Chapter 3 #3
Mr. Pope sat up a fraction straighter. Fitzwilliam Darcy was not merely a client; he was one of the firm’s most significant and respected patrons.
The management of the vast Pemberley estate, along with its various investments and properties, constituted a substantial portion of the firm’s most prestigious business.
A letter from Mr. Darcy commanded immediate and absolute attention.
Fletcher read the letter in silence, his hawkish features betraying nothing. The silence in the room stretched, punctuated only by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the faint, distant rumble of carriage wheels on the cobblestones outside.
Finally, Mr. Fletcher lowered the letter, placing it deliberately upon the desk. He removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Well?” Mr. Pope prompted, unable to entirely suppress his curiosity. “I trust all is well at Pemberley? No sudden disputes regarding the southern tenantry?”
“Pemberley is, as always, a model of order,” Fletcher replied dryly.
“Mr. Darcy writes on a personal matter. Or, rather, a matter of patronage.” He picked up the letter again and held it up to the light.
“He inquires as to whether we might have a position available—specifically, an assistant’s position, requiring a man capable of handling complex documentation and legal research. ”
Pope’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed? The timing is certainly fortuitous. Does he name a candidate?”
“He does,” Fletcher said, his tone carefully neutral. “A Mr. Elias Bennet, of Longbourn, Hertfordshire. Second son of a gentleman’s estate. Recently down from Oxford, where he read classics and history, and now intends for the law.”
Fletcher tossed the letter back onto the desk, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers.
“Mr. Darcy is characteristically precise. He does not demand a position for the young man, nor does he offer to purchase him a partnership. Mr. Darcy merely states that he believes Mr. Bennet possesses ‘a most exceptional intellect, a quiet fortitude, and a rigorous sense of duty.’ He asks only that we consider taking the young man on for a period of probation, to determine if he might prove useful to us.”
Mr. Pope leaned forward, his interest thoroughly piqued. “A probationary period? That is a very measured request from a man of Mr. Darcy’s consequence. He is not forcing the boy upon us.”
“Mr. Darcy is not a man to force a fool upon his own solicitors,” Fletcher observed astutely.
“He knows the nature of our work. If he recommends this Mr. Bennet, he must genuinely believe the boy has a head for it. Furthermore, he explicitly states that if the young man fails to meet our standards, we are under no obligation to retain him.”
Pope nodded thoughtfully, glancing at the towering stack of Harrington estate documents.
“Sir, if I may speak plainly... we are in desperate need of a mind capable of parsing this level of documentation. If this Mr. Bennet has a gentleman’s education from Oxford and the endorsement of Fitzwilliam Darcy, he is already vastly superior to the usual run of clerks who present themselves at our door. ”
Fletcher remained silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed upon the mountain of paperwork.
He was not a man who liked to owe favours, nor did he enjoy taking on untried young men who might require coddling.
However, the reality of their current caseload was undeniable.
The Harrington estate, the impending Chancery suit for the Earl of Westmorland, the endless stream of leases and settlements. .. they were indeed drowning.
“A second son,” Fletcher mused aloud. “Usually means they have no money and are hungry to make their way. Oxford education means he can at least read Latin and string a coherent sentence together. And Darcy’s backing...” He trailed off, his sharp mind calculating the risks and benefits.
“It would be highly undiplomatic to refuse such a modest request from Mr. Darcy, sir,” Pope added gently, knowing exactly how to press his senior partner.
“Especially when the request aligns so perfectly with our current necessities. A probationary period costs us nothing but a few weeks of observation. If he is useless, we send him back to Hertfordshire with our regrets. If he is capable, we have the assistant we so desperately require.”
Fletcher’s gaze snapped back to Pope, a faint glimmer of approval in his eyes. “You are becoming far too pragmatic, Pope. It is a dangerous trait in a lawyer.”
“I learned from the best, sir,” Pope replied with a modest inclination of his head.
Fletcher gave a short, decisive nod. “Very well. We shall have him down from Hertfordshire and see what he is made of. But I will not coddle him, Pope. I care not if he comes recommended by the Prince Regent himself. If he cannot untangle a deed of settlement, he will not last a fortnight in this office.”
“I would expect nothing less, sir,” Pope agreed, a slight smile touching his lips.
Fletcher turned his attention to his secretary, who had remained standing quietly by the door throughout the exchange. “Smythe.”
“Sir?”
“Draft a letter to this Mr. Elias Bennet at Longbourn, Hertfordshire. Inform him that, upon the recommendation of Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, we are prepared to offer him a probationary position as a legal assistant in these chambers. State the terms plainly: it is a trial of his abilities, nothing more. He is to present himself at this office on Monday, the twentieth of August, at eight o’clock precisely, regardless of weather or personal inconvenience.
If he arrives late, he need not trouble himself to knock.
Bring the letter to me for signature, and see that it is dispatched by special courier without delay. ”
“Very good, sir,” Smythe replied, bowing slightly. “I shall prepare it for your signature immediately.”
“Make the tone professional, Smythe. No unnecessary flourishes. We are offering him a desk and a mountain of work, not an invitation to a ball.”
As Smythe turned to leave, Mr. Fletcher reached for a fresh sheet of his own heavy, cream-coloured writing paper and drew his inkwell closer.
“And I,” Fletcher said, dipping his pen with a sharp, decisive movement, “shall write to Mr. Darcy. I must assure him that his letter has been received with the due consideration his patronage commands, and that his young protégé will be given every opportunity to prove his worth. I want to reassure him that Scylla and Charybdis are still difficult to pass over.”
Mr. Pope rose from his chair, gathering up a portion of the Harrington briefs. “I shall leave you to your correspondence, sir. I have a widow to pacify and an heir to placate.”
“See that you do, Pope,” Fletcher murmured, his attention already focused upon the blank page before him. “And Pope?”
The junior partner paused at the door. “Sir?”
“Leave the secondary inheritance documents on my desk. When this Mr. Bennet arrives, we shall give them to him. If he can make sense of old Lord Harrington’s appalling grammar, he may just be worth keeping.”
Mr. Pope smiled, a genuine expression of relief. “An excellent baptism by fire, sir. Good day.”
As the door clicked shut behind his partner, Fletcher began to write. His hand moved across the page with swift, elegant precision, the scratch of the nib the only sound in the quiet, dusty room.
To Fitzwilliam Darcy, Esq., Pemberley, Derbyshire.
Dear Sir,
I am in receipt of your letter of the 14th inst., and I hasten to assure you that any recommendation bearing your name commands the immediate and most serious attention of this office...
Fletcher paused, his sharp eyes flicking up for a moment to the towering stacks of paper that surrounded him, before returning to the letter.
He smiled grimly. Mr. Elias Bennet was about to discover exactly what it meant to practice law in London.
If the young man possessed half the fortitude Mr. Darcy claimed, he would survive and his future would be bright.
If not, Lincoln’s Inn would quickly chew him up and spit him out.
Then Mr. Fletcher dipped his pen once more, his mind already turning back to the relentless, demanding rhythm of the law, satisfied that, for today at least, a solution to their immediate difficulties had presented itself in the most respectable of forms.
***
The morning room at Longbourn was bathed in the clear, steady light of a late summer morning, a brightness that seemed entirely in keeping with the restored tranquillity of the house.
The oppressive atmosphere that had clung to the family during Mr. Bennet’s illness and Laurence’s near disgrace had largely dissipated, replaced by a quiet, collective relief.
Mr. Bennet, now sufficiently recovered to resume his habits, was seated in his favourite armchair by the window, a volume of Pliny resting open upon his knee.
However, his attention was frequently drawn to the lively hum of conversation around him.
Mrs. Bennet occupied the sofa, engaged in the delicate and endlessly absorbing task of unpicking a tangled skein of embroidery silk, while offering a steady stream of commentary on the weather, the neighbours, and the price of muslin.
James stood near the hearth, his posture reflecting his usual relaxed authority, quietly discussing the impending harvest with Miles, who listened with the earnest attention of a man already preparing his mind for the stewardship of a parish.
Kit was sprawled in a chair near the door, sketching the skeletal structure of a bird’s wing with quick, precise strokes of charcoal, occasionally pausing to interject a dry observation into his brothers’ agricultural debate.
Only Laurence was absent, having been dispatched to Meryton under the watchful eye of the coachman to purchase a new pair of boots for his impending military service.