Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Darcy whistled a merry tune as he mounted his horse.
It was an unguarded sound, one that surprised even him, and he cut it short with a small shake of his head.
He had accompanied Elizabeth home with the intent of speaking to Mr. Bennet, only to find that the gentleman was not receiving callers.
The refusal had been delivered politely by Mrs. Hill, but with a firmness that admitted no argument.
Elizabeth’s face had fallen. She bit her lip and glanced away, her disappointment quickly masked but not erased.
Darcy had the distinct impression she knew why her father was not available—and that the reason was no trivial inconvenience.
Something lay beneath the surface at Longbourn, something that weighed upon her more heavily than she felt free to admit.
Rather than press for details, he bid her farewell, promising to call upon her on the morrow.
The relief that flickered across her features at that assurance was enough to warm him through the cool afternoon air.
The ride back to Netherfield was pleasant and free of complications.
His horse moved easily beneath him, the rhythm of hooves and wind lending order to his thoughts.
There seemed to be an unusual amount of activity in the common land that ran along Netherfield’s border.
Longbourn, too, shared a stretch of land with the common.
People milled about with shovels and hoes, bending and straightening, stopping to confer in animated clusters.
Yet no one seemed to be gathering anything of substance.
There was a mix of classes as well—ladies with skirts lifted out of the dirt, gentlemen with walking sticks pressed into service as probing tools, farmers and their wives with practical determination etched upon their faces.
Darcy frowned slightly at the sight.
He shrugged and put it from his mind, kicking his mount into a gallop and racing toward Netherfield’s stables.
Whatever frenzy seized the neighborhood would burn itself out soon enough.
There, he handed the reins to a waiting groom and walked briskly toward the manor, his good humor already beginning to dull.
“Mr. Darcy! Pray, join us for tea.” Miss Bingley nearly accosted him in the entryway, looping her arm through his before he could evade her. “I have the most exciting news! Come, you must hear it all.”
Darcy suppressed a sigh and allowed the grasping female to lead him into the large parlor where tea was laid out.
The fire crackled brightly, and the air smelled faintly of bergamot and fresh bread.
Bingley was there already, speaking animatedly with his brother-in-law, his gestures broad and emphatic.
“I tell you, Hurst, that tenant likely found the coins on my land. I should pursue legal action.”
“You are being ridiculous, Bingley. It was a handful of bronze coins—hardly worth anything to anyone except antiquarians.” Hurst popped a biscuit in his mouth whole and chewed, crumbs scattering onto his waistcoat.
“That is beside the point. Anything else that is found ought to be handed over to the landowner—me.”
“Nothing was found on your land, Bingley.” Hurst sounded irritated now, his tone sharpened by impatience.
“The gossips say it was found in the common. You would have to contest ownership with Mr. Bennet. I can tell you with whom the magistrate would side. Besides, it is not as if you need the money.”
Hurst’s sarcasm was not lost on Darcy. Bingley’s face went red, from the tips of his ears down to his cravat, and he clenched his hands at his sides.
Darcy observed it all without expression, though inwardly he felt a twinge of concern.
Miss Bingley still had her arm looped through his, and he wished to disentangle himself as quickly as possible.
“Is it not fascinating that so soon after we spoke of Roman treasure, someone actually finds it here?” Miss Bingley purred. “Can you imagine?”
Darcy carefully extracted his arm from his hostess’s vice-like grip.
“Is that why there are so many people milling about in the common near the edge of Netherfield and Longbourn lands?” he asked.
“I suppose they believe that if a little treasure is found, then a lot is still yet to be discovered.” Now that he thought on it, Miss Elizabeth’s questions, so carefully crafted, were strangely similar to her father’s.
How well Darcy remembered Mr. Bennet’s words.
They had painted right and wrong in such a light as Darcy had never contemplated.
“Indeed, that is precisely what everyone is saying. For the better part of a week now, the countryside has been in a state of restless excitement.” Miss Bingley fairly quivered with delight, like the chaos itself amused her. She showed no sign of vexation at the distance Darcy placed between them.
“If they are not careful, they will ruin the winter wheat planted in the fields.”
Bingley laughed. “Of course, that is what you consider, Darcy. Who cares about wheat when gold is to be had?”
“I can guarantee that the tenants and the landowner care greatly about the winter harvest.” Darcy took a seat and accepted the cup of tea Mrs. Hurst offered, though he scarcely tasted it.
“Wheat may be planted again. It is not as if one poor harvest in a single field can affect the overall success of an estate.”
Bingley’s ignorance grated on Darcy’s nerves.
“It can, in fact. Suppose that field has a crop that brings in a large amount of the estate’s income?
What will become of the tenants and those dependent upon the land—especially if the master has not enough funds to weather such a storm?
” He had not been referring specifically to Bingley but noted how his friend’s posture stiffened and the scowl that marred his usually agreeable expression.
“What is this? Do you accuse me of not caring for my property properly? I assure you, my fortune can support any calamity!”
“You mistake my meaning, Bingley. I spoke only in generalities.”
Miss Bingley chimed in, her voice fraught with nerves. “Surely, you cannot believe Mr. Darcy intended any slight! He is above such foolishness.”
“I hardly know what to believe any longer, sister. Darcy’s opinions are lately so different from my own.”
“Opinions and experience are two different things, Bingley,” Hurst interrupted. “I would say Darcy—and myself—have more experience in land ownership than you. There is no insult intended—merely a statement of the facts.”
Bingley frowned but said nothing more on that subject, instead turning the talk back to treasure.
“I shall arrange a treasure-hunting expedition,” he proposed.
“Would it not be entertaining? Why, half the countryside is already convinced there is a king’s ransom buried beneath these fields,” he continued, laughing.
“I heard as much in Meryton myself—men speaking of it openly in the streets.”
“Country rustics milling around in the weeds and brambles in search of something to bolster their meager fortunes?” Miss Bingley sneered. “That is absolutely absurd.”
“Think of it; the more people we have combing the land, the greater the chance of discovering treasure. If we discover nothing, then it is an entertaining expedition, nonetheless.” Bingley looked rather pleased with himself.
“It would give me time in Miss Bennet’s company as well.
” He spoke lightly, but there was something beneath it—an insistence that bordered on strain, as though he clung to the promise of success with more determination than confidence.
Darcy bit his tongue. He did not approve of the attention Bingley paid to Miss Bennet.
He presented to everyone that he was solvent and wealthy, but by Darcy’s estimation, his friend was on the brink of ruin.
It would not be fair to become honor-bound to the lady when he was in no position to marry.
Miss Bennet deserved better than enthusiasm unsupported by prudence.
Darcy exhaled slowly, the truth settling with unwelcome clarity.
Bingley was not blind—he simply refused to see.
Each warning was met with cheer, each concern dismissed with laughter.
Perhaps he believed good humor alone might ward off consequence.
It was easier, Darcy supposed, to chase diversion and speak of treasure than to confront accounts, obligations, and the quiet but inexorable arithmetic of debt.
But avoidance did not alter reality. It merely delayed the moment at which it must be faced.
He excused himself politely when his tea was gone and went to his chambers.
Darcy closed the door to his chambers and crossed at once to the writing table.
The post was there, neatly arranged and waiting.
Among the usual bills and notices lay one envelope he recognized immediately.
The hand was bold, confident, and familiar.
A smile tugged at his mouth before he broke the seal.
He eagerly opened a letter from his cousin, hoping it might contain some welcome distraction—or, at the very least, counsel grounded in sense.
He settled into the chair by the window, the late afternoon light falling across the page, and began to read.
Dear Darcy,
How goes your adventure in the wilds of Hertfordshire? Is Bingley an adequate host and a competent estate owner? What of his grasping sister? Does Miss Bingley continue to fawn and flaunt her assets? Pray, tell me she has not coerced you into matrimony.
Darcy huffed a quiet laugh. As ever, Richard wasted no time in getting to the heart of matters. If only the truth were as amusing as the question implied.