And she had addressed him asdarling.
She had enquired after his welfare.
A dizzying wave of joy surged through him. She had recognised the depth!
He pivoted towards the bushes, arranging his features into what he trusted was an expression of humble gratitude. He squared his shoulders. He readied his voice for a declaration of unwavering devotion.
"Yes, darling, I am perfectly well!" Charles proclaimed, advancing upon the foliage. "I am entirely prepared to—"
He stopped short.
Mary Bennet was not gazing at him.
She crouched in the earth, her amber silk skirts irretrievably soiled, her spectacles perched precariously on the bridge of her nose. In her arms she cradled a furry bundle, orange, indignant, and emitting a low, perpetual rumble of displeasure.
A cat.
The creature was shivering, his coat matted with leaves and his tail thrashing. He fixed Charles with a yellow-eyed glare that conveyed imminent plans for the overthrow of human dominion.
Mary glanced up. Her eyes met Charles Bingley's, taking in his frozen posture, his expression of stunned deflation, and the durable coat catching the last rays of the setting sun.
"Oh." Mary's tone reverted to its customary measured neutrality. "Mr Bingley. I was unaware you were visiting."
Charles regarded the cat. He regarded Mary. He regarded the earth staining her gown, the very earth he had worn as a badge of honour upon his person.
"I... I was just departing," Charles managed, his heroic composure dissolving into mortification. "I thought... I heard a voice."
"I was addressing Charles," Mary explained, administering a precise scratch behind the cat's ears that transmuted his growl into a reluctant purr. "He has quarrelled with a lime tree. Trees prove remarkably obstinate, Mr Bingley. They exhibit no patience for those who attempt ascent without adequate preparation."
Charles absorbed the layered implication. He studied the cat, the beast bearing the name of his former failings, and experienced an unexpected surge of fellowship. Both were orange. Both contended with unforgiving terrain. Both presently endured instruction from a woman armed with an unyielding stare.
"I shall leave you to it, then." Charles bowed and retreated towards his horse.
"Good evening, Mr Bingley."
Charles mounted Jupiter. He was sweaty, dishevelled, and temporarily the second-most significant Charles at Longbourn. Yet as he rode back to Netherfield beneath the deepening twilight, a sharp, invigorating sense of purpose coursed through him.
He was not departing. He possessed a map. He possessed an appointment at six o'clock with a field of intractable clay. And he possessed a feline namesake.
He was a man of depth.
And he had only begun.
