7. Seven

Seven

“ T his is silly,” Bingley announced as the footman put down the step in front of the Meryton inn. “We’ve still almost an hour of daylight left. I say we drive on and have a look at the house this evening rather than putting up at the inn to do nothing.”

“We do not have an hour,” Darcy countered as he regarded the horizon. “Half an hour, at best, and you propose to drive three or four more miles, look about the property, and then return before nightfall?”

“What care we for whether it is dark when we come back? The horses can see the road well enough, what with the lanterns, and besides, I am quite too restless to simply cool my heels in a taproom. Driver! Take us to Netherfield, please.”

The footman took back the step and closed the door, the carriage lurched, and they were in motion again. Darcy leaned back, tapping his foot on the floorboards. Bingley was fairly bouncing in his seat, glancing out the window at every bend with an almost boyish eagerness that Darcy could not quite fathom.

Some while later, they made a turn at a brick-layered post that probably once bore a sign of some sort, but now stood as a mute, unmarked sentry. They must be on Netherfield’s lands now. Twilight was settling over the landscape, casting long shadows that swallowed most of the finer details of the property.

“Tell me, Bingley, you did inform the owner of our impending arrival?” Darcy asked, already dreading the answer.

Bingley shifted, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “Not… exactly. The agent only gave me the specifics about the property this morning. By the time the lease terms reached me, there was hardly a moment to spare before we set off. The agent assured me that I could call at the property directly, leave my card, and speak with the owner—who is, I might add, quite desperate to secure a tenant. Surely, he will not object to our presence.”

Darcy’s eyebrows shot up. “You intend to knock on the door of a man’s home at dusk, completely unannounced, and discuss tenancy? Have you lost all sense of propriety, Bingley?”

Bingley’s smile didn’t falter, though he did pull his coat tighter. “I may not have scheduled an audience, but the agent seemed quite confident that any prospective tenant would be most welcome here.”

Darcy huffed in disbelief. “Perhaps next time, you will simply post an invitation for him to host you to tea on your terms.” He gestured to the sky, already deepening to a dark slate. “And you expect to view the property before nightfall?”

“Oh, yes!” Bingley said, undeterred. “The driver spoke to some fellows from Meryton, and he says the grounds are easy enough to survey from the front lawn, at least well enough to form an opinion. Besides, we have lanterns, and we can return to the Meryton inn after we have had our look around. It will be quite safe.”

Darcy crossed his arms, unimpressed. “This from the same man who finds excuse after excuse to stop at every inn along the road? If you had not delayed us so thoroughly with all these… social niceties, we might already be comfortably situated at an inn now, with a fire and a meal.”

“Social niceties? I only stopped to ensure Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth had adequate comfort! Fresh hot bricks for their feet and proper protection and all. It would have been ungentlemanly to allow two ladies to travel unaccompanied for so long.”

“‘Unaccompanied’? They had their driver, Bingley,” Darcy retorted. “And Mr. Gardiner’s private carriage, which is far more than most ladies can lay claim to. I should not need to remind you of what ‘accompanied’ entails. And I suppose your eyes were also filled with ‘neighborly interest’ every time you so much as glanced Miss Bennet’s way.”

Bingley gave a huff, waving off the suggestion. “Interest? I should hardly call it that. Miss Bennet is simply a most pleasant companion—and a new neighbor, as we hope. Can you imagine me so ungallant as to neglect a lady in need?”

“A lady in need, she was not. From where I sat, she looked remarkably content with her lot.”

Bingley raised his chin, feigning indignation. “I have no idea what you mean. Besides, need I remind you that our acquaintance with the Bennet ladies is thanks entirely to you, Darcy? It was your insistence on dining with Gardiner that led to it all.”

Darcy frowned, momentarily silenced. Yes, he had been the one to press for that evening, but it had been a practical matter of business, nothing more. Yet here he was, at Netherfield, in the very same county as the Bennet sisters, for no other reason than Bingley’s nagging persistence.

“And you did not seem altogether displeased with the arrangement. In fact, I think you found something rather… diverting about Miss Elizabeth.”

Darcy looked away, focusing on the dim outline of Netherfield beyond the carriage. “Bingley, you would do well to contain such suppositions.”

Bingley chuckled. “Oh, come now! You cannot deny that she is remarkably clever, charming, terribly pretty, and altogether pleasant to be around. It is a rare combination, even you must admit.”

Darcy’s gaze lingered on the dark windows of the house, though his thoughts were far from Netherfield. “It is… unusual,” he allowed after a moment, his tone careful. “Almost… unsettling.”

Bingley’s eyebrows rose. “Unsettling? How so?”

Darcy hesitated, choosing his words. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet is almost… too perfect a combination of qualities. Her intellect, her wit, her forthrightness… It feels… manufactured.”

Bingley laughed outright at that. “Manufactured! My dear fellow, it sounds as though you’re suggesting someone conjured her to suit your tastes. Admit it—you are smitten.”

Darcy narrowed his eyes, refusing to indulge his friend’s amusement. “Smitten is a strong word, Bingley. One I do not intend to apply here. My experience has taught me that anything seemingly perfect deserves a measure of caution.”

“Deserves caution? My friend, only you would approach the prospect of charm with trepidation!”

Just then, the carriage rolled to a stop, and Darcy grimaced at the outline of Netherfield dimly silhouetted against the evening sky. Might as well have done with it, for Bingley would not rest until he had made footprints in Netherfield’s snow. They stepped down from the carriage, Bingley pacing about with enthusiasm, while Darcy paused a moment longer, the flicker of lamplight casting odd shadows on the estate ahead.

The chill evening air seeped through Darcy’s coat as he watched Bingley swinging the lantern about, casting faint, dancing shadows across the snow-covered gravel of the main drive. Netherfield house loomed in the dark, several of the windows lit as its residents no doubt moved about inside. Darcy cast an exasperated look at his friend.

“Bingley, this is improper. We were not announced, and it is unthinkable to wander about the grounds uninvited. They will think we are housebreakers or some other nonsense.”

Bingley waved off his concern with his usual cheerful confidence. “Come now, Darcy, no one even knows we are here! It is hardly as if we’re peering through windows. I only wanted a glance at the property—a man ought to know what he is leasing, after all.”

Darcy sighed. “A matter you could have taken up by daylight, after notifying the owner. Egad, the landscape is covered in snow. What do you expect to see?”

“But it’s just too splendid to pass up.” Bingley moved the lantern to one side, inspecting the grounds with a pleased nod. “These fields, the woods to the west—there’s game here, I’ll wager.”

“Wonderful,” Darcy replied flatly. “Now, if you have satisfied your curiosity, perhaps we can return to Meryton for the night before we embarrass ourselves further.”

“Oh, very well,” Bingley said, relenting with a grin. “I would not want to risk offending your delicate sense of propriety.”

Just as they turned back toward the carriage, a voice called out. “Evening, gentlemen. May I ask your business?”

Darcy froze, his stomach sinking with mortification, while Bingley, unperturbed, swung back around with his ready grin.

“Ah, good evening!” Bingley hailed the man approaching them. “Charles Bingley, sir. My apologies if our presence here startled you. Forgive me—we had not thought we were near enough to the house to cause any alarm. I came at the recommendation of Mr. Sutton in London—he is the estate’s agent—and I wanted to leave my card with the owner.”

The man stepped closer, close enough that the lantern’s glow revealed his features—a weathered face, a patch over one eye, and a gait that dragged noticeably. Darcy’s gaze caught the hint of an old scar along the man’s jaw, and he felt a flicker of respect. This was no ordinary servant; he had seen combat, that much was certain.

“I am Jackson, head coachman here,” the man said, his tone respectful enough, though his visible eye flickered cautiously between them. He held Bingley’s gaze for a moment, then turned to survey Darcy. “Mr. Sutton, you say?”

“Yes, precisely,” Bingley replied, nodding eagerly. “I understand the owner is interested in a potential lease?”

The coachman’s eye narrowed, glancing back toward the house. “You said you were leaving your card at the house. But… you looked as though you were returning to your carriage. Where would you go at this hour?”

Bingley shifted, glancing at Darcy before answering. “Er—yes, well, we were, actually. We meant only to see the grounds, and thought we’d lodge at the inn in Meryton tonight. It was, perhaps, a bit of… curiosity. We meant to return for a proper call in the morning.”

The coachman’s expression did not change, but he nodded slowly, as if mulling over the answer. “Hm. Curious or no, my master would not care for it if he knew visitors from London were left to the cold. Best you have your driver bring the carriage up to the house.”

Darcy stiffened. “We would not want to impose upon the master, unannounced as we are. I am sure he would prefer our call to be arranged through the agent at a more suitable hour.”

Jackson’s eye glinted, the faintest hint of amusement. “It’s late, sir. Best to come inside, as the master would want.”

Bingley, already eager, took Darcy’s silence for agreement. “Then, by all means, let us come up! I thank you, Mr. Jackson.” He signaled to the driver, who guided the carriage up the main drive as the coachman led the way toward the grand entrance.

Darcy followed, thoroughly unsettled. He leaned toward Bingley as they walked, keeping his voice low. “You realize this is the sort of boldness most men would avoid.”

Bingley gave him a cheerful nudge. “Well, it is fortunate I am not most men, then, isn’t it?”

“ R eally, Darcy,” Bingley said with a chuckle, “you look as if you’re headed to the scaffold, not an evening call. Relax a little! The coachman assured us, remember? The master would welcome visitors.”

Darcy raised a skeptical brow. “This is the very height of impropriety, Bingley, and you know it. Arriving unannounced—practically trespassing in the dead of night—”

“Hardly trespassing when we have a man of the house’s own staff escorting us to the door,” Bingley countered.

“Perhaps the master is rather like something out of the German folk tales and devours would-be guests as soon as they let down their guards.”

“Now, Darcy, that is an outrageous thing to say, even for you.”

Darcy pressed his lips into a thin line, determined to maintain his disapproval. “Perhaps, but if we are held up for money or, more likely, sent away on the spot, you will have no one to blame but yourself.”

“Not to worry,” Bingley replied, grinning as he adjusted his gloves. “If I were the master, I would be positively thrilled to greet prospective tenants, especially in such a dismal economy. And if we are turned away, well—we’ll have tried. You cannot say we did not have a pleasant drive today.”

The carriage slowed to a halt before the grand entryway, and Darcy sighed, resigning himself to the inevitable as the footman opened the door. The two men climbed out, Darcy taking a moment to assess the front of the house. It was imposing in the dark, the stonework faintly visible under the glow of lantern light, casting long shadows across the weathered steps.

As they climbed the stairs, the heavy front door swung open. A man with neatly combed hair and a serious expression appeared, bowing in greeting. His left sleeve was pinned up to the elbow, and Darcy noticed with some surprise that he was missing his right hand.

“Good evening, sirs,” the man said with an amiable nod. “The master awaits you. If you would be so kind as to follow me to the drawing room, he will join you shortly.”

They stepped inside, and as the man led them down a hallway, Bingley shot Darcy a sidelong glance. After the man departed, closing the drawing room door behind him, Bingley raised an eyebrow. “Well, that was unexpected. Do you suppose the fellow lost his hand in battle?”

“Perhaps,” Darcy murmured, glancing around the room, though he couldn’t quite shake his unease. “From what I gather, this ‘baronet’ has a rather singular approach to staffing his estate. It would seem he employs those… who may find it difficult to secure work elsewhere.”

“Admirable, I’d say.” Bingley strolled to the plush sofa in front of the fireplace and sank into it, stretching his arms out along the back. “He’s clearly not a man to shrink from bestowing a bit of goodwill. In fact, I rather like the fellow already.”

Darcy, however, remained standing, hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the room. He was about to speak when the door opened again, and a voice echoed from the hallway.

“My apologies, gentlemen, if you have been kept waiting.”

Darcy had just turned his gaze to a painting over the mantel, but at the sound of the voice, he froze. His stomach dropped, and a strange tightness gripped his chest. He knew that voice.

Spinning around, his heart pounding in disbelief, he found himself face to face with Sir Thomas Ashford. Sir Thomas stopped in the doorway, his shock registering as his face paled slightly.

“Darcy! And… and Bingley! Why, is it really you? This is a pleasant surprise, indeed.”

For a moment, Darcy was too stunned to speak, his mind scrambling to reconcile the tall, familiar figure before him with the very different setting around them. It was Sir Thomas—his old benefactor from Calais, the man who had once risked his own security, fortune… even his life to see them safely across the Channel. But the last Darcy had heard, Sir Thomas had retired to Bath, far removed from the responsibilities of country estates.

Bingley broke the silence, clearing his throat as he stepped forward, his voice faltering just slightly. “Sir Thomas! It is a pleasure, truly… though, I confess, an unexpected one. We were not aware Netherfield was yours.”

Sir Thomas smiled, his eyes brightening with genuine warmth. “And this is certainly the last place I ever expected to encounter either of you again. Fate has an interesting way of arranging things, does it not?” His gaze softened as he looked between them. “But please, sit. I trust your journey was pleasant?”

Darcy and Bingley exchanged a quick glance before Bingley gathered himself enough to nod. “Indeed, very pleasant,” Bingley replied, easing the words out with his usual charm. “Actually, we… we came with a purpose, though it feels rather forward now. We hoped to inquire about leasing Netherfield for a time.”

“Leasing it?” Sir Thomas’s expression shifted for the briefest moment—something uncomfortable flickered there, but he quickly recovered. “Ah. I see. Yes… yes, that is indeed the purpose my agent set forth.”

Bingley gave a quick, awkward smile. “Well, yes. I hope you don’t find it too presumptuous. We simply wished to see the property ourselves and, if suitable, to arrange some terms.”

“Not at all, Mr. Bingley,” Sir Thomas replied, though his tone was a touch graver than before. “In fact, I should be quite pleased if Netherfield found such occupants.” He glanced away, as though contemplating something beyond the room. “It… appears that managing the estate is somewhat beyond what I had anticipated when I acquired it. Bath suited me well enough for a time, but, as they say, a man sometimes feels the pull of the country.”

“When did you come to Hertfordshire, sir?” Darcy asked, noting the pensive cast to Sir Thomas’s features. “I recall you once mentioned a preference for the life in Bath.”

“Ah, yes.” Sir Thomas gave a half-hearted smile, his eyes clouded as he looked toward the tall windows, where the last of the evening’s light had faded. “It was about five years ago. I was taken by a notion, perhaps a foolish one, that I might… er… make something of it. But I did not foresee all the… particulars of managing such an estate. Bath was, indeed, simpler.”

Bingley shifted, a flicker of sympathy crossing his face. “So, it has proved more of an undertaking than expected?”

“Yes, you could say that,” Sir Thomas admitted, his tone carrying a subtle but unmistakable note of regret. “One takes a fancy to certain prospects, you understand, and… Well. Perhaps we shall discuss the details later.” He paused, then his expression brightened again, as if determined to set aside any concerns. “You both look in need of rest after such a journey. Let me have you shown to some rooms. I cannot think of anything less hospitable than letting you return to Meryton in the dark to suffer a night at that drafty old inn.”

Darcy opened his mouth to protest, but Sir Thomas raised a hand, his voice warm and final. “Come now, Mr. Darcy. It would please me beyond measure to be your host. Think of it as a small token of my pleasure at renewing a previous acquaintance, if you will. Daniels?”

Darcy and Bingley both turned as Daniels, the footman who had let them in, stepped back into the drawing room. But he was not alone, for just outside the open door, a maid was hovering, her expression troubled. She appeared to have been speaking with Daniels in hushed tones, and she quickly fell silent as he straightened and turned his attention to Sir Thomas.

“Roberts,” Sir Thomas said, nodding at Darcy and Bingley, “see to it that Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley’s trunks are brought up by some of the others. They shall stay with us tonight.”

Roberts inclined his head with almost military formality. “Of course, sir.”

Sir Thomas then turned to the maid with a gentle smile. “Miss Flora, would you arrange to have tea sent up to their rooms, and perhaps a light supper if the kitchen has anything ready?”

The maid nodded as her eyes shifted uncertainly to Darcy and Bingley. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

Sir Thomas turned back to them with a smile that, though polite, seemed faintly wistful. “My people here will ensure you are well looked after. And I should be honored to show you over the house myself in the morning. Rest well, my friends.” With that, he inclined his head in a farewell bow and slipped quietly from the room.

Darcy and Bingley watched him go, glancing curiously at each other until Roberts spoke again.

“If you would follow me, gentlemen,” he said, gesturing toward the hall. Darcy’s gaze trailed to the doorway where “Miss Flora” had been, but she had already disappeared, leaving only Daniels waiting for them. As they ascended the stairs, Darcy noted the quiet, almost reverent stillness in the house, and an uneasy feeling settled in his chest.

Bingley, however, appeared unfazed, leaning close to Darcy as they climbed the stairs. “How very peculiar! I’d no idea of blundering into Sir Thomas’s house. What luck, eh, Darcy?”

Darcy only tightened his jaw as they followed the footman. At the top of the stairs, they followed the man down the corridor, passing several closed doors. Darcy’s eye snagged on one that had a ribbon tied to the handle. He thought it odd at first, but two doors later, he saw another. What could be the meaning of that? He glanced over his shoulder at Bingley, whose eye was roving the ceiling beams and carpet and nearly everything but the odd little ribbons on the doors.

“These will be your rooms, sir,” Roberts said, pausing before an open door. “The sitting room is for your private use, and there is a bedroom on either side. The maids will be here soon with tea, and I will see that your trunks are brought up directly.”

Darcy nodded. “Thank you.”

Roberts bowed shortly and left them. Bingley turned to watch the man go, then looked back at Darcy with his brow quirked. “Odd. I do not think he is quite a proper footman, is he?”

Darcy shook his head and wandered into the sitting room, motioning for Bingley to close the door behind him. “No. Polite enough, but perhaps he is… new.” His gaze swept the room—soaring windows that might have done Pemberley proud, covered by drapes at least a decade out of fashion but still quite serviceable. The furnishings were of a similar style—outmoded, perhaps, but solid.

Bingley was wandering the room with a similar fascination, looking about at everything. He swept his hand over an old mahogany writing desk, and, as was his wont, could not pass by without tugging open the drawer. However, instead of the usual pens, sealing wax, and pounce pots contained in most desk drawers, he plucked out a roll of linen bandaging strips.

He held it up to show Darcy, his brow furrowed in confusion. “How very singular.”

Darcy frowned and drew closer. “Indeed.”

“Well,” Bingley murmured, casting another glance about the room, “our first night at Netherfield, and I daresay it already feels as though we have entered something… intriguing.”

Darcy cast a wary glance at his friend. “Intriguing? I would use a different word, Bingley.”

“Oh? What word might that be?”

Darcy shook his head, but his frown deepened. “Unsettling, perhaps.”