Chapter Twelve
The Bingleys welcomed them warmly enough, though Miss Bingley was stiff and disdainful.
Mrs. Hurst was better; Elizabeth suspected natural reserve kept her from being too open.
She hovered near her husband, who, in turn, took up a position near a table where a decanter of port and some glasses sat on a tray.
Before supper was called, he had at least two finished.
Mr. Darcy greeted the Bennets far more warmly than his hostess.
He smiled kindly at Mrs. Bennet, complimenting her on the lace that bordered the sleeves of her gown before falling into conversation with Mr. Bennet.
Elizabeth stood near Mary, Jane having been spirited off by their host and hostess almost immediately.
Occasionally, her gaze would find Mr. Darcy’s, and they would share a look.
Every time, his mouth quirked up into a slight smile before he returned his attention to his conversation partners.
Elizabeth rose with the rest when the signal for dinner was given and immediately observed the order in which they arranged themselves, for such moments were rarely without meaning.
Mr. Bingley, with an air of particular civility, offered his arm to her mother, an attention Mrs. Bennet accepted with undisguised satisfaction, and which Elizabeth could already imagine would be recounted in every detail.
Mr. Darcy then stepped forward to Miss Bingley, whose pleasure at the distinction was scarcely concealed, her hand settling upon his arm with the ease of long-claimed familiarity.
Her father followed with Mrs. Hurst, the two exchanging a few quiet remarks that suggested mutual amusement rather than ceremony, while Mr. Hurst, roused to exertion at last, found himself escorting Jane, whose gentle composure lent grace to the arrangement whether he deserved it or not.
With no gentleman remaining, Elizabeth fell naturally beside Mary, and as they followed the others from the room, she could not help but reflect that the procession revealed far more than mere manners: it displayed preference, consequence, and expectation in a way no conversation ever could.
Elizabeth entered the dining room, her gaze sweeping the long, polished table as the guests were directed to their places.
A faint, almost imperceptible pause told her that the arrangement had been considered with care—rank and age, with intention woven neatly through it all.
Jane was led at once to Mr. Bingley’s right hand, and Elizabeth felt a flicker of satisfaction at the sight; if preference could speak without words, it had done so plainly.
Her mother was settled on Mr. Bingley’s other side, looking exceedingly pleased with herself, while her father was conducted to a place near the other end of the table next to Miss Bingley, whose smile was bright but assessing as she took her seat.
Elizabeth herself was guided to a chair not far from Mr. Darcy, near enough that conversation would be easy without appearing contrived, and she could not help noting how naturally he looked toward her when she sat down, her presence clearly pleasing him more than he had expected.
Mary was placed beside Mr. Hurst, who nodded politely and immediately reached for his wine, while Mrs. Hurst arranged herself with practiced ease near Mr. Bennet, ready to smooth any awkwardness that might arise.
As Elizabeth folded her napkin upon her lap, she took in the whole scene with quiet amusement—the careful balancing of consequence and inclination, the unspoken declarations made by chairs and place settings—and felt, with a small inward smile, that the evening promised more than good food alone.
Conversation was easy between the guests, though Miss Bingley’s manner appeared more forced than the rest. Topics varied widely, and at one point, Mr. Darcy mentioned some ruins he wished to visit while in the area.
“You and your history, Darcy.” Mr. Bingley’s tone sounded somewhat mocking to Elizabeth’s ears, a realization that went directly against the gregarious man’s outward manner.
“England is saturated with rich history,” Mr. Bennet chimed in. “It is pleasing to know you have a preference for the past, Mr. Darcy.”
“Oh yes, Darcy is fascinated with the subject. I confess I find it all rather dull. Unless, of course, it involves Roman gold and other such tales.”
The soup had scarcely been removed when Mrs. Hurst, ever eager for conversation that required little reflection, remarked upon an article she had lately read.
“Did any of you see the notice in The Morning Chronicle last week? A farmer in Norfolk uncovered a cache of Roman coins while digging a drainage trench. Gold, they said—quite ancient.”
Elizabeth’s spoon paused halfway to her mouth. She forced herself to finish the bite before looking up, schooling her features into polite interest. Steady, she cautioned herself. It is only conversation.
“Yes, yes, I saw it,” Miss Bingley said briskly. “Perfectly barbarous workmanship, I imagine—but the antiquarians were in raptures. Naturally, the whole of it was claimed by the Crown.”
“Claimed?” Bingley echoed, brows lifting. “That seems excessively unfair. The man does the labor, finds the treasure, and is left with nothing but a pat on the head and a story to tell at the alehouse?”
“Not nothing,” Mrs. Hurst countered. “There is often a reward.”
“A discretionary reward,” Mr. Darcy interjected calmly, setting down his glass.
“Which may be generous—or may not. Under the law of treasure trove, any gold or silver intentionally concealed, whose owner cannot be ascertained, belongs to the Crown. The finder is obligated to report it to the coroner. Personal sentiment does not alter that.”
Elizabeth felt her pulse quicken. She kept her gaze fixed upon her plate, tracing the faint blue pattern along its edge. Obligated to report it. The words rang louder in her mind than Mr. Darcy’s measured tone.
Mr. Bennet, she noticed suddenly, had gone very still.
His fork rested untouched beside his plate, his eyes unfocused, his thoughts no longer fixed on Netherfield at all.
Elizabeth’s stomach tightened.
“But surely,” Bingley pressed, his good humor undiminished, “there must be allowances for common sense. If a man finds such a thing on his own land—”
“It is not a question of sense,” Darcy replied evenly. “It is a question of law. The Crown asserts its claim to prevent private hoarding, illicit sale, and the loss of objects of national importance.”
Miss Bingley smiled thinly.
“You are very loyal to statutes when they inconvenience others, Darcy.”
“And you are very quick to dismiss them when they inconvenience you,” he returned, unperturbed.
An awkward stillness settled over the table, broken only by the soft clink of cutlery.
Elizabeth dared a glance at her father.
His customary amusement was absent; his mouth was set, his expression unreadable.
Papa, she thought anxiously, say something—anything.
It was Hurst who did.
“Well,” he drawled, swirling the wine in his glass, “it is said the Prince Regent takes a particular interest in such discoveries. Coins, relics, old curiosities—fills galleries with them, I hear. Likes to be informed personally when anything Roman turns up.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught.
Darcy inclined his head slightly.
“I have heard the same. His Royal Highness styles himself a patron of the arts and antiquities.”
Bingley laughed, breaking the tension.
“Then heaven help the poor farmer if Prinny sets his sights upon his plough!”
Laughter resumed—polite and measured—but Elizabeth felt as though she were sitting at the center of a storm no one else could see.
The conversation drifted to safer subjects, yet the words lingered in her mind like the tolling of a bell.
The law is the law, Mr. Darcy had said.
And for the first time since she had unearthed the glittering secret beneath the frost, Elizabeth Bennet wondered not whether the discovery would change their lives but how long it could possibly remain hidden at all.
When the final course had concluded, Miss Bingley rose and signaled the ladies to depart. “We will await the gentlemen in the drawing room. I believe music is in order, and some tea.”
Almost reluctantly, Elizabeth followed the others out of the room. As she went, she exchanged a heavy glance with her father, who, to her eyes, had aged twenty years in an instant.
When the door closed behind the ladies and the familiar hush of a gentlemen’s table settled over the room, Darcy accepted his glass of port with a distracted nod. The fire burned low and steady; the air was warm with wine, roast, and polished wood. It should have been a pleasurable moment.
It was not.
Mr. Hurst, leaning back in his chair with the ease of a man who enjoyed provoking thought without bearing its weight, gave a small chuckle.
“That Roman hoard in Norfolk—one hears such things more often than the papers admit. Farmers turn up a handful of coins while ploughing, or a jar when digging a new ditch. Most never trouble the Crown with it.”
Bingley laughed softly. “And who could blame them? A few gold coins quietly melted down and sold—no harm done, I should think.”
Darcy stiffened but said nothing at once, instead watching his friend over the rim of his glass. There was a brightness in Bingley’s eyes he did not like—not greed, precisely, but a boyish excitement, sharpened by possibility.
“Imagine it,” Bingley continued, warming to the subject.
“A proper pot of Roman gold. One could do a great deal with it—pay off debts, invest discreetly, improve an estate without ever troubling a banker. A man with sense might sell it piecemeal, through the right channels. Antiquaries, goldsmiths—there are ways.”
Darcy set his glass down. “Bingley—”
His friend lifted a hand, smiling easily. “Yes, yes, I know. The law is the law. You need not remind us. We are all quite familiar with your position.”