Chapter Two
Hertfordshire
Fiennes
Fiennes examined each room with care, his assistant, Wilkens, following close behind and noting particulars in his memorandum book.
Netherfield Park was in tolerable condition, though certain areas required attention.
The ballroom, for instance, bore the marks of neglect; before it might be presentable for company, the oak floor would need to be planed smooth, then dry-scrubbed with fine white sand, and afterwards stained and polished.
When they retired to the study, Fiennes asked, “Have you an accurate accounting?”
“Yes, sir.” Wilkens nodded eagerly, his spectacles sliding down his nose as he did. “I shall write the letters and dispatch them to London without delay.”
“Very good.” Fiennes clasped his hands behind his back and crossed to the window, surveying the verdant gardens beyond.
“You may go.” His eyes remained fixed on the pleasant view.
Morgan Fields would miss it, for all his bluster that he disliked estate management.
And now it belonged to him—his first estate, his official entry into the ranks of the gentry.
Few knew the truth of his origins. If he managed matters with discretion, no one ever would. He would be welcomed into the neighbourhood with open arms; the denizens eager to court the favour of the single gentleman of fortune newly settled amongst them. A perfect opportunity to prosper.
Within a se’nnight, several gentlemen called to introduce themselves. Most were dull, unremarkable men, save one. Mr Thomas Bennet of Longbourn, the neighbouring estate and the second largest in the area, appeared to possess more discernment than the rest.
“Welcome to Hertfordshire, sir,” said Mr Bennet, when calling at Netherfield.
“I must own, we were all surprised when Fields sold the place. I know he prefers town to the country and was eager to spend more time there now that his daughters are married.” There was a glimmer of intelligence in Bennet’s eyes.
Fiennes wondered, though only briefly, whether Fields had confided in him, but dismissed the thought at once.
Fields was like all the others—so absorbed in himself that, when at last he fell, there would be none to uphold him.
Pride would ensure his silence to all but those who absolutely needed to understand his situation.
“I could not pass on the opportunity to acquire Netherfield Park,” Fiennes accepted the man’s offered hand with deliberate civility. “I have been received with warmth.”
Bennet laughed. “Be warned; there are many mothers in our corner of the country eager to marry off their daughters. I dare say you have already been apprised.”
Fiennes gave a quiet laugh, amused that the man knew his neighbours so well.
“Aye, let me see if I recollect. Sir William Lucas has a daughter—Charlotte, I believe—two-and-twenty years of age. Mr Goulding has one daughter of marriageable years—Miss Harriet Goulding, said to be ‘lovely and refined.’ And then there is Mr Long, who hosts his two nieces, Priscilla and Penelope.”
“You have it nearly complete, sir, save the tradesmen and their families. I myself have five daughters, though only one is out, and she is but seventeen.”
“Five?” Fiennes allowed himself a fleeting look of amusement. “My, that is a veritable profusion of femininity.”
“I confess I grow weary of lace, ribbons, and embroidery. Had Providence favoured us with a son, I should be more content in my own house. For now, the girls are largely occupied with their studies. We mean to engage a governess for the younger three. Jane and Elizabeth have no need of one—their aunt has attended to their improvement.”
Fiennes observed Bennet closely as the man continued speaking. With a few well-placed questions, he learned that Longbourn was entailed away from the female line and that no portion was set aside for the daughters’ dowries. Folly. Yet, advantageous for me.
“I mean to invest some capital in a venture, in hopes of providing a dowry for Jane and Elizabeth. The others are far from needing one.” Bennet looked well pleased with himself.
“I have dabbled in investments myself,” Fiennes’s manner betrayed nothing beyond polite interest.
“You have done exceedingly well if you managed to purchase this estate from Fields,” Bennet remarked. “You cannot be more than five-and-thirty.”
Fiennes lowered his eyes briefly, the very picture of modesty.
“I do not wish to boast, but yes. My parents left me little enough, and I was forced to make my own way. I flatter myself that I have made a success of my life despite the circumstances in which they left me.” Enough truth to satisfy curiosity was all his guest needed.
Mr Bennet nodded sagely. “That speaks well of you, sir. I am pleased we are neighbours and look forward to knowing you better. For now, my wife extends an invitation for you to dine with us in two days’ time. We should be most happy if you would accept.”
“Thank you. I have no fixed engagements.” Fiennes rose and escorted his friendly neighbour to the door. When the man had gone, he reviewed in his mind the list of gentlemen who had called at Netherfield the past few days.
Sir William Lucas was a knight, though not of long standing, if Fiennes were to judge.
He fancied himself the foremost gentleman in the vicinity, though his speech betrayed the lack of a genteel upbringing.
He had three sons and two daughters, but spoke chiefly of the latter.
The elder, Charlotte, was of marriageable age; the younger, Miss Maria, was only ten.
Sir William seemed eager to advance his eldest, which led Fiennes to wonder what defect she concealed.
Sir William appeared intelligent enough, though not overly so. His dress was plain, suggesting a past marked by thrift or want. He would not serve as a prudent mark.
Arthur Goulding had one daughter and two sons.
Both boys were still at school, and his daughter had been out two years.
Goulding spoke at length of his flaxen-haired children, especially his daughter.
He admitted that his estate was in good order, though it was his business interests that yielded the greater part of his income.
He mentioned his late father, who had nearly ruined the property before his death.
That gentleman, Fiennes decided, would prove too wary to invest with him.
Rupert Long, meanwhile, had the care of his two nieces—Miss Priscilla, one-and-twenty, and Miss Penelope, nineteen.
He showed little eagerness to see them married, declaring that they possessed substantial dowries and that he drew only the interest of their capital for their maintenance.
He insisted his nieces had no wish to marry.
Long bore watching; he might serve, but not yet.
It was the master of Longbourn who appeared every inch the gentleman ripe for harvest: five daughters, a modest income, and nothing reserved for dowries or emergencies.
His clothes were well cut and of costly cloth, and his manner suggested a man who would welcome additional funds.
His eyes had brightened when he spoke of investment.
And though his motives sounded charitable, Fiennes discerned a certain indolence, a complacency regarding his estate.
These gentlemen never valued what they possessed before Fiennes stripped it from them.
It was his right to do so; if they were too foolish to manage their affairs, he would gladly do it in their stead.
Though Longbourn was entailed, there were other means of obtaining what he wanted.
Bennet would be ruined, and too proud to do aught but capitulate to his demands.
Two days later, attired in his finest waistcoat, Fiennes arrived at Longbourn.
He knew he cut a fine figure. His light-brown hair was artfully arranged to appear carelessly dishevelled; he had attended to every detail.
The gold-and-diamond sleeve buttons and matching cravat pin testified to his wealth—subtle, deliberate signs of showing his prosperity.
Longbourn appeared well-kept. The red-brick house was softened by climbing ivy and roses.
From his discreet inquiries, Fiennes had gained a sense of the estate’s income, and two thousand a year proved a disappointment.
Bennet likely lacked ready funds for indulgence, but that would not hinder Fiennes from cultivating his friendship until the proper moment to strike.
People, after all, were tools—useful only to those clever enough to wield them.
The door opened to reveal an elderly butler, who admitted him and led the way to a large parlour on the east side of the house. It was perfectly suited to evening use, for the sun had long passed, leaving the room pleasantly cool.
“Mr Damian Fiennes,” the butler announced.
“Thank you, Hill.” Bennet rose. “Mr Fiennes, we are pleased you could join us. Allow me to present my wife, Mrs Frances Bennet, and our two eldest daughters, Miss Jane Bennet and Miss Elizabeth. My Lizzy is particularly delighted—this is her first formal dinner.”
Fiennes bowed and then straightened, intent on studying the family.
Mrs Bennet’s hands fluttered, her eyes darting about.
She spoke in quick, shrill bursts, confirming his suspicion that she was not of gentle birth.
Even in the first moments of their acquaintance, she had managed two or three small breaches of decorum.
Miss Bennet was a young woman of great beauty.
At seventeen, her charms were already considerable, and Fiennes had no doubt she would grow still lovelier in time.
Yet her downcast eyes and timid replies failed to hold his interest. Others might censure his habit of judging swiftly, but he prided himself on the accuracy of his assessments; he was rarely mistaken.