"Do not rise, Mr Bingley." She advanced, her skirts hissing with the sound of serpents. "The mud claims you already. How unfortunate you ignored it last autumn. The ground was just as deep then, though perhaps not quite so... à la mode."
I opened my mouth. Nothing emerged.
She turned to her husband. "Do not let this young man waste too much of your time. He is liable to disappear mid-sentence. He has proved it."
I felt the barb land like an arrow in a target labelledCharles Bingley. "I buy Netherfield!" I protested, my voice cracking only slightly. "I stay!"
"Buying a county to buy a soul?" Her laugh was brittle as winter ice. "Extravagant! Very extravagant. Now, if you will excuse me, I have actual business to attend to."
She swept out, leaving behind only the faint scent of lavender and the heavy silence of utter defeat.
Mr Philips resumed his seat, his face once more a mask of professional calm. "I shall write to your London solicitor by Monday. Good day, Mr Bingley."
I stood, my boots leaving one final, muddy imprint on the carpet as a parting signature. Outside, Greene waited with the horses, his expression carefully neutral.
"She is quite formidable, sir," he gestured to the retreating figure of the lady.
I mounted Jupiter, my pride smarting, but my resolve hardened. "I persevere, Greene. Until she invites me to tea. And if she does not... well, I shall bring my own teapot."
We rode back towards Netherfield, the village whispers fading behind us.
Depth through dirt was my gospel, etched in clay, and signed in mud.
