Chapter Nine
Thomas Bennet stared into the dying embers. The dull glow did little to illuminate the darkened library. Shadows danced, made by the single candle that flickered on the table beside him. It was late—far past the usual time he retired, yet he could not sleep.
The rug lay slightly uneven, and he hastened to straighten it properly.
A quick glance at the corner of the room showed that the crate sat precisely where he had left it earlier.
Inside, hidden from prying eyes, was a veritable fortune.
The treasure was worth at least thirty thousand pounds, if he had a guess.
The income from the interest alone would be substantial.
It would add to his wife and daughters’ relief when he died.
But the law… Blast his conscience! He knew the law well enough to fear it.
Treasure trove—those two deceptively simple words carried the full weight of the Crown behind them.
Buried gold and silver, hidden with no living owner to claim it, belonged by right to the King; concealment was no harmless omission but a felony, prosecuted not merely with fines but with public disgrace, confiscation of property, even imprisonment, should the authorities wish to make an example.
He imagined the chain of consequences with uncomfortable clarity: a whisper in Meryton, a magistrate’s inquiry, the arrival of officials from London, his library pried open, his name printed in a Gazette beside words like fraud and deceit.
Still—thirty thousand pounds. A sum so vast that it mocked prudence.
It could secure Mrs. Bennet’s future, provide for the girls without humiliating dependence, free them from the shadow of the entail that had hung over Longbourn like a sentence passed years before its execution.
To surrender it for a finder’s fee—paltry, discretionary, and uncertain—felt like condemning his family to continued vulnerability out of obedience to a law designed to enrich a distant treasury already overflowing.
The risk gnawed at him. He was no criminal by nature, only a man sorely tempted by circumstance.
If he acted discreetly—if the gold never drew notice—perhaps Providence itself had placed it in his path.
The longer it remained hidden, the more it owned him.
He pressed his lips together, staring once more at the shadows near the crate, knowing that whichever path he chose would alter the course of his family’s future—and that there would be no unblemished choice left to him.
That chap, Mr. Bingley, has shown great interest in Jane, he mused.
Perhaps if the gentleman made an offer, then it would not be so difficult to turn the find over to the Crown.
If my family’s future were only secure… He blamed himself.
Had he been more prudent, he could have added to Mrs. Bennet’s small fortune.
Each of his daughters might have had a respectable dowry—nothing to those in the first circles, but enough to entice a young man to consider them.
We could have saved a few hundred pounds per year, adding it to the four per cents.
His thoughts strayed, unwillingly but persistently, to arithmetic—an exercise he had long avoided in favor of wit.
He calculated what might have been, had he and his wife been a little more prudent.
Had he begun saving in earnest when Jane was born, had he set aside three hundred pounds a year with steady discipline and allowed the interest to accumulate rather than be absorbed into the pleasures of daily living, the numbers told a sobering tale.
The original five thousand pounds, reinforced year upon year and compounded, would by now have swelled to a respectable provision, sufficient to give each daughter a portion that would secure her independence rather than merely adorn her prospects.
No scrambling, no reliance on fortune or inclination, no dread of the entail’s grim finality.
He had possessed the means all along; what he lacked was resolve.
The realization stung more sharply than he liked to admit.
It was not poverty that imperiled his family, but procrastination—death by a thousand indulgences, each harmless in isolation, each ruinous in sum.
Now, staring at the crate hidden in his library, he could not help but wonder whether Providence mocked him by offering in a single, dangerous stroke what patience and prudence might once have achieved honestly and without fear.
Nearly five thousand pounds apiece at least.
There was no room for regrets. Not now. No, all his daughters were of marrying age—almost, anyway. There was no point in wallowing in past regrets.
He contemplated the future soberly, his fingers steepled and his gaze fixed unblinkingly on the burning coals before him. A decision of this magnitude required patience and thought. One did not simply commit treason without contemplating the consequences.
Rising stiffly, he resolved to let the matter rest for the night. On the morrow, he would carefully weigh his options. And even then, I shall likely delay making a decision. For how could he cast away a chance to secure his family’s future?
Elizabeth rolled over in bed, groaning. Somehow, she had laid on her arm for part of the night, and now it tingled painfully. She flexed her fingers slowly, wincing as they throbbed. A glance at the curtained window revealed slivers of light peeking through the edges.
She threw off the coverlet, shivering at the chill in the room.
She slipped her feet into her slippers and tossed a shawl over her shoulders.
Her mind, so tumultuous before bed, felt more invigorated and alive.
Still worried about her father’s decision, she resolved to put it out of her thoughts for the nonce.
A walk would be just the thing, she thought, going to her wardrobe and opening the doors.
She selected a dark blue walking gown with long sleeves.
It was made of heavier fabric, which would protect her against the autumn chill in the air.
The gown had buttons down the front so she could dress herself, and she hurried to do so.
She donned her walking boots, cloak, gloves, and bonnet before leaving her bedchamber.
A quick stop at the kitchen provided her with several warm scones and a few apples for her outing.
With the victuals tucked safely in a small basket, she opened the front door and walked out into the morning.
Leaves crunched beneath her feet as she strode across the garden to the gate that led to the lane.
Dew glistened everywhere, dampening her hem as she brushed past shrubs and bushes.
Her steps took her toward Oakham Mount, just as they had the day before.
It was a place of solitude for her, somewhere she could go for private reflection. I need it now.
Should her father choose to keep the hoard, such a decision had the potential to destroy the Bennets.
Mr. Bennet had never been a foolish man—indeed, he was one of the most intelligent men Elizabeth had ever met.
He loved his wife and daughters fiercely, and she could not fathom her dear father making a choice that would put those he loved in jeopardy.
Yet such a fortune. She could not deny how enticing it could be.
Had she not quivered with excitement as she held the gold bracelets in her hand?
Had she not sighed as she ran her hands through the pile of gold coins?
It was as if a frenzy had been awakened within her—some primordial desire to possess the shiny objects.
With heavy breaths, she navigated the modest elevation leading to the peak of Oakham Mount.
For a moment, she focused only on her steps.
The forward momentum meant progress—every step she took brought her closer to her destination.
At last, she crested the hill and entered the small grove of trees that crowned the top.
In one direction, she could see Netherfield’s chimneys rising above everything else.
In another, she noted several columns of smoke—likely from shops in Meryton.
And a glance toward the base of the hill brought the events of the day before crashing back to her thoughts.
Slowly, she sank onto a fallen log, her gaze fixed on the spot where she had made her discovery.
Such an inconsequential-looking boulder, she thought dismally. I wonder what would have happened if a worker had discovered the hoard. Surely, they would have quietly sold each piece, possibly even leaving the area to conceal the find and their actions.
“You appear to be in a brown study this morning, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth looked up, startled at the sudden salutation. A smile spread across her face as she recognized Mr. Darcy. “Good day to you, sir. How do you do?”
“I am well—pray, do not rise. If you do not mind, I shall dismount and join you. The prospect seems pleasant.” Mr. Darcy moved his horse next to an obliging boulder and climbed off its back. He wrapped the reins around a branch and stepped toward her.
“Does your great beast have an equally magnificent name?” Elizabeth eyed the animal with interest. The horse stood at least sixteen hands high.
His coat had been brushed to glossy perfection.
It was entirely black—not a trace of color marred his appearance.
It was not the same animal he had ridden when they first met in September.
“His name is Sable. My father purchased him for me when I reached my majority.” Mr. Darcy seated himself beside Elizabeth, close enough that she could feel heat emanating from his body, but far enough away to satisfy propriety.
“That is the perfect name for him. As I have told you before, I am not an expert on horseflesh, but even I can tell he is an exceptional specimen.”