"How?"
"By being useful in a way that highlights her importance. Offer your assistance to the vicar for the upcoming charity auction, but do so in her presence. Ask for her advice on the procurement of local wool. She loves to give advice, and she loves to be seen as the matriarch of the parish."
Charles nodded, absorbing the logic. "So, I must be a student of her wisdom?"
"Precisely. And you must do it with a sense of... light. You are too heavy at the moment, Mr Bingley. You are trying to be my father, and while I appreciate the effort, the village needs the man who can jest about his own orange face. They want amiable who stays, if you catch my drift."
Charles smiled, a broad, simple smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Well, I suppose it is a good thing I have plenty of practise at being ridiculous."
She laughed again, shorter this time, but no less genuine. "Yes," she murmured. "I suppose it is."
The journey back to Longbourn was a slow, dusty procession that Charles found remarkably tranquil, considering he was still upset from the proximity of a purring cat and a laughing scholar. He walked on the left, leading Jupiter by the reins, while Miss Bennet and Miss Kitty occupied the lane beside him.
Charles felt the weight of his "Strategy" settling into a comfortable reality. He was no longer a weathercock, spinning aimlessly in the winds of other people's opinions. He was a man with a list of structural failings and a plan to conquer a knight's wife.
"You are very quiet, Mr Bingley," Miss Kitty observed. Her fanning had reached a more reasonable tempo, and her expression had returned to its serious default state. "Are you contemplating the vanity of the world? Or is it the heat?"
"A little of both, Miss Kitty," Charles replied, offering a bow from the waist that was only slightly hampered by Jupiter's desire to investigate a nearby hedge. "But mostly, I am thinking of wool. And Lady Lucas. It is a fascinating combination."
Miss Bennet regarded him over the rims of her spectacles. "Do not underestimate the wool, Mr Bingley. In this parish, a man who knows his staples is a man who can speak for hours without ever revealing a single private thought. It is the perfect social camouflage."
"I shall be a master of the fleece," Charles promised.
They reached the gates of Longbourn, where the familiar, lively façade of the house rose up to meet them. Charles felt a sudden, sharp prickle of memory—the sound of Mrs Bennet's voice, the coldness of the reception he had received only a fortnight ago, and the lingering sting of the "desertion" charge.
He stopped at the gravel drive.
"You are not coming in?" Miss Kitty asked, her disappointment surfacing through the gloom. "Papa will want to hear about the strategy. And Mamma has ordered a remarkably large tray of biscuits."
Charles surveyed the front door. He could almost feel the atmospheric pressure of Mrs Bennet's pique emanating from the parlour windows. He thought of his orange face, his muddy boots, and the quiet dignity he had felt while being mocked by Mr Bennet in a pasture.
"I think not, Miss Kitty." Charles sounded firm, with a newfound resolve. "I am in a state that would potentially cause Mrs Bennet to suffer a relapse of her nerves. And besides, I have a great deal of soil to remove before I can face the village as a gentleman of merit."
"A principled retreat," Miss Bennet noted, her gaze lingering on him for a second longer than usual. "A rare choice. Most men find the lure of a biscuit to be the most powerful force in the county."
"I am a man of the Levant journals now," Charles glanced at her with a mischievous spark in his eyes. "I require more than just biscuits to satisfy my soul. I require a list of fence failures."
Miss Bennet reached into the folds of her gown and produced a small, neatly folded piece of paper. "I have it. It is organised by the severity of the dry rot."
Charles took the paper. "Thank you, Miss Bennet."
He performed a final, sweeping bow to the ladies, his dusty coat fluttering in the breeze. He gathered Jupiter's reins and turned back towards the road to Netherfield. He did not glance back, though he could feel the weight of their eyes on his retreating figure.
Behind him, Charles-the-cat, secure in his mistress's arms, observed his namesake's gallop, then turned to her and delivered a pointed "meow."
