"Wisdom is simply the name we give to our scars," Mr Bennet countered. He began to walk again, his pace quickening. "But it is good that you are taking an interest in the local politics of the village. My daughters tell me you have been visiting the library. A dangerous place for a man of your energetic constitution."
"I met Miss Bennet and Miss Kitty," Charles said eagerly, seeing an opening to share his progress. "They have been most helpful. Miss Bennet has even suggested a campaign to win back the affections of the village. She is very thorough."
Mr Bennet stopped, his stick poised above a patch of clover. He observed Charles with an expression of feigned concern.
"A campaign?"
"Yes, sir. And we have agreed on a meeting, up in Oakham Mount, but I wanted to ask your permission aforehand." Charles looked at the older man's eyes, hoping to convey sincerity.
"Indeed?" Mr Bennet's smile widened, becoming truly formidable. "Tell me, Mr Bingley, is it your intention to court all my daughters in alphabetical order? Or do you simply find the Bennet name so industrious that you wish to sample the entire collection? I must warn you, if you eventually set your cap on Mrs Bennet, I shall be forced to object on purely logistical grounds."
The suggestion hit Charles straight on the forehead. The image of courting the lace-clad, hysterical Mrs Bennet flashed through his mind, followed by the realisation that Mr Bennet was laughing at him—and worse, that he had just accused him of being a serial pursuer of the family.
"I—I—" Charles stammered, his brain scrambling for a denial that did not sound like a confession of insult. "I had no such—I mean, Miss Bennet is—Kitty—Mrs Bennet is—"
In his haste to defend his honour, Charles stepped backward without checking the terrain. His heel caught on a hidden root, his arms flailed resembling the wings of a flightless bird, and with a sound that was less of a splash and more of a definitive, sucking thud, he disappeared backward into the irrigation ditch.
The water was not deep, but the mud was aplenty.
Charles lay there, his legs pointing towards the sky and his breath knocked clean out of his body. The world was nothing but the grey sky and the sound of his heart pounding.
A second later, Mr Bennet's head appeared over the edge of the ditch. He was not merely smiling. He was vibrating with the force of his own internal mirth.
"A most decisive move, Mr Bingley." Mr Bennet reached down with his stick to offer the handle. "Though I suspectthe mud will have more luck in claiming you than any of my daughters."
Charles took the handle, his face burning with a heat that threatened to dry the mud on his cheeks instantly. With a groan and a great deal of ungraceful straining, he was hauled back onto solid ground. He stood there, a dripping caricature of a gentleman, his coat ruined and his pride in tatters.
To his surprise, Mr Bennet clapped him on the shoulder, his touch firm and kind.
"I appreciate the information, Charles," he said, using his Christian name for the first time. "And I give my consent for this strategic meeting. Mary is not easily swayed by nonsense, and if she has decided to assist you, it is likely because she has found a glimmer of value beneath all that silk and pomade."
He turned to leave, his laughter trailing behind him.
"Try to wash before you meet them," Mr Bennet called back over his shoulder. "My daughters have a very low tolerance for the scent of stagnant water."
Charles stood in the pasture, the mud seeping into his boots, and a strange, bubbling sensation filled his chest. He had been mocked, humiliated, and dumped in a ditch. And yet, for the first time in months, he was exactly where he was meant to be.
By the time the sun had reached its midday peak, Charles Bingley was no longer a man. He was a walking, sweating monument to the rigours of agricultural reform. The ride to Oakham Mount on Jupiter had been an exercise in sensory overload. The Hertfordshire sun, usually a mild and indifferent companion, treated Charles's face like a blacksmith's forge.
He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a roadside trough and nearly fell from his saddle. His skin had reached a vibrant, startling shade of orange—a hue suggesting he was either suffering from a rare tropical malady or had recently been used as a signal fire.
"Steady, Jupiter," he murmured, his voice raspy from the dust.
The dust was the other problem. It was not merely on his clothes. It wasofhis clothes. Every movement of his horse kicked up a cloud of grey powder that seemed to possess a magnetic attraction to his sturdiest woollen coat. He did not have the time to return home to bathe, and when he reached the crest of the mount, he seemed less a gentleman and more a statue that had been forgotten in a very busy masonry yard.
He dismounted, his legs leaden and his spirits only slightly dampened by the fact that he was currently radiating heat like a bread oven.
Miss Bennet and Miss Kitty were already there, established in the shade of a cluster of oaks. Miss Kitty was currently using a fan with a vigour that suggested she was trying to create a small, localised hurricane. Her serious face was currently obscured by a layer of perspiration and a bonnet that seemed to be losing a battle with gravity.
Miss Bennet, conversely, appeared exactly as she always did: clinical, composed, and utterly unbothered by the fact that the world was currently melting. She sat on a low stone wall, her spectacles perched on the end of her nose, and in her arms, she held a bundle of fur that Charles initially mistook for a discarded cloak.
"Ah, Mr Bingley." Miss Bennet's gaze travelled from his orange forehead down to his dust-encrusted boots. She did not laugh, but the way her eyebrows quirked upward suggested she was currently cataloguing his various physical failings for future reference. "I see you have encountered the Hertfordshire morning in all its glory."
"I... I am a little warm," Charles admitted, mopping his brow with a handkerchief that was already past the point of being useful. "But I have the book! And I have Mr Bennet's consent for our meeting."
"And you carry a significant portion of the pasture, apparently," Miss Bennet observed.
Charles turned his attention to the bundle of fur. As he approached, a pair of narrowed, yellow eyes peered out from beneath her arm.
