Chapter 10
Darcy watched Miss Elizabeth transform before his eyes. Her pallor brightened, and there was a fire in her eyes. She sat tall, her jaw set and determined. She must have been terrified, but she would not break. She was stunning. Remarkable.
“Can this matter be resolved?” she asked, her tone brisk, business-like.
This was not a lady to shrink back from the truth of unpleasant news. He told her plainly, “It will be difficult, but if we act swiftly, I believe it is possible.”
“How? Tell me what needs to be done, and I will see it done.”
What Darcy had suspected before was reaffirmed with all the clarity of a clanging bell.
Miss Elizabeth ran Longbourn unassisted.
She, who might so easily have assumed that her future as the wife of a wealthy gentleman assured her a life of ease and indulgence, had instead taken on the thankless task of estate management, knowing that her father would get credit for her hard work.
Knowing she would not inherit. Darcy hardly knew her, and already she had his respect.
“First, we must prove that your father’s partnership legally expired in 1810. Second, that he did not sign any renewal documents after that date.”
“I signed nothing. Of that, I am certain,” said Mr. Bennet.
Darcy added, “That being the case, we must prove that any documents bearing your father’s signature after 1810 are forgeries.”
“And if we prove those three things, the charges will be dismissed?”
Philips replied, “Possibly. The government will argue that signatures evolve over time, that Bennet’s lack of response to company correspondence does not void a legal partnership, that his intent to dissolve without following proper procedures means nothing.”
She did not swoon. She hardly batted an eyelid. “Then what do we need to release my father from this debt?”
Darcy replied plainly. “Ideally, we will find an obvious forgery, something irrefutably and undeniably false. Realistically, we need more than documents. We need testimony from others who have dealt with this company. We need to establish that this is not an isolated incident but a pattern of fraud that extends far beyond targeting this one country squire.” He took a deep breath.
“A fraud of this size is never a single sheet. If they have done it properly, the deed was drawn in counterparts—one kept by the company, one sent to your father, as any partner keeps his own. They would not want every copy under their own roof. A signed counterpart found here, among his papers, is worth more to them than a dozen in their files: it is the thing that makes him a partner in the eyes of the Crown, and makes them merely his associates.”
Philips paled. “Evidence in the accused’s own hand, in the accused’s own keeping.”
“Precisely. They are counting on the excise men finding it before Mr. Bennet does.” Darcy glanced at the papers and letters scattered over the desk and stuffed between books. “Find it before they do, and we hold either his ruin or their undoing.”
Miss Elizabeth lifted her chin. “If it is here, then we shall find it. That, at least, is something we can do. What about the testimony? How do we get that?”
“I have connections in Vienna, in Macedonia, and in several ports of trade. People who have dealt with Imperial Spirits & Fine Goods and will be willing to testify about their criminal methods.”
“How quickly can you reach them?”
If he could fly, he would leave at that moment. “I will send letters today.”
She extended her hand to her father. “Papa, Mr. Robinson needs paper, pen, and an inkwell.” To him, she said, “You may use my desk by the window or any other space in this house that suits your purpose.”
Darcy smiled at her eagerness, her quickness. But he had to ensure she fully understood what they were up against. “I thank you and will begin immediately. But it will take time—weeks, possibly months—to gather the testimony we need.”
“How long do we have?”
“Under normal circumstances, about six months from the initial demand.”
“Six months.” A flicker of a smile crossed her lips, and her posture relaxed. Darcy loathed to be the one to dash her hope.
Her uncle shook his head. “The nation is at war. England’s debts are massive and growing every day. Your father is too easy a target for them not to expedite the collection.”
“How long then?”
Darcy exchanged a look with Philips, who nodded.
“You may receive a distress warrant in as soon as two weeks.” After having done the math countless times, this was the shortest time period Darcy had come up with if the messengers rode the fastest horses, the clerks saw to their tasks immediately, and Sir Bradley replied to correspondence on the same day it was received.
“A distress warrant?”
“The local magistrate’s bailiff will come to Longbourn to seize movable property—furniture, livestock, books, jewelry… anything of value that might be sold to pay the debt. To that they will add whatever ready money remains in your bank accounts.”
Miss Elizabeth pinched her eyes closed, her brows furrowed. What was she thinking of? Her mother’s pearls, her grandmother’s china, the books in her father’s library? When she spoke, it was a whisper. “It will not be enough.”
Philips shook his head gravely. “It will not make a dent in the amount owed. Which is why you must prepare yourselves. The distress warrant is only the beginning. The writ of execution will follow.” He leaned forward, intent on Mr. Bennet, his words clipped and sharp, as though they might pierce through his brother-in-law’s indifference if he spoke with enough clarity.
“Within four weeks, they could seize your land and buildings.”
Miss Elizabeth tightened her clasped hands, her knuckles white.
“They cannot seize that which is entailed away from me,” her father pointed out.
Again, Darcy wondered what had motivated her to manage an estate she had no hope of inheriting.
“They will take the rental income from your tenant farms,” said Philips. “All revenue will be diverted to the Crown until the debt is satisfied.”
Miss Elizabeth took the devastating news like a pugilist takes a blow.
She was shaken but not felled. In a calm voice too contained to be natural, she said, “Their timing could not be worse. It is harvest season—our most profitable time of the year. We need the money from the harvest to purchase seed for next year’s crops, to make repairs and pay the staff…
” Her voice trailed off, though Darcy imagined her adding to the endless list in her mind.
Her uncle added quietly, gravely, “It will not be enough. Not with years of bountiful crops—”
“Which we will not have without money to purchase seed nor to hire laborers to harvest.”
He nodded, continuing, “After they have taken all your possessions, emptied your father’s accounts, and seized his rents, they will allow him a short period—” He looked to Darcy to fill in the details.
“If the distress warrant comes within a fortnight and the writ a fortnight after, it is their custom to allow a further four weeks for you to extract funds by any means necessary.”
“Anything is better than debtor’s prison.” Philips turned to his brother-in-law. “Think of your wife and daughters!”
“Eight weeks,” Miss Elizabeth said under her breath.
“Eight weeks to debtor’s prison, where your father and those reliant on his care will remain until his debts are satisfied.
” Again, her uncle turned to Mr. Bennet.
“Would you allow your family to rot in ruin at Fleet Street Prison when you can prevent it? If you care not for their welfare, think of your beloved books. You will never see them again inside that awful place.”
Mr. Bennet’s posture remained decidedly relaxed despite the anxious state of his circumstances.
One could say he was even blissful in his refusal to believe anything bad could transpire if he ignored the problem long enough.
Not even the threat of Fleet Prison moved him to action.
In this regard, the man sitting before him was the antithesis of Darcy’s own father.
He had been overbearing, but he had never disregarded his responsibilities.
Mr. Philips scowled at his brother-in-law. “You ought to confide in Mrs. Bennet. She will wonder why Mr. Robinson is staying at Longbourn.
Darcy started. They had not discussed his residence. Now that he thought about it, though, he ought to have anticipated this. His constant presence would be required to oversee this delicate task. As a humble gentleman’s secretary, it would be expected that he reside with the family.
Mr. Bennet rubbed his chin, mulling over his choices as though he had any.
Mr. Philips continued, “You will need to review documents constantly, and Mr. Robinson would waste valuable time traveling back and forth from the inn… not to mention the heavy rains we expect this time of year.”
“Yes, of course, Uncle. Papa, shall we have the guest room prepared?” Miss Elizabeth watched her father as she spoke, clearly seeking his guidance, though he had not said a word in considerable time.
Darcy swallowed hard. Never could he have positioned himself better to learn his betrothed’s character than this. He had all the advantage, but she would only see a part of him—the lowly secretary employed by her father. Not a fair arrangement.
But if he refused? She would lose her home.
Could she forgive him if he allowed her to lose Longbourn?
Was she likely to forgive him once she learned that he was Fitzwilliam Darcy?
He feared the answer to either question.
Which would benefit Miss Elizabeth more: remain Daniel Robinson and help her preserve the estate she had invested herself in, or reveal his identity in full, losing all chance of helping her when her family pushed for a hasty marriage she did not want?
There was no good choice or happy solution.
Even as his mind rationally listed consequences, he knew he could not leave her without lending his assistance. Longbourn was too important to her.
Mr. Bennet leaned forward in his chair and clasped his hands together on top of his desk. “Very well. I will ask Mrs. Bennet to have the chamber on the upper floor prepared. Can you move your things in today?”
Miss Elizabeth sought Darcy’s gaze, her eyes full of light and hope.
“Thank you, Mr. Bennet. I am honored to be of service.” Darcy prayed this decision would not cost him too dearly.
Mr. Philips slapped his hands together and stepped toward the door. “Excellent! I shall return when I hear from Gardiner. Likely this afternoon.” He turned to Darcy. “Shall we collect your things from the inn?”
Darcy rose and bowed. “My things can wait. I mean to begin writing letters immediately.”
Mr. Philips nodded approvingly. “Very well, Mr. Robinson. I will arrange for them to be delivered here.” He paused at the door. “I wish I could stay, but I have another appointment. Another gentleman, new to the area, seeking to establish himself.”
Mr. Bennet chuckled, settling comfortably into wry humor as easily as he eased into his chair. “To what do we credit this sudden influx of gentlemen to our little corner of Hertfordshire? First, Mr. Bingley, then Mr. Robinson, and now, another… what is his name?”
“Wickham. Mr. George Wickham.”
For a moment, Darcy could not breathe.
“Looking to lease a property, he says,” Mr. Philips said.
“I must say, he had excellent references.” Of course he did.
Wickham had always been skillful at obtaining whatever he wished.
“He has expectations of an inheritance. Seemed quite confident in his prospects.” Mr. Philips opened the door and, with a few more parting words Darcy was too preoccupied to distinguish, he departed.
Confident in his prospects. Wickham’s presence here right now could only mean one thing: he knew about the will. About the marriage arrangement. About Elizabeth.