Chapter 3 #5
Elias paused at the threshold, looking back at the parlour. His family was already falling back into conversation, the atmosphere lighter, brighter, and infinitely more hopeful than it had been an hour before. He met his father’s eye, and Mr. Bennet offered a small, approving nod.
Then, Elias returned the nod, a profound sense of gratitude settling over his soul. He stepped out into the hallway, the heavy oak door closing softly behind him, ready to begin the work of proving that Fitzwilliam Darcy’s faith in him had not been misplaced.
***
The morning fog had not yet entirely lifted from the narrow, cobblestoned lanes of Lincoln’s Inn when Elias Bennet presented himself before the heavy oak door of Mr. Francis Fletcher’s chambers.
The clock of the nearby chapel was only approaching the quarter before eight.
Elias had arrived in London the previous evening, wisely securing modest lodgings within a short walk of the Inn.
He had risen well before dawn to ensure that no accident of the unfamiliar city should risk his punctuality.
He now stood composed and ready, dressed in a dark coat whose careful brushing spoke more of diligent maintenance than of recent tailoring, his cravat tied with severe and unostentatious neatness.
In one hand, he carried a small leather case containing the few papers he possessed that might support his claim to the profession—a letter from Mr. Phillips, several notes from his legal studies, and the quiet assurance of a gentleman determined to justify the confidence that had brought him there.
He pushed open the door, the bell above it ringing with a sharp, authoritative clatter that seemed designed to startle the unwary.
The outer office was a large room, dominated by high, dust-moted windows and rows of high desks at which a few clerks were already perched, their quills scratching diligently against broad sheets of parchment.
At the foremost desk, presiding over the room like a grim sentinel, sat a man whose face seemed composed entirely of sharp angles and pinched disapproval. This was Mr. Smythe, the senior secretary, who looked up from his ledger as Elias approached.
“State your business, sir,” Smythe demanded, his voice possessing the dry rustle of autumn leaves. “If you are seeking an audience with Mr. Fletcher regarding the Chancery suits, you must return on Thursday. If you are here to deliver a deed, leave it in the tray.”
“I am neither, sir,” Elias replied, his tone perfectly level, matching the secretary’s gravity without succumbing to his intimidation. “I am Elias Bennet. I believe Mr. Fletcher expects me this morning at eight o’clock.”
Smythe’s pen paused. His pale eyes swept over Elias, taking in the provincial cut of his coat, the lack of a valet’s polish, and the quiet, unflinching steadiness of his gaze.
“Ah. The Hertfordshire probationer.” Smythe did not make it sound like a compliment.
He carefully wiped his nib upon a scrap of cloth and stood.
“You are fourteen minutes early, Mr. Bennet. Mr Fletcher values punctuality, but he does not reward overeagerness. Follow me.”
Elias followed the secretary through a labyrinth of narrow corridors lined with towering shelves of bound briefs, the sheer volume of legal history pressing in on them from all sides. They stopped before a heavy mahogany door bearing a brass plate engraved simply with the name F. Fletcher.
Smythe knocked twice, a sharp, staccato rhythm, and opened the door without waiting for a reply.
“The young man from Hertfordshire is here, sir,” Smythe announced, stepping aside to allow Elias to enter.
The inner sanctum was a formidable space.
The walls were lined with dark leather volumes, and the large desk in the centre was a chaotic topography of stacked papers, tied bundles, and half-empty inkwells.
Behind it sat Mr. Francis Fletcher, his hawkish profile illuminated by the grey morning light filtering through the window.
Across from him sat a younger, slightly softer-featured man—Mr. Pope, the junior partner.
Mr. Fletcher did not look up immediately.
He continued to read a lengthy document, his pen making swift, aggressive marginalia.
Elias stood in silence, his hands clasped behind his back, making no move to speak or fidget.
He knew better than to interrupt a man engaged in his work; he had, after all, spent years observing his father in the Longbourn library.
After two full minutes, Mr. Fletcher threw down his pen and raised his head. His gaze, magnified by his spectacles, was sharp, assessing, and entirely devoid of warmth.
“Mr. Bennet, I believe,” Fletcher barked, the sound less a greeting than an accusation. “You are early.”
“I was taught, sir, that to be precisely on time is to risk being late,” Elias replied calmly. “I preferred not to take such a risk.”
Mr. Pope, who had been watching the exchange with quiet interest, let out a brief, muffled cough that sounded suspiciously like a stifled laugh. Fletcher shot his partner a dark look before returning his attention to Elias.
“A pretty sentiment, Mr. Bennet. We shall see if your legal acumen matches your talent for aphorisms.” Fletcher leaned back in his chair, steepling his long, ink-stained fingers.
“Mr. Pope, you have not yet been introduced. This is Mr. Elias Bennet of Longbourn in Hertfordshire—the gentleman recommended to us by Mr. Darcy of Pemberley. Mr. Bennet, this is my partner, Mr. Pope. You will find him far more patient than I am, though I advise you not to test the limits of either of us.”
Mr. Pope inclined his head with polite curiosity. “We are pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Bennet. Any gentleman who arrives before eight o’clock on his first morning has already distinguished himself among most young aspirants to the law.”
Fletcher gave a dismissive snort. “And Mr. Smythe, whom you have already met, keeps this establishment from collapsing entirely under the weight of its own paperwork. Without him, half the deeds in Lincoln’s Inn would vanish into oblivion.”
Smythe allowed himself the faintest inclination of the head, as though acknowledging a fact long known but seldom spoken aloud.
“You come to me highly recommended by Mr. Darcy of Pemberley. Mr. Darcy is a man of excellent judgment, but, alas, he is not a lawyer. The gentleman informed me you have a mind for complex documentation. I am naturally sceptical of such claims from anyone who has not spent a decade breathing the dust of Chancery.”
“A reasonable scepticism, sir,” Elias agreed, his voice betraying no defensive heat. “I do not expect you to accept Mr. Darcy’s assessment without proof. I am here to provide it.”
Fletcher’s eyes narrowed slightly, searching Elias’s face for arrogance, but finding only a quiet, grounded confidence.
“You read classics and history at Oxford. Why the law, Mr. Bennet? Why not the Church, or the Army? I understand you are a second son. The Church is the usual repository for brave second sons who lack the constitution for being shot at.”
“I have a younger brother destined for the Church, sir, who possesses the necessary piety,” Elias replied smoothly.
“And another bound for the Army, who possesses the necessary exuberance. I chose the law because I prefer the architecture of logic to the architecture of faith, and I find a well-argued brief more compelling than a battlefield.”
Mr. Pope smiled openly this time. “A very measured division of familial labour, Mr. Bennet. And highly pragmatic.”
“Pragmatism is what we require here, Pope, not wit,” Fletcher grumbled, though the rigid line of his jaw relaxed by a fraction of an inch.
He gestured toward a smaller desk situated in the corner of the room, currently groaning under the weight of three massive stacks of parchment bound in faded red tape.
Elias inclined his head slightly, maintaining his composure, and Fletcher’s fleeting smile suggested that the young man’s steadiness had not gone unnoticed.
“Mr. Bennet, suppose a parish in Oxfordshire has recently been enclosed under an Act obtained in 1812. The Enclosure Commissioners have issued their Award dividing the common fields and wastes among the landholders. One farmer now claims that, though the Award grants the land to Sir Henry Talbot, he has grazed sheep there for thirty years and therefore retains a right of common. Tell me, Mr. Bennet, whether such a claim can survive the Award, and upon what authority you would determine the matter.”
Elias Bennet thought for a moment, then said, “Under the General Enclosure Act of 1801, once the Commissioners’ Award has been properly confirmed and enrolled, it extinguishes previous rights of common unless those rights are specifically preserved within the Award itself.
A long practice of grazing, however ancient, cannot prevail against the legal force of the Award if the claimant was not allotted land or compensation in the final division.
The Award effectively converts the former common land into private property, as per the recorded allotments.
Therefore, the farmer’s claim would fail unless he can demonstrate that his right of common was formally recognised and compensated in the Enclosure Award, or that the Award itself was improperly executed, sir. ”
“Now consider another case, Mr. Bennet. An estate in Hertfordshire is held by a gentleman ‘to himself for life, remainder to the heirs male of his body.’ The gentleman wishes to sell a portion of the estate to settle his debts. Explain how the entail might be barred so that he may convey the land in fee simple.”
This time, the answer came promptly.