As Jane Bingley went about the house on her daily inspection, she gradually became aware of Charles being absent. Where could he be? He might ride out on any number of errands, or for sheer pleasure, as it was a beautiful day. She had ordered all the windows opened wide to air out the house.

She had just finished her rounds, and was contemplating tea as she worked on baby caps, when she became aware of a flurry of whispers at the edge of hearing. She ignored it; she knew servants talked. Everyone talked. It was ridiculous to pretend that they did not. Her only concern was if they were unhappy, she must know why.

Presently her own maid came through the door in a precipitous manner, as if prodded from behind.

“Clara?” Jane said.

Clara, who had once been the upstairs maid at Longbourn, entered, her eyes wide.

“What’s wrong, Clara? Are you ill?” Jane set aside her work basket and rose.

“No, no, ma’am,” Clara said in haste, raising her hands. “That is, I hardly know how to say it . . .”

Jane reached for patience. “Do try,” she said as gently as possible.

Encouraged by her mistress’s benignity, Clara said, “Tom in the garden, that is, it’s come through to the house, that, well, the master . . .”

Jane had been fighting a distinct impulse to laugh, but at the word master worry sharpened her voice, “Is something amiss with Mr. Bingley?”

Seeing her worry, Clara gained the courage to say, breathlessly, “He’s . . . he’s gone up into a tree!”

A very short time later, Jane, towing Clara and a string of servants by the invisible threads of concern and curiosity, reached a broad, spreading oak, and looked up. Indeed, there sat her husband along a sizable branch. All she could see was his profile, which looked unhappy. He was clearly lost in reverie.

Jane made a motion, sending the servants away. They retreated, some to return to the house, others hanging back.

“Dearest,” Jane called softly.

Charles Bingley started, and looked down. Jane’s heart hurt when she saw the evidence of tears on his cheeks. Making a decision, she threw her skirts over one arm, put a hand to the massive lowest branch, a foot to the trunk, and hoisted herself up.

Bingley leaned out. “Jane!” he gasped. “You mustn’t—it’s not safe—”

Jane glanced up. He was no more than twenty feet off the ground. If that. The branches leading there were spaced regularly, as steady as a stair. “If it’s safe for you,” she said as she climbed, “it’s safe for you.”

An unwilling, uncertain laugh escaped him. “I would expect a tree climber from your redoubtable sister, but you—”

“Who,” Jane said as she pulled herself up beside him, “do you think taught Lizzie?”

Then Charles did laugh, but she saw those tears, and said softly, “Unless you wish to be alone?”

At that he reached to pull her safely against his side, and kissed her. She kissed him back, then kissed the salty tears from his cheeks. “That express you received this morning. You said nothing at breakfast. I take it there was bad news?”

He looked away. “It’s my Uncle Edward,” he said. “He was nearly ninety. And they say he went in his sleep. But he was my favorite. You never met him, so I did not want to disturb you, especially with the child coming . . .”

Jane kissed him again. “I will tell you what I’ve told you these four months, now: being in child does not make me ill, or nervous, or delicate.” She began to suspect what might truly be the case: Edward Bingley had not only been in trade, but had been unrepentantly proud of having earned his wealth through his own efforts. He had not come down for the wedding, Charles’s family having prevailed; she had understood the prejudice against this uncle held by Charles’s mother had been inherited by her daughters.

“I thought we could invite him to visit,” Charles said. “After the babe comes. He would have loved that. He loved children, though he had none of his own. I should not have waited—I should have gone.” His eyes gleamed with fresh tears.

Jane wound her fingers through his, then said, “I’m sorry I did not get the chance to know him. But what might he say if he can look down to see us now, we two sitting here in this tree?”

At that Charles smiled. “Why, he would laugh. How he would laugh! He loved nothing better than a good joke, even if it was on him. None better!” Charles shut his eyes. “I can just see him, his hands on his broad belly—he always wore those outlandish silken waistcoats from the days of powdered wigs, you know, with gold buttons big as guinea-pieces. He would laugh so loud his old servant, Gideon, would laugh with him, then turn it into a cough.”
Charles leaned back against the trunk, holding her against him as he stared up through the leaves. “Lord! To remember old Gideon! He finally died around the time of Nelson’s final battle—he’d been with my uncle back in his shop-keeping days . . .”

Jane stayed where she was, and listened to Charles’s reminiscences as they painted a picture of a jolly old soul, a man very much in the old mold. Tradesman or no, he sounded like an excellent man—in fact, Jane began to suspect that here was he from whom Charles had inherited his kindness and generosity of spirit. It certainly had not come from either of his parents, from all she could gather.

Charles talked on, bringing himself into the stories from time to time—how much fun he’d had going fishing with his uncle, how his uncle had driven down to school to visit, never leaving before standing Charles and his friends to a spanking meal at the local inn. It was he who had set Charles’s father up in the shipping industry, and gave advice good enough for the success that granted a genteel life to the Bingley family. Charles did not say, but Jane sensed that that very success was Mrs. Bingley’s excuse to excise that uncle from the genteel life she embraced, but Charles had stayed loyal to his uncle.

She listened to the sound of Charles’s voice resonating through his chest as his mood warmed into fondness, and presently he said, “But here, it’s coming on to wind. We ought not to be sitting here like this.”

“Oh, if this is the worst thing the servants say against us,” she responded, “I think we will do very well. But it’s true, I would like a cup of tea. Would not you?”

“Very much,” he said, as she’d known he would.

Then, as they began to descend, she hit upon an idea, and when at last she stepped on the grass beneath the tree, she turned to him. “If we should have a son, let us name him Edward. For your uncle. And if you will tell me more of these stories, I will write them into a little book, that Edward might know your uncle through them. Do you think it would do?”

Charles laugh, and Jane wondered if she caught an echo of Uncle Edward’s laugh in the joyous sound. “I think it will do very well, my love,” he said, and caught her hand, and swung it as they walked up toward the house.

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