Chapter Twenty-Three The Gouty Cherub and the Dappled Grey #3
“Nonsense!” Bingley beamed, marching to the stall. “She is an angel! A creature of perfect symmetry and soulful grace! She simply needs a gentle touch and a bit of conversation.”
He arrived at the stall and leaned over the wooden half-door.
The dappled grey mare stood in the centre of the enclosure. Back in London she seemed majestic, a Pegasus carved from marble and moonlight.
Here, she seemed like a large, wet, irritated horse. Her coat was matted with straw, her ears were pinned flat against her skull, and she was chewing on the edge of her feeding trough.
“There she is,” Bingley cooed, reaching into his pocket to retrieve a muffin he had stolen from the breakfast table. “Hello, my beauty. Hello, my sweet, perfect girl. Have you missed your master?”
He held out his palm, the muffin resting flat on his glove.
The mare stopped chewing the wood. She turned her head, fixing Bingley with an unblinking eye, but it was not a soulful gaze. It held only calculating disdain.
“Come now,” Bingley encouraged, wiggling his fingers slightly. “It is food from the master’s table!”
The horse snorted. A wet expulsion of air and equine mucus launched from her nostrils, covering the front of his waistcoat and his silk cravat in a sticky mist.
Bingley blinked, freezing in shock. He slowly lowered his hand.
“Well.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his chest. “I suppose you are not hungry.”
He opened the latch of the stall, determined to assert his dominance through a thorough brushing. He stepped inside, keeping his voice low and soothing, adopting the same tone he had used to charm half the drawing rooms in Mayfair.
“You are just out of sorts, my angel,” he said, reaching out to stroke her neck. “We shall go for a magnificent ride when the sun returns. We shall gallop across the moors, you and I, a perfect partnership of man and beast.”
The mare shifted her weight, and with the effortless power of a creature that weighed twelve hundred pounds, she lifted her left hind hoof and brought it down upon Bingley’s right foot.
A high-pitched squeal escaped him, the sort of noise a startled mouse might make. He attempted to pull his foot away, but the mare did not budge. She simply stood there, anchoring him to the straw-covered floor, staring straight ahead without a care in the world.
“Pardon me,” Bingley gasped, slapping her flank frantically. “My good girl. You are standing upon my toes. I require my toes.”
The horse ignored him. She reached out and took a bite of his cloak, chewing thoughtfully on the expensive fabric.
“Simms!” Bingley croaked, tears of agony springing to his eyes. “Simms, assistance, if you please!”
The stable master ambled over, taking in the scene with weary resignation. He slapped the mare’s rump with a flat palm.
“Move on, you great beast.”
The mare finally lifted her hoof.
Bingley stumbled, his crushed foot throbbing. He hopped on his left leg, wildly off balance, his arms windmilling in an attempt to remain upright.
He failed, pitching backward out of the stall and through the open doors of the stable, landing squarely in the centre of the courtyard.
However, he did not land on cobblestones.
He landed in a gelatinous puddle of mud, rainwater, and fresh horse manure.
The impact sent a wave of brown sludge splashing up over his shoulders, coating his hair and face and filling the collar of his ruined shirt.
He remained there in the muck, the rain falling continuously, soaking through to his undergarments.
Simms leaned over the bottom half of the stable door, peering down at the ruined gentleman.
“Shall I fetch a towel, sir?”
“No, Simms.” Bingley stared blankly at his hands, which were submerged in two inches of foul-smelling slime. “Leave me be.”
Simms nodded, turned around, and went back to his duties.
Bingley sat in the Yorkshire muck, the rain matting his blonde curls to his forehead, and started reminiscing.
He thought of the drawing room at Netherfield Park, the warm fire, the comfortable chairs, and the golden light of Jane Bennet.
Miss Bennet never sneezed mucus onto his waistcoats.
When he babbled about the weather, or a new dance, or the cut of a coat, Miss Bennet never chewed on his cloak and crushed his toes.
Miss Bennet smiled at him and listened to him with a warmth and an earnest sweetness that had made him feel like the most fascinating man in the British Empire.
Miss Bennet had looked at him with unfeigned adoration.
The dappled grey mare looked at him as if he were taking up space in her barn.
Bingley pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his mud-soaked arms around his legs. He closed his eyes, the rain mixing with tears spilling over his lashes.
Eventually, he sniffed and wiped his nose with a mud-caked sleeve.
He was stuck in Yorkshire with Caroline’s complaints, Hurst’s culinary despair, and a mare that wished him harm.
He looked at the grey, weeping sky, and for the first time in his perpetually cheerful, effortlessly sunny existence, Charles Bingley realised that he had ruined his own life and that he deserved Bleakwood.