As the vehicle lurched forward, the rhythmicclip-clopof the horses' hooves rocked him gently from side to side, but in his head, the rhythm was all wrong. It was too regular. It lacked the storm.
London passed by outside the window—a blur of grey stone and busy people. Usually, Charles spent his journeys looking out, waving to acquaintances, or checking his reflection in the glass to ensure his cravat had not wilted into social unacceptability.
Today, he saw nothing. He was still in the music room.
He tapped his gloved fingers against his knee, trying to find the rhythm Miss Bennet had played. He could not. It was too complex, too wild. He enjoyed a simple country dance and Mary Bennet had just played a hurricane.
He thought of the way she had looked, surrounded by the golden light of the afternoon. She had seemed so solid. So real. She was not a "blue-eyed angel" or a "delicate flower." She was a person who felt things with a strength that frightened and moved him all at once.
Mary Bennet.
The name had always been a placeholder in his mind. Jane's sister. The plain one. The one who reads. The one who is usually obscured by a fern at assemblies.
He had been a fool. A blind, shallow fool who deserved to be hit by a doorframe. Twice.
"Turnip," he whispered to the empty carriage, a sudden laugh bubbling up in his throat.
His mind drifted back to the exhibition.I am merely being accurate.She wore her bluntness like armour. She hid behind her books and her spectacles and her brown dresses because she thought the world did not want to see her.
And maybe the world did not. The world wanted delicate debutantes. The world wanted sparkling laughter and soft smiles behind ivory fans. The world wanted women who were decorative and quiet.
But Charles was tired of sparkling. He was tired of surface.
He thought of Netherfield and of the empty halls waiting for him. He had been worried about being lonely there. He had been worried about the silence. But Mary Bennet was not afraid of the silence. She filled it. She took the silence by the throat and turned it into music that made a grown man want to weep.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook. He had purchased it that very morning to record his "Deep Thoughts."
He opened it. So far, it contained only a reminder to buy new boot polish and a note that said:Does moss grow on the north side because it is cold, or because it is lonely?
He winced at his own earlier attempt at philosophy. The carriage jolted over a rut, making his hand shake, but he wrote with determination.
Netherfield needs a big pianoforte.
He stared at the words. It was a practical thought. A landlord's thought. He had shipped Caroline's instrument to Thornwood, therefore he needed one. Logical. Or was it?
He was not just going back to Hertfordshire to farm. He was not just going back to prove he could stand on his owntwo feet. He was going back to find out what other songs Mary Bennet was hiding in that fortress she built around her heart. And perhaps, if he was very lucky, and very patient, he could convince her to play one just for him.
"To the north," Charles said to the air, assuming a pose of command that was ruined only slightly by the carriage hitting a pothole. "To the mud. And to the music."
He leaned back, closing his eyes, only to snap them open instantly. He reached to rap on the roof to stop the carriage, his hand hovering.
"Flowers," he whispered to the empty seats. "I should send flowers. A thank you. Not for the meeting at the Academy, but for the storm."
He bit his lip, his brow furrowing. Would it be too much? She did not know he had heard her. It would be an admission of eavesdropping. It would be a breach of etiquette. It would be a secret revealed.
But as the carriage turned to Portman Square, Bingley realised he did not care about the rules of a secret. He had spent his life following the rules, and he had ended up a ghost.
"Flowers," he repeated, his voice firming with a new kind of agency. "Yellow ones. Or perhaps white. A gift that says... thank you for the depth."
He leaned back again, a small, hopeful smile playing on his lips. He was going back to Netherfield. He was buying an estate. He was going to buy a very big pianoforte. And for the first time in his life, he was not just humming along to someone else's tune. He was starting to hear the music.
