Chapter Sixteen #2
Bingley, who had been watching with affectionate bemusement, rose. “I think this is my cue to vanish. You have that look, Darcy—the one that suggests ledgers will soon appear, and I shall be made to regret my fondness for you.”
Darcy did not look up. “You will regret nothing.”
“That alone gives me pause.” Bingley clapped Bixby lightly on the shoulder. “Answer whatever he asks. If he requests parchments from the reign of Henry VIII, humour him. There’s a good fellow.”
Darcy shook his head as the door closed and returned to the map. “Have there ever been complaints regarding that ground in years past?”
The steward frowned. “Complaints, sir?”
“Poor growth. Unaccountable cold. Captured pockets of frost, or perhaps even fissures from spring run-off—that sort of thing.”
Mr Bixby paused longer this time. “No complaints of that nature have ever been formally lodged.”
“Informally, then.”
The man considered his words carefully. “There have been… remarks. Shepherds do not linger there. Game does not take to that stretch readily. But such superstitions are common enough. One learns not to give them undue importance.”
Darcy made a note. “And the harvest?”
Mr Bixby blinked. “Sir?”
“This year’s yield,” Darcy clarified. “I am aware that the season was not ideal—late planting, thin heads, sluggish summer weather. How has Netherfield fared?”
The steward’s expression changed at once—not to caution, but to something like pride. “Exceptionally well, sir.”
Darcy looked up.
“In truth,” Mr Bixby continued, “it has been our strongest year in recent memory. Wheat above expectation by nearly double. Barely clean and heavy—why, I daresay we had to sell a great deal of it merely for lack of space in the barn. No loss worth remarking upon. I laid the figures before Mr Bingley last month.”
Darcy’s mouth tightened slightly. He did not comment on that.
Bingley would have accepted the statement with pleasure and asked no further questions; of that, Darcy had no doubt.
No comprehension of the true bounty in his lap.
The failure was his own, then, for not having insisted earlier upon instruction where instruction was plainly needed.
“You have those figures still?” he asked.
“Of course, sir. I can have them brought at once. As well as the previous years, if you wish.”
“Yes.” Darcy paused, then added, “And any older field notes. Tenant records. Drainage plans.”
Mr Bixby hesitated. “I believe you have already seen the extent of what we possess. Netherfield’s papers are… serviceable, but not especially deep. Anything earlier than my predecessor’s time was not preserved with care.”
Darcy inclined his head, accepting the answer without satisfaction. “Then I may need to look beyond this house.”
“Sir—may I ask—are these inquiries prompted by some recent concern?”
“I prefer to understand what I am responsible for. While this land is not my responsibility, per se, my friend has taken up its stewardship, and he is inexperienced in certain matters.”
Mr Bixby frowned, then nodded. “Of course. If you are seeking older context—records beyond the estate accounts—some matters were once noted in the parish books at Meryton. Land use. Enclosures. Boundaries that no longer exist as such. Not everything was preserved here.”
Darcy’s pen stopped. “Meryton,” he repeated.
“Yes, sir. The clerk there keeps older materials. Dusty things. Rarely consulted.”
Darcy folded his paper with care. “Thank you, Mr Bixby. You have been most helpful.”
Mr Bixby nodded, though his expression had grown thoughtful. “I will have the harvest figures sent up directly.”
Darcy turned back to the table. “Please do.”
What troubled him was not that Netherfield prospered.
It was that it did so alone.
The sitting room at Longbourn had regained its usual volume.
Teacups clinked. Lydia laughed too loudly at something Kitty had not quite finished saying.
Mama was explaining—at length—why Netherfield china was superior in weight and finish to anything that could reasonably be expected in a country neighbourhood, and Jane was smiling in the manner of one who had learned that resistance only prolonged the discussion.
Charlotte had been listening for some time before she spoke. She set her cup down carefully, as though concluding an internal reckoning, and looked from Jane to Elizabeth with a small, deliberate smile. “Well,” she said, “Netherfield, then.”
Jane laughed softly—not quite in amusement, not quite in embarrassment. “It was… very pleasant. Everyone was exceedingly attentive.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “That is one way of putting it.”
Charlotte’s brows rose. “I take it there is another?”
Jane glanced at her sister, colour touching her cheeks. “They were kind,” she said again, more firmly this time. “And generous. I do not wish it to sound as though we were imposed upon.”
“No one thinks that,” Charlotte said, mild but keen. “One only wonders what sort of impressions were made.”
Elizabeth lifted her cup. “I made mine horizontally, in a field.”
Charlotte laughed. “I had heard your visit was eventful,” she said. “I did not realise it involved geography.”
Elizabeth sipped her tea. “I assure you, the ground was very determined.”
Jane shook her head. “Lizzy—”
“Oh, do not look so concerned,” Elizabeth said lightly. “I survived it, so I shall laugh about it. I should hate to be remembered as the Bennet sister undone by a mole hill.”
Charlotte’s mouth curved. “You always did have a talent for finding yourself in unusual situations.”
“Or for unusual situations finding me,” Elizabeth returned. “I cannot decide which is more troublesome.”
Charlotte nodded, as though conceding the point. “If it is any comfort, the account circulating in Meryton is far less dramatic.”
Elizabeth glanced at her. “Circulating?”
“Only mildly,” Charlotte said. “Meryton has not spoken of anything else for a fortnight. Half the town is convinced you were struck down by a tragic constitution. The other half insists it was romance.”
Lydia leaned forward at once. “It was Mr Darcy, wasn’t it? There, I told you, Kitty. She had to make up for the Assembly.”
Elizabeth reached calmly for her tea. “I just… fell. Or something. It had nothing to do with Mr Darcy.”
Charlotte’s gaze flicked, briefly and almost absently, to Elizabeth’s lap.
“You’re guarding that hand again,” she said. “Does it still ache?”
Jane looked down at once. “Lizzy, does it?”
Elizabeth glanced at the pillow over her wrist, then smiled. “Only when it wishes to be noticed.”
Charlotte huffed a quiet laugh. “That is not an answer.”
“It is the truest one I have,” Elizabeth said. “It has been perfectly well behaved all morning.”
Jane relaxed. “I told you it would be well healed by now.”
Charlotte tipped her head, studying her friend with the same practical calm she always employed. “It looked worse when I saw it last—quite the festering bother, as I recall. I only wondered.”
“As did everyone,” Elizabeth said. “I was quite the object of medical enthusiasm. No, Charlotte, it is quite healed now.”
Charlotte accepted that, lifting her cup again. “Then I am satisfied.”
Mama broke in, bright with conviction. “And very right you are, Charlotte—very right indeed. Nothing could have been better for Elizabeth than a few days at Netherfield. Such air! Such company! I always say that a change of scene does wonders, especially when there are agreeable young gentlemen involved.”
Jane shifted, gently. “They were exceedingly kind, Mama.”
“Kindness is quite beside the point. It is opportunity that restores one’s spirits. And I am sure it did you good as well, my dear—walking, dining, dancing—why, I have no doubt Mr Bingley was in constant attendance.”
Elizabeth hid a smile behind her cup.
“As for Elizabeth,” Mrs Bennet continued, waving a hand in her direction, “she was never truly ill. A little faintness, nothing more. I told Mrs Long as much myself. Still, it is very proper that she should come home now, having been so very much admired.”
Charlotte’s mouth twitched. “Naturally.”
Jane flushed, but smiled all the same.
Charlotte set her cup down at last. “How did you find Miss Bingley, then?”
Jane hesitated, colouring. “She is—very accomplished.”
“And very invested,” Elizabeth supplied. “In comfort, order, and the proper placement of guests.”
Charlotte laughed. “That sounds like a study in itself.”
At that moment, the door opened. Papa entered with a letter in his hand and an expression of mild, anticipatory resignation—the look of a man about to inflict news upon his family and prepared to enjoy it despite himself.
“My dear girls,” he said, “I trust I am not interrupting a critical examination of wealthy gentlemen, dogs, or the moral character of Hertfordshire society?”
Elizabeth brightened. “Only its entertainment value.”
“Excellent. Then you will all be pleased to know that we are shortly to receive another visitor for your amusement.”
Mama sat up at once. “A visitor?”
“Yes. A cousin, my dear.”
“A male cousin?” Mama demanded. “Is he single?”
Papa unfolded the letter with deliberate care.
“He is one Mr William Collins, and no, my dear, I gather there is no Mrs Collins. He is newly ordained, and presently residing in Kent. He proposes to arrive tomorrow, to make our acquaintance, survey our domestic arrangements, and no doubt secure the happiness of the family in some manner yet to be determined. He writes with great enthusiasm and very little punctuation.”
Mama clapped her hands. “Mr Collins! Oh, I should hate the very sight of the man but… You did say he was single? A clergyman, too—how respectable.”
Charlotte leaned forward, suddenly alert. “How very interesting. Mr Collins of—?”
“Hunsford,” Papa supplied. “Under the patronage of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
Jane looked between them. “That sounds… formidable.”
“Oh, it will be educational,” Papa said pleasantly. “I trust we shall all survive it.”
Charlotte lifted her teacup again, smiling into the rim. “Well,” she said, “I should very much like to be present for that.”
“That makes one of us,” Elizabeth laughed.