Chapter Ten
Darcy urged Sable into a steady trot as the path bent away from Oakham Mount and toward Netherfield, the familiar rhythm of hooves a welcome counterpoint to the restless turn of his thoughts.
The late-morning sun filtered through thinning branches, casting shifting patterns across the lane, yet he scarcely noticed the play of light.
His mind remained fixed upon the conversation he had just left behind—and upon the woman who had prompted it.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet had spoken of obligation and conscience with a gravity that belied both her worldly inexperience and her lively manner.
He replayed her words again and again, struck not only by their substance, but by the care with which she had chosen them.
She had not spoken idly, of that he was certain.
There had been a weight beneath her observations, a restraint that suggested a mind engaged in earnest deliberation rather than abstract speculation.
She was thinking of something real, he reflected, something pressing.
The realization intrigued him far more than any practiced wit or polished coquetry ever could.
What surprised him most, however, was how little effort the conversation had required.
With Miss Bennet, words had come easily—without the cautious filtering he habitually employed, without the studied reserve that served him so well in company.
He had not been measuring his replies for effect, nor guarding his opinions behind careful phrasing.
Instead, he had found himself speaking plainly, even confessing to mistakes made and lessons learned.
Such candor was rare for him, and rarer still with a lady he had known only a short time.
Darcy frowned slightly as he guided Sable around a shallow ditch in his path.
My mask slipped, he realized. The rigid composure he wore like armor in society—the stoic indifference, the controlled distance—had faded almost without his noticing.
With Elizabeth Bennet, he had not felt compelled to perform.
He could not recall the last time he had been so entirely himself.
He exhaled slowly, half-amused and half-alarmed by the discovery.
How different she was from the women of the ton, with their rehearsed laughter and calculated glances, their endless parade of accomplishments offered up like wares for inspection.
He had endured those assemblies with practiced politeness and private fatigue, feeling always as though he were being weighed, measured, and found desirable chiefly for what he represented rather than who he was.
Miss Bennet, by contrast, sought no such appraisal.
She did not angle for admiration; she challenged it.
Her wit was unstudied, her curiosity genuine, her regard unclouded by ambition.
She listens, he thought. And when she speaks, it is because she has something worth saying.
The thought warmed him in a way he had not anticipated.
It was, indeed, a breath of fresh air—invigorating and unsettling in equal measure.
He found himself looking forward with an eagerness he scarcely recognized to their next meeting.
Not for the pleasure of admiration alone, but for the rare comfort of conversation unmarred by artifice.
As Netherfield came into view, Darcy drew Sable to a walk, his expression thoughtful.
Whatever lay beneath Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s carefully chosen words, he suspected it would soon come to light.
And when it did, he knew—without quite knowing why—that he would wish to meet it honestly, without the protection of his customary reserve.
For the first time in a very long while, that prospect did not trouble him.
Netherfield’s stables loomed before him, and he felt his chest tighten.
His usual easy camaraderie with Bingley had dissipated in the face of their last confrontation.
Despite attempting to have several conversations about estate management, his friend had told Darcy to leave off or leave Netherfield.
Darcy had asked desperately how he was supposed to help, given that that was his primary purpose for being in residence.
In response, Bingley declared he would hire a steward so that he need not be bothered with the tedium involved in running an estate.
If only he knew that a corrupt steward could fleece an estate within a matter of years. Darcy tried once more to warn him, only to be told to leave off once again.
“Darcy!” Mr. Reginald Hurst called from the door of the stables. Hurst was a man of more fashion than fortune—at least until his inheritance was secured—and was often in company with his brother-in-law.
“Good morning, Hurst.” Darcy noted the riding crop and gloves in the man’s hand. “Do you intend to ride?”
“I just returned—I wished to ascertain if there was any sport to be had. I am happy to report that my brother’s estate has enough birds and foxes to satisfy the most avid hunter.
Tell me you will come shooting with me on the morrow.
” Hurst grinned, his slightly florid face quivering in anticipation of the activity.
“I believe I can make time to join you.” Indeed, he had nothing but time, since his friend did not ‘require’ Darcy’s help.
Hurst and Darcy strode side by side toward the house. Before they reached the steps, Hurst reached out and snagged Darcy’s sleeve. “This way, if you please, Darcy. I wish to have a private discussion. Unfortunately, that cannot occur indoors.”
Curious, Darcy followed the other gentleman. They moved away from the house quickly, turning down another path toward a grove of trees that stood some distance away. When they were deep enough in the woods that Darcy could not see the house, Hurst stopped and turned to face him.
“I wish to know the nature of the disagreement that exists between you and my brother,” he said abruptly. “I have noted how Bingley leaves the room when you enter—it is not anything like when we were in London.”
Darcy sighed. “My business with your brother is my own, though I must agree, he has been avoiding me.”
“Has it anything to do with the fact that he refuses to participate in managing his new estate?” Hurst raised an eyebrow.
Darcy gaped. The man was rarely sober in company, often dozing on the couch or drinking to excess. Upon seeing his countenance, Hurst laughed.
“Come now, Darcy, I am not blind. I love my food and drink, and I admit to acting the part of a dependent relation. My father keeps a tight hold on the purse strings, so I must rely on others to support my habits. Despite being in my cups half the time, even I noted that my dear brother wants little to do with his newfound toy.”
“An estate is hardly a toy.” Darcy frowned.
“It is to Bingley. He expresses interest in many things but rarely has the commitment to maintain that interest. Do you not recall the pair of matched bays he bought two years ago? He raved about them, having them pull his phaeton through Town and in Hyde Park. When people stopped raving about the handsome horses, he lost interest. He pays an exorbitant fee to have them stabled, yet never uses them. They are, in his words, too fine to pull a carriage and too handsome to sell. And so, they joined the many other discarded ‘toys’ Bingley has purchased in the past.”
Darcy said nothing for a time, carefully weighing his reply. “Do you think the estate will suffer the same treatment?”
“If his current behavior is weighed against his past behavior, I would say there is a very good chance.” Hurst did not look pleased.
“How could he not consider the consequences? He is responsible for many lives now! Over two hundred people are dependent on Netherfield’s success.”
“Yet all he wishes to do is hire a steward. Yes, I was awake for that conversation.” Hurst paused. “I do not know for certain, but I believe my dear brother is in more trouble than we realize.”
Darcy frowned. “What do you mean? I have calculated very carefully. If Bingley is prudent for a few years, he can easily replenish his fortune.”
Hurst was already shaking his head. “Have you seen all his financial records?”
Darcy blinked. “No-o,” he said slowly. “I made my calculations based on what I knew his fortune to be and what he paid for the property. Is it worse than I thought?”
Hurst nodded. “Caroline has already run up several bills with her redecoration. I know of at least two wagers he made at Boodle’s—both of which he lost a significant sum. I would say he likely had around eighty thousand pounds when he purchased the estate.”
Darcy went very still. “Eighty thousand,” he repeated. “In total?”
Hurst inclined his head. “Near enough.”
Darcy drew a slow breath. “Then he paid three-quarters of his fortune for Netherfield.”
“Just so.”
“That leaves him with twenty thousand in capital,” Darcy said, his mind already moving. “At best.”
“And not all of that is producing income,” Hurst added.
Darcy closed his eyes for a brief moment. “Good heavens.”
Hurst folded his arms. “You begin to see why I am less amused by his indifference.”
“The estate cannot support his manner of living alone,” Darcy said. “Not at the rate he spends. Netherfield might yield two thousand a year, perhaps a little more if well managed—but it cannot sustain London habits, improvements, and Miss Bingley’s extravagances besides.”
“Nor can his remaining capital,” Hurst replied. “Especially when it is treated as a bottomless purse.”
Darcy opened his eyes and fixed Hurst with a sharp look. “He must stop spending from it at once.”
“He will not,” Hurst said flatly. “At least not without persuasion.”
Darcy turned away, pacing a few steps beneath the trees. “This explains much. His reluctance to involve himself. His eagerness to place everything in a steward’s hands. He is avoiding figures he does not wish to see.”