Page 22 of Hidden Desires
DARCY PULLED ON THE REINS and brought his horse to a halt before Longbourn’s entrance, then leaned forward in the saddle, surveying the grounds for signs of the man he had come to meet.
Memories of yesterday’s introduction returned, along with Bingley’s description of Longbourn’s master as a man of wit and intelligence. Though Miss Bingley had hinted at indifference, the condition of the property supported her brother’s account.
The gardens showed care, with trimmed hedgerows and swept gravel paths, and though Darcy searched for subtler signs of neglect beneath the surface, he saw none.
He nudged the horse forward, dismounted near the steps, and handed the reins to a groom before approaching the entrance, gravel crunching underfoot as he paused at the threshold to steady his thoughts.
The door opened as Bennet stepped out, extended his hand, and said, “Welcome to Longbourn. I hope the road was not too disagreeable.”
His smile faltered as he looked over Darcy’s shoulder. “You came alone? I thought you planned to bring your lovely sister. Come in, please.”
Darcy grasped the proffered hand and gave it a firm shake. “Thank you, and believe me, the pleasure is mine. Georgiana and I discussed it, but we agreed her visit should wait until you and I reviewed the Netherfield situation.”
Bennet stepped aside and waved him in. “I understand. Come in, then, and let us settle the matter today. My daughters are eager to meet her, especially Lizzy.”
Darcy followed him through the door. “I should thank you for helping Bingley. He may not have expressed his gratitude, but most of his letter urging me to return was devoted to your praise.”
Bennet laughed and shook his head. “It was the least I could do. I imagine, though, you have more than a few questions about what I am doing.”
“I do,” Darcy said, his gaze drifting around the entrance hall as he took the measure of the man who had welcomed him.
The space carried an air of faded elegance, its former grandeur softened by the comfort of long use. Upon crossing the threshold, he had entered a place that seemed to receive him without pretense.
High ceilings trimmed with ornate molding displayed the skill of the men who built the house. A curved staircase rose to the upper floor, its mahogany banisters polished and gleaming. Golden light poured through tall windows, casting warmth across the flagstone floor.
Carved doors lined either side of the hall, suggesting drawing rooms and family parlors. Given the learning and intelligence attributed to Bennet, Darcy presumed a library lay beyond one of them, its volumes gathered across generations.
He admired the details: portraits hung with care, a vivid rug softened the stone underfoot, and the air carried the faint scent of lavender, all signs of thoughtful stewardship.
This home held memory and tradition, and in a quiet way, reminded him of Pemberley.
He turned back to his host. “But I would prefer to continue our conversation in the orchard. Most of my questions concern the condition of Bingley’s and the steps you advised to restore the trees.”
Bennet tilted his head and smiled, his eyes gleaming. “Bingley’s orchard, is it now? Does that mean he plans to buy the estate?”
“Not that I know,” Darcy said with a short laugh. “I only meant that he is leasing it. Still, I would not be surprised if he made an offer.”
He paused, raised an eyebrow, and allowed a grin. “It seems my friend has grown rather attached to this neighborhood and its residents.”
His companion gave him a long look, as if waiting for a careless remark in the style of Miss Bingley, but Darcy remained silent, content to let Bennet speak first.
Instead, Bennet shook his head and chuckled. “I noticed. Jane has not confided her feelings, but she has yet to complain.”
Darcy nodded and turned toward the orchard. “I suspect Bingley would enjoy hearing that. He will not hear it from me, of course, but the knowledge would please him.”
“Why not tell him?” Bennet asked, one brow lifted as a puzzled smile formed. “He is a gentleman, so what harm could come of it?”
Darcy coughed once, uncertain whether to shield his friend from possible heartache or tell the truth. If the interest was not mutual, Bingley might face embarrassment, but staying silent risked allowing him to believe something never promised.
“Bingley is not a gentleman,” he said at last. “The family fortune came from his father’s success in trade. His children may claim the status, but he cannot.”
Bennet waved a hand in dismissal, the response unexpected. “From what I have seen, he shows more gentlemanly conduct than many landowners in the county. Whether he claims the status means little to me. His bearing is enough, and I doubt Jane would care either.”
Darcy stopped at the edge of the orchard and turned to face him. “Thank you. That is a refreshing change from the attitudes he often encounters in London.”
Bennet shrugged. “It is only common sense. I prefer to judge a man on his character, not society’s opinion. You need not worry about telling him. From what I have seen, he is not one to exploit the situation.”
“No, he is not, but I still have no intention of speaking. Let him find out for himself whether her interest matches his. There is no reason to make it easy. Let him work for her affection, as any man should. Besides, I take a certain pleasure in watching him struggle to find the right words when she is near.”
Bennet laughed and shook his head. “You are a devious man. Remind me never to fall into a similar trap when you are near.”
“Why?” Darcy asked, his eyes wide with mock surprise. “Are you planning to court someone?”
“Not anytime soon, I assure you. But if I were, I would prefer not to be the subject of your schemes.”
Darcy grinned. “Fair enough. It is far more entertaining to let events unfold without interference. Watching Bingley navigate his feelings for Miss Bennet is like observing a master at work.”
Bennet raised an eyebrow. “You take pleasure in your friend’s distress?”
Darcy’s smile deepened. “Indeed. There is something satisfying in seeing him struggle through the uncertainties of courtship. It reminds me that even the most amiable of men must labor for love.”
Bennet gave him a sidelong glance. “You have a strange sense of humor. Let us hope your amusement does not turn to heartbreak, for either of them.”
He led Darcy into the orchard, where the man stopped and turned to face him in the same motion. “I have no intention of allowing anything of the sort,” he said, the frown chasing the smile from his face.
“If Bingley begins to believe Miss Bennet is indifferent, I will ensure he knows her feelings are otherwise.” He paused as the smile returned. “Of course, I would never say so directly. Two or three well-placed hints should be enough.”
Bennet sighed and shook his head. “Do any of your friends, male or female, trust you with the details of their affections? And if they do, what is wrong with them?”
Darcy lifted both hands, palms up. “Let us say they choose their words with care when I am present.”
“I do not blame them,” Bennet said, stopping to open the orchard gate and waving Darcy through. “If I had a close acquaintance with your penchant for torment and misery, I would think two or three times before sharing any secrets.”
“What you call torment and misery, I consider entertainment,” Darcy replied, pausing to study Bennet’s handiwork.
The orchard stretched in four straight rows of mature fruit trees, bordered by trimmed grass paths. Stone walls, covered in weathered ivy, enclosed the grove and lent a sense of peace unmatched by any part of Netherfield.
Apple, pear, and plum trees reached skyward, their branches heavy with blossoms whose mingled fragrance carried the promise of a bountiful harvest. Bees drifted from tree to tree, their quiet hum part of nature’s steady rhythm.
Sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting golden patches across the grass, reminding Darcy of the cobbled paths at Pemberley where he had played as a child.
“An improvement over Bingley’s,” he muttered, thinking of Netherfield’s neglected orchard, its trees wild and dying.
“That is what happens when you do not bother to prune or pull weeds,” Bennet said behind him, making Darcy start. “A little dung around the roots helps as well.”
“You were not supposed to hear that,” Darcy said, warmth rising to his face. “Your orchard reminds me of Pemberley’s tidy rows and healthy trees, while most of the ones at Netherfield should be cut down.”
“And what do you propose doing with the land once the orchard is gone?” Bennet asked, his expression clouding.
“Turn it into another plot and lease it,” Darcy said with a wave. “There must be someone in town who wants to grow crops. Or offer it to a tenant already on the estate. One of them might want the chance to earn more for his family.”
Bennet shook his head, laughing as he pointed to the trees.
“Netherfield’s orchard is as old as mine, and this one has been in my family for two hundred years.
The roots can run far, depending on how the trees were pruned.
Bingley’s may look neglected, but that does not mean the roots are dead.
Turning an orchard into productive farmland is not simple. ”
Darcy swept his gaze across the Longbourn trees. The symmetry, health, and care evident in the grove spoke of Bennet’s stewardship, and Darcy suspected the yield from such attention was both abundant and reliable.
“Then what is Bingley supposed to do?” he asked, lifting his hands to forestall a reply.
“He said you believed the trees could be saved, but they are in such poor condition that the effort may not be worth the cost. Bingley, on the other hand, may get nothing this year, and if there is fruit, I doubt it will be fit to eat. Still, he wants to try, and I cannot fault him for that. What would you suggest? My experience may not apply, since the soil at Pemberley differs from what we have here.”