Page 239 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"And Tepper," Charles pivoted, "this is Mr Bennet. The architect of the Longbourn drainage system. The sage of Hertfordshire. The man who taught me that mud is not merely dirt, but a calling."

Tepper's gaze finally lowered from the wall. He inclined his head—a movement of precisely two inches. It was a bow that acknowledged rank without conceding superiority.

"Mr Bennet," Tepper intoned. His voice was smooth, dry, and entirely devoid of inflection. "I have seen much of your geological influence upon the master. His laundry has certainly never been heavier."

Mr Bennet's eyes twinkled. He shifted his weight, studying the valet with the interest of a naturalist spotting a rare species of bird.

"And I," Mr Bennet replied, "have heard much of you, Tepper. Mr Bingley informs me you are the guardian of his dignity. A task that must feel somewhat like trying to keep a very enthusiastic spaniel clean in a peat bog."

Charles let out a laugh that was half-wheeze. "Spaniel! Ha! Very good, sir. Iamrather enthusiastic."

Tepper did not smile. "The comparison is apt, sir. Though a spaniel generally has the good sense to shake the mud offoutsidethe dressing room. Mr Bingley prefers to bring the terroir indoors. He believes it adds 'texture' to the upholstery."

Mr Bennet's lips twitched. He abandoned his leaning posture and took a step forward. "Texture. Indeed. Tell me, Tepper, as a man of London polish, how do you find our Hertfordshire clay? Does it offend your sensibilities?"

It was a test. Charles held his breath. If Tepper sneered at the mud, Mr Bennet would write him off as a metropolitan fop. If Tepper praised it too highly, he would be a sycophant.

Tepper placed the silver tray on the desk and adjusted his cuffs.

"The clay is obstinate, sir." Tepper met Mr Bennet's gaze evenly. "It clings. It stains. It resists the brush and defies the soap. It is, in my professional estimation, a soil of profound character. It does not wash away easily, which suggests it has no desire to be anywhere else. I find I respect a dirt that knows its own mind."

Silence descended on the room. It stretched for three seconds, thick and heavy.

Then, Mr Bennet smiled.

It was not his usual smile—the one that mocked the world's follies. It was a genuine, delighted expression of approval.

"A dirt that knows its own mind," Mr Bennet repeated, tasting the phrase. "Exquisite. Mr Bingley, you did not tell me your valet was a poet of the laundry room."

"He is very deep, sir," Charles breathed, a warm tide of relief washing over him. "He reads the sermons, too. Voluntarily."

"I read them to ensure the master does not accidentally adopt a theology that requires wearing hairshirts," Tepper clarified. "Mr Bingley's skin is far too sensitive for penitence."

"Well," Mr Bennet chuckled, reaching for the sherry decanter himself. "I approve. A man who can find character in mud and pragmatism in theology is a rare creature indeed. You may stay, Tepper. In fact, if you ever tire of scrubbing the 'texture' out of Mr Bingley's waistcoats, Longbourn has a great deal of obstinate dust that requires a firm hand."

"I shall keep it in mind, sir," Tepper replied, pouring a second glass without being asked. "Though I fear Mr Bingley would likely wander into a ravine within the hour if left unsupervised. He requires a great deal of ballast."

"Ballast!" Charles clapped his hands together. "Exactly! See? I told you! The North and South! We are united!"

His eyes darted between them—the cynical gentleman and the stoic servant—and felt a profound sense of completeness. He had his map. He had his mentor. He had his conscience.

Now, if he could just figure out how to get a certain brown-wearing scholar into the music room to play the very large instrument he was expecting to arrive, his life would be perfect.

*

The Broadwood did not merely arrive at Netherfield. It colonised the drawing room.

It sat in the centre of the space—a massive, gleaming beast of rosewood and ivory that seemed to regard the rest of the furniture with the haughty disdain of an emperor forced to share a carriage with a milking stool. It reflected the morning light off its polished lid with a brilliance that made Charles blink.

It was magnificent. It was expensive. It was, currently, the most silent object in Hertfordshire.

Charles Bingley stood before it, his hands clasped behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels. He had scrubbed the clay from his person for the occasion, though his knuckles still bore the faint, greyish tint of the North Pasture.

"It is substantial, Tepper," Charles declared, his voice echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged room. "It has gravity. It anchors the room, does it not? Before, this space was merely a collection of chairs waiting for a conversation. Now it is a temple to the Muses."

Tepper, who was arranging a vase of hydrangeas on a nearby table, paused. He regarded the instrument with mild suspicion, as if he expected it to suddenly demand a finer grade of beeswax.

"It is certainly large, sir," he observed dryly. "The delivery men were quite vocal about its gravity. I believe one of them suggested it weighed more than a guilty conscience."