“Pardon me,” Bingley gasped, slapping her flank frantically. “My good girl. You are standing upon my toes. I require my toes.”
The horse ignored him. She reached out and took a bite of his cloak, chewing thoughtfully on the expensive fabric.
“Simms!” Bingley croaked, tears of agony springing to his eyes. “Simms, assistance, if you please!”
The stable master ambled over, taking in the scene with weary resignation. He slapped the mare’s rump with a flat palm.
“Move on, you great beast.”
The mare finally lifted her hoof.
Bingley stumbled, his crushed foot throbbing. He hopped on his left leg, wildly off balance, his arms windmilling in an attempt to remain upright.
He failed, pitching backward out of the stall and through the open doors of the stable, landing squarely in the centre of the courtyard. However, he did not land on cobblestones. He landed in a gelatinous puddle of mud, rainwater, and fresh horse manure. The impact sent a wave of brown sludge splashing up over his shoulders, coating his hair and face and filling the collar of his ruined shirt.
He remained there in the muck, the rain falling continuously, soaking through to his undergarments.
Simms leaned over the bottom half of the stable door, peering down at the ruined gentleman.
“Shall I fetch a towel, sir?”
“No, Simms.” Bingley stared blankly at his hands, which were submerged in two inches of foul-smelling slime. “Leave me be.”
Simms nodded, turned around, and went back to his duties.
Bingley sat in the Yorkshire muck, the rain matting his blonde curls to his forehead, and started reminiscing.
He thought of the drawing room at Netherfield Park, the warm fire, the comfortable chairs, and the golden light of Jane Bennet.
Miss Bennet never sneezed mucus onto his waistcoats. When he babbled about the weather, or a new dance, or the cut of a coat, Miss Bennet never chewed on his cloak and crushed his toes. Miss Bennet smiled at him and listened to him with a warmth and an earnest sweetness that had made him feel like the most fascinating man in the British Empire.
Miss Bennet had looked at him with unfeigned adoration.
The dappled grey mare looked at him as if he were taking up space in her barn.
Bingley pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his mud-soaked arms around his legs. He closed his eyes, the rain mixing with tears spilling over his lashes.
Eventually, he sniffed and wiped his nose with a mud-caked sleeve.
He was stuck in Yorkshire with Caroline’s complaints, Hurst’s culinary despair, and a mare that wished him harm.
He looked at the grey, weeping sky, and for the first time in his perpetually cheerful, effortlessly sunny existence, Charles Bingley realised that he had ruined his own life and that he deserved Bleakwood.
Epilogue
ST MARY’S CHURCH INMeryton had never witnessed such an astonishing botanical invasion.
The July heat pressed against the ancient stained-glass windows, but the interior of the stone nave was consumed by the scent of dozens of roses that garlanded the pews, wrapped around the stone pillars, and cascaded around the chancel in a breathtaking waterfall of vibrant red.
It was a lavish display, and Fitzwilliam Darcy did not care in the slightest. He had vowed to offer Elizabeth a lifetime of roses, and he intended to begin on their wedding day.
He stood in the chancel, his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a masterfully tailored dark blue coat and a silver-threaded waistcoat, his posture immaculate. He was surrounded by the provincial society he had once scorned, trapped in a village he had once deemed unworthy of his attention.
He had never been happier in his entire life.
Darcy kept his gaze fixed on the doors at the end of the aisle, the hum of the congregation washing over him. Lady Lucas was loudly whispering to Mrs Goulding about the cost of the floral arrangements. Mr Collins, who had miraculously secured an invitation purely so Anne could glare at him, was lecturing a choirboy on the moral perils of fidgeting.
“If Mrs Bennet keeps on weeping, I fear the vicar will require an umbrella.” Robert stood to Darcy’s right, resplendent in a dark coat, his cravat tied in the Waterfall knot. He glanced at the floral arrangements, a wry smile pulling at his lips. “I must concede, Darcy, you have outdone me. This siege of roses is aggressively romantic.”
