Chapter 11
Darcy’s Sitting Room
One Week Later
Netherfield was a sufficiently large manor that it boasted private sitting rooms not only for the family's chambers, but those for guests as well.
Darcy's private sitting room was not large or particularly luxurious, but it was comfortable, the chimney was in good repair, and the fireplace drew well.
The furniture was rather old but well-worn and comfortable, save for the desk in one corner, which was much newer and did not match its fellows at all.
It was far larger in scale than any other single piece of furniture in the room and was made of cherry instead of oak.
Darcy’s desire for a desk in his sitting room was entirely practical.
Within a few days of his arrival at Netherfield, he had learned that if he sought to make use of the desk in the drawing room, or the downstairs west sitting room, or even the library, he would not be left in peace long enough to address any significant portion of his considerable correspondence.
Miss Bingley was insidious and determined.
No matter where he went outside of his private chambers, it was only a matter of time before she drifted into his vicinity and began spouting fulsome compliments.
Nothing escaped her gushing admiration; not his deeds, not his words, not his writing, not his sisters’ accomplishments.
Darcy wished that her admiration of his devotion to his duty would give way to her respect for his desire to execute it.
He had a great deal of business to deal with, naturally.
His steward at Pemberley was excellent, but Darcy was always very involved with the day-to-day running of his estate, and any extended period away inevitably resulted in reams of letters between himself and the steward to discuss matters.
He was answering one such inquiry this morning, and two stacks of finished letters on the far corner of the desk spoke to his industry.
The recent pile of letters sent from Darcy House had included a letter forwarded from Scotland.
He had recognized the handwriting of Mr. Whittaker, the steward who oversaw the small Darcy subsidiary estate of Whitecroft in the Scottish Lowlands.
Mr. Whittaker was a canny man and did not write often, but even the wisest steward needed to consult his master on occasion, and Darcy did his utmost to be prompt in responding.
He was close to being done with writing letters, and his focus was fully on his words and his pen as it glided rapidly and neatly across the paper. He was nearing the end of his missive, and the sand sat ready to dry the ink.
The door opened, and Darcy glanced up as his valet, Percy, entered the room with a pile of letters in his hand.
Darcy took the letters with a suppressed sigh. More letters, and his hand was already a trifle cramped.
“Thank you,” he said, and Percy retreated out of the room.
Darcy began thumbing through the missives, and he halted at one whose looping handwriting was gratifyingly familiar. He hastily broke open the wax, turned slightly to allow the sunlight to shine on the page, and began reading.
Matlock House
London
Dear Nephew,
I am pleased to hear that you and your sisters are well. Matlock and I have also been blessed with good health, save for a trifling cold on the part of your uncle, but he has recovered now.
Your questions about the daughter of the fourth Viscount Langdon required a fair amount of effort on my part, but it was enjoyable work.
There are so few mysteries in life these days, after all, and it gave me the opportunity to visit a number of older friends who remember the events of twenty years ago better than I do.
At the time, I was very much devoted to my own family affairs, as I had two young sons.
Viscount Langdon is master of Wrayburn in Sussex. Langdon inherited the estate from his uncle only last year, and rumors are that the estate is in dreadful shape, as his uncle was a gambler and a spendthrift.
Old Lord Langdon had but one daughter, and he married her off to a Mr. Harper who was, shockingly enough, a mere Cit, albeit a very wealthy one. A substantial amount of money changed hands, and the new Mrs. Harper moved to London, to Grosvenor Street, with her bridegroom.
As I said, Wrayburn is in poor shape, so presumably the old lord spent the bride price on his own pleasures as opposed to fencing and drainage and the like.
Within a year of the marriage, young Mr. Harper died in a fall down some stairs, and Mrs. Harper, who was rumored to be with child, entirely disappeared from Society.
It did not matter whether the resulting child was male or female, of course, since the viscountancy must go through a direct male line, and thus Old Lord Langdon’s nephew inherited.
But the Harpers were a very wealthy family at one point, though the money is, obviously, the product of trade.
Young Mr. Harper was an only child, and none of my acquaintances know exactly what happened to the money.
It could have been lost on the Exchange, or frittered away, or something of the sort.
It is, as I said earlier, all very mysterious.
But based on the information you provided, I think it quite likely that Mrs. Bennet is indeed the daughter of the fourth Viscount Langford.
By the by, Richard is in Brighton and hopes to be transferred to London next year. I do wish he would find a wife and sell his commission.
Sincerely,
Emma, Countess of Matlock
Darcy read the letter twice and then set it aside thoughtfully.
He was now quite certain of the antecedents of Mrs. Bennet and her four daughters.
From the point of view of connections, the younger three were of better blood than the elder two; Miss Bennet was the daughter of Mr. Bennet and his first wife, a mere solicitor’s daughter.
The second Miss Bennet was the granddaughter of a viscount, but her deceased father was the son of a Cit.
The last three daughters were the daughters of a gentleman and a genuine lady, but Longbourn was lost to the female line, and there was likely not much money for the girls.
Bloodlines were important, of course, but fortune was vitally important as well. Most families in Town had to pay some attention to money when choosing spouses for their children.
He was, he supposed, a rare exception to that rule. He could safely wed where he liked, with no particular consideration of fortune. Good connections, however, were essential. His paternal line was not titled, but it was noble and ancient, and his mother had been the daughter of an earl.
His mind turned to Miss Anne de Bourgh, his first cousin, heiress of the vast estate of Rosings in Kent.
Various older family members had suggested, some stridently, that he and Anne wed in order to unite Pemberley and Rosings.
It was a prudent plan, perhaps, but Anne was a feeble woman, and Darcy cared for her only in a cousinly way.
He shook his head, set aside the letter, and turned his attention to the rest of his mail. His current responsibilities were to Serena, Georgiana, and Pemberley, and he had no intention of taking a wife just yet.
For a moment, the enticing face and bright eyes of Miss Elizabeth Bennet rose in his mind, but he quickly shook his head to dissipate them. He was pleased that Serena had found such an intelligent friend, but Miss Elizabeth, tainted by her paternity, was not an appropriate bride for a Darcy.
Was she?
***
Mrs. Hurst’s Dressing Room
Late
Louisa Hurst was comfortable. Her favorite nightgown was soft and warm, especially with the matching dressing gown over it and her charming nightcap tied atop her soft hair.
There was a large fire in her fireplace, and several candles sat on the little table beside her cushioned armchair.
It was late, and the house was quiet, and she was thoroughly enjoying her solitude and the novel she held in her hands.
She turned a page, enraptured by the story.
What cared she if the clock kept ticking on?
She had a proper, well-bred lady’s disdain for country hours.
She was free to sleep until eleven if she wished, or even noon.
It was not as though she needed to be up and awake to greet important morning callers, and her book was so very interesting!
Louisa turned another page and shifted, and the couch creaked underneath her.
The furniture here really was out of date, in her dressing room as in every other room in the house.
Caroline was prone to ceaseless complaints about being forced to live in a home devoid of the most recent fashion in interior design, but Louisa was much less bothered.
She was not as particular in her tastes as was her younger sister nor quite as determined to order all her surroundings to match them.
Moreover, she liked comfortable furniture, and some modern chairs and sofas were quite unpleasant to sit on!
There were only a few pages left in her book now, and Louisa absently reached over to adjust one of the candlesticks so that the light might fall more fully on her book.
The clock ticked steadily, and a log in the fire fell, sending a spray of sparks up the chimney.
Mrs. Hurst took little notice of these small stirrings of life, as she was fully absorbed in her novel.
Page after page turned, little rustles in the quiet, until all that was left was the back cover of the book.
She lingered a moment, enjoying the finale, before closing the volume with a soft thump and a sigh of contentment and pleasure.