Chapter Ten #2
Calls were largely exchanged between the women, though Mr. Bingley had an uncanny sense of timing, always arriving to speak at least a few words with Jane before they parted.
Between these brief but consistent meetings and the longer but less frequent evenings at the homes of various neighbors, it was easy to see that Jane was falling for Mr. Bingley.
Elizabeth watched them carefully, hoping he was not raising her sister’s hopes without the intention of satisfying them.
She declined a few invitations in favor of Mary; she really did have a great deal of work to do. Besides, Mary might be less envious once she experienced Netherfield’s hospitality for herself.
Elizabeth rubbed the back of her neck and turned her attention to her letters.
Aunt Olivia had written with yet another investment she thought Elizabeth should sell.
It was not yielding much money and took significant time to manage.
She held the letter up to the sunlight and noted that her aunt’s writing was less steady than it had been.
She had seen it happening gradually, and it made her long to go to London.
She had already made the request once, early in September, and her aunt had forbidden it.
Elizabeth propped an elbow up on the table and rested her cheek in her hand.
Work and worry were beginning to take their toll.
I believe your uncle would have sold had he not passed so suddenly, Aunt Olivia wrote.
Elizabeth went over Cousin John’s notes, which her aunt had included.
He said he waited only for her approval, which she gave.
It was kind of him, honestly, as the investments were not legally hers.
Yet. Her aunt had asked that she be involved in these dealings, and she had been.
She hoped Aunt Olivia was at least spending some of the money that was accruing.
She should be going out to the family parties if nothing else.
Her aunt had also written about Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth’s anger towards the man had cooled somewhat.
He never approached, so they had never had enough privacy for her to confide her identity, and she was determined they would not discuss it when in company with Miss Bingley or her shrewish sister.
It was not his fault, but she blamed him for it anyway.
If he had only been civil at the assembly she might have found a way then.
She did not examine the only other opportunity—their meeting at the foot of Oakham Mount.
I was in a hurry. She stood, letter in hand, and finished reading it.
Her aunt was making excuses for Mr. Darcy.
He has not acted the gentleman, Lizzy, but think of your comparative situations. He has not been allowed to keep his wealth private, has he? Do not be too hard on the boy. He will be shocked when at last you tell him and that will be compensation enough.
“You are becoming quite soft,” Elizabeth said fondly, closing Aunt Olivia’s letter and turning to her land steward’s.
Mr. Yeager had been emboldened by the success of their venture over the past two years.
He was quite sure that the current crop would bring in even higher yields, and he wished to open the final greenhouse for strawberries.
Presuming her approval, he was asking for additional funds to purchase mature plants at the end of next summer.
Elizabeth agreed to increase the budget, but wanted also to use the final greenhouse to produce some pineapples.
The costs would be high, but the profit margin would be higher still.
Is it worth building a small pinery? Uncle Gardiner had a connection on one of his trade routes willing to sell at reasonable rates.
When that business had been concluded, she had written Mr. Yeager a series of letters explaining why the crop, which could not be produced in bulk, was worth the extra care it would require.
He thought the craze for them a temporary fashion.
Who would spend so many pounds to buy, much less rent, a piece of fruit?
It was true, she chuckled, there was a great deal of the ridiculous in the desire to show off one’s wealth by presenting an uncut pineapple on the table at one’s soirees.
The fruit was so difficult to find in London and so desirable a sign of luxury that the price for each was enormous.
Instead of purchasing them outright, families had taken to renting them for an evening to show off at parties.
If one owned the fruit in question, it could be rented out multiple times before the fruit decayed.
Mr. Yeager underestimated the propensity of the ton to act foolishly, but she did not.
She would take advantage where she could.
Perhaps we shall sell them, and others may rent them.
If no one will purchase or rent, then we shall eat them and enjoy ourselves, she had written back at last, weary of the argument.
Although they had used as much brick as possible when they built the greenhouses, there were large windows on one side and smaller windows on the other.
They had kept the greenhouses small enough to remain under ten windows each and declared each greenhouse a separate structure.
Still, she wanted a high-profit crop to offset the expense of both the glass and window taxes, not to mention the taxes on male servants. Everywhere she turned she paid more.
The past two years had been exciting. With the Duke of Bedford’s assistance, she had gained two major customers for the greenhouses in addition to some of the smaller accounts.
The Albany would purchase nearly anything they raised, and Brooks’s was buying now as well.
If they had to seek out individual buyers for the pineapples, she was sure the duke or the marquess would be able to find eager buyers amongst their acquaintance.
Elizabeth dragged her eyes back to her letters and refocused her thoughts. Selling their produce off-season was the key to their success—gooseberries in November, melon in
January—and Mr. Yeager’s meticulous scheduling had been essential.
Her Aunt Olivia’s pointed remark that Gunter’s had their own greenhouses in Kensington to produce fruit for their shop year-round had been just the idea Elizabeth needed.
Mr. Yeager was the land steward for the entire property, but his focus was the greenhouses.
He had another man who ran the hen and dairy houses.
In addition to the strawberries, egg production was being reviewed, requiring the purchase of more Speckled Sussex hens.
They had proven to be excellent layers, though even they had trouble producing over the cold months.
Not enough light, she mused. Can anything be done about that?
Elizabeth tallied up the costs, and though she thought the expense of more chickens perhaps unnecessary, keeping Mr. Yeager relaxed was generally easier in the end.
By the time she had completed her latest round of instructions and sealed up her letters, she was more than ready to focus on something else; while Mr. Yeager was intelligent and insightful, she was prepared to read or discuss politics, philosophy, literature—anything that required a loftier sort of thinking.
Speckled Sussex or Shakespeare? she chuckled. Shakespeare. Definitely Shakespeare.
She stacked her latest correspondence for Mr. Hill. Perhaps she would take a book out to the gardens here at Longbourn. The weather today was warm for this time of the year, and she knew the days would soon grow cold. Tomorrow she would relieve Mary from her duties to the Netherfield ladies.
Darcy sunk the final ball and reset the billiards table.
He had expected to have more of Bingley’s company on this visit, but the man was always hovering near the drawing room when a visit from Longbourn was in the offing.
Bingley must have assigned one of the servants to be his eyes and ears, for his sisters would surely not have encouraged his constant attentions to Miss Bennet.
Darcy shrugged. At least his billiard game had improved.
Following the assembly, Darcy had listened to Miss Bingley disparage the area’s lack of appropriate company, with the grudging exception of the two eldest Bennet girls.
He had remained silent as she railed against their mother and the two younger daughters, recalling both Bingley’s irritation with his rejection of Miss Elizabeth Bennet and the shame he felt at his own behavior.
Miss Bingley was satisfied with his silence, perhaps believing it to be agreement.
Darcy had not felt he could contradict his hostess, but the two younger girls had not seemed particularly dull to him.
Miss Mary was perhaps not as pretty as her sisters, but she was not plain, and seemed an intelligent girl.
The youngest one—Miss Kate? No, Kitty—had seemed timid but amiable enough among her neighbors.
There was another one they had not met, as she was not out.
A surplus of sisters, he thought, his mood dark.
Just the sort of complication most men would avoid.
He lined up another shot. Not my business.
As Miss Bingley railed long against the Bennets and Meryton, he had sent an apologetic glance to Bingley so his friend would know he disagreed.
Yet there, too, he was misunderstood, as his friend apparently believed he had Darcy’s blessing to seek out Miss Bennet.
Not that he needed Darcy’s blessing, but… What a mess.