Page 240 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

Charles walked around the curve of the instrument, trailing a finger along the wood.

"Do you play, sir?" Tepper asked, though the answer was a foregone conclusion.

"Not a note," Charles admitted cheerfully. "My sisters attempted to teach me 'Hot Cross Buns' when I was seven. I was dismissed for a lack of rhythmic integrity. Caroline said I played with the grace of a falling brick."

"Then one might ask," Tepper smoothed a petal, "why the master of Netherfield requires an instrument capable of filling a concert hall, when his own musical ambitions are limited to humming in the bath?"

Charles sighed. The cheerful façade cracked, revealing the anxious romantic beneath. He saw the keys, and for a moment, he was not in Hertfordshire. He was back in the hallway of Darcy House, listening to a storm raging behind a closed door.

"I heard her play, Tepper," Charles said softly. "In London. Before I came back. I was walking past the music room, and I heard thunder. I thought it was a professional. A virtuoso. But when I saw..."

He paused, the memory still vivid—the golden light, the brown dress, the fierce, concentration on Mary Bennet's face.

"You told me so, sir. It was Miss Bennet," Tepper supplied, his tone neutral.

"It was a revelation," Charles corrected. "A solemn and quiet girl who tore the silence apart with her bare hands."

He turned to the pianoforte again. "Longbourn has an upright. A wretched thing which makes the sound of angry bees. She deserves this. She deserves a Broadwood."

Tepper finally turned from the hydrangeas. He studied his master—the flush on his cheeks, the earnest set of his jaw. This man had bought a castle because he imagined the way a specific woman would look in the tower.

"It is a very romantic gesture, sir," Tepper noted. "Or it would be, if the lady in question knew of it. Currently, it is merely a very expensive piece of wood that is gathering dust."

Charles groaned, burying his face in his hands. "That is the problem! I cannot tell her I bought it for her. That implies I was eavesdropping. It implies I am... lurking. A Man of Depth does not lurk, Tepper. He is straightforward. He is transparent."

"He is currently the owner of a silent instrument," Tepper pointed out.

"I need a strategy." Charles began to pace. "I need a reason for her to play it. A reason that does not involve me falling to my knees and confessing that I bought a hundred-guinea instrument because I adore the way her eyebrows furrow when she hits a C-minor."

"You could invite the family to dinner," Tepper suggested, returning to his flowers. "As a neighbourly gesture. The pianoforte is here. It would be rude not to ask the only accomplished musician in the room to test it."

"A test!" Charles halted. "Yes! Precisely! I shall claim ignorance. I shall say... I shall say the instrument arrived by accident? No, that is absurd. She knows we had one here lastyear, before Caroline claimed it at Thornwood. Shall I say I inherited it? No, my ancestors have no musical legacy."

"Perhaps," Tepper said, picking up the empty tray, "you might simply say that Netherfield felt too quiet. And that a house without music resembles a man without a soul—empty, echoing, and in need of a good tuning."

Charles stared at his valet. "Tepper, that is brilliant. 'A house without music.' It is deep. It is profound. It is exactly the sort of thing a man who reads travel journals would say."

"I endeavour to give satisfaction, sir."

Charles turned back to the Broadwood. He reached out and pressed a single key. A low, resonant note rang out, hanging in the warm air of the room. It was a lonely sound.

"She will fill it," Charles whispered. "She will make it speak."

"We must first get her through the door, sir," Tepper reminded him, moving towards the exit. "And perhaps ensure there are plenty of biscuits. I understand musicians require sustenance."

"Order the biscuits, Tepper!" Charles cried, his optimism restored. "And polish the keys! Everything should be ready for her!"

*

Colonel Edmund Lindon arrived at Netherfield Park prepared for a rescue mission. He had received letters from Charles Bingley that were increasingly concerning—missives filled with ramblings about "sub-soil composition," "the integrity of oak," the "philosophical implications of drainage," and "Charles in fur." The Colonel had assumed his friend was suffering from an acute case of rural boredom, a condition usually cured by a swift return to St James's Street and a bottle of good claret.

He did not expect to walk into a War Room.

A massive map of Hertfordshire dominated the north wall of the study, pinned directly onto the silk damask with a disregardfor the upholstery that would have made a weaker man weep. The map was covered in pins, flags, and aggressive circles of ink.

Standing before it was Charles Bingley. He was holding a pointer in one hand and a half-eaten biscuit in the other. He was less a gentleman of leisure and more a general contemplating the invasion of an entire continent.

"The gradient is the key, you see," Charles was muttering. "If we conquer the gradient, we conquer the mud."