CHAPTER 42 #2
Mr. Hartwood said, “Miss Bennet has been raised to consider comfort proper, waste offensive, and display nearly vulgar unless it serves some respectable social purpose.”
“Yes,” Darcy said. “That I had observed.”
“Not fully,” said Mr. Beaker.
Darcy looked at him.
Mr. Beaker turned another page.
“The late Mrs. Marwood’s marriage portion was originally ten thousand pounds. She did not wish it ventured. Unfortunately, she also did not wish it spent.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Unfortunately?”
“For anyone hoping the sum might have diminished.”
Mr. Hartwood looked down at his papers.
Mr. Beaker, merciless, proceeded. “It was placed conservatively, left for a great many years, and disturbed as little as Mrs. Marwood could contrive. Miss Bennet has lately used portions of the reserve for property purchases where ownership was cleaner than continued exception.”
Darcy thought of Cotton Lane. Numbers Seventeen and Eighteen. Holdout houses. The way Elizabeth had considered purchase not as display, but as the removal of disorder.
Mr. Beaker said, “Miss Bennet does not spend capital. She relocates it.”
Darcy’s mouth almost moved.
It was precisely Elizabeth. A fortune did not vanish with her; it was put to work elsewhere, corrected, disciplined, made less foolish.
“After these disbursements,” said Mr. Beaker, “the reserve stands at ninety thousand pounds.”
The room became very quiet.
Darcy looked at the figure. There it was, black and plain, without flourish, written in Mr. Beaker’s severe hand as if ninety thousand pounds were the sort of thing one might encounter before luncheon and not be altered by.
He did not immediately understand it.
That was impossible, because the words were plain.
It was only that the plain words had arranged themselves into an impossible result.
“Ninety thousand,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Remaining.”
“Yes.”
Mr. Beaker did not look cruel. That made it worse.
“In addition,” he said, “there is the active portfolio.”
Darcy’s hand, which had been resting upon the arm of his chair, went still.
“In addition.”
“Approximately eighty thousand pounds. Banking, insurance, and shipping, chiefly. It is professionally managed. No income has been withdrawn from it. Dividends, interest, and proceeds are reinvested. Miss Bennet’s yearly surplus is added where prudent.”
Darcy heard a sound in the room and realized, a moment later, that it was himself taking breath.
Mr. Hartwood’s expression altered by the smallest degree.
“Mr. Darcy?”
“I beg your pardon. Pray continue.”
Mr. Beaker continued, because Mr. Beaker was not a man to spare another merely because arithmetic had become indecent.
“If all ordinary returns were taken as income, rather than reinvested, Miss Bennet’s available income would be somewhat above ten thousand pounds per annum, before any extraordinary sale, purchase, or adjustment. She does not presently use it so. The greater part continues to accumulate.”
Above ten thousand pounds per annum.
Darcy sat very still.
Pemberley had been the measure by which his childhood had understood consequence.
Land, woods, water, farms, mills, tenants, stone, gardens, servants, obligations, repairs, charities, expectations, dinners, carriages, timber, weather, harvest, pride.
Pemberley was not merely income. It was place, memory, duty, beauty, blood, and burden.
It was also expense. Vast, constant, hungry expense. A great estate devoured money with all the innocence of a child eating bread.
Miss Bennet’s fortune had fewer picturesque claims upon it and a far greater habit of remaining where Mr. Beaker put it.
Darcy looked down at the papers.
Every fear he had ever had of appearing mercenary had been too small.
Mr. Hartwood said quietly, “Miss Bennet knows her accounts. She does not always know what they signify to persons not raised among them.”
“She cannot fail to know she is wealthy.”
“No,” said Mr. Hartwood. “But she may mistake the degree of astonishment which ought to attend it.”
Mr. Beaker adjusted a page by perhaps one eighth of an inch. “Miss Bennet thinks three sound estimates and a restrained bill are a more natural expression of wealth than a new carriage.”
Darcy looked up despite himself.
“She would.”
Mr. Beaker’s face suggested the faintest approval of this answer.
Mr. Hartwood continued, “Mrs. Marwood left her wealth. She did not leave her an occupation large enough for it.”
Mr. Beaker glanced at him. “I have sometimes thought Miss Bennet would like to use more of it, if she found an object sufficiently worthy.”
“Worthy?” Darcy said.
“Practical,” said Mr. Beaker. “Miss Bennet is not moved by grandeur. She is moved by disorder that can be repaired.”
There was something in those words which had nothing to do with money.
Darcy thought of Elizabeth in Cotton Lane, seeing damp, arrears, bad habit, and exception, not as inconveniences to be endured, but as disorder demanding form.
He thought of her writing to Hartwood against Wickham.
He thought of Portman Square rooms being opened in her mind before he knew he was to occupy them.
He thought of her hand offered across a table because something in him had been injured and she had judged that he required steadiness more than pity.
She was moved by disorder that could be repaired.
He wondered what she saw when she looked at him.
The thought was too much.
Mr. Hartwood said, “You understand why the settlements must be particularly clean.”
“Yes.”
“The property work you have done and may continue to complete will be separated entirely from trust control. Your knowledge is useful only so far as it remains supervised, recorded, and bounded. Mr. Beaker and I will both retain oversight. The trustees will not surrender direction.”
“I should object if they did.”
“Good,” said Mr. Hartwood.
Mr. Beaker placed a document before him. “This draft acknowledges your exclusion from management of Miss Bennet’s separate capital, save as expressly requested by trustees in a limited professional capacity and never as husband.”
Darcy took the paper.
Words did not often comfort him. These did. Not because they gave him anything, but because they refused him so much.
He read carefully. Then he took the pen.
Mr. Hartwood watched him.
Darcy signed.
He signed clearly, steadily, and without the smallest delay. If his hand knew that it was placing him at a greater distance from Miss Bennet’s fortune than many men would have thought tolerable, it gave no sign of it.
Mr. Beaker sanded the page, shook off the excess, and appeared almost satisfied.
“Very good,” said Mr. Beaker.
Darcy had the disquieting impression that he had just been approved for not being a scoundrel.
Mr. Hartwood drew another paper forward.
“There remains the question of provision for you.”
Darcy looked up.
“For me?”
“For you as Miss Bennet’s husband.”
The words should not have struck so unpleasantly. They were ordinary words. Legal words. Necessary words. Mr. Hartwood had not altered his tone.
Darcy nevertheless felt every figure previously spoken gather behind them.
“I make money enough to provide for myself.”
“We are aware of that,” said Mr. Hartwood.
“Then I require no provision from Miss Bennet.”
Mr. Beaker’s pen paused. “Require and receive are not always the same word in settlements.”
“In this case,” said Darcy, “I should prefer that they remain so.”
Mr. Hartwood considered him for a moment, then inclined his head.
“Very well. Given Miss Bennet’s position, and given your own income, we see no reason to settle any allowance upon you. Your maintenance will not be charged against her capital.”
Darcy had not known until that moment how much he had required those words.
“Thank you.”
“It is not generosity,” said Mr. Beaker. “It is arithmetic.”
“I am content to be obliged to arithmetic.”
Mr. Beaker looked almost pleased.
Mr. Hartwood continued, “Provision for any children of the marriage will be made when there are children to provide for. Miss Bennet’s estate need not be encumbered on behalf of theoretical heirs.”
Darcy’s hand tightened once, then eased.
Children. The word entered the room with less paper than consequence.
“Of course.”
“Miss Bennet’s will is a separate matter and will be reviewed after the marriage articles are settled.”
“I understand.”
Mr. Hartwood turned another page. “We do not expect you to settle anything upon Miss Bennet. Given her financial position, such a provision would be more symbolic than useful.”
Darcy looked at the page before him.
More symbolic than useful.
It was not insult. Insult would have been easier. It was merely true.
“I understand,” he said again.
Mr. Hartwood’s voice softened by half a degree. “There are other forms of care, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy looked up.
“So I am learning.”
There were more papers. There were always more papers.
Restrictions, acknowledgments, memoranda, draft provisions, notes for final settlement, clauses concerning Elizabeth’s separate use, portions reserved, property management, future income, no assignment without trustees’ consent, no private direction, no debt secured against her estate, no expectation disguised as request.
Darcy read each. Darcy signed where required. Darcy asked one question of wording and received from Mr. Hartwood a concise answer which proved that the objection had already been anticipated, met, and bound in legal twine.
At last Mr. Hartwood gathered the signed papers.
“I will not pretend this is pleasant, Mr. Darcy.”
“It is proper.”
“Yes. That is not always the same thing.”
Darcy looked at him.
Mr. Hartwood’s expression remained mild. “There are men who would have objected.”
“There are men who should not marry Miss Bennet.”
Mr. Beaker’s eyes lifted.
For the first time that morning, Darcy saw something close to satisfaction in both men.
“No,” said Mr. Hartwood. “There are not many who should.”
Darcy rose.