, wheezing, staring up at the ceiling, covered in a fine layer of white powder, feeling like a ghost who had died in a messy avalanche.
“Well,” Anne remarked, not bothering to look up from her book. “That was dramatic. I assume you are intending to do the whole room in that fashion?”
“I meant to do that,” he wheezed, patting his head to determine if it was still there. “It was a... a strategic demolition.”
“I am sure it was,” she replied, turning a page.
It was at that exact moment that the front doors opened. He could hear the thud of boots on the marble foyer, followed by the clatter of two walking sticks.
“I tell you, Sir William,” a dry, droll voice echoed, “I am curious to meet this gentleman. Darcy mentioned his cousin is a viscount, but my experience with the aristocracy has led me to believe that they are peacocks disguised as fops.”
“Oh, my friend, you are too cynical! The viscount is a capital fellow, you shall see. Lord Keathley is a most distinguished gentleman. We became acquainted at Rosings, you know. A charming man. Very charming. Entirely at home in the highest circles.”
Behind Sir William stood a tall, thin gentleman with an elegance that not even the chaotic surroundings could dim.
The gentleman looked at the broken plaster, then at the mallet, and then at Anne, who offered a serene nod, and Richard, who had instinctively hidden Mrs Nicholls behind his back.
Finally, the gentleman’s gaze settled on Robert.
Robert stood frozen. His shirt was a disaster, his trousers were comical, and his hair, usually styled to perfection, was standing on end, caked in white dust.
The stranger stepped past the paralysed Sir William and over a stray piece of plaster wing, his face a mask of droll sincerity.
“My good man,” he asked, his voice as dry as the dust coating Robert’s hair. “Is there a master in this house? I was told I had to call on a peer.”
Sir William finally found his voice, letting out a breathless squeak. “Mr Bennet! Good heavens, man, that is the peer! My lord Keathley, I beg your pardon for the intrusion—and, oh dear, have you suffered an incident?”
Mr Bennet.
Mr Bennet lifted an eyebrow. He surveyed Robert, his eyes twinkling. He seemed to be weighing Robert’s worth as a human being against the amount of rubble on the floor.
Richard choked on a laugh, rapidly disguising it as a cough, while Anne’s eyes gleamed with unholy delight.
Robert felt the heat rush to his face, turning the plaster dust on his cheeks into a thick paste.
He possessed a lightning-fast wit; he had traded barbs with the sharpest minds in London and he recognised exactly what Mr Bennet was doing.
The man was testing the waters, probing the aristocratic armour to see what lay beneath.
Robert drew himself up to his full height. He brushed a massive clump of gypsum from his shoulder and executed a bow of such sweeping grace that it created a small secondary cloud of dust.
“Mr Bennet,” Robert said, his rich baritone steady despite his appearance. “Sir William. You must forgive the state of the reception. The peerage is indeed present, though currently engaged in a violent and largely losing battle against Miss Bingley’s aesthetic.”
“I see,” Mr Bennet drawled, his eyes twinkling. “So, you are Viscount Keathley. I must confess, my lord, when Darcy informed me that you had leased Netherfield, I did not expect to find you covered in ceiling debris.”
“I am a man of many talents, sir,” Robert replied, stepping out of the wreckage. “Today, I am a plasterer. Tomorrow, I aim for carpentry.”
Sir William chuckled nervously. “Oh, Mr Bennet, you are too droll! His Lordship is merely taking an active interest in his estate! The mark of a capital landlord!”
“Indeed,” Mr Bennet murmured, walking a slow, deliberate circle around the shattered cherub.
“Though it is a curious thing, is it not, Sir William? A wealthy peer with a grand townhouse in London and, as rumour has it, a sprawling estate in Cornwall abandons all for the air of Hertfordshire. Have you an ailment, my lord?”
“The air in London is notoriously stifling, Mr Bennet,” Robert held his ground, a wry, honest smile pulling at his lips. “And I found myself... captivated by the prospect of the local scenery. It seemed imperative that I relocate immediately to appreciate it properly.”
“The scenery,” Mr Bennet repeated, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Hertfordshire is famous for it. My eldest daughter, Jane, is particularly fond of walking the local lanes. She appreciates the scenery quite a bit.”
Robert’s heart stilled. The invocation of her name was deliberate. It was a challenge, and an invitation.
“Then Miss Bennet has impeccable taste,” he answered, the banter dropping away to reveal the dedication beneath. “I should very much like to discuss the scenery with her. If her father has no objections to a man who occasionally falls off ladders.”
Mr Bennet stared at Robert for a long, silent moment. He took in the sweat, the dust, and the ruined clothes. He saw a man of immense wealth and consequence who was willing to abandon all dignity, rip apart a house, and risk physical injury, all for the chance to court his daughter.
To a cynic like Mr Bennet, it was the highest form of entertainment. To a father, it was the ultimate proof of devotion.
Mr Bennet’s smile reached his eyes. “I find that a man willing to risk life and limb to improve his surroundings is a man who commits himself fully to his endeavours. I have no objections, Lord Keathley. We dine at Longbourn at six o’clock,” he added, turning casually towards the door, tapping his walking stick on the floor.
“If you can manage to excavate yourself from the rubble by then, you and your relatives are welcome to join us. Your cousins will dine with us as well, and, colonel,” he turned to Richard, “I believe my wife serves excellent mutton.”