"I have," Charles sighed, indicating that he had barely survived a great trial. "She is consuming the entire red herring population of the North Sea and the baby is a sentient lump of wool and moisture. I held him, Colonel. He tried to eat my cravat. A Hurst after his father's own heart, I suspect."
The Colonel's mouth twitched. "And Mr Hurst?"
"Mistaking spirits for tea. You know, Colonel, when I sent the Hursts back to their own home, I felt a surge of authority. But now... now I have the authority and no one to use it on. It is a very large responsibility, having no one to tell what to do."
Charles took a bite of the club's toast, which he found to be of a superior quality—buttered on both sides, a delightful decadence. "Have you any news of my brother Richard? And Caroline? I assume Thornwood is still standing?"
"Mr Fitzwilliam writes every week. He says it is a scene of carnage. Your sister has decided to redecorate the parlour in the French style, which he equates with betrayal to the Crown. He has decided the library is the only place he can drink his mediocre brandy and contemplate the futility of existence. It is a stalemate involving two sofas, a collection of poetry, and a great deal of shouting."
"Gosh! Carnage?" Charles's eyes widened. "I hope she has not ruined the curtains. He was very fond of the velvet ones. But they sound... busy, do they not? They bicker and they shout and they... they are alive." His face fell, his enthusiasm replaced by a sudden, chilling realisation.
"I am the ghost at the feast, Colonel. I am the spare man. I am the uncle who holds the baby and the brother who is leftbehind. Everyone else is fighting or loving or making babies. I am merely... vertical. I am a garnish, Colonel. A sprig of parsley on the steak of life."
The Colonel looked at him for a long while, his brow furrowed in grave thought. "Then stop being parsley, Bingley. Be the steak. Or at least the potato. You need substance. You have a property in Hertfordshire. A lease you have paid for and never really used. Netherfield."
The nameNetherfieldhit Charles with longing. He thought of Jane Bennet. He thought of the way she had looked at him—that angel in muslin—before he had allowed himself to be led away.
"I cannot go back there," he whispered, his voice trembling with a sudden, frantic energy. "Mrs Bennet likely has a pitchfork with my name on it. And the village... they remember me as the coward who fled. I was a man of straw, Colonel. A man of fluff."
"Then go back as something else," the Colonel shrugged. "Go back as a man of substance."
Charles stood up. The movement was abrupt, knocking his chair back against the wall. His eyes, usually mild and friendly, were suddenly burning with a new light.
"Substance," he repeated. "Yes. That is it. I shall not merely go back, Colonel. I shall go back as a Man of Depth."
"A Man of Depth?" the Colonel asked, taking a cautious sip of brandy.
"Precisely!" Charles began to pace the small area in front of the fireplace, his buttons glinting aggressively. "I have spent my life skimming the surface, Colonel. Smiling. Agreeing. Buyingcoats. No more! I shall cultivate gravity. I shall develop opinions on things I do not enjoy!"
He stopped and counted off on his fingers, his voice rising in excitement.
"I shall read books that weigh more than my head! Books with no pictures and very small letters! I shall stare at landscapes and feel melancholy instead of just thinking 'oh, that is a nice tree.' I shall have strong views on crop rotation! I shall be inscrutable!"
"Inscrutable?" the Colonel raised an eyebrow. "You?"
"I shall scowl," Charles promised fervently. "I shall practise in the mirror. I will arrive at Netherfield, and they will say, 'Is that Charles Bingley, the amiable man with the exquisite waistcoats?' and I shall look at them with a dark, brooding intensity and say something about the price of corn."
"The price of corn is actually quite high," the Colonel noted.
"See? I am already bored!" Charles cried triumphantly. "That is the Depth working! I shall face the pitchforks, not because another tells me to, but because a Man of Depth does not fear agricultural implements. I shall manage the estate. I shall audit the accounts. I shall be so profound, Colonel, that I might accidentally drown in my own gravitas."
"I would aim for 'competent' first, Bingley," the Colonel advised dryly. Then he nodded, once, a short gesture of approval. "But it is a solid objective. It is the only cure for a man of your temperament."
"I shall leave immediately," Charles declared. "The Season is dead. I see no reason to wait for the burial. I go to Hertfordshire! To destiny!"
He reached out and shook the Colonel's hand, the grip firm and decisive.
"Thank you, Colonel. You have awoken a slumbering beast. You have a way of making the world seem remarkably simple."
"The worldissimple, Bingley. It is men who are complicated. Good luck in Hertfordshire. If the pitchforks get too close, send me a missive. I still have my sabre."
But Charles was already grabbing his hat from the porter and jamming it onto his head forcefully. He marched out of the club, determined to be taken seriously, even if it killed him. His stride would have impressed a dancing master. He did not look at his reflection in the windows nor did he check the height of his cravat. He looked at the horizon, towards the north, and towards a house that was waiting for a master. He was finally, for the first time in his life, in a hurry to grow up. He was halfway to Portman Square before he realised he had left his cane under the Colonel's chair, but he did not turn back.
He did not have time for canes.
He was a man of depth.
