Chapter Four: The Practice Room
The library at Darcy House had a specific gravitational pull. In there, decisions were made without hesitation. Charles Bingley stood in the doorway, clutching his hat as though it were a shield against the overwhelming competence of the room. He took a breath. He was a man of depth now. Men of Depth did not feel the urge to flee simply because a single shelf in Darcy's study contained more books than they had read in a lifetime.
He stepped across the threshold. His boots clicked against the parquetry, a hollow sound that seemed to announce his lack of substance to the busts of Roman emperors lining the mantelpiece. Marcus Aurelius looked quite judgmental.
Fitzwilliam Darcy sat behind a desk the size of a small barge. He was writing a letter, his quill moving with impressive, rhythmic speed.Scratch. Dip. Scratch.He did not look up immediately. That was the difference between them. Darcy was a planet, fixed in his orbit, unbothered by nebulous matter. Charles was that very matter, drifting wherever the wind of public opinion blew.
Not anymore,Charles thought, tightening his grip on his hat.I am a meteor. Or at least a very heavy rock.
Charles cleared his throat—a sound intended to be authoritative but emerging as a polite squeak.
Darcy finished a sentence, dotted the page with a sharp, decisive stab of ink, and finally raised his head. He offered a smile that was tight but genuine. He set the quill down and leaned back.
"Bingley."
Charles marched to the chair opposite the desk and sat. He placed his hat on his knees. He looked at the vast array of papers—leases, investments, letters from stewards. It was a kingdom of paper, and Darcy ruled it with a bored sort of mastery.
"I have been to White's," Charles announced, needing to fill the silence before it judged him. "I spoke with Colonel Lindon. Excellent chap. You remember him fromThe Chase. We discussed the nature of purpose."
Darcy raised an eyebrow, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the arm of his chair. "Indeed? And what did the good Colonel decide? Is purpose a type of brandy?"
"Purpose," Charles repeated, enjoying the weight of the word. "It is a heavy concept, Darcy. Very heavy. I have decided that I have been floating too long. Like a cork. Or a feather. Or a very expensive handkerchief dropped from a balcony. I intend to acquire ballast."
He looked around the room. This was ballast. The heavy velvet curtains, the dark wood, the globes that showed the entire world as something to be measured and managed. Charles wanted that. He wanted to sit in a room and have people worry about disturbing him. Currently, people onlyworried about disturbing him if he was standing in front of the tea tray.
"Ballast is useful," Darcy agreed, his tone without mockery, though his eyes held a flicker of amusement. "It keeps the ship upright in a storm. Do you expect a storm, Bingley?"
"I am creating one."
Charles leaned forward, widening his eyes in a way he believed to be full of serious intent. "I am tired of the calm, Darcy. The calm is boring. The calm is where I buy coats I do not need and let my sisters decide where we dine. I want the waves. I want the pitchforks."
"Pitchforks?" Darcy blinked. "Is there a peasant uprising I should be aware of?"
"Metaphorical pitchforks," Charles clarified, waving a hand. "Though actual ones would also be acceptable. I need a challenge."
Darcy reached for a crystal decanter and poured two glasses of amber liquid. He slid one across the desk.
Charles took the glass. He stared into the liquid. It seemed like courage distilled into glass. He drank it. It burned—a sharp, grounding heat that settled in his chest and told him he could handle estate management and possibly a duel.
"I am going back." Charles let his voice drop deliberately, aiming for a baritone of resolve. "To Hertfordshire. I shall become a country esquire, as my father intended for me. I shall be rustic. I shall wear kersey."
Darcy did not flinch. He did not offer a polite excuse or a warning about the dangers of rural society (which mostly consisted of fierce mothers and bad roads). He simply nodded,a single motion of acceptance, that carried the weight of a blessing from the Archbishop of Canterbury.
"Then you shall need all the help you can get. And perhaps a sturdier coat for the mud."
Charles smiled. It was the first time in months he was not just visiting his friend's life, but actually starting his own.
"I will not be able to join you this time, Bingley. I am a married man, and in a few weeks, my family and I will remove to Pemberley. Elizabeth has plans for the gardens, and I have plans to avoid the neighbours."
"I am not asking for your presence, Darcy. I only wanted to tell you that I am not just going back for the summer," Charles said, the words rushing out before his courage could retreat back into his boots. "I visited my solicitor this morning."
Darcy looked up at him, his expression sharpening.
"I have instructed him to draft the papers." Charles took a deep breath. "I am buying the estate. Netherfield Park. I never gave up the lease, as you know. I am purchasing the freehold."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Charles waited for the laughter. He waited for the sensible list of reasons why this was a terrible idea.Bingley, you have the attention span of a squirrel. Bingley, you do not know a carrot from a tulip. Bingley, you will be bored within a week and brawl with your valet for pastime.
