25. Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Five

E lizabeth passed by her father's study and couldn't resist the mischievous urge to poke her head in. Mr Collins was in the middle of an animated discussion, his voice carrying through the partially open door.

"And you see, sir, this new technique of crop rotation, championed by none other than Lord Cathcart, could greatly enhance the productivity of Longbourn's fields. The benefits are manifold, particularly for the root crops, which..."

Mr Bennet leaned back in his chair, trying to interject. "Mr Collins, that only works when—"

"No, no, I assure you, sir, the Four-Course Crop Rotation is infallible. It was developed in Norfolk—I shall familiarise you, sir. It involves a four-year cycle of different crops: wheat, turnips, barley, and clover. Each crop replenishes the soil in a unique way, reducing soil depletion and increasing productivity."

"Mr Collins, I have on these shelves three books on that very topic. While interesting, what you fail to account for is—"

"Then you have heard of it! Why, sir, I cannot help but wonder why it is not already implemented. Longbourn could be prospering much more handsomely. Perhaps you have not read Lord Cathcart's account. Lady Catherine has a copy in her possession, and I flatter myself, I doubt not that she would lend it to you to see that Longbourn's lands are improved as much as they can be before…" Collins cleared his throat and gestured modestly between them.

Elizabeth's father was drumming his fingers on the desk, a vein popping out on his forehead. "I am sure your readings are extensive, but you must understand that Hertfordshire's soil is—"

"Lord Cathcart's method has proven successful across various estates," Collins interrupted, his enthusiasm unabated. "Turnips and clover, in particular, improve soil fertility and provide excellent feed for livestock. Surely, adopting such a progressive system would benefit Longbourn immensely."

Mr Bennet sighed, rubbing his temples. "But Mr Collins, our soil is heavy clay, not the light, well-drained soil that turnips prefer. We have already considered this system and found it unsuitable for our conditions."

"But the introduction of barley and clover also enriches the soil, providing nutrients that wheat depletes. It is a brilliant cycle that—"

Elizabeth stepped into the room, thinking it was past time to rescue her father. "Excuse me, Mr Collins," she interrupted with a light knock on the door as she passed through. "A note was delivered from the local parson, Mr Harrison. He asks that you call on him at your earliest convenience."

Mr Collins's chest puffed with pride. "Mr Harrison has requested my presence? How flattering indeed! I shall make my apologies, Mr Bennet, and take my leave at once. It would be most impolite to keep a fellow clergyman waiting."

Mr Bennet leaned his forehead on his hand, one greying eyebrow arched. "Oh, no inconvenience on my part. I believe you have expressed yourself with sufficient eloquence for one afternoon."

"You flatter me, sir," Mr Collins declared, gathering his papers. "I shall return shortly, and we can continue this most enlightening discussion. Good day!"

Elizabeth lingered by the door, watching as Mr Collins bustled out of the room. She turned back to her father, who appeared as if the weight of the world had been momentarily lifted from his shoulders.

"Clever, Lizzy. But what will poor Mr Harrison say when you deliver to him an unexpected caller who expects him to set aside his afternoon to hear how he ought to be managing his parish?"

"He is a man of God. Perhaps he can pray for supernatural rescue. Papa, can I fetch you anything?" she asked, stepping further into the study.

"No, Lizzy, thank you. I only wish for a bit of peace and quiet. Things that appear to be in short supply in this house."

Elizabeth sat down in the seat Mr Collins had just vacated. "Are you certain that is all, Papa? You look rather troubled."

He sighed. "It is nothing, Lizzy. I simply want to read my book."

"And which book, pray, is that? "

Mr Bennet swallowed and blinked, his mouth half-open to respond, but then his brow furrowed. Eventually, he had to shuffle through his disorganised stack of letters to turn over the spine of the boxy tome buried on his desk. " The History of Tom Jones ," he read.

Elizabeth frowned and crossed her arms. "I see you were terribly eager to get back to it. Papa, please, tell me what is truly on your mind."

Mr Bennet lowered his book with a resigned sigh. "Very well, if you must know, Sir William and I called on Sir Anthony Mortimer this morning."

Elizabeth's face brightened with recognition. "Sir Anthony Mortimer? The man who is being put forward as MP?"

Mr Bennet nodded reluctantly. "Yes, the very same."

"And does he have generous feelings toward the neighbours? Will he likely help us accomplish the necessary aid to restore property damaged by the floods?"

Her father thought for a moment, then nodded again. "Yes, Sir Anthony seems as though he will be active and effective in Parliament. He certainly gave that impression."

Elizabeth laughed lightly. "Then what is the matter, Papa? You do not look pleased."

Mr Bennet shook his head. "I cannot quite agree with Sir Anthony's politics. He spoke rather critically of Wellington."

Elizabeth puckered her brow and tilted her head. "He would not be the first man to do so."

"Nor the last, I daresay, but this was… no, never mind, Lizzy. I cannot quite describe my impression, for it went beyond mere words. Sir William, however, endorsed the man wholeheartedly. So, it seems there is nothing else to do but accept him as our choice."

Elizabeth hummed in thought. "Have you considered speaking to Mr Wickham about Sir Anthony? After all, it was Mr Wickham who suggested his name. Perhaps he would understand your concerns, and together, you could either discuss the matter until your concerns are allayed or consider other candidates to propose."

Mr Bennet nodded faintly. "Yes, I suppose that is a sensible course of action."

"Good," Elizabeth said with a smile. "I am sure he will be willing to listen and discuss it with you."

Mr Bennet sighed, picking up his book again. "I will go to speak with him. Just as soon as I finish this chapter."

" G ood day, Mr Darcy," the butler intoned with a slight dip of his head. "Her ladyship is not at home, but Lord Matlock is in his study."

Darcy nodded, handing over his coat and hat. "Thank you, Perkins. Please ask if he will see me."

The butler bowed before he disappeared. Darcy waited in the entrance hall, his anxiety mounting with each passing moment. The words he had rehearsed had shattered like grains of sand the moment he walked in the door. What was he supposed to say? When the butler returned and motioned for him to follow, he knotted his hands behind his back and prayed they would not shake when he had to speak.

As he entered the study, the smell of tobacco wafted over him. His uncle, Lord Matlock, sat behind a massive oak desk, puffing on a cigar and tracing his meaty finger down a piece of paper. At first glance, the scene appeared tranquil, but the lines of strain etched on Matlock's face told a different story.

"Ah, Darcy," Matlock greeted gruffly, setting the cigar down. "Take a seat and tell me what brings you here."

Darcy hesitated at the sharpness in his uncle's tone. "Thank you, Uncle," he said, taking the offered chair. He studied his uncle's face, the agitated weariness in his eyes. This would not, in fact, be the time to say what he had come here to say. Matlock looked like an angry cur gnawing on a bone shank. "Is something the matter? You seem... preoccupied."

Matlock stubbed out his expensive cigar and waved his hand dismissively, though his expression remained tight. "Forgive me, Darcy. Nothing that ought to trouble you."

Darcy eased a little more deeply into his seat. "Then, I take it, it is not to do with Georgiana?"

"Georgiana? No, no. Saint of a girl, like her mother."

Darcy's brow edged upward. "I doubt many would call her a saint, but thank you. It is not Richard, is it? "

Matlock shook his head as he fished inside his desk drawer for a hidden bottle of Scotch. "Not at the moment. I am afraid I have been wrestling with political matters all day. There is some tomfoolery afoot in the House of Commons that has been costing me sleep and far too many hours at my desk."

"The House? And it concerns you? Might I ask what the trouble is?"

Matlock sighed as he pulled the stopper on the Scotch. He poured two glasses and handed one to Darcy. "It's a finance bill for military funding. Vital, really, given our current situation with France. But there are private interests—wealthy and powerful ones—who oppose it for their own personal gain."

Darcy took a sip of the Scotch and had to fight back a faint cough. Matlock somehow always found a stiffer whiskey than Darcy was accustomed to. "Who is behind this opposition?"

Matlock's eyes narrowed, and he stared into his glass for a long moment. Darcy watched his uncle's face, noting the deep lines of concern. The silence stretched—whatever troubled Matlock was significant.

"Uncle, you seem particularly burdened by this matter," Darcy ventured carefully. "If it is something where I might offer assistance or at least a sympathetic ear, you may count on my discretion."

Matlock sighed heavily, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Well do I know that, but it is... complex, Darcy. Sometimes, secrecy is necessary even within the family."

Darcy nodded. "I understand. I hope you have prudent counsel, then."

Another long pause followed. Matlock seemed to be wrestling with his thoughts, his fingers drumming lightly on the desk. Finally, he looked up, meeting Darcy's gaze. "It is Lord Wexfield. He is causing me all manner of bother."

Darcy sipped more of the Scotch. "Wexfield? From Lincolnshire?"

"The very one. Chairman of the Finance Committee and the Committee on Military Affairs. Also sits on the Committee of Public Expenditure and the Committee on Foreign Relations."

Darcy puckered his lips in thought. "Rather a powerful fellow."

"Powerful, and after his own interests."

Darcy scoffed. "Name a man in Parliament who is not."

The earl shook his head. "Wexfield is something altogether different. If he could, he would revoke financial support for the entire war effort and divert the gold into his own coffers. The devil take the hindmost. "

"He is not a Napoleon sympathiser, is he?"

"I suspected that at first, but no. No, I think Wexfield is a Wexfield sympathiser."

Darcy straightened and set down his glass. "What, specifically, has he done to make you think that?"

Matlock sighed heavily and rubbed his temples before responding. "It is a matter of his actions, Darcy. He is the chairman of the Committee of Supply, and consistently he has argued against funding for critical war measures. He has used his influence to block bills that would send much-needed supplies to our troops on the Continent, arguing instead for domestic investments that conveniently benefit his own interests."

Darcy frowned. "Surely, there are legitimate reasons to argue for domestic investments during wartime."

"Legitimate reasons, perhaps," Matlock conceded, "but not when it comes at the cost of our soldiers' lives. Wexfield has been particularly insistent on reducing the budget for military provisions and reinforcements. Every time there is a discussion about fortifying our positions or sending additional troops, he is there to argue against it."

Darcy's eyes narrowed. "Is there more?"

The earl nodded, his face grim. "He has also been vocal in the Naval Affairs Committee, pushing for reductions in shipbuilding and naval maintenance. He claims it is to reduce the national debt, but our navy is our first line of defence. Weakening it now, of all times, is pure folly."

"Is that all?"

"No, he has taken it a step further by obstructing the passage of the Finance Bill, which would allocate funds for our ongoing campaigns. His opposition has delayed critical support and allowed our enemies to gain ground. But the worst…" Matlock shuffled in his seat, frowning and pouring himself more Scotch. "He has been gathering power in the lower House by ‘buying' MPs. It is well known among those of us in certain circles, but no one has been able to prove it or do anything about it."

Darcy's frown deepened. "How?"

Matlock leaned back, his expression dark. "You know the lower House controls most financial legislation."

Darcy nodded.

"Wexfield has been rallying support there, and some of his backers are newly elected members with dubious backgrounds. There are whispers that he's using his wealth to sway votes, ensuring that any motion he opposes is defeated. But proving it? That is another matter entirely."

A chill shivered down his spine. The idea that someone could be actively working against the country's interests from within was deeply unsettling. "And this finance bill for military funding—how does Wexfield gain from diverting it?"

Matlock sighed, his fingers drumming on the armrest of his chair. "Wexfield has substantial investments in several industries that stand to benefit if the war effort is weakened. He owns shares in companies that supply goods to the French, and he has financial interests in neutral territories that profit from trade disruptions. By blocking military funding, he ensures that those investments remain profitable."

"He is deliberately weakening our position to line his own pockets?"

"Precisely," Matlock said, his voice heavy with anger. "But it is more than that. Wexfield is also rumoured to be involved in smuggling operations, moving goods across the Channel under cover of night. He's leveraging his political power to protect these illicit activities."

"And he's using his wealth to buy support in Parliament?" Darcy asked.

"I cannot prove it, but I've a letter here that puts one more nail in the coffin of my suspicions. He's been funnelling money into the campaigns of MPs who are sympathetic to his cause, ensuring they owe him their allegiance. He is effectively building a faction within the House of Commons that can block any legislation he opposes."

Darcy felt a surge of outrage that made the space behind his eye throb in pain. "Is there no way to expose him? To bring his actions to light?"

Matlock shook his head slowly. "Without concrete evidence, our hands are tied. The Prince Regent himself granted a request that removed a steadfast MP from some small borough in Hertfordshire from office, and it appears that the new man will be…" Matlock laughed darkly and sighed. "… rather useful to Wexfield. That was the one vote he needed to tip the balance, and it is all but done."

Darcy swallowed hard. Hertfordshire? Egad, he was the one who had suggested this! And every voice in Meryton had praised him for the notion. The queasiness from his head now spread throughout his core, and he was disturbingly close to besmirching the earl's desk.

"This is… indeed troubling." He laced his fingers in his lap, tapping his thumbs together as his pulse quickened. "Uncle, what do you know of Viscount Halstead? What involvement has he in this? "

Matlock frowned, his face creasing with concentration. "Halstead? The name is not familiar to me."

Darcy leaned forward. "Surely you must know him. He was said to have attended Cambridge and perhaps had connections with our family. I thought Richard might have known him."

Matlock shook his head again. "I am sure I have never heard of Lord Halstead. But why does he concern you? What is his connection to Wexfield?"

Darcy hesitated. The pieces of the puzzle were not fitting together. "Are you certain? He is supposed to be from Yorkshire. I understand he is currently in America, brokering a deal in cotton. Perhaps you might not have encountered him recently, but…"

"Darcy, I know the names and titles of every peer in the country. There is no title associated with that name, and every Halstead I ever heard of was from Essex."

The chair under Darcy was spinning. So, he had not simply forgot the man… he never existed! Wickham had him so persuaded that his mind had failed him, but the truth was that it was a fabrication all along! Darcy passed a trembling hand over his forehead.

"I… excuse me, Uncle, I…" Darcy cleared his throat, but it did no good. "I am afraid you have raised more questions for me than you have answered."

"How so?"

Darcy closed his eyes and pressed his fingers into his eye sockets. "Uncle, forgive me. I believe I must return home. I… there is something I need to search for."

Matlock drained the last of his glass. "Why the rush? You are not off to try to enact some sort of self-styled justice, are you?" He chuckled sarcastically. "Better men than you have already been foiled."

"No, Uncle. That would be far beyond my means and is not remotely within my thoughts. I only noted an… an inconsistency in what I recall. I think I should like to investigate something."

Matlock lifted his shoulders. "I probably ought not have told you all that, Darcy. You look as though a stiff breeze would knock you down. ‘Tis only the way of politics, my boy. Next year, it will be a different villain altogether. By the by, what brought you in so urgently today?"

Darcy swallowed. "Nothing, Uncle. Nothing at all."