Charles turned back to the Broadwood. He reached out and pressed a single key. A low, resonant note rang out, hanging in the warm air of the room. It was a lonely sound.
"She will fill it," Charles whispered. "She will make it speak."
"We must first get her through the door, sir," Tepper reminded him, moving towards the exit. "And perhaps ensure there are plenty of biscuits. I understand musicians require sustenance."
"Order the biscuits, Tepper!" Charles cried, his optimism restored. "And polish the keys! Everything should be ready for her!"
Colonel Edmund Lindon arrived at Netherfield Park prepared for a rescue mission. He had received letters from Charles Bingley that were increasingly concerning—missives filled with ramblings about "sub-soil composition," "the integrity of oak," the "philosophical implications of drainage," and "Charles in fur." The Colonel had assumed his friend was suffering from an acute case of ruralboredom, a condition usually cured by a swift return to St James's Street and a bottle of good claret.
He did not expect to walk into a War Room.
A massive map of Hertfordshire dominated the north wall of the study, pinned directly onto the silk damask with a disregard for the upholstery that would have made a weaker man weep. The map was covered in pins, flags, and aggressive circles of ink.
Standing before it was Charles Bingley. He was holding a pointer in one hand and a half-eaten biscuit in the other. He was less a gentleman of leisure and more a general contemplating the invasion of an entire continent.
"The gradient is the key, you see," Charles was muttering. "If we conquer the gradient, we conquer the mud."
"Bingley," the Colonel announced from the doorway, leaning against the frame. "I must say, I expected many things. A new hound, perhaps. A newfound obsession with watercolour painting. I did not expect to find you plotting the annexation of the Home Counties."
Charles spun around, the pointer clattering to the floor. "Colonel! You are here!"
He rushed forward, seizing the Colonel's hand with a grip that was surprisingly formidable. His palm was rough, calloused, and—the Colonel noted with a raised eyebrow—faintly stained with ink.
"I am a Man of Depth, Colonel! Just as you suggested at White's! I have embraced the soil. I have wrestled the clay. I have a very complex emotional relationship with a drainage ditch in the North Pasture."
The Colonel extricated his hand and inspected his friend. Bingley was tanned—a deep, golden bronze that made his eyes startlingly bright. He was broader in the shoulders, and there was a definitive lack of the "puppyish" panic that used to define him.
"Depth suits you," the Colonel admitted, walking into the room and eyeing the map. "You seem... solid. But tell me, does 'depth' require you to turn your library into a strategic command centre for agricultural reform?"
"It is not just reform, Colonel," a dry voice drifted from the corner.
Tepper, Bingley's valet, was seated by the window, methodically polishing a pair of riding boots that appeared to have been dragged through a swamp backwards.
"It is a Campaign," he clarified, offering the Colonel a minimalist bow. "Mr Bingley is currently besieging the county with good works. We are fixing fences. We are donating tea-cakes. We are, I believe, attempting to purchase the affection of the populace one roofing slat at a time."
The Colonel turned to the valet. "Tepper. You are weary. I assume the laundry has been a battlefield?"
"A massacre, sir," Tepper replied smoothly. "The master believes that mud is a badge of honour. I, however, believe it is merely dirt that ruins the velvet. But we persevere. The master has found a purpose."
"A purpose," the Colonel repeated, eyeing the circles on the map. He walked over and tapped a specific location marked 'The Ditch of Despair.' "And does this purpose have a name? A name that perhaps rhymes with 'Perry' or 'Larry'?"
Bingley flushed a brilliant, guilty scarlet that clashed violently with his tan. He snatched the pointer from the floor. "It is... local politics, Colonel. The social fabric of the village requires mending. I am merely applying the principles of structural integrity to the... the..."
"To the Bennet family?" the Colonel supplied, arching a blond eyebrow.
Bingley sighed, the fight going out of him. He collapsed into a leather chair. "Is it that obvious?"
"Bingley, do you even remember what your letters to me included? And I walked past the drawing room," the Colonel pointed out. "There is a Broadwood in there the size of a frigate. Unless you have secretly become a virtuoso in the last two months, that instrument is a very large, very expensive love letter."
"It is a trap," Bingley corrected miserably. "A lure. For Miss Bennet."
"Are you absolutely sure, my friend? You described her as quiet and sombre. Tell me you have not bought a grand pianoforte for a woman whose idea of a good pastime is a lecture on morality?"
"She does not just read sermons!" Bingley shot up, his eyes blazing with fierce protectiveness. "She plays like a storm, Colonel! I heard her. She has a great, crashing, beautiful symphony inside her, that she hides behind spectacles and pinched lips."
He looked at his hands. "I wanted... I simply wanted to give that symphony a place to live."
The Colonel regarded Tepper. Tepper regarded the Colonel. A silent communication passed betweenthem—the weary, affectionate understanding of two men tasked with keeping a puppy from running into traffic.
