Chapter Two #2
He had witnessed the difference between a marriage of affection and that of convenience and wished for the former.
His mother and father had doted upon each other, and their love had encompassed their children while they were living.
In contrast, Darcy had seen how miserable his aunt had been in her marriage.
Lady Catherine had chosen to marry a baronet, Sir Lewis de Bourgh, a man of considerable wealth and property, and had discovered too late how cruel and unfeeling he could be.
It had been a great relief to the rest of the Fitzwilliams when the man had died suddenly ten years ago.
Terrified that her daughter would suffer as she had, Lady Catherine had approached the Darcys in hopes of brokering a marriage between their son and her only child.
The Darcys had politely declined, stating their hope that their son would find love in his own time.
Not to be deterred, Lady Catherine next approached her brother, the Earl of Matlock.
He had old-fashioned ideas about keeping wealth within the family and agreed to betroth his youngest son immediately.
Darcy sighed. His cousin, Andrew, was a third son and did not protest the arrangement. He insisted instead that Anne reach her majority first. She had done so last summer, and the wedding would be next spring. During the interim, he had made a career in the church.
Viscount Bramley, the eldest son and heir, had joined his brother, Richard, in teasing their younger brother for being the first to marry.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, the Earl’s second son, had made a career in the military and was now a decorated war hero.
He was in the process of resigning his commission.
By midmorning, Darcy approached his destination.
The village here appeared neat, modest, its little lanes swept clean, the hedgerows thick and well-managed.
The land was fertile—good land—but not exceptional.
It was hardly the sort of place that commanded an exorbitant price, and yet Bingley had paid it.
Darcy blinked and shook his head. The time had seemingly flown as he neared his destination.
He nudged his horse into a trot and watched for the wrought-iron gate that indicated Netherfield’s drive.
Darcy reached the entrance of Netherfield Park just before noon, the late-afternoon sun struggling to light the pale sky. The estate appeared still—unnervingly so. No groom waited at the gate, and no smoke rose from the chimneys. No servant hurried down the steps to greet a gentleman traveler.
Bingley had said he would not take possession until the end of the month, but Darcy had not fully grasped what that meant until now.
Netherfield stood utterly deserted.
He dismounted in the silent courtyard, the clipped hooves of his horse echoing against the stone walls.
The windows stared back blankly, reflecting the pale sky like cold, unblinking eyes.
Darcy pulled from his pocket the key Bingley had enclosed with his enthusiastic letter—“Do tell me what you think of the place, Darcy! I am certain it will delight you.”
Delight was not the sensation rising within him.
He climbed the steps and fitted the key into the lock.
It turned with effort, the door seeming to resent being disturbed after months—perhaps years—of infrequent use.
The hinges groaned when he pushed it open.
The air within was stale, carrying the faint scent of dust and disuse.
Darcy stepped over the threshold and paused, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light.
The entry hall was handsome enough, though shadows clung to every corner and dust coated the tiled floor in a thin, even layer undisturbed by servants’ feet.
So, this is what sixty thousand pounds purchased.
He shut the door behind him and began his inspection.
The drawing room was first: Sheet-covered furniture. Dust motes dancing in the thin light. A fireplace cold and empty, gray with old soot. Curtains hanging limp, their colors faded by years of sunlight.
Darcy moved deeper into the room, lifting one curtain gently between his fingers. The fabric nearly disintegrated at his touch. Replaceable, he thought. But costly. And inevitable.
In the dining room, the long table was bare, its surface dulled by a fine film of neglect. A draft whistled through a loose windowpane. The sideboard bore a water ring the size of a dinner plate.
The pantry held nothing but the faint smell of old onions.
The library—if it could truly be called that—held fewer books than a modest London parlor. Half the shelves stood empty; the previous owners having taken anything of value without bothering to disguise the absence.
Darcy’s jaw flexed.
Bingley might as well have thrown his money directly into the Thames.
He exited through a back door, stepping into the late September air. From the terrace, the estate stretched peacefully before him: rolling hills, tenant fields beyond, a small copse to the west, and a distant patch of woodland. It was serene—almost lovely.
But nothing remarkable.
He descended the steps, boots crunching on the gravel.
The fences, viewed up close, bore signs of simple wear:
Some rails warped. A few leaning posts. One section noticeably sagging.
Repairable, yes. But repairs cost coin. And Bingley had spent too much of his on the purchase itself.
Darcy walked farther, inspecting the fields bordering the house.
The soil was decent in quality—good Hertfordshire loam—the kind of land that produced steady, moderate yields.
It was the kind of land that could support a gentleman.
But not the kind of land worth sixty thousand pounds.
He shook his head. As he walked the perimeter of the home grounds, Darcy let the numbers fall into place:
Normal price for an estate this size: 35,000–40,000 pounds
Overpayment: at least 15,000–20,000 pounds
Necessary repairs: 500–1,000 pounds immediately
Annual maintenance: 800–1,200 pounds
Likely net income after expenses: 1,400–1,800 pounds
Bingley was accustomed to four thousand a year in interest income—simple, stable, easy.
Now? He would spend more time stopping holes in the roof than attending balls in London.
He would have scarcely more than twenty-four hundred pounds a year when the income from the estate was combined with the interest from the capital left in the four per cents.
Darcy exhaled sharply. He has shackled himself to this place.
And he does not yet understand it. He rested one hand on the fence rail, surveying the fields once more.
The land was good—respectable and pleasant.
But nothing about it justified the price Bingley had paid.
Nothing warranted such reckless haste. Nothing excused the lack of counsel sought.
As he turned back toward the empty house, Darcy felt a familiar heaviness settle in his chest. Bingley was his friend—perhaps his dearest friend—and Darcy could not in good conscience let him amble blindly into financial ruin.
If Bingley insisted on taking possession of this estate, Darcy would have to guide him. Teach him. Shield him where possible.
Netherfield Park was not a catastrophe—but it was grossly overpriced. And Bingley could not afford another foolish mistake.
Darcy cast one last look over the quiet, empty estate and tightened his gloves.
This place will not ruin him, Darcy thought grimly, but he will not survive it unscathed unless someone steps in.
And Darcy knew exactly who that someone must be. He would assist his friend as promised.