Chapter Six: The Gospel of Clay
July 1812
Mr Bingley's Journal
The carriage rattled through Meryton like a reluctant debutante at her first ball—hesitant, overdressed, and drawing ruthlessly assessing stares. I, Charles Bingley, sat inside, my new riding coat buttoned to perfection, my boots polished to a shine that mocked the dusty road outside. Tepper, my valet and occasional oracle of doom, perched opposite me, his face a mask of stoic suffering as he clutched a valise that contained, among other essentials, three spare cravats and a treatise on estate management I had impulsively purchased in London.
"Tepper," I spoke, peering out of the window at the familiar façades of the village, "behold Meryton! It has not changed a whit since last November. The bakery still looks as though it is judging one's choice of pastry, and the inn—ah, the Green Man—remains a bastion of ale and unspoken regrets."
Tepper adjusted his spectacles, which he wore not for vision but, I suspected, to lend an air of intellectual superiority to his judgments. "Indeed, sir. Though one might argue that Meryton has endured your absence with remarkable fortitude.The villagers appear to have continued breathing without interruption."
I laughed, a bright sound that echoed in the confined space. "You wound me, Tepper! But fear not—I return not as a fleeting visitor, but as a man of substance. Depth! I shall prove to all and sundry that I am an anchor. A very well-dressed anchor."
Tepper smiled. "An anchor, sir? One hopes it does not sink entirely."
"Have faith in me, Tepper!" I slapped my knee for emphasis, nearly dislodging my hat.
"Certainly, sir. I have it in abundance."
As the carriage trundled past the bakery, I caught sight of the baker—Mr Pyman, was it? —glaring at my steel-sprung equipage. I waved cheerfully. He turned away, pretending to rearrange a tray of loaves.
"See that, Tepper? The man is overcome with joy at my return. Positively overcome."
"If you say so, sir," Tepper murmured, folding his hands in his lap.
The carriage finally creaked to a halt before Netherfield Park, its grand façade looming in silent judgment of my return. I alighted with a flourish, my boots crunching on the gravel as though announcing a royal procession. The servants had assembled in a line—footmen, maids, the housekeeper Mrs Nicholls—all staring at me with polite blankness. These people had dusted the same furniture for months without a master to appreciate it.
"Mrs Nicholls!" I beamed, striding forward. "How splendid to see you! Netherfield looks immaculate. Positivelygleaming!"
Mrs Nicholls curtsied, her expression as warm as a January dip in the Thames. "Mr Bingley. We were not expecting you until the morrow. The linens are aired, but the silver is still in the vaults."
"Excellent! We shall polish it together. I am here to stay, you see. Permanently. No more flitting to London like a migratory bird. I am a fixture! A very eligible fixture."
A murmur rippled through the line—a footman coughed; a maid adjusted her cap. Mrs Nicholls's eyes narrowed fractionally. "Permanently, sir? The lease is for a year, as I recall."
"Ah, but I intend to purchase!" I clapped my hands, sending a small cloud of road dust into the air. "Netherfield shall be mine. Ours! We shall cultivate the earth and host balls and become the envy of the county."
The servants exchanged glances that spoke volumes—volumes entitledThe Transient Follies of Young Gentlemen. Tepper, disembarking behind me with grace, while carrying six trunks of exquisite waistcoats, cleared his throat.
"Shall I see to the unpacking, sir? Or would you prefer to address the staff on the philosophical merits of permanence?"
I waved him off. "Unpack, Tepper! And prepare my sturdiest coat. Tomorrow, we conquer the soil."
As the servants dispersed—slowly, as if hoping I might vanish in a puff of smoke—I retired to the drawing room and surveyed the expanse of the room critically. Tepper joined me shortly, bearing a tray with tea and an expression of mild exasperation.
"Tepper," I said, sinking into a chair, "what think you of my reception? The villagers seemed... reserved. As though I hadonce promised them a fête and delivered none. Though I did host a grand ball before leaving."
Tepper poured the tea with precision, his movements a ballet of efficiency. "Reserved, sir? One might say glacial. You departed rather abruptly last November, leaving behind a trail of unanswered invitations and, I believe, certain expectations among the local mammas."
I winced. "Ah, yes. The Bennets. Jane—er, Lady Keathley now—is happily wed, but the others... I was a weathercock then, Tepper. Spun by my sisters and Darcy. But no more! I shall prove my depth. Starting with the steward. Fetch Mr Greene, would you? We must discuss the north pasture forthwith."
Tepper bowed, but not before delivering a parting shot. "Depth through dirt, sir? A novel approach. One hopes it does not bury you entirely."
Mr Samuel Greene arrived promptly, his face as weathered as an old saddle and twice as unyielding. He carried a ledger under one arm and an air of scepticism that filled the room under the other.
"Mr Bingley," he greeted me, his voice dry as autumn leaves. "I was informed of your return. You are interested in the north pasture, I presume?"
"Precisely!" I leaped to my feet, gesturing grandly. "Drainage, Greene! We shall transform that bog into a paradise of wheat. Or whatever thrives in drained clay."
