Chapter 12
Elizabeth Bennet stood in the drawing room at Netherfield Park and tried not to think of the first time she had seen the room as its new owner.
It had been nearly two years, yet the memory remained vivid.
The curtains had been hideous then—gold and scarlet damask heavy enough to make the room feel twice its age—and every available table had borne some costly ornament chosen less for beauty than for its ability to shout of expense.
The previous owner, a foolish man of fashionable pretensions and little sense, had cared far more for what visitors saw upon entering the house than for whether the tenants had roofs that did not leak.
Elizabeth had immediately made changes.
The gaudiest furniture had been sold. The ostentatious clocks, vases, gilt mirrors, and ridiculous marble nymphs had fetched enough to repair three tenant cottages, replace two collapsed byres, and mend the bridge near the southern fields.
The simpler furniture, sturdy and somewhat dated but honest in its construction, had been brought down from the attics where some former mistress of Netherfield had banished it beneath Holland covers.
Now the room looked less fashionable, perhaps, but infinitely more comfortable.
Mrs. Nicholls, the housekeeper, stood beside Elizabeth with a list in one hand and the air of a woman who had been counting sheets, candles, and chamber pots for a fortnight.
“The east rooms are aired, miss. The blue chamber has been made ready for Mr. Bingley, and the two guest chambers across the passage are prepared as well. If he brings more company than expected, we can open the yellow room and the small chamber above the breakfast parlor.”
“Very good,” Elizabeth said. “And the fires?”
“To be lit tomorrow morning, unless the damp worsens. If so, we will light them tonight.”
Elizabeth nodded her approval. “Mr. Bingley is said to be wealthy, but that is no reason to waste coal merely because Netherfield wishes to display hospitality. Comfort is one thing; extravagance another.”
Mrs. Nicholls smiled faintly. “You sound very like Mrs. Croft when you say so.”
That pleased Elizabeth. Admiral Croft and his wife had leased Netherfield for nearly two years, and Elizabeth had liked them extremely.
The admiral had been practical, cheerful, and entirely uninterested in changing every room merely because it did not suit the latest London fashion.
Mrs. Croft had been even better, walking the tenant lanes herself and sending Elizabeth—through Mr. Philips, of course—several useful suggestions for improvements.
Elizabeth had been sorry when Mrs. Croft decided she wished to live nearer her brother and the lease was not renewed.
Still, the Crofts had left Netherfield better than they found it, and their lease payments had done what Elizabeth could not have accomplished alone.
Much of the income had gone back into the estate.
A portion had been invested under Mr. Philips’s careful management.
Very little had been spent upon Elizabeth herself, which suited her perfectly.
Netherfield was safer, sounder, and far less gaudy than when it came into her possession, and that was satisfaction enough.
“For the new servants,” Elizabeth continued, “make certain they understand the tenant arrangements as they stand. The families at Warren’s cottage and the lower mill farm are not to be pressed before Michaelmas.
Mr. Philips has already informed Mr. Bingley’s agent, but I should like no confusion from the household staff. ”
“Of course, miss.”
“And, Mrs. Nicholls—”
The housekeeper looked up.
Elizabeth lowered her voice, though there was no one near enough to overhear. “No one is to know that I own Netherfield.”
Mrs. Nicholls’s expression became solemn at once. “No one shall hear it from me.”
“Not even Mr. Bingley. To him, I am merely Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, come to discuss tenant needs because Longbourn has often assisted Netherfield’s people when the house stood empty. If anyone asks, that is explanation enough.”
Mrs. Nicholls nodded. “And a true one, in its way.”
“Yes.” Elizabeth’s mouth curved wryly. “The best deceptions are often made of truths arranged in convenient order.”
“I should not call it deception, miss. It is only discretion.”
“Then we shall be discreet with great determination.”
That earned another small smile. Mrs. Nicholls had served under the Crofts and had quickly learned to appreciate her young mistress’s unusual manner of management. She was one of very few people in Hertfordshire who knew the full truth, and Elizabeth valued both her competence and her silence.
After reviewing the pantry, linens, guest chambers, and kitchen stores, Elizabeth at last took up her bonnet and gloves. Mrs. Nicholls walked with her to the entrance hall, where the scent of beeswax and lavender polish lingered pleasantly in the air.
“Mr. Bingley is to return tomorrow, correct?” Elizabeth verified.
“Yes, miss. He comes first from London, I am told, with two sisters and a brother-in-law.”
Mr. Philips had said much the same. The new tenant was a young man from the north, possessed of a handsome fortune inherited from a father who had made his wealth in trade.
Mr. Bingley wished to become a landed gentleman, and Netherfield was to serve as his first experiment in that direction.
Elizabeth hoped he would prove sensible.
A wealthy young man eager to impress could either be a blessing to a neighborhood or a terror to an estate.
She stepped out into the mild September afternoon and turned back once more to look at the house.
Netherfield Park.
Hers.
The thought still astonished her at odd moments, though less frequently than before.
In public, she remained only the second Miss Bennet, with no fortune to speak of and no prospects beyond what her wit, face, and connections might accomplish.
Privately, she possessed an estate, investments, and a dowry large enough to make her mother faint if she ever learned of it.
Sometimes Elizabeth wondered whether secrecy had become habit or armor.
Perhaps both.
The walk back to Longbourn was pleasant.
The air held the first suggestion of autumn, crisp enough to stir energy without yet carrying chill.
Hedgerows rustled on either side of the lane, and the fields beyond lay golden and tired after harvest. Elizabeth walked briskly, glad of the solitude after the practical business of the morning.
The assembly would be held that Saturday.
All of Meryton was already in a state of anticipation bordering upon fever.
Mrs. Bennet had spoken of little else since word arrived that Netherfield had been let at last, and Lydia and Kitty had spent three days debating whether a wealthy young gentleman from the north would dance more agreeably than the officers.
Mary had declared assemblies frivolous, which meant she would attend in her plainest gown and look pained to see anyone enjoy themselves.
Elizabeth smiled at the thought.
She hoped Mr. Bingley would attend. Not because she intended to catch him, despite her mother’s certain ambitions, but because the neighborhood needed new life.
A good tenant at Netherfield could mean improved roads, better trade in Meryton, work for servants, and attention to families who had long been neglected.
If Mr. Bingley proved amiable and responsible, his arrival might benefit far more than the young ladies eager for dances.
Her thoughts drifted, quite without permission, to another man.
It was absurd, of course.
Colonel Fitzwilliam Darcy would never lease Netherfield.
He was in Derbyshire, or wherever his militia duties took him, far removed from Hertfordshire and from secret heiresses who discovered Roman treasures in cellars.
She had seen him only briefly two years earlier, and yet he returned to her mind at the most inconvenient moments.
A grave expression. A hand turning an ancient coin reverently in lantern light.
A voice filled with wonder when he spoke of Rome.
Eyes that had made her forget, for one mortifying instant, that she was covered in mud.
She had met other young men since then.
Several had been handsome. One or two had been clever. A few had danced well enough to make an evening pleasant.
None had made her feel as Mr. Darcy had, standing in that cellar with history in his hand and seriousness in every line of his face.
Which was ridiculous.
Utterly ridiculous.
Elizabeth stopped at the edge of the lane and looked toward the fields, as though the sight of Longbourn’s familiar hedges might restore her sense.
“You will not moon over a man you met twice,” she informed herself firmly.
“Particularly not one who lives half the kingdom away and likely remembers you only as the muddiest young woman of his acquaintance.”
A crow answered from a nearby tree, sounding remarkably unimpressed.
Elizabeth laughed despite herself and resumed walking.
No. She would put Mr. Darcy from her mind. The new neighbors were coming, the assembly approached, and Hertfordshire would soon be full of novelty. That was quite enough excitement for any reasonable person.
And yet, as Netherfield disappeared behind the trees and Longbourn came into view ahead, Elizabeth could not shake the strange flutter of anticipation beneath her ribs. It was foolish, perhaps, but it felt almost as though the arrival of these new tenants marked the beginning of something.
Something she could not name.
Something that might change everything.
∞∞∞
Fitzwilliam Darcy stepped down from the carriage before Netherfield Park and stood for a moment looking up at the house.