9. Nine

Nine

C harlotte arrived at Longbourn just after noon, her cheeks rosy from the cold and her eyes bright with curiosity as Hill showed her into the sitting room where Elizabeth and Jane were enjoying a rare moment of quiet. Charlotte barely had time to exchange greetings with Jane and Elizabeth before Mrs. Bennet swept in, delighted to see the daughter of her good friend Lady Lucas.

“Oh, Charlotte, how good of you to visit! And how convenient, too—now that we have such news to share!” Mrs. Bennet’s eyes danced with glee, her voice dropping to a conspiring hush. “Have you heard, Charlotte? Two wealthy gentlemen arrived at Netherfield just last night, asking after the property! Perhaps we will, at last, have some valuable neighbors there. I am sure Mr. Bennet will drive over this very afternoon to call on them, and it is only a matter of time before we know everything. I daresay I shall have a daughter settled before Twelfth Night!”

Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Mama, please, we have only just returned from London. Perhaps Charlotte is here to see us for reasons beyond gentlemen.”

But Mrs. Bennet waved this off with a laugh. “Oh, nonsense, Lizzy. Everyone knows why we are all interested in Netherfield these days, and I daresay it is a far sight better than that nonsense that is carrying on now. Oh! I must ask Hill to order some ham.”

With a mutter of excuse, she hurried off, leaving the three young ladies alone. Elizabeth settled back in her seat and raised an eyebrow at her friend. “I trust you’re here to offer congratulations on our return,” she said dryly, “or perhaps to share news of the latest scandal in Meryton?”

“Oh, certainly,” Charlotte replied, “for you must know, the whole town has been in uproar since the latest rumors about Netherfield began this morning. Mrs. Long said she was ‘sure’ she saw your uncle’s carriage yesterday, closely following a strange one with two wealthy-looking gentlemen inside. Almost as if you were traveling together, hmm?”

Elizabeth shot her sister a wry look. “Almost.”

Charlotte grinned. “Well, I thought it prudent to come and hear your side of the story, since I could hardly trust anyone else’s.”

Jane coughed. “What is being said? We have not heard much of Meryton’s opinion yet, only that there seem to be some concerns about Sir Thomas’s… ability to keep the estate.”

Charlotte leaned forward, lowering her voice slightly. “More than concerns, I am afraid. Some things have worsened substantially in the two months you were away.”

A knot formed in Elizabeth’s stomach. “Tell us, Charlotte.”

“Some of the townsfolk—most, in fact—have been saying for some time that surely Sir Thomas will have to leave Netherfield soon. Good riddance, they all say.”

“Oh, but that is old stuff. You said as much in your last letter,” Jane replied. “What more is there?” She emphasized this with a significant widening of her eyes and an odd tilt of her head that drew Elizabeth’s notice.

Charlotte cleared her throat. “Yes. Ah… Mr. Archer—you remember, my father just brought on a new man of all work, and he came to us directly from Netherfield—he verified it all last week. He insisted it was only a matter of time.”

Elizabeth’s brows furrowed, a pang of disappointment prickling her. “So, the rumors are true, then? Sir Thomas will lose Netherfield?”

Charlotte hesitated, glancing between Elizabeth and Jane, her expression a mix of sadness and sympathy. “It is very likely. Mr. Archer heard it from Mr. Jackson himself, the head coachman. The estate is simply too costly for Sir Thomas to maintain alone, especially with all the… expenses he has there.”

“I imagine the vicar is pleased,” Elizabeth grumbled, shaking her head.

“Oh, yes,” Charlotte sighed. “Most in Meryton think he should abandon his efforts, or at least keep his affairs much more discreet. A few have even gone so far as to say that if he cannot afford his own household, he certainly cannot afford all his other endeavors, and they think very ill of him for it. I am sorry to say that most are wishing for his failure.”

Elizabeth folded her arms and glanced out the window. “It is a shame that kindness and good sense should not be enough to secure him a welcome in this town. What a miserable state of affairs.”

Charlotte gave a small, sad smile. “Perhaps that is why he will be grateful if some other gentleman should be interested in taking on the lease. It might give him some relief—though I will be sorry to see him abandon Netherfield entirely.”

Jane tilted her head, a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. “It is all so terribly sad. I cannot help but wish there was something more to be done.”

“Oh, Jane,” Charlotte sighed. “Sad, yes, but hardly unusual.” She turned her gaze to Elizabeth. “Even if he could afford to stay at Netherfield, Papa says he believes Sir Thomas was going to be forced to remove eventually. The town simply does not wish for him to stay—some talk of refusing to take business from Netherfield, although I believe there is nothing in it… yet. If Sir Thomas was not so diligent about paying his debts, I am sure they would do more than just talk about turning away his business.”

Jane’s brow furrowed. “Oh, dear. I hope that Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy are not turned away by such talk.”

Elizabeth gave a nonchalant shrug, though her interest was piqued. “We can hardly assume they are aware of all the gossip just yet. Perhaps they merely wish for a bit of land and peace. Not every gentleman has such a sensitive constitution.”

Charlotte smiled at that. “Then let us hope they are made of stern enough stuff, for the welcome they are likely to receive from Meryton is not a warm one.”

A s Darcy and Bingley finished the last of their breakfast, the maid who had been tending the room approached with a slight curtsy. “Mr. Roberts will be along shortly to conduct you on a tour of the house, sirs.”

“Oh, jolly good. Thank you,” Bingley said.

They waited several minutes, during which Bingley polished off a second helping of cold ham and cast frequent glances toward the door. Finally, Roberts appeared, a little out of breath as he paused to straighten his coat before stepping into the room. His posture was impeccable, though his expression looked somewhat overwrought.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he greeted them, nodding politely. “I trust you found breakfast to your satisfaction?”

Bingley rose with an easy smile. “Very much so, Mr. Roberts. I am sure we have our work cut out for us if we mean to match such a spread at Netherfield.”

“Sir Thomas takes pride in his hospitality,” Roberts replied. “If it suits, I am here to guide you through the house as you requested.”

“Indeed, lead on,” Darcy said, rising as well, his gaze drifting back to the maid who had announced Roberts. As she lingered near the door, Darcy found himself wondering about the curious assortment of staff he had encountered thus far. The mix of youth and experience, each person marked by something distinct, something unusual—it was hard to ignore.

Roberts gestured for them to follow as he led the way down the hall. “Here we have the library,” he said, opening the double doors to reveal a beautifully appointed room, lined floor-to-ceiling with volumes on polished walnut shelves. “Sir Thomas has taken care to maintain the library in fine order. I believe it is one of his favorite rooms.”

“Remarkable,” Darcy murmured, his gaze sweeping over the room. It was evident that Sir Thomas’s library had been amassed with both care and ambition. Each shelf was immaculately organized, volumes arranged by subject and era, the collection spanning from Greek and Roman histories to modern studies on agriculture and estate management.

Well-bound classics mingled with leather-bound first editions, and here and there, Darcy spotted a few rare titles that he himself had sought for his own collection, with only occasional success. The polished walnut shelves spoke of attentive maintenance, their surfaces gleaming in the morning light, yet the library bore signs of true use—small bookmarks protruding here and there, a brass inkwell freshly filled, and a ledger left slightly askew on the writing desk, as though Sir Thomas had only recently abandoned it.

Darcy’s hand itched to pull down a book or two, to examine Sir Thomas’s interests more closely. Libraries, he had always believed, offered a window into a man’s mind, and this one suggested both discernment and intellect. He was about to step further inside when Roberts gave a slight cough, drawing his attention back to the tour.

“If you will, sirs, this way,” Roberts continued, guiding them to the adjoining door. “Through here is the master’s study. Sir Thomas often finds himself here in the mornings, particularly when matters of estate require his attention.”

The study was more intimate than the library, with a sturdy oak desk, well-worn and ink-stained from years of use. A map of the estate hung on the wall, and an array of ledgers and correspondence were stacked neatly in trays. Darcy took note of the fine leather furnishings, softened with age, and could easily imagine Sir Thomas here, working late into the evening.

As they proceeded down the hall, Roberts paused outside another set of doors. “The second drawing room,” he announced, opening the doors to reveal a spacious, elegantly furnished room. “Sir Thomas uses this room but rarely, but I am given to understand that the previous owners, Mr. And Mrs. Bromley, favored this room for receiving guests, particularly in the evenings. It has a window facing westward and a fair prospect of the fields at sundown.”

Darcy noted the faded, though once-splendid damask drapes and the slight layer of dust along the edges of the carpet. Indeed, the room had not been used in some time, though its grandeur would be easy to resurrect.

As they turned to leave, a maid approached, glancing at Roberts and leaning in to whisper something to him. Darcy could not hear the words, but he noted a brief, almost imperceptible frown on Roberts’s face before he turned back to them, his voice carefully neutral.

“It seems the weather is holding steady for now,” he said. “But snow is expected later, so perhaps you might enjoy a walk around the grounds before it arrives. The stables are well worth a visit, if you are so inclined.”

Bingley paused, looking across the hall at another set of double doors that stood silent sentry near the main entrance. “What about the ballroom?” he asked. “It seems we are already nearby.”

Roberts hesitated, glancing from Bingley to the doors, his demeanor stiffening. “The ballroom is currently shrouded, sir. Some repairs are needed, and it may not be suitable for viewing at present.”

Darcy raised an eyebrow. “All the more reason for us to have a look, surely? We would wish to know the extent of any repairs before making arrangements.”

Roberts’s jaw tensed, and he cast a quick glance at the maid, who was watching him closely. “If you would not mind, sirs,” he said after a pause, “Sir Thomas is best suited to discuss the specifics of any necessary repairs.”

Bingley and Darcy exchanged glances, and Bingley gave a light shrug. “Very well, Roberts. I shall speak with Sir Thomas himself. I trust you will show us the grounds, then?”

Roberts’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and he gave a nod. “Yes, sir. If you would allow me a moment, I will see that your coats are brought to the door so you may view the stables and grounds comfortably.”

He turned to the maid, who curtsied and hurried away to carry out the request. Darcy watched Roberts closely, still puzzling over the reluctance he sensed in him, as if there was something more than just “repairs” behind the closed doors of the ballroom.

The estate grounds were pleasant, if not extravagant. Paths wound through modest gardens lined with bare winter trees, their branches arching over pathways that would surely be charming in spring. Darcy noted the well-kept hedges and the scattering of berry-laden holly bushes, adding a touch of color to the otherwise frosted landscape. As they moved along, Roberts pointed out a well-maintained kitchen garden and a small orchard, currently dormant in the winter chill. Bingley, clearly enjoying the fresh air and open space, remarked on the tranquility of the grounds, and Darcy had to admit the landscape had a pleasing, unpretentious quality.

They arrived at the stables to find a tall man with an eye patch just brushing the flanks of a cart horse. Mr. Jackson, the coachman from last night. Jackson nodded a polite greeting, but his brow was slightly crumpled with suspicion as he watched Darcy and Bingley surveying his domain.

His broad shoulders and firm stance were unmistakably those of a soldier, which Darcy noted with quiet approval. The man had a steady air about him, though, in the daylight, Darcy was struck by his relatively young age. Late twenties, perhaps? Darcy recalled the girl in the house—a maid, he’d presumed—who had been addressed as “Mrs. Jackson.” Could she truly be his wife? There was something strangely incongruent about it.

After examining the stables, well-kept and efficient if modest in size, they concluded their tour of the grounds and returned indoors. Roberts offered them an opportunity to “refresh” themselves before continuing, an offer that struck Darcy as unusual, though he could find no polite way to decline.

“Why not, Darcy?” Bingley chuckled as they climbed the staircase. “A bit of country leisure, I daresay! It is not as if we are in any rush.”

They were halfway down the corridor when a distinct, unmistakable sound caught their attention—a baby’s cry, clear and shrill, from somewhere down the hall. Darcy and Bingley exchanged a wide-eyed look, stopping in their tracks.

“Did you just hear…?” Bingley trailed off, staring toward the door marked with a ribbon from which the sound had come.

Darcy nodded slowly, staring at the door with raised brows. He had heard nothing about other guests, nor had there been any indication that Sir Thomas was married or had children. A brief silence stretched between them, only to be interrupted by the opening of the door.

Sir Thomas emerged, stripped down to his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his forearms bared, looking markedly less formal than he had earlier. Beside him, a short, plump woman was speaking in hushed tones, but both stopped abruptly when they spotted Darcy and Bingley in the hall. Sir Thomas’s face paled as his gaze met theirs, and a flicker of unease passed over his features.

Bingley, who had never been one for circumspection, blurted, “Was that a baby, man? I say, er… congratulations?”

A resigned sigh escaped Sir Thomas, and he murmured something to the woman at his side, who quickly nodded and excused herself, casting a brief but respectful glance toward the two gentlemen.

Sir Thomas took a steadying breath and addressed them. “Indeed, it was. Perhaps… we should have a word in private. My study?”

Darcy set his jaw. At last, they were to have some answers. “Certainly.”