Chapter 12 #3
They were received in the hall by Mrs. Nicholls, the housekeeper, a pleasant-faced woman of middle years with an efficient manner and keen eyes.
She welcomed Mr. Bingley with proper respect, assured the ladies that fires had been lit in their chambers, and directed the footmen regarding the luggage with a calm competence Darcy appreciated at once.
The entrance hall confirmed his first impression of the house.
It was comfortable rather than showy, furnished with pieces that were perhaps a generation out of fashion but well-made and well cared for.
The carpets were clean, the wood polished, the curtains fresh though not expensive.
No gilt excess crowded the tables, no ridiculous statuary interfered with passage, no attempt had been made to purchase grandeur by the yard.
It was not Pemberley; it did not try to be. That was part of its charm.
Miss Bingley, unfortunately, saw charm very differently.
“Oh, Charles,” she said as they passed into the drawing room, “this will never do.”
Bingley looked around in surprise. “What will never do?”
“The furnishings.” She gestured toward the room as though indicting it. “The chairs are sturdy enough, I suppose, but entirely unfashionable. And these curtains—good heavens. They must be replaced at once.”
Mrs. Hurst ran one finger lightly along the back of a chair. “The whole room wants London taste.”
“I agree,” Miss Bingley said. “But do not be uneasy, Charles. Louisa and I shall make a list. With proper paper, new hangings, carpets, glass, and perhaps a few pieces from town, it might be made tolerable.”
Darcy glanced toward Mrs. Nicholls. Her expression remained composed, but her lips pressed together for a fraction of a moment before she resumed her pleasant attention.
It was a small thing, almost invisible, but he had spent too many years watching servants, tenants, and soldiers conceal their opinions to miss it.
Bingley, unaware of the housekeeper’s reaction, only laughed. “You have not been here an hour and already you mean to refurnish it?”
“Better before we are seen to inhabit it,” Miss Bingley replied.
Darcy felt his opinion of Netherfield’s absent owner improve.
If the owner had resisted the urge to purchase expensive nonsense for the sake of fashion, he—or perhaps she—had better sense than half the people Darcy knew.
A house that did not waste money upon vanity might have money left for roofs, drains, wages, and tenants.
He had learned through bitter necessity that appearances were often the least important part of an estate and yet the most tempting to preserve.
Mrs. Nicholls led them upstairs, pausing to identify chambers and explain the arrangements.
Miss Bingley continued her quiet complaints as they went: the paper in one passage too faded, the carpet in another too plain, the furniture in the blue chamber heavy but old.
Darcy listened with increasing restraint.
At the door of his own room, he turned to the housekeeper before she could withdraw. “Thank you, Mrs. Nicholls. The house appears most comfortable.”
Her face changed at once. Not broadly, not in any manner improper, but her eyes warmed and a genuine smile touched her mouth. “Thank you, sir. The owner has always preferred to put money into the people and land rather than the furnishings.”
Darcy looked back along the passage, where Miss Bingley’s voice could still be heard lamenting the want of a proper pier glass. Then he returned his attention to Mrs. Nicholls. “A wise preference. I have found the same principle useful at my own estate.”
The housekeeper’s smile deepened into something very near approval. “Have you, sir?”
“When one has limited funds, tenants’ cottages deserve precedence over drawing-room ornaments.”
“That is just what the owner says, sir.”
“Then your owner has excellent judgment.”
Mrs. Nicholls curtsied. “I am glad to hear it said, sir.”
She moved away, but Darcy had the distinct impression that Bates, his valet, would be interrogated before evening.
Servants’ halls were more efficient than newspapers and often more accurate.
By supper, Mrs. Nicholls would likely know that Pemberley had been half-closed for years, that its master mended cottages before replacing plate, and that Bates had been instructed never to waste candle ends merely because a gentleman might be too proud to notice them.
Darcy entered his room and found his trunks already placed, the fire lit, and the curtains drawn back to admit the soft afternoon light. The chamber was simple, clean, and entirely sufficient.
He removed his gloves slowly, then looked down at his plain dark coat.
Mr. Darcy, then.
Not Colonel.
Not soldier.
Not guest by duty or necessity, but guest by choice.
Below, Bingley’s voice rose cheerfully, followed by Miss Bingley’s sharper reply.
Somewhere in the house, servants moved with the orderly sounds of arrival.
Outside, the park stretched toward a neighborhood he had never seen and an assembly he had no particular desire to attend, though he knew he must.
For Charles’s sake.
For propriety’s sake.
And perhaps, if he were honest, because the house had stirred his curiosity.
The owner preferred tenants to furnishings.
Darcy smiled faintly as he rang for Bates. Whoever held Netherfield, at least they possessed sense.