Chapter 3
NETHERFIELD’S MORNING room caught the best of the day’s light.
The east windows were open to the mild spring sun, and the warmth of a late breakfast clung to the air, undisturbed except for the rhythm of Bingley’s riding glove as he slapped it against his knee.
He sat at the edge of his chair, coat undone, his hair damp from the wet brush he ran through it after dressing.
His expression suggested he could resolve the affairs of the county, the estate, and the world by talking at a brisk pace and refusing to let anyone contradict him.
Darcy, who never sat when standing made a point, stood by the tall window, working the leather of his riding crop in one hand. His gaze moved over the grounds, and if he heard Bingley’s running commentary on the neighbors, the weather, and the prospects of the next hunt, he gave no sign of it.
Across from Bingley, his sister Caroline occupied the settee.
She wore pale green, the sleeves and collar set with a level of embroidery more appropriate to a London drawing room than a house aired after six months’ vacancy.
Her posture suggested that the furniture existed to display her, and the small, angled turns of her head showed that she expected frequent attention and approval.
At her right, Louisa worked an embroidery frame, the needle moving through the fabric.
Louisa’s husband, Hurst, who entered the room at the first scent of breakfast, sat in the armchair nearest the fire, within reach of the tea tray.
He reached for the biscuits like a man who believed that if a tray existed, his duty was to empty it.
“—and I suppose we must call first at Longbourn, if only to satisfy local expectation,” Bingley said, continuing without waiting for agreement.
“There is a certain order in these matters, and I have no wish to begin by offending every matron in the neighborhood. Besides, I am told Mrs. Bennet’s nerves are in a constant state of crisis.
We may as well give her something to talk about. ”
Caroline nodded, one eyebrow raised. “I am sure Mrs. Bennet will have plenty to say, regardless. Her reputation for conversation precedes her.” She glanced at Darcy, hoping for the flicker of a smile, but received none.
Louisa, intent on her embroidery, said nothing.
Bingley looked to Darcy. “You noticed the boundary. What did you make of it?”
Darcy’s eyes stayed fixed on the window. “The land is unremarkable, but serviceable. The western hedge needs replanting, and several posts have rotted through.”
Louisa’s needle stopped. “Did you test them?”
Caroline hid a smile behind her hand. Hurst ate his biscuit.
“The sheep tested them,” Bingley said. “They found the gap before we did.”
“A collie brought them back,” Darcy said.
Caroline tilted her head, letting her gaze rest on Darcy. “A country dog doing country work. Pastoral, but I suppose that is what one expects in such a place.”
Darcy tapped his crop against the floor. “One expects boundaries to be kept.”
Louisa set her frame in her lap and looked up. “Is the boundary not also Netherfield’s concern? You share these obligations, unless the lease—”
Hurst, mouth full, said, “Sheep are not much concerned with a lease.”
A brief silence followed.
Bingley broke it, his smile undiminished. “It looked like a capable dog, at least. What did you make of the young woman?”
“She knew her work,” Darcy said. “Beyond that, I formed no opinion.”
Caroline’s eyes widened just enough to show interest. “A tenant’s daughter?”
“She did not look like one.” Darcy did not explain what he meant, and Caroline waited for more. When it did not come, she resumed smoothing the line of her skirt.
Bingley considered this. “A family member, then. The Bennets manage their own estate. I have it from Mrs. Long that the eldest two daughters are remarkable for their sense and conduct, though she did not say whether they managed sheep.”
“Hands-on management has its disadvantages,” Darcy said. “A gentleman’s daughter should not have to mend fences in wet grass at daybreak.”
Bingley grinned. “You have seen my sister attempt to saddle her own horse. She tangled the straps and ruined her gloves.” He slapped the glove against his knee again, louder this time. “But I admire initiative. I am sure the young woman was up to the task.”
Caroline’s tone was teasing. “If she was one of the Miss Bennets, we shall soon know. I trust you will recognize her at the assembly.”
Darcy said nothing.
Louisa returned to her needlework but spoke, her attention half on the thread. “The important question is whether the sheep are a regular occurrence, or if it was just a morning’s accident.”
Hurst, who had finished his first biscuit and moved on to a slice of cold ham, said, “I doubt the sheep care. The fence will still be down tomorrow.”
Darcy allowed a brief, tight smile, more out of courtesy to Hurst than out of humor. “Perhaps.”
Bingley rose from his chair, restless. He crossed to the window, crowding Darcy for a view of the fields. “It is nothing they cannot mend,” he said. “I am sure the Bennets run their estate well, and I look forward to meeting them.”
“The younger daughters are out,” Caroline said. “I saw them in the lane when I came down. They were laughing, and I heard them from across the field.”
Bingley seemed unbothered. “Then we shall call tomorrow. Or after the assembly. It will give us something to talk about.” He looked at Darcy. “You are still going to attend?”
“You said I could not avoid it.”
Bingley clapped his friend’s shoulder. “That is the spirit. You may find something to like about the neighborhood.”
Caroline watched the exchange, the corners of her mouth softening. She sat back, content with the direction the conversation was taking. Louisa, perhaps recognizing the futility of the subject, turned to her needlework.
Hurst refilled his cup, took another piece of toast, and filled the silence with the slow, even sound of chewing.
Darcy stood at the window, expression fixed, gaze turned to the distant hedge where the morning’s event played itself over.
If he heard Bingley’s optimism, he did not betray it.
His grip on the crop tightened, the leather creaking in his hand.
The talk had gone the usual way: Caroline drawing attention, Bingley pleased, the Hursts serving as Greek chorus in tea and embroidery, and himself rendered curmudgeon by the behavior of livestock.
The sun rose higher, lighting the fields. Beyond the window, a ribbon of green ran up to the weakened hedge. No sheep crossed at this hour. The only motion was the wind, shivering new leaves along the line of the boundary.
Bingley turned to him. “We must set the assembly as our starting point,” he said. “We will go as a party. You will see, Darcy, it will be unlike Town. More direct, which I prefer.”
Darcy’s reflection in the window did not return the smile. He watched the empty pasture and considered the work it would take to repair a boundary once it started to fail.
Caroline, sensing that the topic had played itself out, redirected the conversation to the relative merits of Meryton society and Town, the deficiencies of local haberdashers, and the arrangement of cards for the evening.
Bingley’s spirits remained undimmed, and Louisa, perhaps in deference to her brother’s mood, contributed gentle corrections about the quality of the cloth and the flavor of the tea.
Hurst found a way to replenish his plate without leaving the chair.
Darcy, however, remained by the window, silent, as the light sharpened on the fields beyond.
He watched for sheep and for the dog that managed them.
His jaw set, the tension traveling up his cheek to the bone near his eye.
Whatever Bingley believed, he had not finished forming his opinion of the place or the people who claimed it. Not yet.