Chapter 2
Two
Charles Bingley dipped his quill pen a bit too deeply.
Such an error was quite typical of his writing skill, but he excused himself that morning because he was just so eager to sign the lease.
In a matter of moments he would accomplish the first step towards the goal his father had set for him—and repeatedly insisted he accomplish—from his early childhood.
He carefully tapped the pen on the edge of the inkwell, allowing much of the extra ink the pen had taken on from that overenthusiastic dip to flow back into the vessel.
Just as he was about to sign, a wayward gust of wind blew the lease agreement papers, causing them to fan out over the desk, with the top four or five landing on the floor.
Bingley scooped up the papers before Mr Philips had even stood up from his side of the desk.
He fleetingly noticed something odd about one of the pages, but Mr Philips was saying, “Give them to me,” sounding agitated.
As Bingley handed him the papers, he was surprised to see that the man was frowning at him, apparently blaming him—for the wind?
Bingley only felt a momentary pique at being blamed, for he was an easygoing man. He waited until Mr Philips had inspected and organised the papers again, then put the stack carefully back down on the desk. “Ready for your signature, sir,” the man said.
Grinning, Bingley re-dipped the quill pen, tapped it once again on the side of the inkwell, and carefully lowered the pen to the paper.
Of course, there was a blot. There was always a blot. Bingley adjusted the angle at which he held the pen and scratched out his name before any further disaster could occur. At the end of his signature, he managed to leave another, smaller blot, and he bit his lip in embarrassment.
But, being Bingley, his enthusiasm surged, and he forgot his momentary discomfiture.
Just a few minutes later, he was out the door of the office, climbing back into the carriage. He lifted the large iron key as he grinned at the man he considered his greatest friend. “Congratulate me, Darcy,” he said. “I am a leaseholder!”
Fitzwilliam Darcy nodded his head and smiled as he complied with Bingley’s demand. “Congratulations! You are well on your way to becoming a landowner, Bingley, and you are only three and twenty! Your father would be so proud!”
Bingley’s smile could not be wider. “Thank you, friend, for all of your help through this process, and especially for finding Netherfield Park. I am greatly indebted to you.”
Darcy lifted his hand as if to brush away the thanks. “Pray, say no more,” he told his friend.
The younger man relaxed back into the squabs.
He remembered the moment he had noticed something odd about one of the papers, and he sat up again, saying, “I say, Darcy. A wind blew the papers just as I was about to sign, and I could have sworn that I saw a paper with your handwriting.” Bingley had always admired Darcy’s handwriting—it was flowing and precise, every letter perfectly formed and slanted, not a blot to be seen.
Chuckling, Darcy asked, “Do you think that every fine hand is mine? Bingley, you know that almost everyone at Eton and Cambridge has achieved what somehow has evaded you.”
Bingley nodded. “You are correct, Darce. I was being silly.”
It was not long before the carriage pulled up to the manor house of Netherfield, and Bingley saw that the steward, butler, and housekeeper were all on the front stairs, waiting to welcome him and take over the keeping of the key.
Bingley eagerly greeted them all by name, and he admitted, “I cannot remember to whom I am to give this giant iron contraption.”
Mr Conrad, the butler, put out his hand for the eight-inch key, saying, “Thank you, sir. Welcome home.”
Bingley bounded through the door, waved his arms as he caught Darcy’s eye, and he said, “Finally, after all the times that you hosted me, I am able to say, ‘Welcome to my home, Darcy.’”
“Thank you, Bingley. And again, my congratulations. I would love a brief tour.”
Darcy had pored over a report about the house several months before and had brought the estate to his friend’s notice, but he had never seen the house.
Bingley excitedly showed him all the public rooms of the ground and first floors, pointing out the beautiful mouldings and indicating that some rooms had been updated with new wallpaper.
Bingley also explained how he had arranged his family heirlooms within the already-furnished home.
“There was a very ugly yellowish-brownish sofa here, before I moved in,” he said, “but I had this matching sofa and a settee from my dear Papa, so there was no room for the other, and I had it taken to the attic.”
Nodding, Darcy asked. “I imagine you ordered it well covered against dust?”
Bingley cringed a bit and said, “I assume the servants knew to do so, but I will be certain to ask.”
He concluded the tour in the blue drawing room, where a tray of ale, wine, cold meats, and fresh rolls awaited them. The men immediately moved to slake their thirst. Darcy took no food, but Bingley piled one of the small plates high with two rolls and a generous helping of tongue and ham.
“Of course, our rooms have been readied, Darcy, and Mrs Nicholls can take you up whenever you wish. But, before you do…. Well, I have waited to spring this on you, because I did not wish to be grumbled at all day long, but I have accepted an invitation for both of us to attend a local assembly. You will have to pretend to be sociable, old chap.”
Bingley was expecting a flash of annoyance—or something like it—to cross his friend’s face or, perhaps, settle dramatically between his eyebrows, but Darcy surprised him by nodding, his mouth twitching with the smallest version of his subtle smile.
“Quite right, Bingley. I have a bit of a headache, but it should be gone soon, and you should get to know your neighbours. Also, I am certain that your decision not to invite your sisters while you become acquainted will pay off. People will get to know the real you and will not be puzzling over your sisters’ over-inflated airs. ”
Nodding in agreement, Bingley said, “Yes, I think it was a wise idea. If I recall correctly, it was your wise idea.”
Darcy shrugged. Bingley grinned, thinking that his friend’s shrug meant, Naturally.
Relieved that Darcy was accepting that they go to an assembly, Bingley continued, “You remember, I told you that I had met one man when I was viewing this place the second time. His name is Sir William Lucas. He is the owner of Lucas Lodge. I was under the impression from the attorney, Mr Philips, that it is quite a modest house with a large garden, but Sir William seemed as proud of it, and of his knighthood, as if he were a duke.” Bingley laughed, but he did not think meanly of the man, or of anyone who aspired to better his station.
After all, he was attempting to do so, himself.
“At any rate,” Bingley went on, “Sir William used to be the mayor of Meryton, and he seems to have taken on the role of the Master of Ceremonies at all assemblies, almost acting as a host, from what I understand.”
“Good to know,” Darcy said. “Do you know any of the other neighbouring families by name? It might help us tonight if we already know something about who we will be meeting.”
“Ah…let me think…. The Gouldings are lease-owners of Haye-Park. Mr Philips mentioned them several times to me, because he kept comparing my estate to theirs. —Did you see what I did, Darce? I fully intend to say the words my estate as many times per hour as I can manage!”
Darcy chuckled. “Goulding,” he repeated. “Haye-Park. How did your estate fare in comparison to theirs?”
Bingley laughed in delight. “Mine was far superior; thank you for asking.”
“Anyone else?”
Thinking hard, Bingley said, “I know he said a few other names. Oh! One Philips mentioned by saying that there were four pretty girls in the family plus one plain one. Let me think; what was the name of that family?”
“He said, ‘one plain one?’” Darcy sounded a bit appalled. “That seems unkind.”
“I know!” Bingley flashed him a smile. “And the ladies are his own nieces, too. But Mr Philips is not the most…genteel man.”
“Well, whatever the family name is, with so many pretty daughters—although I imagine only two or three are out in society—I suppose that you are looking forward to meeting them.”
“Bennet!” Bingley said. “I remembered. And I got the impression that they would all be coming to the assembly. I do not know their ages, but in the country, girls attend functions earlier than in town. It makes sense, I suppose, since almost everyone in attendance will be well known to all.”
“But not tonight,” Darcy commented. “Not us. We will be completely unknown to all.”
“Hopefully not for long.” Bingley had, as usual, a happy, positive feeling about this place, this evening, and the future.
Elizabeth Bennet was also looking forward to the evening.
She always liked the chance of seeing so many friends at once, and it would be delightful if she could see any of the acquaintances who did not live close enough to attend dinner parties but who made several appearances per year at the Meryton assemblies.
Still, a part of her felt restive. As she grew older, the neighbourhood seemed smaller and smaller to her; the acquaintance of four and twenty families now felt far too restricted.
She had been to Ramsgate once, Brighton once, and London many times—all thanks to her uncle and aunt Gardiner—but Elizabeth’s beloved father did not enjoy travelling, and consequently her world felt… too confining.