CHAPTER 10 #3
Darcy remained standing until he realized that continuing to do so made him look as though he were defending the room against invasion. He sat too.
“I hope the basket was not inconvenient,” said Miss Bennet.
“No.”
That was too short.
He added, “It was very generous.”
“It was gratitude.”
“It was substantial gratitude.”
“Pom-Pom’s life is substantial to me.”
Pom-Pom sneezed.
Darcy looked at him.
“I am aware of his lordship’s consequence.”
“Then we understand each other.”
Not nearly, Darcy thought.
Aloud he said, “And your business, Miss Bennet?”
Miss Bennet’s expression brightened into decision.
“I have decided to dedicate Cotton Lane to you, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy’s hand stilled.
“That is a distinction for which I am wholly unprepared.”
“You may be relieved. It is not commemorative.”
“No?”
“No. Administrative.”
Mrs. Doddridge rose, placed the packet on Darcy’s desk, and sat down again.
“The papers, miss.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Doddridge.”
Darcy looked at the packet.
Cotton Lane, then.
“I collect,” he said carefully, “that Cotton Lane is not a tribute.”
“Not unless leases have become more flattering than I was led to believe.”
“They have not.”
“Then no. Cotton Lane contains several small properties that came to me through Mrs. Marwood. The leases are inconvenient, elderly, and inclined to multiply whenever Mr. Beaker looks at them. He considers them an excellent beginning.”
“For me?”
“For the work.”
“That is a meaningful distinction?”
“I hope so. Otherwise we are both in danger.”
He should not have enjoyed that.
He did.
“Mr. Hartwood and Mr. Beaker mentioned there may be lease work,” he said.
“I thought they might.”
“They did not mention Cotton Lane.”
“I thought they would not.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to.”
He looked at her.
She said it as if it were the most reasonable answer in the world, and perhaps, in her world, it was. Darcy had the sudden impression that Miss Bennet’s world was not disorderly. It was worse. It obeyed rules, but the rules were all partly of her own making.
“It would be a portion only,” she continued, “under Mr. Hartwood’s direction. You would not be required to take on anything beyond the agreed scope. Nor would I expect you to regard the offer as favour.”
Darcy’s eyes lifted to hers.
That was the heart of it, then.
She had seen enough, or guessed enough, to understand where offence might lie. He did not know whether to resent her for it or admire her.
Admiration came first.
That was inconvenient.
“No?” he said.
“No. It is work. If you do it badly, I shall not employ you again.”
“That is clear.”
“I thought clarity would be appreciated.”
“It is.”
“And if you do it well,” she said, “then we shall know something useful.”
“We?”
“My trustees and I.”
“And Lord Pomington?”
“He has a limited understanding of leases.”
“I am relieved to hear it.”
“But a strong opinion of character.”
Pom-Pom looked at Darcy with no evidence of approval.
“So I see.”
Miss Bennet leaned forward a little. Not improperly. Not even much. Yet the movement drew the room toward her.
“Mr. Beaker says Cotton Lane is excellent for discovering whether a man is precise, patient, and proof against provocation.”
“That is a formidable lane.”
“It has had practice.”
“And you wish to see whether I survive it?”
“I wish to see whether Cotton Lane does.”
For a moment, no one spoke.
Outside the office, a clerk coughed once and then appeared to repent it.
Darcy looked at the papers. He looked at Mrs. Doddridge’s composed face. He looked at Lord Pomington’s suspicious little eyes. Finally, because avoidance was a poor defence and had already failed him twice in this affair, he looked at Miss Bennet.
She had brought propriety with her. Authority too. A companion, a dog, two trustees’ approval, a packet of leases, and a manner suggesting that his agreement was not demanded, only expected by every reasonable principle in creation.
She should have been absurd.
She was absurd.
She was also beautiful, warm, willful, entirely too pleased with her own arrangements, and looking at him as if he were a locked gate and she had always been fond of keys.
He ought to have asked for time.
He ought to have written to Hartwood.
He ought to have remembered that a man in his position did not step lightly into the affairs of a young woman who invaded his chambers with lease papers and made occupation look like courtesy.
There was every professional reason to accept, and several private reasons to run.
Miss Bennet waited, bright-eyed and composed, as if a man’s peace were a minor inconvenience beside the proper ordering of leases.
Darcy looked once at the papers.
Then at her.
“Very well,” he said. “I will look at Cotton Lane.”
Her smile came at once — not triumphant, not quite, but with such lively satisfaction that he was forced to look away.
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy.”
It was only a professional engagement.
It had better be.
The work was real. The trustees had approved it. The terms were proper, the papers substantial, and the lady perfectly accompanied.
The dreams he had had of her had nothing whatsoever to do with it.
Lord Pomington sneezed, with every appearance of disagreement.