3. Chapter Three #2
They crested the hill together, boots grinding over frost-cracked stone.
The breeze had shifted since dawn, carrying with it a scent of mouldering wood and the distant smoke of a brush fire.
Nothing alarming—yet it made Darcy glance westward, toward the slope where Granger said the old ash circle stood.
He had not ridden that way in some time.
“You are brooding,” Richard observed, swinging his gun to rest over his shoulder. “Is it about Aunt Catherine’s marriage campaign, or are you simply composing your next estate report?”
“Neither.” Darcy slowed to a halt. “I am considering a ride south.”
Richard raised a brow. “London?”
“No. Netherfield.”
“Ah.” Richard let the word hang, thoughtful rather than amused. “So, Hertfordshire has claimed you at last.”
Darcy did not look at him. He crouched beside Brutus, checking the dog’s paws for burrs. “Bingley writes that the house suits him. The land, he swears, is the best in all England. And he wishes for company.” He rose again. “He always does.”
“Hertfordshire is not short of company,” Richard said mildly. “Nor of old boundaries.”
Darcy straightened. “If you are about to quote my aunt, spare me.”
Richard smiled, but did not retreat. “I only mean that she has been saying for years that when certain things begin to go wrong, they do so first on ground that has been argued over before. Borders. Old holdings. Places people stopped naming but never stopped minding.”
Darcy shook his head. “Coincidence dressed up as foresight. I am not riding south in pursuit of a parable.”
“Of course not,” Richard said easily. “You are going because Bingley asked, and because it costs you nothing to oblige him.”
“That is reason enough.”
“Well,” Richard said, stretching, “I only thought the location curious, whether you care for that fact or not.”
“Our aunt mutters about everything,” Darcy said shortly.
“True,” Richard conceded. “But she mutters louder when she thinks timing is involved.”
Darcy gave a low, humourless laugh. “Timing, place, lineage—she selects whichever suits the argument of the moment. Last year, it was Kent entire. Before that, the Thames corridor and every acre south of there. If I recall correctly, she once suggested this puzzle she obsesses over lay somewhere between Rosings and nowhere at all.”
“Kent is not nowhere,” Richard said mildly. “And she does at least have one justification, however strained.”
Darcy glanced at him. “And?”
“Well, if you ask our aunt, the difficulty lies in other people not reading carefully enough. Or else in refusing to accept what seems obvious to her.”
Darcy did not look up. “Which is?”
“Why, Kent, of course. She has said it often enough, and with such confidence that one might suppose the matter settled.” He paused, then added, more mildly, “She claims there are old writings to support it. Copies, she calls them. My father, however, has never seemed inclined to discuss them.”
“And what does he say?”
“Very little,” Richard admitted. “Which, in this family, usually means he says nothing at all.” He shrugged. “I have never seen the texts myself. Nor, I think, has anyone who speaks of them so freely.”
Darcy only grunted.
Richard glanced at him, then away again. “In any case, it has long been treated as a question best left alone—except by our aunt, who has never found restraint much to her taste.”
Darcy’s mouth thinned. “So, a blot of ink decides an inheritance.”
Richard smiled. “Or a smudge. Or a monk with a fondness for geography he half remembers. One ancient ‘boundary’ is the same as another’s ‘gateway.’ You know how these things go—one scribe copies what he thinks he sees, the next copies him, and by the third generation everyone is prepared to swear to it. ”
“And to build obligation upon it,” Darcy said. “Remarkable.”
“And what did your father think?” Richard asked. “Surely George Darcy had an opinion on the matter. Aunt Catherine would have made sure of that.”
Darcy hesitated—only long enough to be truthful without inviting speculation.
“My father regarded it as invention compounded upon invention. A handful of half-remembered Roman names, some unfortunate Saxon lore, a monk with too much patience and not enough discipline, and a family unfortunate enough to preserve what ought to have been forgot.”
“That is one way of settling the question,” Richard said.
“It was the way he preferred,” Darcy replied. “He allowed that such things made passable stories, and that they might amuse antiquarians with time to spare, but he would not hear of obligation being built upon them. Particularly not obligation that required sacrifice beyond sense.”
Richard glanced at him. “Sacrifice? Wait, I never heard that bit.”
Darcy gave a brief, dismissive motion of his hand. “It does not matter.”
“Oh, it sounds like it very much does. Speak, cousin. What has your father told you?”
“That part came from Lady Catherine, so treat it with the gravity it deserves—which is to say, not much. She was always quoting odd things to him that seemed to change with the color of her gown. My father believed,” he continued, “it indulgent to contradict her, and safer to teach his son the truth—that none of it deserved serious consideration.”
Richard was quiet for a moment. Then, with a faint edge of humour, he said, “And yet everyone seems remarkably eager to tell you where you ought to go.”
Darcy did not answer at once. He had the sudden, unwelcome sense that his father’s certainty had been less dismissal than protection—and that what had been dismissed had not vanished, only waited.
“That does not oblige me to do so.”
“He is already handsomer than anyone expected,” Lydia declared, kicking her heels in the air as she plopped into a seat.
Elizabeth threaded her needle and did not look up at her sister. “Are we talking about little John Lucas, age twelve? Yes, he is rather a handsome young chap.”
“How can you be so vexing? I mean the new neighbour, Mr Bingley! And he brought horses, Lizzy.”
“I rather expect he did. How else was he to arrive, by sledge dog?”
“No, I mean the most beautiful matched four in hand anyone ever saw. Jane said they were black. That always means something in a novel.”
“I doubt a horse’s coat colour is a reliable indicator of his quality,” Elizabeth replied, taking her seat by the window with a small embroidery hoop she had no intention of using.
Kitty chimed in from the settee. “Papa went to call this morning, you know. Mama insisted he wear his best coat, and he actually did.”
“I helped pick the cravat,” Lydia added proudly.
“I’m sure that made all the difference.”
Across the room, Mary looked up from a battered copy of Fordyce’s Sermons, her tone mild but pointed. “We might concern ourselves less with a man’s tailoring and more with his character.”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth, “but that would spoil all the fun.”
Before Mary could reply, Jane entered with her arms full of linens and a warm flush in her cheeks. “Mama says we must air all the tablecloths and polish the silver, just in case there is a dinner party. Mr Bingley has two sisters, and Mrs Long says he will also have a friend staying with him.”
“Did she say what kind of friend?” Kitty asked with glee. “Gentleman friend? Handsome friend?”
Elizabeth smiled. “Perhaps a reclusive philosopher or an amateur botanist. Mama will be devastated.”
“Mrs Long says—” Lydia lowered her voice and leaned forward dramatically, “—that he is very rich, and very tall, and very melancholy.”
Jane raised a brow. “You heard no such thing.”
“I could have!” Lydia grinned, unabashed. “And if he is melancholy, we shall simply have to cheer him.”
Elizabeth shook her head, but it was all fondness. “Did Papa say anything of this Mr Bingley gentleman himself?”
Jane thought for a moment. “Only that he seemed amiable. A little anxious to please, perhaps, but eager to make the acquaintance of the neighbourhood.”
“And what of the others?” Elizabeth asked.
“I do not know,” Jane said. “Mr Bingley did not say much of his friend, and Papa had no occasion to meet his other guests.”
Mama wandered into the drawing room then, looking lost and only half-minded about what she was doing. “Where is that lace? I told you it must be ready if Mr Bingley comes to dine.” She began rooting through the drawer, then tumbled over her sewing basket, spilling the contents on the floor.
Elizabeth reached for the bonnet box on the side table and lifted the lid. “Perhaps it sought refuge here,” she said, extracting the length of lace with a small flourish.
Mama turned, hands on her hips. “Exactly where you left it. You see? If you would only keep to my system—”
Elizabeth passed it to her without comment, her eyes bright with amusement. “How remiss of me, to fail the system.”
“Well, it’s a mercy we have it now. If there’s to be company, everything must be perfect.”
“Of course,” Elizabeth said. “Nothing impresses a man like properly catalogued millinery.”
Lydia threw herself back onto the settee the moment their mother swept out of the room. “Well. That was exhausting. I’m certain she meant to shout at Kitty and just got the names mixed again.”
“She never confuses my name,” Kitty said. “Only yours.”
“Because I am more memorable.”
“Because you are louder.”
“Because I am the heroine,” Lydia declared, tossing a cushion in the air. “Which means the melancholy stranger is meant for me!”
“He is not melancholy,” Kitty argued. “He is mysterious.”
“Everyone is mysterious until they are revealed to be utterly ordinary,” Elizabeth laughed.
“What if he’s secretly a duke?”
Elizabeth resumed her seat by the window. “With amnesia, I suppose.”
“And a vendetta,” Lydia said eagerly. “He’s come to Netherfield to unmask the man who wronged him, only he doesn’t remember who it is.”
“He just knows it was someone… tall,” Kitty added, nodding with solemn drama.
“I do not think Mr Bingley’s guest is tall or wronged. But he is coming to dinner while he remains in Hertfordshire, if Mama has anything to say about it.”
“Soon?” Elizabeth asked. “We have yet to meet Mr Bingley, and now his whole party is looked upon as our rightful property.”
“I suppose that depends upon when we are introduced. If Papa can be prevailed upon to call on him again, it will be soon. Otherwise, I suppose we will meet them ourselves at the Assembly.”
Lydia gave a sigh and rolled over. “I shall die of suspense before then.”
“You will not,” Elizabeth said, amused. “You have a robust constitution.”
Jane crossed to her side. “Will you go walking today?”
Elizabeth glanced toward the window. The sky had cleared, and a warm edge had crept into the light. She nodded slowly. “Yes. I think I will. After I help with the account sheets. Papa has refused to touch them since March.”
“Why?” Kitty asked. “They’re so boring.”
“Exactly,” Elizabeth said. “And yet he persists in believing someone else will enjoy them more.”
She threaded the needle and made a single stitch before setting it down again.
Across the room, Lydia gave a delighted squeal and leapt up from the chaise. “Mama’s putting on her gloves in the hall! She must be going to town! Come, Kitty, don’t dawdle.”
Elizabeth gave Jane a look that was all silent affection and bone-deep weariness.
“You should walk,” Jane said again, gently. “I’ll help Mary.”
“I might.” Elizabeth stood and stretched, then crossed to the window and looked out at the pale sun rising above the hedgerow. “It seems a very fine day to walk somewhere that is not here.”