Bingley’s smile cracked, the edges fraying under the assault of his sisters’ misery.
“Darcy does not know everything.” Bingley adjusted his cravat, though the starch had long since surrendered to the humidity. “He does not understand the majesty of the equestrian arts! We are not here for ballrooms, Caroline. We are here for the horses, for the dappled grey. She is an absolute marvel of nature.”
Caroline closed her eyes, praying for patience.
“You abandoned a perfectly respectable lease in Hertfordshire, Charles, for a horse.”
Bingley stood up abruptly.
“Hertfordshire is a lovely county, but it is... it is firmly in the past.” He puffed out his chest, attempting to project the authority of a seasoned country squire. “A man must look to his future, and my future lies in the stables. I am going to inspect my angel right now.”
“Do try not to drown on the way to the barn,” Hurst mumbled, his head resting against the table.
Bingley marched out of the parlour, determined to prove them all wrong. He grabbed his finest beaver-skin top hat and a woollen cloak from the hall stand, stepping out into the Yorkshire morning.
The wind immediately stole his hat.
Bingley watched it sail away into a patch of thistles, deciding that retrieving it was a battle he could not win. He pulled his cloak tighter and began the trek to the stables.
With every step, his immaculate Hessians sank two inches into the muck, requiring a monumental physical effort to pull them back out. By the time he reached the stone stables, he was panting, his hair was plastered to his forehead, and his trousers were splattered with a foul-smelling brown sludge.
Mr Simms, the estate’s dour stable master, was leaning against a stall, chewing on a piece of straw. He did not bow, nor did he tip his cap.
“Good morning, Simms!” Bingley forced his cheerful tone to return, clapping his hands together. “Capital weather for the ducks, eh?”
Simms stared at him, chewing the straw slowly.
“The ducks are miserable, sir.” Simms pointed a calloused thumb towards the largest stall at the end of the corridor. “The grey is agitated. The damp makes her temperamental.”
“Nonsense!” Bingley beamed, marching to the stall. “She is an angel! A creature of perfect symmetry and soulful grace! She simply needs a gentle touch and a bit of conversation.”
He arrived at the stall and leaned over the wooden half-door.
The dappled grey mare stood in the centre of the enclosure. Back in London she seemed majestic, a Pegasus carved from marble and moonlight.
Here, she seemed like a large, wet, irritated horse. Her coat was matted with straw, her ears were pinned flat against her skull, and she was chewing on the edge of her feeding trough.
“There she is,” Bingley cooed, reaching into his pocket to retrieve a muffin he had stolen from the breakfast table. “Hello, my beauty. Hello, my sweet, perfect girl. Have you missed your master?”
He held out his palm, the muffin resting flat on his glove.
The mare stopped chewing the wood. She turned her head, fixing Bingley with an unblinking eye, but it was not a soulful gaze. It held only calculating disdain.
“Come now,” Bingley encouraged, wiggling his fingers slightly. “It is food from the master’s table!”
The horse snorted. A wet expulsion of air and equine mucus launched from her nostrils, covering the front of his waistcoat and his silk cravat in a sticky mist.
Bingley blinked, freezing in shock. He slowly lowered his hand.
“Well.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his chest. “I suppose you are not hungry.”
He opened the latch of the stall, determined to assert his dominance through a thorough brushing. He stepped inside, keeping his voice low and soothing, adopting the same tone he had used to charm half the drawing rooms in Mayfair.
“You are just out of sorts, my angel,” he said, reaching out to stroke her neck. “We shall go for a magnificent ride when the sun returns. We shall gallop across the moors, you and I, a perfect partnership of man and beast.”
The mare shifted her weight, and with the effortless power of a creature that weighed twelve hundred pounds, she lifted her left hind hoof and brought it down upon Bingley’s right foot.
A high-pitched squeal escaped him, the sort of noise a startled mouse might make. He attempted to pull his foot away, but the mare did not budge. She simply stood there, anchoring him to the straw-covered floor, staring straight ahead without a care in the world.
