Chapter Twenty-Six #2
He had searched anyway—ripped through drawers, overturned chairs, scattered papers without regard for sense or silence. He had checked the walls, the shelves, even the hearth. His hands had shaken as the minutes slipped away, every sound magnified into imagined discovery.
Nothing.
They moved it, he thought now, pacing the room in short, restless strides. They must have moved it. The hoard was there—I know it was. Jane could scarcely keep her countenance when I questioned her.
His jaw tightened. Sir William’s smug announcement returned to him with venomous force.
The brooch, his pride when he declared he had summoned the authorities.
Then there was the applause from their neighbors.
And beneath it all, the quiet, unbearable certainty that others were acting while he floundered.
His gaze drifted to the window, though he did not truly see the grounds beyond. His thoughts had turned inexorably to Darcy.
Darcy knows, he thought. He must.
Darcy, with his endless funds and his careful principles, and his infuriating calm.
Darcy, who now stood to gain everything—the woman he loved, influence, control—while Bingley himself slipped further into chaos.
If Darcy knew of the hoard, if he had advised Bennet to move it, to hide it more cleverly—
A dark idea took root. Extortion, he thought, the word tasting bitter and necessary all at once. If he knows and did nothing…if he counseled concealment…the hypocrite.
His hands curled into fists. He did not want to think this way, having never been a schemer. He had relied on others—on his man of business, on Darcy, on the assumption that things would simply work out because they always had.
But now nothing was working. Caroline would not yield. Darcy had withdrawn. Miss Bennet—sweet, kind Jane—had looked at him the previous day with something dangerously close to distrust. And the treasure, the one solution that might have set everything right, remained stubbornly out of reach.
Bingley stopped pacing and ran a hand through his hair.
What am I to do? he thought, the question spiraling without an answer. He had crossed a line the night before—had known it even as he did it—and the crossing had brought him no closer to relief but teetering on the edge of exposure.
If the Bennets reported the intrusion to the magistrate…who was the magistrate?
His breath quickened. No, he told himself fiercely.
They cannot prove anything. No one saw me.
No one knows. And yet, the certainty he once relied upon—that the world would bend kindly to him—was gone.
In its place lay a cold, hollow dread. Bingley sank into the chair by the hearth, staring at the cold ashes within.
For the first time in his life, he had no plan—only desperation.
Mr. Darcy had not expected the summons to carry such weight.
The ride from Purvis Lodge to Longbourn was made in near silence, broken only by the rhythmic beat of hooves and the occasional murmur from his cousin when the road narrowed.
Richard sensed it as keenly as Darcy did—that something decisive had occurred, something that would not be solved by polite conversation or careful distance.
When they were admitted at Longbourn, Elizabeth met them herself in the hall. She looked pale but resolute, her usual liveliness tempered by an intensity that drew Darcy’s immediate concern.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said quietly. “Papa is waiting for you in the library.”
Her eyes flicked briefly to Richard.
“My cousin may join us,” Darcy said at once. “If you wish.”
Mr. Bennet’s voice came from the doorway. “Yes, by all means. If we are to proceed, let us do so without half-measures.”
The door was shut and locked behind them.
The familiar room—lined with shelves, the scent of leather and old paper lingering in the air—felt altered, the very walls seeming aware of the gravity now contained within them.
Mr. Bennet crossed to the hearth and knelt, drawing aside the rug with practiced ease.
Darcy watched intently as the older gentleman lifted a false panel from the floor and revealed the heavy iron lid beneath.
There was no hesitation now.
Whatever doubts had once restrained Mr. Bennet appeared to have been burned away.
He turned the key.
The safe opened with a muted scrape, and Mr. Bennet withdrew several carefully wrapped bundles, setting them upon the desk one by one.
Elizabeth moved closer, her hands clasped tightly before her.
Richard leaned against a bookshelf, his expression grave and alert.
Mr. Bennet unwrapped the first bundle.
Gold caught the light at once—bright, unmistakable, and gleaming.
Coins, heavy and worn smooth by centuries of earth.
A torque, its twisted strands intact.
A brooch set with garnet, still deep and rich in color.
Darcy felt the breath leave his lungs.
“Incredible,” he murmured before he could stop himself.
The next bundle held silver—a bowl, fragments of plate, coins stamped with imperial profiles worn but legible.
The third revealed smaller artifacts: rings, a clasp, a delicate hair ornament so finely worked that Darcy wondered how it had survived the centuries unbroken.
He stepped forward slowly, reverently, approaching the relics.
“There must be—” he stopped, recalculated, then said quietly, “at least thirty thousand pounds’ worth here. Perhaps more, if the workmanship is as early as I suspect.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes.
Darcy looked at Mr. Bennet then, no accusation in his gaze, only stark understanding. “This ought to be reported.”
“I know,” Mr. Bennet said heavily. “Heaven help me, I know.”
Darcy gestured toward the window, beyond which the quiet of the estate belied the unrest beyond its hedges. “There is a frenzy in the area. People dig with no regard for boundaries or sense. Sir William’s brooch has inflamed them all. What would happen if it became known that Longbourn held this?”
Mr. Bennet’s mouth tightened. “Someone already suspected enough to break in.”
Elizabeth inhaled sharply. Darcy turned back to Mr. Bennet at once.
“Someone broke into the house?”
“Into this very room,” Mr. Bennet replied. “The library was ransacked last night. Papers scattered, drawers overturned. It has been mostly set to rights, but—” He spread his hands helplessly. “You see now why I could no longer delay.”
Darcy’s thoughts turned, unwillingly, to Bingley.
It was impossible not to wonder whether such desperation had arisen from rumor alone—or whether careless enthusiasm, too freely expressed, had lent it substance.
A suggestion here, a boast there—such things did not remain contained.
They spread, took root, and in the wrong hands, turned quickly to action.
He felt a cold, unpleasant certainty settle in his chest—and dismissed it almost immediately. Bingley would not. But the Bingley who resided at Netherfield Park was not the same friend Darcy knew from Town.
“You wished to care for your family. That is not a failing.”
Elizabeth frowned slightly. “Is it not? If that care places others at risk?”
Darcy did not answer at once.
Elizabeth looked at him then, gratitude and anguish mingling in her expression. He could see the weight of the secret dropping from her shoulders.
“But this path only places them in greater danger,” Darcy continued. “I believe that the correct authorities must be notified. And not merely informed but informed properly.”
Mr. Bennet studied him. “Meaning?”
“I have connections,” Darcy said simply.
“Antiquarians, magistrates, officials who understand discretion as well as duty. If this discovery is handled correctly—presented to the proper people, with proper documentation—it may result in a generous finder’s fee.
Greater, perhaps, than if it were simply seized and catalogued without care. ”
Richard straightened. “He speaks truly. I have seen such matters mishandled. I have also seen them rewarded.”
Mr. Bennet’s shoulders sagged, relief and resignation washing over him in equal measure. “Very well. I will not pretend I have the stomach for this alone. My delay is evidence enough of that. If you are willing, Mr. Darcy, I place it in your hands.”
Darcy inclined his head solemnly. “I will do all in my power to ensure this is conducted honorably—and to your greatest advantage.”
He moved at once to the writing desk, drawing forth paper, pen, and ink. His hand was steady as he began to write, addressing a man he trusted, phrasing his words with care. Each letter was precise, discreet, unmistakably urgent.
Elizabeth watched him, something in her countenance easing at last.
As Darcy sealed the letter, he looked up at her and allowed himself the smallest, reassuring smile. “You have done the right thing,” he said. “Both of you.”
Darcy set down his pen, but did not at once move. The letter lay before him, its lines orderly, its argument sound; still, he felt no ease in having written it.
My dear Uncle,
I trust you will forgive the length of this letter, but the circumstances compel me to write with both clarity and urgency. I beg your discretion, for what I am about to relate concerns not only property and law, but the peace of an entire neighborhood.
During my stay in Hertfordshire, a discovery was made upon the lands of a family with whom I am closely acquainted—one of such magnitude that it will stir considerable excitement among the surrounding villages.
Though the objects of which I write were discovered first, they were kept hidden.
A later, small finding upon the common set tongues wagging: a handful of Roman bronze coins and fragments of pottery, enough to awaken imaginations but not, in themselves, of great value.