Darcy did not laugh. He looked at Charles, and a slow respect dawned in his eyes, replacing the usual patient indulgence.
"A freehold," he murmured. "That is permanent, Bingley. That is roots. That is a seat. It is significant."
"I know." Charles stood up and began to pace, his energy too great for the chair. "I want roots. I want to argue with a steward about fences. I want to care about the price of corn. I want to be the man who stays. I ran away last time. I let my sisters and you... I let everyone tell me what to do. And I left a mess behind. I left unhappiness."
He did not say Jane's name. He did not need to. The ghost of her disappointment hung between them; a spectre Charles had carried for months like a stone in his shoe.
"I cannot fix the past," he continued, stopping by the window to gaze out at the bright London sky. "I know that. Miss Bennet is happy. She is Lady Keathley now. She has a husband who adores her. I am happy for her. Truly."
He turned back to the room.
"But I hate the man who ran away, Darcy. I hate him. He was weak. He was a leaf in the wind. Buying Netherfield... it is my way of killing him. The next time I face a difficulty, I shall not be able to pack my trunks and flee. I shall own the roof, own the land. I shall have to stand and fight."
Darcy stood and walked around the desk. He extended his hand.
Charles took it. The grip was firm, solid, an anchor in the storm he was inviting.
"Congratulations," Darcy said. "Netherfield could not ask for a better master. It has been waiting for a man who cares enough to stay."
"I am terrified," Charles admitted, a grin breaking through his solemnity. "I have no idea how to run an estate, Darcy. I think cows confuse me. They have very large eyes and they chew sideways."
"You will learn." Darcy released his hand. "And you will make mistakes. But they will be your mistakes. That is the privilege of ownership. And Bingley?"
"Yes?"
"Do try to avoid buying any more coats. The mud in Hertfordshire is notoriously unforgiving of velvet."
After the better part of an hour of friendly banter with his old friend, Charles felt lighter, as if he had shed a heavy winter cloak he had been wearing for most of his life. He walked with Darcy towards the main hall, chatting with great animation about the structural integrity of carriage wheels.
"I shall need a sturdy vehicle," Charles was saying, gesturing broadly with his gloves. "The lanes near Meryton are horrible. I recall my sister complaining that the ruts were deep enough to swallow a pony. I shall need springs of steel, Darcy. Perhaps I should commission a chariot. Like a Roman. Do you think a chariot is too aggressive for a vestry meeting?"
They reached the top of the grand staircase. The house was quiet, the servants moving with that invisible, friction-less efficiency that Darcy House was famous for.
Then, the sound hit him.
It was not a noise. It was a physical sensation. A chord, deep and resonant, floated up from the corridor that led to the music room. It was followed by a melody so mournful, so achingly hollow, that it seemed to suck the warmth right out of the air.
Charles stopped dead. His foot hovered over the first step, suspended in mid-descent.
"Is that Miss Darcy?" he whispered, clutching the banister as if the house were suddenly tilting. "It sounds like a ghost. A ghost who is terribly upset."
He had heard Miss Darcy play many times. She was perfect. Her notes were pearls on a string—smooth, identical, and lovely. This was different. This was raw. It stumbled. It hesitated. And then it soared with a desperate, clawing hunger that made his chest ache.
Darcy had stopped as well. He tilted his head, listening. A strange expression crossed his face—a mixture of brotherly pride and a peculiar sort of resignation.
"No. It is not Georgiana. Though I believe she is in the room, likely cowering."
The music shifted. The mournful cry turned into a storm. The notes came faster, tumbling over each other, a cascade of minor keys that sounded like rain lashing against a windowpane during a hurricane. It was angry. It was lonely. It was the most beautiful thing Charles had ever heard.
"I must see," Charles breathed.
He forgot about his carriage. He forgot about the Roman chariot. He turned from the stairs and walked down the corridor, drawn by the invisible thread of the melody like a sailor to a siren.
The music grew louder. It was not polite. It was not the sort of thing one played to entertain guests while they drank tea and gossiped about neighbours. It was a private conversation between a soul and the silence, and the soul was shouting.
Charles reached the door. It was slightly ajar. He hesitated. He knew he should leave. To listen uninvited was an intrusion. It was akin to reading a diary left open on a table. But his feet would not move. He was a man in search of depth, and he had just found the deep end of the ocean.
Darcy moved up beside him, silent as a shadow. He did not push the door open, nor did he pull Charles away. He simply stood there, the Guardian of the Moment.
