Mrs Bennet stared at the puddle forming around his boots. "Colonel? My carpet... you are drenched. You will ruin the pile."
"Mr Bennet has fallen."
The words landed in the room heavier than the thunder.
Kitty gasped, clutching her throat with the hand that was not holding her novel. "Fallen? Into... into a crypt? Into the abyss of eternal night?"
"Into a ditch," the Colonel corrected, his voice tight, clipped, stripping away the London polish to reveal the soldier underneath. "Near the boundary line. The animal spooked at the first crack of thunder. Gravity did the rest."
Mrs Bennet blinked. Her mind, a machine built entirely for the analysis of matrimonial prospects and dinner menus, stalled in the face of physical reality. "Fallen? But... his breeches. They are new. We paid the tailor only last week."
"He is injured, Madam." He stepped further into the room, ignoring the mud he tracked across the floor—a topographical violation Mary noted with distant horror. "Badly. He was unconscious when we found him."
"Unconscious?" Mrs Bennet's hand flew to her heart. "Oh! My poor nerves! To be a widow! To be cast out! To wear black in September!"
"He is not dead," the Colonel snapped, his patience fraying like an old rope. "But he could not be moved far. The storm was upon us. Bingley..." He paused, swallowing hard, and for a second, his eyes found Mary's across the room. "Bingley did not wait for a cart. He picked him up."
Mary felt the air leave her lungs.
"He carried him," the Colonel continued, his voice rough. "He carried him to Netherfield in his arms because it was closer than Longbourn. He ran through the mud, Mrs Bennet, with your husband in his arms."
Mary had a sudden, visceral image of Mr Bingley—her muddy, eager, ridiculous Mr Bingley—staggering through the rain, his weight doubled, his usually smiling face set in a grimace of effort.
The Ledger updated itself with violent force.
Item Four:The Gentleman is not merely a fop. He is Atlas.
Correction:He ismyAtlas.
"Netherfield?" Mrs Bennet shrieked. "He is at Netherfield? But who will nurse him? Mr Bingley is a bachelor! I cannot send my daughters! The servants will steal his watch! And if he dies... oh, the entail! Mr Collins will arrive within the hour! I can feel it! He smells disaster like a bloodhound smells a fox!"
"Mamma, please." Mary's voice sounded strange to her own ears—hollow, distant, but undeniably steady.
"We shall be in the hedgerows by Tuesday!" Mrs Bennet wailed, collapsing onto the settee she had just saved from the rain. "I must write to my Son! The Viscount must know! He will save us from the Collins monster! Kitty, fetch my quill! No, fetch the smelling salts! No, fetch the Viscount!"
"You are not destitute yet, Madam," the Colonel intervened, his voice rising over the lamentation. "Mr Jones is already on his way. I rode ahead to inform you."
"The apothecary?" Kitty sobbed into a cushion. "He uses leeches for everything! Even for head colds! Father hates leeches! It is a tragedy! A gothic tragedy!"
"It is a broken leg, Miss Kitty, not a haunting," the Colonel countered, though he looked helplessly at the weeping girl, clearly realising that facing a French cannon was preferable to facing a hysterical Bennet.
Mary walked past them. She moved through the panic like a ghost passing through a wall. Her mother was screaming about real estate law. Kitty was mourning the current medical practises. The Colonel was dripping on the rug.
None of it mattered. The logic of the situation was absolute. Her father was hurt. Mr Bingley was exhausted. The Ledger required a balance.
She reached the door.
"Mary!" Mrs Bennet cried out, spotting her retreat. "Where are you going? Do not leave me in my hour of affliction! Who will mix my salts?"
Mary turned. She adjusted her spectacles, which had slid down her nose.
