The room was vast, dim, and smelled aggressively of laudanum. In the centre, a four-poster bed rose like a ship upon a sea of carpet. Mr Bennet lay ensconced in pillows, a glassof port in one hand, his splinted leg elevated on a stack of cushions so high it nearly touched the canopy. He appeared not in pain, but in the throes of supreme entertainment, and well into his cups.
But the true spectacle was the performance.
Tepper, the valet, walked slowly back and forth along the bedside rug. He held a massive, leather-bound volume open in his hands, his arms rigid, functioning as a mobile, human lectern.
Beside him, Charles Bingley paced. He wore kersey thick enough to thatch a roof. He did not read the book. He recited from it, glancing at the pages Tepper held only for confirmation, waving a hand in the air with the fervour of a radical politician.
"—and thus, the rotation of the turnip allows the vital salts to return!" Bingley shouted, spinning on his heel. " A beautiful, eternal cycle of vegetable decay and rebirth! The soil forgives, Mr Bennet! The soil forgives!"
"Fascinating," Mr Bennet drawled, sipping his port. "And the manure? Do not spare me the details of the manure, Charles."
"The manure is the catalyst!" Bingley roared.
"What," Robert's voice boomed, shattering the agrarian sermon, "in the name of all that is holy, is happening in here?"
Bingley jumped. Tepper snapped the book shut with a dust-raising thud. Mr Bennet merely tipped his glass.
"Ah," Mr Bennet smiled. "My wife's Son. And just as we were getting to the dung spreading."
"Keathley!" Bingley smoothed his kersey coat, breathless. "Lady Keathley! You are here!"
"We are." Jane rushed to the bedside, bypassing the confused agriculturalists to kiss her father's forehead. "Papa, are you in agony?"
"I am in luxury, my dear," Mr Bennet patted her hand. "Charles has been reading to me about crop rotation for three hours. I have never slept so soundly in between paragraphs. It is better than laudanum."
Robert advanced into the room, poking Bingley in the chest with the head of his cane. "You. Man of Mud. Why is your valet functioning as furniture?"
"Tepper is assisting," Bingley said, dignity radiating from his kersey coat. "My hands were gesturing. I needed them free to convey the passion of the harvest."
"Passion of the harvest?" Robert stared at him. "Bingley, you are talking about vegetables. Subterranean lumps. You sound like you are inciting a revolution."
"It is a revolution!" Bingley insisted. "Of the soil!"
"It is a tragedy," Kitty sighed from the doorway. She leaned against the frame, gazing at Mr Bennet's elevated limb with morbid fascination. "To think. One moment, a man walks the earth. The next, his bones snap like dry twigs. We are but porcelain dolls waiting to be shattered."
"Hello, Kitty," Mr Bennet waved his glass. "Cheer up. Mr Jones says the bone is set beautifully. I shall be dancing the jig by Christmas."
"A jig of death," Kitty whispered.
"Right," Robert announced, clapping his hands. "That is enough. Tepper, put down the book before you develop a cramp and sue us. Bingley, stop shouting about salts. You are frightening me. Mr Bennet, stop enjoying this."
"I cannot help it," Mr Bennet chuckled. "It is the finest farce I have attended in years."
"Where is Miss Bennet?" Bingley asked, his eyes darting behind Jane. "Is she... did she leave?"
"She sleeps," Jane soothed, turning back to the group. "Colonel Lindon says she is resting. I must go to her. She will want to know we are here."
"Make her rest, Jane. My dear girl deserves it." Mr Bennet averted his eyes.
"I will try," Jane kissed her father again, suppressing a sigh. "And you, try not to break the other leg while I am gone, Papa. Robert, keep them sane."
"A task for Sisyphus," Robert muttered as his wife slipped out the door. He turned his predatory gaze back to Bingley. "Now. Explain this rough kersey. Did you skin a sofa?"
Jane slipped through the door of the guest chamber, closing it softly against the distant, booming laughter echoing from the infirmary. The room was dim, the curtains drawn against the afternoon light, but Mary was not asleep.
She perched on the edge of the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, wearing a borrowed gown that was two sizes too large. Her spectacles lay on the nightstand. Without them, her eyes seemed vulnerable, stripped of their usual analytical shield.
"Is the shouting finished?" Mary's voice came raspy.
