CHAPTER 16
What Would Be Said
The morning had no colour in it.
London lay under a low grey sky, and the air, though not yet severe enough for frost, had that damp cold which made wool heavy, paper limp, and every fire seem more a theory than a comfort.
Darcy walked to his chambers through streets glazed with recent rain, past shopfronts not yet fully awake, errand-boys with red hands, and clerks moving quickly because movement was cheaper than warmth.
His chambers had not lost the cold by the time he arrived.
It rarely did before noon. The windows admitted light without kindness; the grate smoked before it burned; and the clerks wrote with fingers they had to flex between lines.
Darcy removed his gloves, sat down, and began reducing Cotton Lane into forms.
It was not a task to encourage vanity in the law.
Cotton Lane had shown, with uncommon clarity, that written provisions, if neglected long enough, could become little more than suggestions to be misremembered at profit.
A shed had become almost a right. A yard had become several opinions.
Repair clauses had multiplied without improving roofs.
Rent days had wandered into habits, and habits, once comfortable, had naturally put on the airs of principle.
Darcy took up his pen.
A shop must be treated as a shop. A dwelling must be treated as a dwelling.
A mixed property must be made to confess, in writing, which part was trade, which part residence, and which obligations belonged to each.
No widow should be made answerable for a roof because some former landlord had preferred silence to expense.
No shopkeeper should escape the repair of shutters because he had learned to call neglect commercial necessity.
His clerk copied steadily at the smaller desk near the window, glancing up now and then when Darcy scored through a phrase and replaced it with another. The room smelled of ink, paper, coal smoke, and wet wool.
“Mr. Greeves’s arrangement, sir?” asked the clerk at last.
“In writing,” said Darcy.
“Yes, sir.”
“Three months’ arrears acknowledged. New payment schedule. No threat of distress while the schedule is observed. Failure to pay twice without notice to reopen the question.”
The clerk wrote.
“And Mrs. Bell?”
“The damp is not to be left for the new lease. Repairs first.”
“Yes, sir.”
Darcy took up another sheet and wrote at the top:
Duties of Agent — Cotton Lane.
He paused over the words longer than they required.
Miss Bennet had asked for structure. She had a talent for doing so as though structure were a thing a man might produce from his pocket if properly challenged. It was one of the more troublesome compliments he had ever received.
He wrote.
The agent was to keep a repair book. He was to walk the lane once weekly for the first two months, and thereafter at intervals to be determined by Miss Bennet, Mr. Beaker, and Mr. Hartwood.
Complaints were to be taken down in writing where practicable.
Estimates were to distinguish labour from materials.
Completed work was to be inspected before payment.
No gift, fee, favour, dinner, drink, or consideration of any sort was to be accepted from tenants or tradesmen.
Urgent matters touching damp, drains, roofs, unsafe walls, or obstruction of shared access were to be reported immediately.
Arrears were not to be softened into custom. Custom was not to be treated as title.
He added, after a moment:
Mr. Harding is not to be believed merely because he has spoken first.
Then, beneath that:
The agent must understand when not to decide.
That, he thought, might prove the hardest qualification to secure.
The morning passed. Letters were answered.
A client came and left. A copyist was corrected.
Two leases were marked for fuller drafting.
By two o’clock Darcy had before him a serviceable beginning: three model forms, a memorandum of repair priorities, and a list of qualities wanted in a man who must be honest enough for Miss Bennet, legible enough for Mr. Beaker, and patient enough for Cotton Lane.
It was then that his clerk brought in a letter.
“Delivered by hand, sir.”
Darcy took it without much attention, broke the seal, and found himself addressed by a name from Derbyshire.
Mr. Darcy,
I beg pardon for addressing you after so long an interval, and without first waiting upon my father’s slower inquiries.
You may perhaps remember the Reverend Mr. Terling of Ashmere, and myself as one of his sons — though in a family of eleven, I cannot expect any particular child to have remained distinct in memory.
My father has been good enough to write on my behalf, but his own duties and the number of claims upon him make progress uncertain.
I have therefore come to London in hope of finding respectable employment sooner than affection at home might contrive it for me.
I have some learning, a tolerable hand, practice in accounts, and a willingness to begin where I may be useful.
If you should know of any situation fit for such qualifications, I would be grateful for even the smallest direction.
I remain, sir, your obedient servant, Samuel Terling.
Darcy read the letter through twice.
Terling.
He remembered the father at once: a thoughtful clergyman of modest living, much harassed by children, weather, sermons, and small incomes, who had held a parish not far enough from Pemberley for any distress there to remain entirely unknown to the house.
Reverend Terling had possessed the rare clerical merit of not speaking when he had nothing to say.
He had been valued in consequence by those few persons able to distinguish silence from dullness.
The son took longer to assemble in memory.
Then Darcy saw him: not distinctly as one boy among eleven, but as a thin, observant lad, forever too old to be managed with the younger children and too young to be granted the ease of the elder ones.
He knew where a lost book had gone, which brother had taken which fishing line, and how long one might delay a confession by appearing to look for evidence.
He had asked questions about trout, shadows, ledgers, church roofs, and whether a steward must always be believed if he wrote in a fine hand.
He had possessed, even then, an eye for the small movement by which a person betrays more than he intends.
Cotton Lane did not require a man who wished to rule it. It required a man who could hear five explanations at once, detect the false one, and not lose his temper before the drain had been inspected.
A clergyman’s son from a house of eleven children might possess more training in that art than any set of chambers could supply.
Darcy rang.
“Send this direction,” he said, writing a few words beneath Samuel Terling’s letter. “If Mr. Terling can wait upon me at four, I will see him.”
“Yes, sir.”
The interval was filled with work, which was fortunate, since Darcy disliked anticipation unless it concerned a document. At four precisely, his clerk opened the door and announced Mr. Terling.
Samuel Terling entered with a hat held in one hand and a nervousness too honest to be called awkwardness.
He was perhaps three-and-twenty, with a slight figure, a clear eye, and a coat which had been brushed into respectability by more care than money.
His cuffs were worn, though very clean. His boots had seen London mud that morning and been wiped as well as a lodging-house passage allowed.
He bowed properly, not deeply enough to flatter and not carelessly enough to offend.
Darcy looked at him, and the years arranged themselves more completely.
“Terling.”
The young man’s face eased. “Yes, sir. I was not certain you would remember me.”
“You were forever asking whether trout could see a shadow through water.”
Samuel coloured. “I had hoped that had been forgotten.”
“A dangerous hope, in Derbyshire.”
“Yes, sir. Derbyshire remembers a great deal.”
The words might have been nothing. They might have been everything. Darcy motioned him to a chair.
“You are lately come to London?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“With introductions?”
“Some, sir. My father has written to two old friends and one cousin of my mother’s. All three have answered kindly. None has answered usefully.”
“So you came yourself.”
Samuel coloured again, but did not drop his eyes. “Yes, sir. I hope it does not appear undutiful.”
“It appears practical.”
“That is what I hoped.”
Darcy took up the letter again, though he knew every line by then.
“You have practice in accounts.”
“My father’s parish accounts, sir, and household accounts when my mother would trust me with them.
I have copied rents for Mr. Allsop at Ashmere, and for six months I assisted a land agent near Bakewell, though not in any responsible capacity.
I can keep a fair book. I write a good hand when not hurried.
I can calculate tolerably. I can walk in rain.
I can listen longer than most men expect. ”
“That last is not a small qualification.”
“No, sir. Not in a parsonage.”
Darcy looked at him more closely.
“You understand that much employment is respectable without being genteel.”
Samuel’s mouth moved slightly, as if he were suppressing an answer before deciding whether it was too free. Darcy waited.
“At home, sir, we learned very early that genteel and useful were not always on speaking terms.”
Darcy looked down at the paper before him. “A sensible discovery.”
“I do not mean to speak slightingly of my family.”
“I did not suppose you did.”
“My father has done everything he could. But there are eleven of us.” Samuel smiled faintly, without self-pity. “He cannot make futures as quickly as he made children.”
Darcy’s pen stopped.
Samuel seemed to realize only then what he had said and grew red.
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“For accuracy?”
“For being too familiar.”
“Accuracy is usually the lesser fault.”
Samuel’s shoulders eased.