Chapter Twenty-Three The Gouty Cherub and the Dappled Grey #2
“I shall be there, sir,” Robert promised, his pulse roaring in his ears.
“As shall I!” Richard agreed with fervour.
“Excellent.” Mr Bennet tipped his hat. “Good day, Lord Keathley. Colonel. Miss de Bourgh.”
“Good day!” Sir William chirped, scurrying after his friend.
The door closed, leaving the Fitzwilliams in the dusty silence of the parlour.
Robert continued staring at the door, the reality of the victory washing over him. The Sphinx had been conquered. The gates of Longbourn were open.
“Well,” Anne remarked, brushing a speck of dust from her sleeve. “That went well. He did not call you out.”
“He likes him,” Richard laughed, shaking his head. “The man actually likes him. Robert, you brilliant, filthy idiot, you are going to dine with her today.”
Robert looked down at his ruined clothes, then at the shattered cherub on the floor. He had four hours to bathe, dress, and prepare to lay his heart at the feet of an angel.
“Boodles!” he hollered. “I need the hot water drawn immediately, and I need the dark green coat. The one that makes my shoulders more imposing. And prepare yourself for the Tr?ne d’Amour. No more the Mathematical. Today, we conquer with poetry.”
THE YORKSHIRE RAIN did not fall; it staged a relentless, horizontal invasion.
It was not the polite, refreshing drizzle of the Home Counties, nor was it the passing thunderstorm of a London summer. This was a vindictive deluge that turned the sky the colour of a bruised plum and transformed the ground into a treacherous bog.
Inside the breakfast parlour of Bleakwood Hall—a name Bingley had initially thought romantic and now realised was a literal warning—the atmosphere was thicker than the porridge.
Caroline pulled a third cashmere shawl tightly around her shoulders, shivering in a wingback chair.
“I believe my toes have developed frostbite.” She glared at the fireplace, where three wet logs hissed in a pathetic display of defeat. “In June, Charles. It is June, and I am dressed for an expedition to Ben Nevis.”
Bingley forced a brittle smile onto his face. He buttered a piece of toast with enthusiasm, determined to maintain morale.
“It is a passing shower, Caroline.” He took a bite, ignoring the unfortunate reality that the toast had the exact texture of a wet riding boot. “The country air is bracing! It clears the lungs!”
“It fills the lungs with pneumonia.” Caroline sneered at the windowpane, watching a rivulet of muddy water slide down the glass.
“I have not seen a single carriage in four days. There is no society. I wore my silk gown yesterday, and the only creature to witness it was an inexplicably aggressive cow. There is nothing here but sheep, Charles. And they are all wet.”
Mr Hurst pushed his porcelain plate away with a hollow groan.
“The cook here does not comprehend butter.” Hurst rubbed his temples, a man deep in the throes of culinary mourning. “I asked for a simple Dutch Sauce with my eggs. She looked at me as if I had spoken in tongues and handed me a jar of pickled onions. I am fading away. My waistcoats are loose.”
“You could endure a looser waistcoat, Mr Hurst.” Louisa picked at her own plate, her expression vacant.
“Though I do agree about the utter desolation. We were promised a grand country estate. Instead, we are marooned on a marsh. If Mr Darcy were here, he would undoubtedly have words with the landlord.”
At the mention of Mr Darcy, Caroline let out a wounded sigh and pressed her lavender-scented handkerchief to her forehead.
“Mr Darcy!” Caroline’s voice trembled with the injustice of it all. “He is far away from this damp purgatory. You should have insisted he accompany us here, just as he did last year in Hertfordshire. He could help you.”
Bingley’s smile cracked, the edges fraying under the assault of his sisters’ misery.
“Darcy does not know everything.” Bingley adjusted his cravat, though the starch had long since surrendered to the humidity.
“He does not understand the majesty of the equestrian arts! We are not here for ballrooms, Caroline. We are here for the horses, for the dappled grey. She is an absolute marvel of nature.”
Caroline closed her eyes, praying for patience.
“You abandoned a perfectly respectable lease in Hertfordshire, Charles, for a horse.”
Bingley stood up abruptly.
“Hertfordshire is a lovely county, but it is... it is firmly in the past.” He puffed out his chest, attempting to project the authority of a seasoned country squire. “A man must look to his future, and my future lies in the stables. I am going to inspect my angel right now.”
“Do try not to drown on the way to the barn,” Hurst mumbled, his head resting against the table.
Bingley marched out of the parlour, determined to prove them all wrong. He grabbed his finest beaver-skin top hat and a woollen cloak from the hall stand, stepping out into the Yorkshire morning.
The wind immediately stole his hat.
Bingley watched it sail away into a patch of thistles, deciding that retrieving it was a battle he could not win. He pulled his cloak tighter and began the trek to the stables.
With every step, his immaculate Hessians sank two inches into the muck, requiring a monumental physical effort to pull them back out. By the time he reached the stone stables, he was panting, his hair was plastered to his forehead, and his trousers were splattered with a foul-smelling brown sludge.
Mr Simms, the estate’s dour stable master, was leaning against a stall, chewing on a piece of straw. He did not bow, nor did he tip his cap.
“Good morning, Simms!” Bingley forced his cheerful tone to return, clapping his hands together. “Capital weather for the ducks, eh?”
Simms stared at him, chewing the straw slowly.
“The ducks are miserable, sir.” Simms pointed a calloused thumb towards the largest stall at the end of the corridor. “The grey is agitated. The damp makes her temperamental.”