Chapter Twenty-Two
Bingley returned as he had departed: with little notice. Mrs. Hurst had an express telling of his return mere hours before he trotted his horse up the drive. Darcy hoped that whatever business that had kept him so long past his ‘one day’ in town had improved his mood.
It was not so, for Bingley was as disgruntled as he had been when he left, if not more. He barely acknowledged Darcy and Hurst, pushing past them to go to his rooms to ‘rest’ before supper.
“Shall we press him, Darcy?” Hurst asked in low tones.
“We can try, but I suspect we will be told to leave off…again. If he rejects my help, then I shall respect his wishes, no matter the destruction that may occur.”
Later that afternoon, Hurst and Darcy knocked on the door to Bingley’s private sitting room. He called for them to enter. Hurst immediately threw himself into a comfortable chair, while Darcy remained standing.
“Well, Brother? How did your business in Town turn out?” Hurst gave him a speculative look, and Bingley flushed before turning away.
“My business affairs are none of your concern,” he snapped angrily. “Everything is fine.”
“Bingley, we cannot help you if we do not know the full extent of what is bothering you.” Darcy spoke calmly and evenly, hoping his friend would finally confide his troubles.
“When I need the assistance of the great Fitzwilliam Darcy, paragon of landowners and master of many estates, then I shall ask.” Bingley’s harsh words sounded nothing like the amiable man Darcy had come to love as a brother.
“Hopefully, it is not too late.” Hurst stood and stretched. “We will be going now.” Darcy followed Hurst from the room without another word to the petulant occupant.
The quarrel in Bingley’s sitting room appeared, on the surface, to have evaporated by the following morning.
Darcy knew better.
He had learned, over years of close friendship, that when Charles Bingley withdrew into exaggerated cheerfulness, it was rarely a sign of contentment.
It was a defense—one Darcy recognized now with distressing clarity.
Never had such behavior troubled Darcy as it did now—never had he interpreted it as a danger.
When Bingley descended to breakfast flushed with enthusiasm, speaking rapidly of plans and invitations, even Darcy was momentarily wrong-footed.
“I have determined,” Bingley announced, buttering his roll with unnecessary vigor, “that we shall make a day of it. A proper country amusement. A picnic luncheon upon the grass, and afterward—” he paused for effect, eyes bright “—a thorough search of the common.”
Darcy’s fork stilled.
Hurst raised a brow. “Search it for what, exactly? Half the county has already been set loose with shovels.”
“Precisely why we ought to oversee the effort,” Bingley replied. “If treasure is to be found, it is best that it be done under proper supervision.”
Darcy met his gaze steadily. “And what supervision do you propose, exactly?”
Bingley waved the question aside. “Neighbors, friends, respectable families. All quite harmless. It will do much to restore goodwill. I have already sent notes.”
Darcy felt the faintest chill creep along his spine. Notes sent without consultation, invitations extended in a flurry of impulse—this was the Bingley who had purchased Netherfield without negotiation, who trusted charm where caution was required.
“And the purpose?” Darcy asked quietly.
Bingley smiled too quickly. “Why, amusement. And curiosity. You yourself remarked upon the speculation. One might as well enjoy it.”
Darcy did not answer. He suspected the picnic was not merely diversion, but displacement—a way to reclaim control over a narrative that had begun to elude Bingley’s grasp. The lust for treasure was already at work, infecting reason with fantasy.
The invitations were accepted with alacrity.
By noon the next day, the common between Netherfield and Longbourn had transformed into something between a fair and a battlefield.
Blankets were spread beneath trees, baskets unpacked, servants darting back and forth with bottles and plates.
Ladies in walking gowns clustered together, their voices rising in excited conjecture.
Gentlemen rolled up their sleeves with mock seriousness, some bearing spades, others sticks pressed into service as probes.
Darcy stood apart for a moment, surveying the scene.
He recognized many faces: Sir William Lucas, radiant with self-importance and good humor; Mrs. Long already recounting a story that changed with each telling; several of Netherfield’s tenant farmers and their wives, pressed into service by Bingley, all appearing practical and hopeful in equal measure; and, disturbingly, a number of strangers—people drawn by rumor rather than invitation.
Elizabeth Bennet stood with her family near the edge of the gathering, her posture composed but alert. Darcy noted the way her gaze moved—not with greed, but with unease. Miss Bennet, beside her, appeared politely attentive, though her smile lacked its usual ease.
Bingley moved through the crowd like a general inspecting troops, greeting everyone with enthusiasm, pressing cups of wine into hands, laughing loudly. He had not looked once toward Darcy.
“Let us begin!” Bingley called at last. “I see no reason to delay fortune.”
There was laughter, a ripple of anticipation, and then the digging began.
It was, Darcy observed grimly, chaos disguised as recreation.
Some dug earnestly, others half-heartedly, still others merely hovered, eager to be near whatever discovery might be made. Children darted about until called back sharply by mothers fearful of flying clods of earth. Servants hovered nervously at the periphery, unsure whether to assist or restrain.
Darcy watched as the soil was turned—soil that had been quiet for generations, disturbed now by ambition and speculation.
And not, he thought, by accident.
A man near the boundary stone argued loudly with another over where to dig, insisting that “the best finds are always near a marker.”
Another had begun directing two farmhands with unnecessary authority, behaving as though the land were already his to command.
The first “find” came quickly.
A shout rang out near the hedgerow.
A young farmhand held up a small object, his face flushed with excitement—a bronze coin.
It passed from hand to hand, examined with exaggerated reverence.
Someone declared it Roman.
Someone else insisted it was Celtic.
A third claimed it bore the likeness of an emperor.
Darcy saw Elizabeth glance away.
Soon afterward, broken pottery emerged—fragments of coarse ware, unmistakably ancient, but of little intrinsic value.
Still, they were greeted with cheers.
“Proof,” people said. “Proof that more lies beneath.”
“See?” Bingley exclaimed, clapping one of the men upon the shoulder. “I told you there was something to be found.”
There was a sharpness beneath the cheer that Darcy did not like—something less akin to enthusiasm than to insistence.
His hand lingered a fraction too long.
His smile remained too fixed.
The moment seemed to carry more weight than it ought.
Darcy said nothing. Elizabeth seemed to be avoiding him—or perhaps it was the general chaos around her. After some time, Darcy grew weary of the disorder around him and sought her out.
“Mr. Darcy.” She greeted him warmly, much to his pleasure.
“How do you do, Miss Elizabeth?” He offered her his arm, and she took it, allowing him to lead her further away from the noise.
“I wanted to stay home, but my mother insisted we come.” She frowned. “Though it is entertaining to see what has been unearthed.”
She sounded nonchalant, but Darcy noted the tension around her eyes—and the way her gaze flicked, unbidden, toward the areas being most vigorously dug.
“Entertaining,” he repeated quietly, his tone mild. “Yes. That is one word for it.”
Elizabeth glanced at him, quick and searching. “What word would you use?”
Darcy hesitated only a moment. “Expectation,” he said. “And expectation, once awakened, is rarely content to remain moderate.”
Her fingers tightened slightly upon his arm.
“Shall we keep to ourselves here?” he continued, more lightly. He gestured to a fallen log at the edge of the field. “We might sit here and observe the commotion on the common. I am certain we can find something diverting to speak of.”
She beamed and nodded, though the brightness did not entirely reach her eyes, and they took themselves a little off from the group. Happily, they engaged in conversation completely unrelated to ancient treasure—or so it appeared.
Yet even as they spoke, Elizabeth found it difficult to attend fully. Each shout from the field drew her attention, each murmur of discovery tightening something within her chest.
At one point, a man approached another group, speaking in lowered but urgent tones.
“I heard it was not just coins,” he said. “Gold. Proper gold. Hidden deep.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught.
Darcy did not turn his head, but he had heard it too.
Rumor was no longer wandering. It was beginning to settle.
As the afternoon wore on, the excitement began to fray. More bronze coins surfaced—no more than a handful. Shards of pottery accumulated on a cloth laid out for inspection. Someone uncovered a corroded brooch that disintegrated when touched.
Whispers grew louder.
“Surely the gold lies deeper.”
“Perhaps nearer the boundary stone.”
“Or nearer the house.”
That last suggestion traveled faster than the others.
Darcy’s gaze sharpened.
By late afternoon, Bingley’s enthusiasm had begun to falter. It was easy to see from Darcy’s vantage point. He laughed less, paced more. Each new discovery that failed to gleam with gold seemed to tighten something within him.
At one point, he stopped beside a cluster of men and said, too sharply, “You are digging too shallow.” His tone carried farther than it ought, drawing glances not of amusement but of irritation.
The men exchanged glances.