Chapter 12 #2
It was handsome, though not grand. The proportions were good, the approach agreeable, and the late September sun gave the stone a mellow warmth that softened what might otherwise have seemed a little plain.
After Pemberley, most houses felt either too small or too determined to prove they were not small enough; Netherfield did neither.
It sat within its park with a comfortable confidence, surrounded by trees just beginning to show the first gold of autumn.
He liked it at once.
That alone surprised him. He had spent so many years measuring buildings by the cost of their repairs, the soundness of their roofs, the honesty of their drains, and the number of families dependent upon them that he sometimes forgot a house might be judged by pleasure as well as responsibility.
Netherfield looked well-tended. Not ostentatious. Not neglected. Well-tended.
Behind him, Bingley had turned back to hand down his sister. Miss Bingley accepted his assistance with the air of a lady enduring exile, one gloved hand pinching her skirts clear of the carriage step as though Hertfordshire dirt possessed ambitions beyond its station.
“Well,” she said, glancing toward the house, “it is larger than I expected.”
Mrs. Hurst, descending after her, gave the front elevation a cool survey. “And rather more secluded.”
Hurst followed with a yawn, having slept through most of the final hour of travel and seeming prepared to continue doing so the moment a chair became available.
Bingley looked at the house with unhidden delight. “I think it excellent. Do you not, Darcy?”
“Yes,” Darcy said. “It has a pleasing situation.”
Miss Bingley’s expression altered instantly into one of gracious approval. “If Mr. Darcy finds it pleasing, then perhaps it has more merit than first appears.”
Darcy gave no answer. Five years in the militia had taught him that some engagements were best avoided entirely.
It still felt strange to stand here in plain civilian dress.
His regimentals had been more than clothing; they had been duty made visible.
For five years he had been Colonel Darcy to officers, men, magistrates, and landowners.
Now his service was finished, his responsibilities returned to a more private shape, and everyone had begun calling him Mr. Darcy again as though a title could be put away as easily as a coat.
He was relieved, certainly. Pemberley required him.
Georgiana required him. Yet there was an unfamiliar emptiness in having no immediate orders, no review to conduct, no roster awaiting correction, no urgent decision pressing upon the next hour.
He was, for the first time in years, merely visiting.
The idea unsettled him more than it ought.
Bingley, however, had no such difficulty. He turned from the house to his sisters with the pleased air of a man producing an agreeable surprise. “There is an assembly in Meryton this evening.”
Miss Bingley stopped upon the gravel. “This evening?”
“Yes. When I came last week to meet with the agent and take possession, several gentlemen of the neighborhood called. They were most civil. Mr. Sir William Lucas—Sir William Lucas, rather—and Mr. Long, and Mr. Goulding, I believe. They spoke of the assembly, and I accepted on behalf of all of us.”
Mrs. Hurst’s brows lifted. “On behalf of all of us?”
Bingley’s smile faltered. “I thought it would be agreeable.”
“Agreeable?” Miss Bingley repeated, with so much feeling one might have supposed he had invited her to dine in the kitchen. “Charles, we have only just arrived. We are fatigued from travel, our trunks are not unpacked, and you have committed us to an evening amongst country strangers?”
Bingley looked from one sister to the other, his good humor dimming beneath their disapproval. Then his eyes sought Darcy’s with the old, familiar uncertainty.
Darcy knew that look. He had seen it at Cambridge when young men of better birth had made Bingley feel as though kindness, eagerness, and wealth earned honestly were all failings requiring apology.
“You did right,” Darcy said.
Miss Bingley turned sharply toward him. “Surely you cannot mean that.”
“I do. Your first actions here will set the tone for how the neighborhood receives you. If Mr. Bingley has accepted an invitation, attending will show respect for those among whom he means to live.”
Bingley’s relief was immediate and almost boyish. “Yes, exactly. That is what I thought.”
Miss Bingley gave a delicate sniff. “I hardly think it matters how the neighborhood receives us. There can be no one here worth impressing.”
Darcy looked once more toward Netherfield. “That is precisely the sort of opinion best not expressed at an assembly.”
Bingley bit back a laugh. Miss Bingley did not.