The Bell

by Mary Lydon Simonsen

  The Bell

  A Pride and Prejudice

  Novella

  Mary Lydon Simonsen

  Quail Creek Publishing, LLC

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  The characters and events in this novella are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and is not intended by the author.

  Published by Quail Creek Publishing, LLC

  Peoria, Arizona

  quailcreekpub@hotmail.com

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  ©2019 Quail Creek Publishing, LLC

  Cover image: I-stock #9883-9132

  The Bell

  Darcy House, London

  October 1811

  Fitzwilliam Darcy luxuriated in the comfort of his own bed. After a two-week visit with Colonel Fitzwilliam in Dover, where he had slept on a camp bed, every muscle in his body ached—even his scalp hurt—and he had asked Mercer, his manservant, to draw a hot bath. With Georgiana gone for most of the morning, he thought his bath would be an excellent place to spend his ante-meridiem hours.

  After a long soak, Darcy emerged from the waters a wrinkled mass but with the aches of his two-week ordeal behind him. His brief military career had come about because Darcy had, on more than one occasion, expressed to his cousin his wish to experience the life of a soldier, and the colonel had called his bluff. For a fortnight he had endured the plain food of the mess and the noise of a camp of several hundred men, and by doing so, had learned that it was best to leave the soldiering to Colonel Fitzwilliam.

  After a late breakfast, Darcy perused his mail, and in that large stack of correspondence were three notes from Charles Bingley, all asking if he might call as soon as possible. If Darcy were to guess at the reason for the urgency of Bingley’s request, he would say that his friend was once again in love. He knew that his flirtation with Miss Clarke was now a thing of the past, and it was likely that a new fair-haired beauty had rushed in to fill the void. Bingley, ever the romantic, would want Darcy to know all about his new love. Darcy instructed Mercer to arrange for a footman to go to Bingley’s house in Grosvenor Square, informing him that he would be home for the rest of the day.

  Due to various delays on the road, Darcy had arrived at Darcy House well after Georgiana had retired, but on the desk in his bedchamber, he had found a note in which his sister had written that she would be attending a recital the following morning, a program featuring a master harpist from the Low Countries, and that she looked forward to dining with him in the evening. Georgiana’s love of music had been evident from the time she was on leading strings, and she had begun lessons on the pianoforte at a time when she needed assistance accessing the player’s bench. Darcy had recently employed the services of a piano master from Leipzig, and Georgiana was thrilled with the man’s instruction if not his temperament.

  Darcy’s note to Charles Bingley was answered in person that same afternoon. Bingley, after removing his hat, exposing a mop of light-brown hair, was just shy of six feet and nearly as tall as Darcy. But Bingley’s wiry anatomy contrasted with that of Darcy’s more muscular frame, and in temperament, they were studies in contrast. While Darcy was logical, methodical, and cautious, his friend embraced the motto, Carpe Diem, and teased his friend relentlessly that one must embrace the unknown and enjoy life or what was the point of living!

  Their unusual friendship had come about as the result of a financial investment made by Darcy’s father. George Darcy had understood that in order to support an estate the size of Pemberley, he must look to sources of income other than agriculture and rents to preserve the estate’s financial stability. In pursuit of an alternative to crops and husbandry, the elder Darcy had tested the waters by investing in a sailcloth operation in Scarborough. Bingley and Company, the largest producer of sailcloth for fishing fleets on England’s northeast coast, had grown rapidly as a result of the wars on the Continent and demands for its product by the Royal Navy. The investment had proved a spectacular success. After George Darcy’s death, his son had written to Bingley and Company, asking if he might be permitted to tour the manufactory. It was there that he had met Charles Bingley, the oldest son of the founder.

  While touring the operation, Darcy thought he had never met a more amiable fellow than Charles Bingley, and Bingley had confirmed his impression by immediately including Darcy in an invitation to go riding and shooting on a friend’s estate. It was that outing that had solidified their friendship. Although Bingley’s shooting skills were lacking, he was, perhaps, the best horseman Darcy had ever seen. Over time, their friendship had evolved into a relationship similar to an older, wiser, and more serious brother, and a more energetic, and a good deal more impulsive, younger brother. While Darcy found Bingley’s joie de vivre contagious and beneficial, Bingley benefited from a steadier hand from his older friend.

  After settling in in front of a fire in the drawing room, Darcy asked Bingley if he had come to share details about his latest romantic conquest.

  “Oh no! There is no one at the moment,” Bingley answered with some regret as it was a situation unfamiliar to him. From the time he had arrived in London to the present, his name had been linked with one lady after another—half of them entirely fanciful—but the other half… “I have come for a different reason entirely. It is about a property in Hertfordshire.”

  Darcy was aware that Bingley was interested in leasing an estate in the country and had been looking at various properties in surrounding counties for months, but none had proved satisfactory. Considering Bingley’s temperament, a place in Hertfordshire would be an excellent choice as it would satisfy Bingley’s need to be constantly on the move. When he was in the country, Bingley longed for the city, and when in London, he often mentioned how much he enjoyed his time spent at Pemberley.

  Bingley shared that he had met with Mr. Morris, a letting agent, near the market town of Meryton on the London road and that he had had a brief tour of the house and property.

  “Because of what happened with that house in Surrey, I feigned only a slight interest in the property so as not to give the game away.”

  Earlier in the summer, Bingley had toured a manor in Surrey that was nearly one-hundred years old. From the outside, the property looked ideal, but inside, the smell of damp permeated every room, and Bingley had immediately decided against signing a lease. Averse to conflict in any form, Bingley had failed to convey his lack of interest to the agent, and the man had written to him twice a week for a month before finally abandoning hope of a commission on the property.

  Bingley’s first impression of Netherfield Park was that the property was perfect for his needs. It was within easy distance of London, the hunting was said to be excellent, the trails were in good repair, and the house could accommodate his family and visitors and did not smell of damp.

  “And it has a large ballroom,” Bingley said, beaming.

  “Which is all that really matters to you,” Darcy said. He knew that dancing was second only to riding in his friend’s estimation. “What do you know about the neighborhood?”

  Bingley had been told by t
he agent that the neighborhood consisted of about four and twenty families and that Meryton could boast of an assembly hall and several shops sufficient to meet his immediate needs.

  “There is a new milliner’s shop on High Street. Caroline and Louisa will be pleased to hear that. Give the ladies something to do when they visit since neither Louisa nor Caroline rides.”

  Darcy doubted that either Bingley sister would ever set foot in a milliner’s shop—or any shop for that matter—in a small market town. Both women, but most particularly Caroline, mimicked those ladies who dictated what was fashionable in London society, always wearing the finest clothes and riding in an expensive carriage even when a hackney would do.

  “The current lessees are the Darlingtons of Bristol,” Bingley said, interrupting Darcy’s reverie, “and there are still two years on their lease.”

  “Who owns the manor?”

  “A Mr. Josiah Crenshaw, a high-ranking civil servant currently serving His Majesty in the West Indies.”

  “Two years? I thought you were only looking for a one-year lease.”

  “I was told by the agent that the term of the lease is negotiable as Mrs. Darlington is eager to have someone take over the lease so that she might return to Bristol where her family lives. I did not ask too many questions because I did not want to appear overly eager.”

  Darcy snorted at the notion of Bingley tamping down his enthusiasm for anything. It was very much like trying to teach a puppy not to chew on the master’s slippers.

  “And what is it that you want from me?” Darcy asked.

  “I was hoping you would have a look at the estate and tell me what you think.”

  Because Netherfield Park was more than fifty years old, Bingley was reluctant to sign a lease until someone with knowledge of such things had taken a look at the property.

  “If you are not in a hurry,” Darcy said, “I can go by the property on my way to Pemberley. Now that the harvest is in, I am to meet with Flitter to go over the annual figures and plan for next year.”

  Bingley was aware of Darcy’s impending meeting with his steward and indicated that there was no rush. “Apparently, there has been little interest since the property was listed more than a year ago.”

  “Hmm,” Darcy said, stroking his chin. “That is a possible cause for concern as it begs the question: Is there something wrong with the house? Is that why there have been no takers on a property so close to town?”

  Bingley could not answer his questions nor could he answer another dozen posed by Darcy.

  “Is there a decent inn in the village?” Darcy asked.

  Finally, a question Bingley could answer. “Yes, the White Hart. Plain fare, but good—and clean.”

  “On my way North, I shall stay overnight in Meryton and ask Mercer to learn what he can from the innkeeper and his patrons.” Darcy started to laugh. “Mercer is an absolute expert on ferreting out information. Whenever we are required to stay at an inn, in short order, Mercer extracts the most titillating gossip from all and sundry, a talent he learned while driving a Royal Mail coach. His gleanings provide amusement on long journeys.”

  Bingley raised his glass as a way of thanking his friend for his assistance. If there was something amiss at Netherfield Park, Darcy or Mercer would “ferret” it out. He hoped that there was nothing to prevent his signing the lease. When he had come out of the inn, after meeting with Mr. Morris, he had seen a fair-haired lady whose beauty defied description, and he very much wanted to meet her again.

  “I hope you do not find anything that will prevent me from signing the lease. I am eager to be in the house before the end of the shooting season.”

  Darcy did not respond even though, just minutes earlier, Bingley had said he was in no hurry. But the one thing Darcy knew about his friend was that Bingley was always in a hurry.

  * * *

  Darcy knocked on the door of his steward’s office. When his knock went unanswered, he jiggled the doorknob. Still no response. Darcy knew that Flitter was in there, but the steward, now in his early sixties, had grown more than a little deaf, and there were times when nothing short of a blast from a rocket could get his attention. Finally, after Darcy had tapped on the window glass multiple times with a coin, the man came to the door and welcomed his master into his office.

  “So, you are back from London, sir,” Flitter said, taking a seat behind his desk.

  “I am,” Darcy said, gesturing with his riding gloves to a chair opposite to Flitter. Although Flitter’s employer, he wished to continue a tradition established by his father with Flitter’s predecessor, George Wickham, Sr., in which the man who oversaw all the operations at Pemberley outside of the manor house was given due deference for his position as one of the most senior members of Pemberley’s staff.

  “Please do, sir,” Flitter said, gesturing for Darcy to take the chair opposite to him—all a part of an established ritual. “How is Miss Darcy?”

  “My sister is quite well. I have engaged a new companion for her, a Mrs. Annesley, and they are compatible.” Mrs. Annesley, who had replaced the disgraced Mrs. Younge, was a woman in her mid thirties. After Younge’s betrayal of his sister, Darcy had erred on the side of caution, hiring a woman, and a widow, who was old enough to be Georgiana’s mother. “She is also studying under a piano master. She refers to Herr Philipp as her tormentor, but she is up to the challenge.”

  Flitter inquired about an investment in a cotton mill in Manchester that Darcy had been considering before going to London and asked if a decision had been made. After months of deliberation, his master had finally decided not to go forward with the venture.

  “I cannot in good faith invest in a mill that will only exacerbate already troubling conditions in the city.” Darcy proceeded to list his concerns. “The water supply is inadequate as is the housing. Dozens of families are crowded into tenements meant to accommodate half their number.” Darcy shook his head. “Manchester is on the verge of becoming another London at its worst. I have decided to increase my investment in the Bingley family’s sailcloth operation near Scarborough.”

  “Very wise, sir. That investment has served you well, and it is one less thing for you to worry about.”

  Darcy was surprised by Flitter’s comment and asked if his steward pegged him as a worrier.

  Flitter could tell that his remark had given offense, but if truth be told, Mr. Darcy was a worrier and had been from the time he had inherited the estate five years earlier. In a short span of time, Darcy had gone from a carefree youth at Cambridge to the owner of vast properties with all its attendant responsibilities. The burden of so much responsibility at such a young age had greatly changed him.

  “Pemberley is a very large, complex estate, sir. In addition to seeing to the wellbeing of your servants and tenants, you are also the Lord of the Manor and the local magistrate. Those things alone are enough to wrinkle anyone’s brow.”

  Even though Darcy found Flitter’s answer somewhat irritating, was it an accurate assessment of his temperament? On more than one occasion, Bingley had chided him for being overly serious and had teased him by saying that, “All work and no play makes Darcy a dull boy.” And now Flitter was implying the same thing.

  “Shall we have a look at the ledgers?” Darcy said, inching up to the desk, happy to leave that conversation behind them.

  From a bookcase near a window overlooking the stables, Flitter retrieved two large leather-bound books containing all the income and expenses for the estate for the past two years. The steward’s recordkeeping was meticulous as was to be expected from a man who had spent the first three decades of his adult life as a bookkeeper for a large shipping company in Liverpool. Tall, spindly, bewhiskered to the point of furry, with wild, expressive eyebrows and tufts of hair growing out of his ears, Flitter fit the stereotype of the bookkeeper, a slave to numbers, as the man, who could easily be mistaken for a parson, religiously huddled over his accounts, all to the benefit of the Darcy family.

 
Darcy noted that that year’s harvest had been particularly good as all the corn, beef, and mutton had been sold, mostly to the Government on behalf of the Royal Navy, and it was expected that revenues for the upcoming year would be equally as good, if not better.

  “What do you think about purchasing another thresher?” Darcy asked his steward.

  Darcy had delayed the purchase of a second thresher because of vandalism in various parts of the country where the machines had been introduced. Although there had been no unrest among the tenants at Pemberley, the purchase of a second thresher might change that.

  “I think your plan to educate your tenants about the reason for the thresher has served us well,” Flitter said. “They understood that it would be impossible to fill all the orders we have from the Government without it. No jobs have been lost, and the cottagers seem content.”

  Darcy reminded Flitter that his plan had actually been Flitter’s plan, and it had been a good one. After closing the ledgers, Darcy thanked his steward for the excellent management of the vast Pemberley properties. Flitter’s competence not only gave Darcy peace of mind, it allowed him to travel about the country on business and enjoy prolonged stays in town with his sister.

  “Let us talk of other things,” Darcy said. “I have a favor to ask of you, and it concerns Charles Bingley.”

  Darcy acquainted Flitter with Bingley’s plans to lease an estate in Hertfordshire as well as the results of a cursory review he had conducted of the estate on his way North. “According to the estate agent, the house is about fifty years old and appears to be in good repair, but I want to have someone competent to take a look at the roof, foundation, kitchen, etc.”

  “Yes, it is the ‘etcetera’ that concerns me,” Flitter said, his eyebrows dancing, “especially in light of the experience you had last year in the West Country.”