Page 9 of Hidden Desires

MORNING DAWNED CLOUDLESS, the sky hinting at the beauty of the coming day. Bennet, rising earlier than usual, consumed a substantial breakfast in readiness for the work ahead.

He accepted his horse from the stable boy and guided it toward Netherfield, wanting to inspect the grounds in detail before he offered any advice.

Years had passed since he last crossed this lane with any purpose.

In those days, Mr. Tattershall, the owner, had welcomed every neighbor with easy hospitality.

Mrs. Tattershall, as friendly as her husband, often invited his daughters to pick apples from the orchard or gather flowers along the hedgerow.

But those days were gone. Tattershall had long since retreated to London, and the estate had stood neglected, each season bringing it closer to complete ruin.

He brought the horse to a halt near the orchard gate and dismounted. The boards of the fence leaned under their own weight, the hinges of the gate rusted until they no longer held it square. He tied the reins to a post and stepped inside, pushing aside a tangle of briars.

The orchard felt smaller than he remembered, though perhaps it only seemed that way because the trees had lost so much of their strength. Branches drooped under the weight of last year’s shriveled fruit, while moss clung thick along every trunk and vines wound high into the boughs.

He sighed. Mrs. Tattershall had once taken such pride in these trees, calling them her gift to future generations. Bennet could not help thinking she would have wept to see them now.

At the far end of the orchard, he paused near a line of stumps where several trees had been felled. From the rough cuts and the chips left scattered in the grass, it appeared the work had been recent. Was it an attempt to clear diseased growth before the new tenant arrived?

Judging by the neglect all around him, Bennet thought it unlikely. Yet someone must have given the order, for he had never known Tattershall to set foot here again.

Beyond the fence, a narrow track led toward the tenant fields. He untied his horse and walked it along the rutted lane, pausing where the land opened into broad rows of oats and wheat.

From a distance, the fields looked passable, but closer inspection revealed the truth: the furrows ran crooked, weeds sprouted between the stalks, and the rails sagged under their own weight, the posts leaning like weary soldiers.

He could see hoof prints among the rows and imagined more than one harvest had been stolen by wandering animals.

A thin line of smoke rose from a cottage nearby. Bennet turned the horse aside, thinking he might find someone willing to speak about the work done, or left undone, since the last harvest.

He guided the horse past the field’s edge and along the low track toward the cottage. As he drew near, the door opened, and a man stepped out, wiping his hands on a coarse cloth. He paused when he saw Bennet and dipped his head in greeting.

“Good morning,” Bennet called. “I hope I am not intruding.”

“Not in the least,” the man replied, his voice steady but wary. “I saw you looking over the fields.”

“I was,” Bennet said, leading the horse a few steps nearer. “I am Mr. Bennet of Longbourn. Mr. Bingley requested my opinion on the condition of the estate.”

The man’s shoulders eased at that. “Then you are welcome, sir. My name is William.”

Bennet inclined his head. “It is a hard business, managing land without help. I see you have done what you could.”

William glanced at the rows of wheat, then back at Bennet. “There is no shame in honest effort, though I know it looks poor enough. Without horses or proper tools, a man can only do so much.”

“I understand,” Bennet said. “How many families remain?”

“Five,” William said, folding the cloth in his hands. “There were twice that many when the mistress still lived. Some left for town, hoping for work. Others went to relations. Those who stayed did so because they had nowhere else to go.”

“And the cottages?”

William looked back at the low rooftops. “One roof gave in last winter, so we took what we could and patched it with spare boards. Another chimney fell in a storm two years past, but the family still lives there. They say it keeps out most of the rain.”

“No help from the steward?”

“None,” William said. “He came once, soon after the master left, and promised the cottages would be mended before winter, but we never saw him again.”

“Yet you remain.”

William’s eyes did not waver. “This is my home. My father built some of these fences, and his father before him. If I left, it would feel like burying them twice.”

Bennet gave a short nod. “That is all I wished to know.”

He thanked William and led the horse back to the track, where he climbed back into the saddle.

From the rise beyond the cottage, he paused to survey the other plots.

Each told the same story in different degrees; patchwork repairs, neglected fences, rows sown by hand where no draft animal had worked in years.

He had known the estate was in decline, but seeing it up close left him uneasy. It would take more than good intentions to restore the estate to respectability.

At the boundary where the fields met the lane, he paused again, turning in the saddle for a last look.

The orchard stood in the distance, a tangle of limbs and creeping vines.

Between it and the tenant fields stretched a broad sweep of pasture, the grass thick and overgrown in places where no scythe had passed.

He sat for a long moment, taking in the silent fields and the tangle of the orchard, before he turned the horse with the reins and directed it toward the house.

As he approached, he took note of the cracked plaster along the corners of the facade.

Ivy had climbed unchecked up one wall, pressing against the window casements and threading beneath the shutters.

A length of gutter had broken loose and hung askew, knocking against the brick with each shift of the wind.

The front steps bore moss along the edges, dull and pitted where water had stood too long.

A groom, brushing dust from his coat, stepped from the stable and came to take the reins, offering a respectful nod before leading the horse inside.

Bennet offered a brief word of thanks before crossing the yard to the entrance hall.

Inside, the air was close, with the stale sweetness of a place left shut in more seasons than it should.

The hall, though grand in its proportions, wore the tired look of a home too large for its purpose.

A runner lay faded to the color of old parchment.

The wainscoting was dull and marked by scratches where furniture had been dragged without care.

Dust clung in the corners of the stair and across the tops of frames holding portraits so dim with grime he could hardly make out the faces.

Once, it would have grieved him to see such waste.

Now, he felt only a resigned disappointment.

He paused at the library door, hand on the latch, and took a steadying breath. The past was past, and it would do no good to bring regret or pity into the conversation that lay ahead. Better to look forward.

He entered without ceremony, the scent of old paper and shuttered rooms meeting him as he considered how best to speak of what he had seen.

Mr. Bingley looked up from his study of a small ledger that was propped across his knee. He had settled himself against a pile of cushions on the couch, his injured foot resting on a stool. Though he looked tired, the color in his face was improved since their last meeting.

“Mr. Bennet,” he said, closing the book and setting it aside. “I hope you found the ride pleasant.”

“I did,” Bennet replied, taking a few steps deeper into the room. “Though the land itself was less pleasing.”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Bingley’s mouth. “So, may I assume your opinion of Netherfield has suffered since you saw it last?”

Bennet inclined his head. “Any man’s would. I recall when this was a tidy estate, when the fences stood straight and the fields were worked with proper teams. Now it looks as though a generation of neglect has passed over it.”

Bingley rested his hand on the arm of the couch, fingers tapping in a slow rhythm. “You are not the first to say so. My agent claimed the tenants were idle, that they let the place decay for want of effort.”

“And you believed him?” Bennet asked, his tone mild.

“I had no way to judge.” Bingley shrugged his shoulders. “This is my first experience managing any property, and I had little to guide me but a bundle of letters and what he chose to say.”

“Then let me show you something,” Bennet said.

He crossed to the nearest shelf and drew down a volume bound in leather.

The cover all but separated in his hand and when he eased it open, the pages crumbled at the edges, leaving a trail of fine powder across his palm.

He set it aside with a tight jaw and drew out a second book.

Its spine split when he lifted it, spilling fragments onto the shelf below.

He tried a third. The paper smelled of mildew and dust, and he closed it with more force than he intended.

“I cannot abide seeing books treated so,” he said at last. “It is a kind of ruin as wasteful as letting the land go to weeds.”

Bingley watched him, a pensive look in his eyes. “I confess that I never thought of it that way. My father’s library was always well-kept, but he did the keeping. I never had any reason to consider how easy it might be to lose a collection.”

“Easy enough,” Bennet said, though his tone had softened. He brushed the dust from his hands and turned back. “And in the fields, the same principle applies. Neglect one season, and the next is twice as hard. Leave it longer still, and you will have nothing to start from.”

Bingley looked down at his injured foot, then back at Bennet. “The man you spoke to, William, did he say why the planting was so irregular?”

“He did,” Bennet said. “They have no animals left to pull the plow. Your predecessor sold them all.”

Bingley’s brows drew together. “I had no idea.”

“They have no choice but to break the ground by hand, if they can,” Bennet went on. “Spring planting is over, but if the fields are turned this autumn, it will make next year’s work less backbreaking. By then, I hope you will have your own teams and equipment in place.”

Bingley studied the carpet for a moment. “If I am still here when spring comes, I will make certain the tenants have everything they need.”

Bennet regarded him, his gaze steady. “If you wish, I can spare two teams from Longbourn after the fall harvest. They are accustomed to heavy clay, and it will not trouble me to lend them for a week or two.”

Bingley looked up, and some of the tightness left his face. “Thank you. Even if I find I cannot stay, I would prefer to leave the land in better condition than I found it.”

Bennet glanced toward the window, where the sun had climbed higher, brightening the worn draperies and the dust that clung to the panes.

“I must return to Longbourn,” he said, his tone practical rather than apologetic. “There are matters at home that will not wait.”

“Of course,” Bingley replied. “You have been more generous with your time than I deserve.”

“You have chosen to shoulder a burden most would leave for someone else,” Bennet said. “That counts for something.”

He stepped toward the door, and Bingley shifted in his seat as though debating whether to say more, but then simply inclined his head in farewell instead.

Bennet laid his hand on the latch and paused. “You need not decide everything today,” he said without turning. “Consider what you can manage and what you cannot. The rest will follow.”

“I will remember.” Bingley’s voice was quiet as he nodded.

Bennet opened the door and almost collided with Miss Bingley, who stood in the hall with her hand raised, as if preparing to knock. She lowered it slowly, her expression as composed as ever, though her eyes darted from Bennet to her brother with unmistakable censure.

“I trust your discussion has given Charles fresh cause to squander his resources,” she said, her voice sweet and thin.

Bennet did not look at her, but stepped past without comment, leaving the library door ajar behind him.

In the hall, the hush of old stone and faded finery closed around him like a memory. He paused only long enough to draw a steady breath, then walked on.

As he stepped into the morning light, he slowed his pace, allowing the hush of the old house to slip behind him. He paused near the edge of the paddock, one hand resting on the gatepost, and looked back across the gravel sweep toward the shuttered windows.

It was difficult not to recall how the Tattershalls had once filled Netherfield with warmth and laughter.

He could almost hear Mrs. Tattershall’s voice calling from the threshold, urging her daughters to gather blossoms before the midday heat.

In those days, the orchard flourished, and the fields yielded enough harvest to feed every family on the estate.

Now the air felt hollow, as if the place were waiting for someone to claim it again.

He wondered if Bingley would have the resolve to see the work through. The young man’s good nature was plain enough, but good nature alone had never mended a fence or set a roof straight.

With a sigh, he lifted his hat to wipe his brow and turned his steps toward the stable. The morning had begun with promise, and he would not let the memory of what had been, nor the uncertainty of what might come, rob the day of its brightness.