Chapter Twelve
Bingley was watching the snow fall outside, an unlit cigar in his hand. “I think that regardless of what happens with the undergardener, Darcy, you will be delayed here until the roads are cleared. You may as well settle into your rooms.”
”I cannot leave,“ he informed Bingley, who turned to him with a mildly interested expression. “Your staff took my clothing to launder it and only half of it has made its way back. Would you mind making some inquiries?”
Bingley’s lips twitched. God help him if he laughed at Darcy’s plight. Darcy had had quite enough of that.
It was not as though he intended to leave.
After their conversation at dinner this evening, he was not leaving this house until he could speak with Elizabeth alone.
He might have mistaken her answer tonight or taken it to mean more than it did—misunderstanding Elizabeth was something he had a good deal of experience with—but he did not think that was the case.
And when he did, it would be best if his stockings matched.
“I will speak with the staff.”
“Thank you. This is no slight on Scripps, of course. He must be weary of tending to us both.”
“He will manage,” Bingley replied. “I expect he is anticipating a bit extra on Boxing Day, and he shall have it.”
Darcy nodded and joined his friend at the window. The snow was still coming down in great blustery swathes, though it had slowed somewhat from earlier in the evening. It was too dark to see much beyond where they stood, but he doubted it was enough to foul the roads.
Bingley offered him the cigar, but Darcy shook his head. “Usually I smoke to keep Hurst company, but Jane does not like the smell. I shall not purchase more.”
“I am sure Hurst will be glad to have what remains.”
“No doubt.”
“It has been growing progressively colder,” Darcy mused. “I ought to have expected the turn in the weather.”
Bingley huffed, amused. “You are a farmer through and through.”
“I suppose that is true.” Darcy did not mention that he had been terribly distracted. “It comes with being born on an estate.”
“It does not,” Bingley disagreed. “For if it did, there would not be so many old families in decline. Observing you last autumn taught me that success takes a great deal of work. One must keep up with new ways to increase yield or new crops that might do better than the old. It requires managing risk and not relying on previous partnerships if they no longer offer favourable terms, not to mention a knowledge of contracts to sell the goods, and the many letters to interested parties. You must know who to hire and how to oversee their work. And in addition, one must cultivate good relationships with everyone whenever possible, from one’s tenants to the neighbouring landowners.
” He paused. “Some of it comes naturally to me, but much of it does not.”
“I had the advantage of being brought up to the work. Pemberley is as much a part of the Darcy family as I am. More, to tell the truth, for if I am a success, it will live on after me.”
Bingley stared straight ahead. “What does a landowner do when the weather turns cold like this?”
His friend was in an unusually pensive mood, but Darcy simply answered the question.
“Nothing of consequence if the harvest has been good and the work is done. In a year like this one, however, more care is required. Normally I would be at Pemberley to oversee the preparations, but as you know, business called me back to London soon after my arrival last summer. I have been corresponding with my steward and my housekeeper to make certain the staff and the tenants have what they need to make it through the colder months.”
“What if the next harvest is also poor?”
Darcy shook his head. “I do not like to think of it. I have money in investments and the funds as well, of course, so Pemberley is secure though ten such years. But so many people depend upon the health of the estate for their own livelihoods that two years of poor harvests would be very damaging.”
“Is there any other sort of work that you could put them to that would see them through the leaner times?” Bingley inquired.
“I have considered it, of course, but when the harvest is poor, very few people have funds to purchase anything else we might produce.”
“What if you created some sort of barter system?”
“That is what happens among the tenants and villagers quite naturally. They need none of my help there. The staff alerts me where assistance might be needed. The difficulty at times is getting people to take the help, for many are averse to what they view as charity.”
Bingley glanced at him, and then back out at flashes of white swirling against the dark. “There is a healthy sort of pride, I think, that can lead a man to greater achievements. But there are occasions where pride becomes nothing more than an impediment.”
Darcy clasped his hands behind his back.
That hit very close to the mark. His pride had been a significant impediment to his own happiness.
But he was well past any sense of superiority now.
He would be insufferably proud again, though, if only he could convince Miss Bennet that he was worthy of her.
For a man worthy of her regard could truly be proud to have won it and her.
“Not a prize to be won,” he murmured.
“Did you say something, Darcy?” Bingley asked, finally drawn away from the scene outside.
“Nothing of import.” Elizabeth was a treasure, that much was true. But her respect, dare he hope—her love—was something he would work every day to preserve, to deepen.
Bingley tossed the cigar back in its box and poured two small glasses of brandy. Darcy took one and sipped it slowly.
As tirelessly as Darcy worked to maintain the family seat, to make it prosper for his family and those who depended upon it, Pemberley would never love him. He might have scoffed at such sentiment once, but no more.
He loved Elizabeth. He wanted, more than anything, to be a man she could love in return. He wanted to share Pemberley with her in all its trials and triumphs, but it was another sort of legacy he wanted more, the legacy of a love that would live on in their children and grandchildren.
It was a great deal to hope for. To make it happen, he must first speak to Elizabeth.
“Are you ready to rejoin the ladies, Bingley?” he asked.
Charles nodded. “I am.”
Elizabeth followed Jane out of the dining room and into the hallway. Mr. Carstairs was shaking out Mr. Darcy’s greatcoat but draped it over his arm when he saw them. “Mrs. Bingley, Miss Bennet,” he said, and then paused. “Miss Bingley.”
Miss Bingley frowned. “Is that Mr. Darcy’s coat?”
“It is.” Carstairs addressed Jane. “I was about to have it sent up to his rooms, now that it is dry and has been brushed.”
“Thank you, Carstairs,” Jane said approvingly.
When they entered the parlour, Miss Bingley was not with them. They waited for a few moments before Jane returned to the hall to locate her. Miss Bingley was not far from the door, and she was wearing a self-satisfied smile that Elizabeth could not like.
“What shall we do to pass the time?” Miss Bingley asked. “Perhaps some music? Mr. Darcy has always appreciated my playing.”
“That would be lovely, Caroline,” Jane said, seemingly relieved that the woman was not continuing to be difficult.
Miss Bingley moved to the pianoforte and began a few country airs.
Even Elizabeth had to admit she played them very well.
Jane spoke quietly about her plans for Christmas dinner, and Elizabeth tried to quell the happiness that welled up inside.
She would be able to spend Christmas with Mr. Darcy.
Unless the snow grew very deep indeed, they would go out to gather greenery and decorate the house.
Perhaps they might even hang a kissing bough where she would be sure to be caught standing.
She clasped her hands together in her lap and said a silent little prayer that she was not wrong.
How he could have overcome his aversion to Mr. Wickham so far as to contemplate marrying into a family that counted him among their members, she did not know, but at this moment, she did not care.
Thus they remained for three quarters of an hour. Elizabeth caught only a few words from Jane in all that time. Pudding. Goose. Pies. They took up some work, finishing some infant clothing for the parish.
When the music shifted rather abruptly into Clementi, which she knew Mr. Darcy enjoyed, Elizabeth looked up to see the men entering.
Due to Charles’s desire to be with his wife, no doubt, not to any haste on Mr. Darcy’s side.
Still, she watched him closely, and he smiled at her, a gentle smile of promise.
“Mr. Darcy,” Miss Bingley called in a voice as sweet and yet sophisticated as Elizabeth had ever heard, “I must claim your assistance to turn the pages, sir. Do say you will.”
Elizabeth wanted to pick up the nearest vase and throw it at Miss Bingley’s head. Horrible woman. Mr. Darcy could not properly turn down such an agreeably framed request, and though his expression hardened, he dutifully turned away and stepped to the pianoforte as Charles came to sit next to Jane.
Now that Jane’s attention was all for her husband, Elizabeth was free to observe the pair at the pianoforte.
Miss Bingley nodded at the bench, but Mr. Darcy pulled a chair up to the instrument and sat in that instead, using the length of his arms to turn the pages at the exact moment it was required for Miss Bingley to continue seamlessly through the music.
Elizabeth thought he must have performed the office regularly for his sister.
When the Clementi ended, Miss Bingley immediately began a piece by Pleyel, giving Mr. Darcy no chance to take his leave. Elizabeth gritted her teeth. Several sonatas followed until Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She stood and announced she was retiring.