Chapter 9
Elizabeth could hardly breathe. Had she heard correctly? She turned to her father. “Is Longbourn in danger?”
He met her eyes, which showed shame before he looked away. “Your security and that of your sisters and mother does not depend on Longbourn.” A poor excuse uttered feebly.
“Papa!” Her voice cracked. “Mr. Darcy is not here! He might never come.” How could he expect her to lay all of her concerns and fears on a man she had never met?
To expect Mr. Darcy to want her for a wife when she now came with a debt her father expected him to assume? Her face burned at the thought.
Her uncle cleared his throat, and from the corner of her eye she saw him look away. Mr. Robinson, however, watched her with a neutral expression. She was relieved that he did not seem critical.
Her father looked at her, eyes pleading. “He will return for his inheritance. Lizzy, now more than ever, we must believe he will.”
So everyone kept repeating. For years, she had managed Longbourn, had increased its income and added to her family’s comfort, and still her father believed her incapable of doing anything other than wait for the elusive Fitzwilliam Darcy to sweep in and save them.
As though she needed his help! She clamped her mouth shut and slowly inhaled, allowing the air to cool her boiling blood.
Calmer, steadier, she repeated her question.
“Papa, what do you mean ‘we might lose Longbourn’? What has happened?”
“A misunderstanding.” Papa waved his hand. “It will resolve itself, no doubt.”
Uncle spoke firmly, “This is not a mere misunderstanding, Bennet, nor is it a problem that will go away without taking decisive action. You received a formal demand from His Majesty’s Customs—”
“Which can be cleared up with a simple letter—”
Uncle sprang to his feet. “Which you would not write if left to your own devices!” He pounded his fists against the desk, leaning forward.
Elizabeth had never seen her uncle so impassioned. It startled her to silence as it must have done her father, for he offered no rebuttal.
Mr. Robinson’s confident tone cut through the tension. “Mr. Bennet, perhaps we should explain the events leading to this moment to Miss Bennet. It would be a kindness to grant her understanding.”
Her father looked at her, the sharpness she had hoped to see replaced with the glaze of disengagement as she watched him retreat into himself. She wanted to cry out for him to come back, to not leave her alone, but he was already gone. She bit her lip and turned to Uncle.
He pulled out a document bearing an official seal—the royal coat of arms. “Two days ago, a messenger of the king delivered this.”
Elizabeth took the document, her heart caught in her throat.
She read each word, her legs growing weaker as she saw the words formal demand, outstanding debts, duties, and penalties owed to His Majesty’s Customs & Excise in the amount of…
The number made her dizzy, the page as heavy as the amount.
“There must be a mistake. This is more—much more—than Longbourn’s yearly income. ”
She sank into a chair that had not been there moments ago, heard a low baritone ask for a restorative for her tea, felt a hand help her hold the cup to her lips, and the same voice instructed her to sip slowly.
She did, and it burned. Mr. Robinson looked at her thoughtfully, releasing his hold once he determined she could hold the cup on her own and stepping away.
Comforted by his thoughtfulness, she only then recalled her blunder.
A young lady would never have an immediate knowledge of estate income.
Her uncle would overlook this detail, as he did many things for her benefit.
She was fairly certain he knew how involved she was in the management of her home, but she had never admitted it to him directly, nor had he asked her to.
Mr. Robinson, on the other hand, might be shocked.
Most gentlemen would be. Was he? He did not seem to be…
Elizabeth felt his awareness of her. She sensed that, in both body and thought, he was prepared to rush to her assistance.
If she swooned, he would catch her. Where she lacked understanding, he would provide clarity.
This vexed her as much as it soothed her.
She was accustomed to doing things on her own, took pride in her independence as a strong-minded woman. She did not need anyone’s help.
“Unfortunately, Miss Bennet, the document is genuine. It bears the proper seals and is signed by Sir Bradley Headstone, a known Collector of Customs for the Port of London.”
She looked at her uncle, now in full possession of her composure and reason. “Have you confirmed this?”
“I have written to your uncle Gardiner and expect his reply by this afternoon. However, I do not doubt he will confirm Sir Bradley’s position and authority.”
She tried to breathe, tried to understand. “How? How could we possibly owe this much? We are a country estate and have no international interests.”
Mr. Robinson looked to Papa, who looked down at his clasped hands.
If he intended to reply, he was too slow about it.
Mr. Robinson said, “Your uncle has asked for my help in the matter. I have a great deal of experience with international trade contracts and customs disputes. My intention is to stay in Meryton until this demand is settled and your family’s security is restored. ”
His clear words, firm and resolved, reassured her, and yet her first inclination was to refuse. She could manage on her own, as she always had. Such was the treachery of her heart. Taking a deep breath, calming her ruffled pride, she asked, “You will help us?”
“If your father agrees to engage my services.”
All eyes turned to Papa, whose shamed defeat had relaxed enough for him to shrug. “If Philips thinks it is necessary.”
Elizabeth bit the sharp retort on her tongue, grateful that at least he was willing to allow Mr. Robinson to do what he himself would not.
“It is necessary, Bennet,” Uncle said. “Mr. Robinson’s references are impeccable—”
“Perhaps we should wait for Gardiner’s letter to confirm—”
Uncle Philips’s palm slammed against the desk. “There is no time! For once in your life, Bennet, you must act with urgency! Today!” He took a deep breath, composing himself and taking his seat. “We cannot ignore these charges. They stem from your partnership with Imperial Spirits & Fine Goods.”
Elizabeth looked to her father for clarification.
“I do not understand how. I have not received any payment from them in years, not since the partnership dissolved.” He looked at Mr. Robinson.
“It was an investment I inherited from my uncle. His shares came to me when he died in 1805. It was a profitable arrangement that required nothing from me—dividends appeared in my account every quarter, and I was happy to receive them while they lasted.”
“You signed a partnership agreement with them when you inherited your uncle’s shares?”
“A five-year contract renewal. A formality.”
Five years from 1805 brought them to 1810. Not quite two years ago.
“Did you receive a renewed contract from them in 1810?” asked Mr. Robinson.
“Yes, but I did not sign it. It must be in here somewhere…” Papa gestured about the room, as though he might in that moment chance to see the exact contract in question appear on the edge of a shelf.
He gave up his search with a shrug. “When the dividends stopped coming, I assumed the partnership had dissolved naturally.”
“You did not request a formal dissolution?”
“I did not think it necessary.”
Uncle rubbed his temples. “Both Gardiner and I urged you to request the paperwork. We had heard some disturbing news about the company’s business practices after a change of ownership.
Without legal documentation to prove you severed the partnership, you have placed yourself in the precarious position of being held liable for the company’s activities. ”
Elizabeth grasped at the possibility implied. “Not by legal means, surely?”
“Legal? No.” Uncle looked at her over his spectacles. “It is my belief that Imperial Spirits & Fine Goods forged Bennet’s signature, using his name while their debts mounted.”
The last of Elizabeth’s hope shattered. They were in deep trouble, and her father had not even known. Or had he? She turned to her father. “The foreign letters? Were they from the trading company?”
A pause. “They might be. I cannot say for sure.”
She bit her lips together.
Uncle gasped. “They sent you correspondence? Did you not read the letters?”
Another pause, then a hesitant answer. “I did not think their contents worth my attention if they could not trouble themselves to write in English.”
“You did not read them,” she mumbled under her breath. Papa was fluent in all the Latin languages besides Greek and Hebrew. He had not read them because he did not want to deal with them.
Mr. Robinson asked, “Do you still have these letters?”
“Somewhere.” Papa gestured at the stack of papers Mr. Robinson had moved from the chair he occupied. “Perhaps in that pile?”
Mr. Robinson’s gaze regarded her father steadily. “We will need to find them.”
Like searching for a needle in a haystack.
It would take days, weeks. The daunting task gave Elizabeth purpose, the reinforced tea fueling the spark fired within her.
She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.
The sooner she started, the sooner she could find the evidence needed to clear her father’s name and save Longbourn.