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Secluded in his study, Mr. Bennet tapped his fingers on the desk, his thoughts working over the situation from every angle.

It was rare that the house was so quiet; the absence of Jane and Elizabeth, the faint traces of Mrs. Bennet’s recent complaints, and the memory of James’s youthful presence all left a peculiar calm in their wake.

But in that calm, the facts of his family’s position pressed all the more sharply.

The debt stood—unchallenged, unforgiving.

One thousand pounds, now due. His solicitor had made the situation clear in the most gentlemanly terms: either the debt was paid in full, or legal proceedings would begin.

And though the estate itself was protected by entail, nothing else was.

Reputation, comfort, peace—all would be stripped away.

Some twenty years ago, in one of his few moments of foresight, Mr. Bennet had arranged for a modest but secure portion to be set aside for each of his daughters—funds placed in trust, protected by law, beyond the reach of creditors.

When the younger daughters were born, he had created a fund for each in turn.

It was the only part of the family’s fortune he could not touch, and the only part he had not mismanaged.

The gambling had come afterward—a foolish attempt to recover the sacrifice, to restore what had been given freely before the full cost could be felt.

It had been reckless; he admitted that freely now.

He had told himself it was for the family, but in truth, it had been for his pride—to mend the damage quietly, without confession or humiliation.

And now? Now there was no hiding.

Mr. Bingley was at Netherfield, apparently alone, and, by all appearances, very much interested in Jane.

If the young man’s affection proved genuine—and Mr. Bennet believed it was—then here was perhaps the most promising prospect Longbourn had ever known.

But would Bingley act, or would he be led away by friends and advisers?

Was he the sort of man to take responsibility, or simply drift through life, amiable but ineffectual?

Suppose Bingley’s regard for Jane was sincere.

If he were spoken to frankly, might he be moved to act with decision?

And if, in that conversation, Mr. Bennet made it clear that mutual cooperation would benefit them both—Bingley gaining a wife suited to his heart and household, and Mr. Bennet securing a future for Jane and perhaps relief for the family’s precarious fortunes—what might result?

Bingley, for all his wealth, was new to the responsibilities of landed property.

Mr. Bennet, for all his faults, had long experience of estate management.

If Bingley proved as open as he seemed, a useful partnership could arise.

Jane, married to a worthy man who had the means and will to help her family—truly, not even Mrs. Bennet could wish for more.

He weighed his own reluctance, the awkwardness of appearing too eager, against the more pressing danger of inaction. Better to act now, he thought, than to regret forever a chance not taken. For all his habitual indolence, Mr. Bennet knew when the hour called for effort.

His decision made, he rose from his chair and left the study, crossing the hall with a purposeful stride. At the threshold, he found Mrs. Hill dusting a side table.

“Mrs. Hill, please let Mrs. Bennet know that I shall be out for two or three hours. There is no cause for alarm, and I expect to return before dinner.”

Mrs. Hill nodded, accustomed to relaying such messages without comment. She watched him a moment as he fetched his gloves and hat, and though she said nothing, there was a flicker of quiet concern in her eyes. Mr. Bennet had not gone out on horseback with such determination in years.

He stepped outside into the late afternoon air, the fading sunlight casting long shadows across the gravel path.

In the stable, the familiar scent of straw and saddle soap greeted him.

The routine of saddling his horse steadied his thoughts—hands busy, mind focused.

For all his distaste for exertion, the act of doing something, of moving toward a solution, lent him a sense of dignity he had not felt in some time.

Once mounted, he guided the horse out through the side gate, keeping to the narrower lanes that led across the fields.

The countryside was calm, touched with the soft gold of a September evening.

As he rode, he rehearsed the words he might use with Bingley: candid but not desperate, honest yet without apology.

He must not frighten the young man with the full weight of the truth—but neither would he lie.

It was a fine line to walk, but he had walked narrower ones before, in Parliament chambers and drawing rooms where words did more damage than weapons.

Perhaps Bingley would be shocked, or offended.

Perhaps he would hesitate. But perhaps—just perhaps—he would see that this was not only a chance to marry the woman he admired, but to become a true master of his estate, with guidance from someone who had managed land and tenants long before he had inherited his income.

And if Bingley responded with generosity—if he offered help even in some modest form—it might be enough to cover the rest, to close the gap between Mr. Bennet’s dwindling list of prospects and the demands of the solicitor.

He allowed himself, as the gentle rhythm of the horse's gait carried him forward, to imagine Jane secure at Netherfield, her dignity preserved, her future unmarred by scandal.

He thought of Elizabeth, her quick eyes already full of questions, and of Mary and the younger girls, still unaware of the cliff their family stood upon.

No, the trust funds could not be touched. What remained must be guarded for the girls’ futures. But perhaps, if this went well, they would not need to be.

It was, he thought as the chimneys of Netherfield Park appeared over the hedgerows, the best plan he had devised in years—and, with luck, the most important.

***

The house at Netherfield stood quiet and imposing under the softening light of late afternoon. Mr. Bennet, dismounting at the front steps with the stiffness of a man unaccustomed to riding, handed the reins to the waiting stable boy and approached the door.

A well-dressed footman answered, bowing with a respectful nod and a trace of familiarity.

“Good day to you, Mr. Bennet,” he said. “It is a pleasure to see you again, sir.”

Mr. Bennet returned the greeting with a slight incline of the head. “Good day. Might I speak with Mr. Bingley?”

“I am sorry, sir, but Mr. Bingley is currently in London. He departed this morning and is expected either this evening or early tomorrow,” the man explained with an apologetic tone.

Mr. Bennet nodded, concealing his disappointment. “Please be so kind as to inform your master, when he returns, that Mr. Bennet of Longbourn called upon him—on a personal and urgent matter. I should be grateful for a reply at his earliest convenience.”

“Yes, sir. I shall see to it.”

Thanking the man, Mr. Bennet descended the steps and turned back toward the stable yard.

He had gone only a few yards when the sound of hooves on packed earth drew his attention.

Turning, he saw Mr. Darcy approaching at a measured pace, returning from the direction of Lucas Lodge.

There was something striking in the solitary figure astride a dark bay, his coat collar turned up slightly against the breeze, the setting sun casting sharp golden lines across his features.

Upon seeing Mr. Bennet, Darcy reined in and inclined his head. “Mr. Bennet. A surprise, sir.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Bennet replied. “I had hoped to find Mr. Bingley. Unfortunately, I have just been informed he is away.”

“Only temporarily,” Darcy said, dismounting with practiced ease. “He expected to return this evening. There is a chance he may yet arrive before nightfall.”

“Then I am, as usual, a master of ill timing,” Mr. Bennet replied with dry humor.

Darcy paused, then added, “If you are willing, sir, I would be glad to receive you indoors. Until Mr. Bingley returns, it is only proper that you should be offered the comfort of the house.”

Mr. Bennet hesitated briefly, then gave a short nod. “You are very obliging, Mr. Darcy. I suppose an hour more cannot hurt.”

Darcy led the way up the front steps and through the entrance hall, where the footman bowed them in once again. They proceeded only into the parlor, where the fire had been lit against the gathering chill. The room was quiet, the windows glowing faintly with the last blessings of the day’s light.

The two men sat—Darcy near the hearth, Mr. Bennet at ease in a high-backed chair across from him. For a few minutes, they spoke lightly, the conversation drifting over hunting prospects, the state of the road to Meryton, and the erratic temper of the early autumn weather.

“At least the ground is still firm,” Mr. Bennet said, eyeing the window. “Though I suspect the season will turn quickly once it begins.”

“Indeed,” Darcy replied. “I passed a farmer this morning near an orchard who claimed the apples were ripening a week earlier than last year.”

Mr. Bennet gave a short chuckle. “Hertfordshire farmers measure time more by their fruit than their calendars. But I find their judgment often better than the Almanack.”

Darcy inclined his head, the faintest smile touching his lips.

The humor eased some of the weight that had followed Mr. Bennet through the door, and after a brief pause, he shifted in his seat.

“I must beg your pardon for what I am about to say, Mr. Darcy,” he began, his tone changing—lower, more deliberate. “I would not trouble you with private matters, nor presume upon so brief an acquaintance, but the nature of my visit to Netherfield this evening is not entirely social.”

Darcy looked toward him, attentive but reserved.