The previous winter, Darcy had visited a friend who had taken a lease on a property in Devon. Other than a visit to Scotland, there had never been a time in his life when he had been so cold—a cold that invaded his bones like some chilled disease. It was only his affection for his friend that kept him from returning to London and fireplaces that worked.
“A cause for concern might be the inability of the current lessee to lease the estate. It has been available for more than a year, and considering its proximity to London, I find that unusual. According to Mercer, who has his information from the innkeeper in a nearby village, it is likely the Darlingtons paid too much for the lease.”
As predicted, Mercer’s time in the inn’s public house had been productive. According to Jenkins, the innkeeper: “Mr. Darlington is a penny-pincher, but it’s proving to be a case of penny-wise and pound foolish. What Mr. Darlington is trying to do is to get the same rate that he’s paying to the Crenshaws, the owners of Netherfield Park. The Darlingtons got taken, and they want to pass the pain on to someone else. But it’s not working, and the house sits empty.’”
Furthermore, according to the garrulous Innkeeper Jenkins, the biggest knock against Netherfield Park was that there were no people of rank in the neighborhood. “The only ‘sir’ we got is Sir William Lucas, and the only reason he was knighted was because he used to be the mayor of Meryton and gave a great speech about the king.” After lowering his voice, Jenkins had continued. “ Mrs. Darlington was forever going on about the lack of society in Meryton. I don’t know why the lady’s so proud. From what I’ve heard, her father was nothing more than a paymaster for a shipping company in Liverpool.”
Darcy dismissed the lack of society as irrelevant. To his mind, the mystery was solved as to a lack of interest in Netherfield Park when Jenkins had indicated that it was overpriced. Darcy asked that Flitter inspect the property himself. “I think it would be best if you took a few of your people from Pemberley for the inspection. When someone of means, and a bachelor no less, appears in a neighborhood as small as Meryton, it creates considerable interest, and people might do and say whatever is required to get Bingley to sign the lease.”
Flitter knew exactly what Mr. Darcy, an eligible bachelor himself, was talking about. Each year, before spring planting, the Darcys hosted a dance at Lambton’s assembly hall, and every woman within a twenty-mile radius found her way to the assembly, each with a vision of becoming the next Mistress of Pemberley. The whole scheme was an awkward fit for Darcy. Unlike his father, who plunged into the midst of any gathering, Darcy clung to the perimeter, hoping not to be noticed—a fool’s errand if ever there was one. In addition to being handsome and athletic, he was enormously wealthy and the catch of the county.
“I shall give you a letter of credit for the inn and any other expenses you incur, but discretion is the order of the day. I do not want your activities to be associated with Bingley, and you are to act the gentleman. To that end, you may take my carriage as I shall not be using it.”
“And when shall I go, sir?”
“As soon as possible. Bingley is chomping at the bit to sign the lease, and if there is any delay, he might just go ahead and do it, damn the consequences. He has a tendency to be impulsive.”
“I can leave tomorrow. There is nothing that cannot wait until my return.”
“Very good,” Darcy said, rising. When, at the door, and with his hand on the knob, he hesitated. “Remember, Flitter, be discreet. Bingley’s name should not be mentioned.”
“Leave it to me, sir, but if I might say something.”
“Of course. You need not ask.”
“If Mr. Bingley does take up the lease on the property in Hertfordshire, might I suggest that you lay your cares at the door and enjoy it? Pheasant and partridge are in season, and I imagine that the estate has excellent riding trails. So, I would hope that you would enjoy your stay there and not worry about Pemberley or your investments.”
“Thank you, Flitter. I appreciate that. But let me disabuse you of the notion that I am in a constant state of anxiety about my responsibilities. I am not.”
“If you say so, sir.”
* * *
Mrs. Morris was pouting. What was the purpose, she mused, of being married to a letting agent if he would not tell his wife who was looking at Netherfield Park? The Darlingtons had listed the property more than a year ago, and with one exception, a Mr. Bingley of Scarborough, no one had shown any interest in it—until now. Although the Darlingtons held the lease, they were rarely in residence, and an empty Netherfield Park meant no summer picnics, no harvest balls, no Twelfth Night concerts!
“Why can you not tell me who has shown an interest in Netherfield Park?” Mrs. Morris asked her husband. She knew that there was something afoot, and she would ferret it out one way or another. “I know that someone is looking at the property because Mrs. Darlington authorized Jack Slater to have a look at the roof and do any necessary repairs.”
“Why will I not say who is interested in the property?” Mr. Morris asked with his chest puffed out. “Because it will be all over the village by the time I sit down to my evening meal.”
The only way Mrs. Morris could have known that he had hired the Slaters at the Darlingtons’ behest was if his wife had been snooping around his desk and had read Mrs. Darlington’s letter. And if Mrs. Morris knew, the whole village knew. But noting his wife’s wounded look, Mr. Morris softened: “The gentleman is from the North, and you should be grateful that I am sharing that with you. Now,” he said, putting on his hat, “I have to return to work so that I might pay for that new silver tea service you ordered from London.”
“Will you be in the office this afternoon?” Mrs. Morris asked, ignoring her husband’s criticism of her purchase.
“No, I need to ride out to… No, I will not be in the office.”
As soon as Mr. Morris was out the door, Mrs. Morris rang for Molly Slater, her maid, and when the girl appeared, her mistress inquired if she knew if her brother was working at Netherfield Park. The Slaters—father and son, both Jacks—were the only workmen in in the village who repaired roofs.
“Jack were working there yesterday, all day with me father,” Molly answered, “but he said the roof were in really good condition because Mr. Crenshaw had it re-slated about ten years ago and kept up repairs on it. So, he’s already done. Not much of a job, he said.”
“Is Jack at home?”
“More likely he’s at the public house. He got paid this morning. Do you have something for him to do?”
“Possibly,” Mrs. Morris said, biting her thumb. “Can you fetch him for me?”
While Molly went in search of her brother, Mrs. Morris moved into the kitchen and placed a piece of oilcloth on the chair nearest to the door in preparation for Jack’s arrival. Despite reservations about having a common laborer, especially one who made his living crawling over roofs, in her home, it must be done as Jack was the only one who could answer her questions.
A half hour later, when Molly returned with her brother, Mrs. Morris suggested that the maid make a pot of tea for their guest, and a wide-eyed Molly asked for the key to the tea chest.
“I understand from your sister that you are working at Netherfield Park.”
“Yes, ma’am. But it were only yesterday. The roof’s in good condition. All it needed were a few tiles replaced and nailing down some of the loose ones, so me and me father finished up by suppertime last night.”
“And who hired you?”
“Jack Slater, Sr. hired me,” he answered with a laugh.
“I mean, who hired your father and you to do the job?”
“It were Mr. Morris, your husband.”
Mrs. Morris let out a sigh. This man was a simpleton and should not be allowed out on his own.
“Yes, that is true, but Mrs. Darlington would not have hired your father unless someone was looking at the property.”
Jack’s blank expression remain unchanged. “If you’re ask
ing who it is who’s been asking about Netherfield Park—”
“Yes!” Mrs. Morris said, leaning forward.
“Don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “Makes no difference to us as long as we get paid.”
“Is there anyone who does know, and do not say Mr. Morris,” the lady said with a forced smile.
Jack thought if anyone knew who was looking at the property, it would be Mr. Jenkins, the owner of the White Hart Inn and public house as the gentleman who was interested in the lease was staying there with two other men.
“I have to confess to being curious about the gentleman’s identity,” Mrs. Morris said.
Jack’s answer was another shrug.
Mrs. Morris looked out the window. This was getting her nowhere, and she needed to go in a different direction. “It is rather warm out today, is it not?”
“’About right for October, I’d say.”
“I thought you might have a bit of a thirst because of the warm weather?”
Jack smiled as the candle in his mind was lit. “Come to think of it, it is a bit on the warm side and a pull on the tap would do me no harm, that is, if I had coins in me pocket.”
Mrs. Morris pulled out a purse hidden deep in the folds of her dress and placed a shilling on the table in front of Jack. Again, Molly went wide-eyed as her mistress was not known for being loose with change, but here she was spotting her brother a shilling.
“As I said, I am curious about who the new tenant might be, but I must rely on your discretion.”
“My what?”
“Do not tell anyone who sent you and come back as soon as you know anything.”
“What about me tea?”
“Molly will warm it up for you when you get back.”
It was more than an hour before Jack returned to his oilcloth-covered chair in the Morris kitchen, and Mrs. Morris’s pinched face told him that he had better deliver her money’s worth of information.
“The man’s name is Darcy, and from what Mr. Jenkins said, the Darcy family owns half of Derbyshire.”
“That is very good. Very good news, indeed,” a smiling Mrs. Morris said. “Can you describe Mr. Darcy’s appearance?”
Jack laughed. “Mr. Jenkins said the bloke were older than dirt.”
Mrs. Morris’s smile collapsed. “Is Mr. Darcy a bachelor?”
Although Jack answered in the affirmative, he actually had no idea. But it was likely that a man that old had buried at least one wife.
“Did you learn anything else while you were at the inn?”
“The gent’s got a nice carriage with some fancy painting on the door and a matched pair of horses.”
Mrs. Morris tried again. “Did Mr. Jenkins have anything to say about Mr. Darcy?”
“He said he were tight-lipped and not letting on about what he thought about Netherfield Park.”
A disappointed Mrs. Morris told her confidant that if he learned anything new, he must come right back and share it with her.
“I know something right now,” Jack said, sitting up in his chair. “It ain’t Mr. Darcy who’ll be leasing Netherfield Park.”
“What! Why did you not say?”
“I was going to tell you when you give me me tea.”
While Molly poured the tea, Jack shared that Mr. Darcy’s purpose in coming to Meryton was to have a look at Netherfield Park on behalf of his friend, Mr. Charles Bingley. “It seems that this here Mr. Bingley won’t do nothin’ without his friend giving him the thumbs up.”
“Mr. Bingley! I know that name!” Mrs. Morris exclaimed. Mr. Bingley had been in Meryton a few weeks earlier and had expressed an interest in Netherfield Park, but when Mr. Morris had heard nothing after a few weeks’ time, he thought Mr. Bingley had chosen not to lease the property. All this was very promising. But then Mrs. Morris’s expression went from one of happiness to confusion. “I caught a glimpse of Mr. Bingley when he was in Mr. Morris’s office. The man is in his early twenties, but you are telling me that his friend is past his prime?”
“If that means that Mr. Darcy is old, well, you got that right. I saw him with me own two eyes coming down the stairs in the inn, creaking all the way. And he wears spectacles.”
“And what is wrong with spectacles?”
“Nothing. Except it means you’re getting on.”
“It means no such thing. It merely indicates a weakness in the eyes. Nothing to do with age at all.”
“If you say so.”
“And how did you learn that Mr. Darcy was here on Mr. Bingley’s behalf?”
Although Flitter had been the soul of discretion, unfortunately, one of the lads who had accompanied him from Derbyshire was not, and while in his cups, had revealed that Mr. Darcy was acting on behalf of Charles Bingley of Scarborough.
“Anything else? I must have it all.”
“That’s all I got,” Jack answered, but then added, “If you want, I can go back to the White Hart and see if there’s anything else to be learned.”
Mrs. Morris indicated that that would not be necessary. She was not sure that Jack’s intelligence had been worth the shilling she had already paid him.
After Jack was well down the lane, Mrs. Morris turned to her maid. “Molly, you are to say nothing of this to anyone.”
“Of course not, ma’am. I’d never.”
Realizing that Molly was a witness to her snooping, she quickly added, “You have my permission to sell the dregs out the back door,” she said, holding up her teacup and tapping it with her finger.
Molly smiled as if this were a gift from her mistress. But the truth was that she had already been doing that for months.
* * *
That evening, when Molly and Jack were at home, Jack wanted to know why Mrs. Morris cared if Mr. Darcy was a bachelor. “She’s already a got a husband. Besides, Mr. Jenkins says that this Darcy bloke is as deaf as a post and uses an ear horn so the lads who come down with him from Derbyshire don’t have to shout. Doesn’t sound like a great catch to me.”
“You really are a clod, aren’t you, Jack?”
“What’d I say?”
“You make it sound as if Mrs. Morris is interested in Mr. Darcy for herself.”
“Then what does she care if he’s married or not?”
“I’ll tell you why she cares. Mrs. Morris is one of the busiest busybodies in Meryton, and she’s always up to something. What she’s up to right now is looking for a husband for Priscilla, Mr. Morris’s niece. Before his brother popped his clogs, Mr. Morris agreed to support the daughter at school, and so Mrs. Morris wants her married so he can stop spending money on her. She’s got her eye on a fancy dinner service.”
“Priscilla Morris, you say? But Priscilla looks like a horse,” Jack said, laughing.
“She does a bit, but she’s a nice girl, and even horses need mates, no matter how old the stallion,” Molly said with a giggle.
“Well, if Priscilla gets to ride this one, it’ll probably be his last time.”
* * *
Jane heard the sound of the wagon wheels on the driveway and was quickly down the stairs and out the door. Lizzy, who had been visiting with their father’s aunt for three weeks, was home.
“Oh, Lizzy! How good it is to see you,” Jane said, embracing her sister. “But I thought you were to stay a month.”
“With our aunt on the mend—it really was only a cold—three weeks was more than sufficient time for a visit.”
After paying the driver, the sisters went into the house.
“You must tell me all about your visit. You were not the best correspondent.”
With the tea poured, Lizzy recounted her visit, but there was little of interest to report. Mr. Bennet’s aunt, who had never married, was known for her strict adherence to a schedule. Breakfast was at 10:00, the mid-day meal was at 3:00, and supper was at 8:00. All candles were extinguished by 10:00, making it impossible for Lizzy to write to Jane. Despite being idle for much of the day, when the clock chimed the ten o’clock hour, Liz
zy was eager for her bed and found the curfew no hardship.
“With Aunt Susan refusing to wear spectacles, a good part of my day was spent seeing to her correspondence and reading aloud to her. When she was feeling a little better, we went to the shops and the circulating library. Visiting the library is the highlight of her day. She loves having news from London.”
“Aunt Susan sounds very much like Papa, doesn’t she? I mean her interest in the news from town. But I find all the articles printed in the newspapers distressing. It is all about war with France or a possible war with America. Raise taxes, lower taxes. Tories versus Whigs. It is nothing but a recitation of arguments.”
“There are always the latest stories about the Prince Regent to amuse.”
“His Royal Highness is too amusing for my tastes,” a disgusted Jane said. “The amount of money he spends on himself and his houses is a scandal.”
After discussing the Regent’s latest escapades, including his relationship with Lady Hertford, who it was said, fed him morsels of food from her plate, Lizzy noted how quiet the house was and wondered where everyone was.
“Mama is in her room resting.”
An alarm immediately rang in Lizzy’s head. It was one o’clock in the afternoon. Why was Mama in bed at that hour? “Did something happen?”
Jane nodded. “This morning, Mama had an attack of nerves.”
Lizzy sat back in her chair. “And what brought this on? Papa?”
Jane shook her head. “We received another letter from Mr. Collins.”
“Another letter!” Lizzy said, shaking her head in disapproval. “That man must buy his ink by the barrel.”
There were few things that could upset Mrs. Bennet more than a letter from her husband’s cousin. Each missive was a tangible reminder that the estate had been entailed away from the female line to the benefit of Mr. Collins, and that if he so wished, upon Mr. Bennet’s death, Mr. Collins could order them out of their home.
Jane’s summary of Mr. Collins’s latest effort was little different from his previous letters: After receiving Holy Orders, he had accepted an appointment to a parish in Kent where esteemed patroness Lady Catherine de Bourgh continued to shower praise on her new curate and that his congregation adored him. What was different about this particular letter was that the parson was entertaining the idea of a visit to Longbourn.
The Bell Page 2