Page 3 of A Matter of Murder

“Come, we’ll call for tea so that it’s ready by the time they catch up,” Jane said, gesturing toward the entrance to the house.

It was about then that Lizzie remembered she’d dropped Guy’s leash upon arrival, and now she turned about, looking for the dog. “Guy!” she called. “Guy, here!” Not five minutes at Netherfield, and she’d lost him already!

Darcy nudged her arm. “He’s not gone far, see?” He pointed to the pristine lawn beyond the drive. The small dog was lounging on his back in the grass, tongue lolling. The sight brought a smile to Lizzie’s face. Aside from a few public parks, there wasn’t much grass in Cheapside—that is, not any that Lizzie wouldwant him rolling in—and the Bennets didn’t have a large garden back home. The little dog rolled back onto his belly as Lizzie continued to call his name, and then reluctantly got to his feet and trotted over to Lizzie. “Good boy,” Lizzie told him, then added more quietly, “Now don’t go running off. We might not ever find you again in this large a park.”

Lizzie and Guy trailed after Charlotte and Darcy toward the entrance of the house, but not before passing by the line of servants standing off to the side. In all her excitement to finally be free of the carriage and hug her sister once more, she hadn’t paid much mind to the receiving line. They hadn’t moved from their severe formation, except for the footmen who were now scurrying to the luggage with a sharp nod from the butler. Lizzie tried not to look shocked at the sheer number of them—more than twenty people, all for this old house and their small house party! Lizzie smiled, trying to catch anyone’s eye, but everyone from the lowliest of maids to the housekeeper kept their eyes downcast. Lizzie recognized a number of faces—Grigson, the Bingleys’ butler from London; Mrs. Reed, the housekeeper; and Jane’s lady’s maid; and more than a few of the maids and footmen. Lizzie felt her smile falter as she moved past them—the stiff formality of the finer houses in London was not what she was accustomed to. At home, they had a maid and a cook who’d chat idly with Lizzie and occasionally shoo her along if they were busy.

But Jane was a Bingley now, with all the accoutrements of wealth to show for it.

“You brought many of your London staff with you,” Lizzie remarked to Jane.

“We had to send for Mrs. Reed and a few others not long after we arrived,” Jane said. “Charles’s great-aunt had only one servant at the end, can you believe it?”

Lizzie could not—especially when she stepped inside the house. The entrance hall of Netherfield Park was even grander than the façade, if possible. It was all gleaming dark wood and polished marble, and Guy’s toenails clicked daintily as he followed her into the house. There was a gently sloping grand staircase leading up from the ground floor to the first floor, wide enough that one could steer that hypothetical phaeton right into the house and up the stairs—that is, if horses could pull carriages up staircases.

Mrs. Bennet gasped, and the sound echoed. “Mr. Bingley, what a fine house! And to think this was in your family all this time and you never knew!” She shot Jane a conspiratorial wink, which Jane pretended not to see. “How fortuitous for you!”

“Mama, I hardly think you can call the death of Bingley’s great-aunt fortuitous,” Lizzie hissed.

“Oh, he knows what I mean,” Mrs. Bennet said with a wave of her hand.

One thing Lizzie appreciated about her new brother-in-law was his ability to blithely ignore Mrs. Bennet’s more impolite remarks. “I’ve always known of the estate, but had no reason to believe it would ever pass into my possession. The entail was broken ages ago, and it was never a guarantee that Great-AuntHonoria would leave it to me, although my father certainly hoped she would. He named Netherfield Shipping after the place.”

“A bid for her good favor?” Darcy asked.

“Likely, although it didn’t do him much good. We never had an invitation. I grew up hearing stories about how she’d married my great-uncle for his wealth, taken over the family home, and left us all out in the cold.”

Bingley certainly didn’t need the inheritance now. Although his family was of good standing, they’d fallen on hard times two generations previously. It wasn’t until Bingley and his late father had built up Netherfield Shipping that they’d been able to restore their family to the upper echelons of society. Bingley had good manners, a good business (even better ever since Lizzie and Darcy had solved the small piracy problem that had been plaguing him more than a year earlier), and very favorable connections. He hadn’t needed a family estate in the country, but two weeks before Jane and Bingley’s wedding, he’d received word that Mrs. Honoria Bingley, the wife of his grandfather’s brother, had passed away and bequeathed the entirety of her estate to the only living male Bingley heir.

Darcy had handled the legalities with Mrs. Bingley’s solicitor, naturally, so Lizzie knew a bit more about the matter than she likely would have otherwise—there hadn’t been very much money, but the true value had been Netherfield Park and its surrounding farms, which had been in the care of a steward for as long as anyone could remember while Netherfield Park satclosed up to all except its elderly mistress and a small handful of loyal servants whose numbers had dwindled to just one at the time of her death. Lizzie had expected a dilapidated old country manor house with drafty windows and soot-stained walls and perhaps mice.Lotsof mice.

She hadn’t expected vaulted ceilings and gilt-framed artwork.

“We had no idea what we were walking into when we arrived,” Bingley continued, smiling fondly at Jane. “Not quite the honeymoon we’d imagined.”

“Nonsense,” Jane said with a faint flush as she smiled back at her new husband. “I didn’t mind in the slightest.”

Lizzie didn’t know whether to grin or roll her eyes.

“The house was built in the sixteenth century,” Bingley continued as he led them deeper into the echoing hall. “My great-grandfather constructed the west wing and made repairs to the central areas of the house, but I’m afraid the east wing suffered a fire some decades back and has fallen into disrepair—my great-aunt wasn’t one for renovations, apparently. For everyone’s safety, we’ve closed it off.”

Lizzie couldn’t help the arch of her brows at that. Jane caught her look and said, “Don’t worry, it’s not as though the entire wing is about to collapse.”

“So you claim,” a voice said, echoing through the hall. They all looked up to see Caroline Bingley floating down the grand staircase. The sun shone through the windows, casting a warm glow on her golden hair, and if Lizzie had been the betting type, she’d have put money on Caroline planning her entrance. “I canhear the entire house creaking throughout the night, as if it’s going to tumble down with a stiff breeze.”

No one laughed, which was just as well because judging by Caroline’s sour expression, Lizzie didn’t think she would take kindly to it. Bingley just shook his head good naturedly. “She’s exaggerating, of course. There are a few odd creaks and moans, but it’s nothing more than an old house settling. And I have a builder coming up from London to inspect the east wing and recommend the necessary repairs.”

“Is my daughter safe here?” Mrs. Bennet asked, placing a hand on Jane’s shoulder.

“Mama, it’s safe as long as we don’t go into the east wing!” Jane rushed to assure her. “We’ve been quite busy renovating the rest of the house. Caroline’s help with the decorating has been invaluable, of course—you must see the paper she picked out for the drawing room. We’ve done the main rooms, and although we haven’t gotten to the bedchambers yet, I think you’ll be comfortable.”

“Even if the décor is a bit baroque,” Caroline added.

Jane winced, and Lizzie felt her protective instincts kick in. “That’s all right. Baroque furniture never killed anyone,” she said with false cheer.

“Is everything always so violent with you?” Caroline asked. “No one said anything about killing.”

“Caroline,” Bingley said reprovingly, and at the same time Mrs. Bennet laughed.