Page 16 of Some Natural Importance (Pride, Prejudice and Romance #3)

CHAPTER TEN

The heavily blotted letters, written by a hand fond of curlicues and longish sentences, boded ill of the writer.

At least Bingley’s untidy missives were short and to the point; one’s patience was tested only briefly before some understanding of his meaning set in.

If letters were a reflection of their author, the heir was a punctilious parser of pompous phrases.

Woe to the congregants in his church, and woe to the lady who became the object of his affections.

The brief image of Miss Elizabeth Bennet sharpening her wit at the vicar’s expense flickered through Darcy’s mind.

“Marrying one of your daughters to him is not the worst of it?”

“I have saved little. They will be at his mercy.”

Darcy was alarmed but unsurprised. “There is nothing for them?”

Mr Bennet leaned back in his chair and tapped a piece of paper on his leg before placing it next to the chessboard.

“Ten years ago, an acquaintance—a Mr Wadham—died. He owned a small farm he called Copperdale, never produced much but kept him and his wife in eggs and potatoes. His only relation was a distant cousin in Weymouth who retired from the Navy and, being without heirs, did not want the place so sold it to me. It is a pretty piece of land, about fifteen acres, and is home to the spring which provides water to lands downstream.”

Mr Bennet shook his head. “Matthew, Wadham’s only son, died before his fourteenth year.

He would come here to help with the harvest, take Jane and Elizabeth to the orchard to pick apples, and tell them stories and play games.

He gave them that ‘coin’ you found on my shelves.

After Wadham had to put down a horse, Matthew decided he would be a surgeon.

He needed books to study, and I allowed him in here,” he said, lifting his hand and gesturing around the book room.

“The boy was patching their barn roof when he fell. Jane and Lizzy were inconsolable. His mother passed a few years after, and a cancer took Wadham. He had told his relation about Matthew’s time at Longbourn, and the man wrote to me to ask of my interest in the farm.”

Darcy listened quietly; the death of a child was not uncommon, and the ripples from such a tragedy were profound. He looked at the second sheaf of papers Bennet had placed on the table.

“You purchased Copperdale years after you inherited Longbourn, and it is not part of the entail.”

Mr Bennet shook his head. “No, it is not, according to the law. My brother Philips is an attorney here, in what some would call a backwater, but he knows his business and has associates in London who concur.”

“You anticipate your cousin would contest your ownership, however?”

“I anticipate he will contest my will, if he reads well enough.”

“Your will,” Darcy repeated quietly. “Do you wish to maintain the house and lands for Mrs Bennet and your daughters? ”

“I had a little extra at that time and thought to have the house as a home for Mrs Bennet and the girls; it would be more comfortable than the hedgerows my wife so fears. Alas, the house is small and I have not maintained it to Mrs Bennet’s standards.

Only one of my daughters would have the faculties to manage a farm or estate, and I wish better for her. ”

The unspoken reference to Elizabeth was obvious to Darcy.

His host looked no happier as he leaned to his right to secure a carafe of brandy and two glasses. “No, I believe there may be far more of value there if I sell it, and I must secure the proceeds for them. William Collins may inherit Longbourn, but he will get no more from a Bennet.”

“Your cousin, the vicar who holds the entail is William Collins. Where is his parsonage?” Darcy was incredulous. Everything in his life seemed to be related and rarely were the connexions of any good.

“In Kent. It is called Hunsford.”

Darcy looked down at the letters still in his hand and thought over what he recalled of the man.

He had met Collins once, at Lady Catherine’s funeral.

He had been preoccupied with many matters—the worry, and sorrow and, yes, relief—regarding the servants and tenants, his grief and guilt, and the resurgence of rumours smearing him as the perpetrator of some gross injustice towards the ladies de Bourgh.

All he could recall of Collins was a heavy man who was overly pleased by the sound of his own voice.

Darcy had excused himself and walked away from the man’s grief and effusions over Lady Catherine and Anne and his own prospects under the newly installed master of Rosings.

He was the Bennets’ cousin, the man who would inherit Longbourn and was hellbent on taking one of the Bennet girls for his wife? That would not do at all.

“Are you acquainted with the man? ”

“Excuse me?”

“You appear to be lost in a memory, Mr Darcy. If it involves my cousin, good or bad, I would wish to know.”

“Your cousin was the parson for my...aunt’s estate in Kent. She appointed him to his position five years ago. She has since died, and the estate is under my ownership.” He dared not say more.

“Splendid. Then you may tell him to stay away and counsel him—as he is an excellent and dutiful correspondent—to leave Longbourn be.”

Knowing that any letter written by him and posted from Meryton would quickly lure the vicar to Longbourn, Darcy decided a missive sent from London announcing his wish to meet at Rosings would be the best means to keep Collins in Kent. He would write to his secretary.

“Now, Mr Bennet, I would like to ask you about this land. Where is it situated?”

“St Alban’s. On the River Ver.”

When his father had died, Darcy begrudged none of his bequests.

In his will, the elder Mr Darcy had seen to comfortable retirements, then or later, for his long-time valet and Pemberley’s elderly butler, as well as for Mrs Reynolds and the head butler and housekeeper in London.

By contrast, Darcy had seen his aunt rail against the gifts and largesse Sir Lewis de Bourgh had bestowed on servants, local clergy, his boot maker, and the son of his old fencing master.

Was Mr Bennet generous enough to think of those outside his household who might benefit from a bequest?

More critically, could he afford to provide anything to anyone beyond his own household?

Darcy doubted it. All but a little money set aside for his wife and daughters would go to this cousin.

Mr Bennet cared little for managing his estate, but he treasured his books; his heir appeared to be a man who read only the Bible and sermons.

He would find neither solace nor enlightenment from reading Shakespeare or Moliere, and clearly lacked the formal education to read, let alone recognise, Greek or Latin.

Collins would sell it off, every last volume.

Yet while something ought to be done to save Longbourn’s library, it was the ladies’ fortunes that were paramount.

Darcy needed more information about the land in St Albans.

The River Ver went underground and re-emerged in strength as two streams on the property.

If the water source could be marshalled and the land better tended, Copperdale’s value would increase.

He looked back to his stack of letters. Besides his usual correspondence, there was one additional, to a university friend, asking about the Romans.

If his theory about what might be buried in Copperdale’s land was correct, and no one besides young Matthew Wadham had ever found Roman treasure, the Bennet family could be very rich.

Or, doomed to a life of digging for buried treasure while unable to clothe and feed themselves.

Not even the return of the sun could lessen Elizabeth’s ire, especially after her father once again brushed away her attempts to impugn Mr Darcy.

“He is a private man and has said nothing of his marriage nor the loss of his wife, but I have taken his measure and he is a fine gentleman, Lizzy. Can you say as much for this Lieutenant Wickham? Is his side of this tragic tale supported by fact, by witnesses?”

His estate in arrears, he dallies at Longbourn.

Her indignation at the injustice committed by one man upon another—or was it one man upon two men?—provided her the vigour she had not felt for weeks.

“Longbourn’s doors have been barred to Lieutenant Wickham, based on the word of a man who takes advantage of one friend’s hospitality and the ear of another, offering them little advice of value and worth,” Elizabeth fumed, her anger taking action as she quickly outpaced her friend Charlotte Lucas.

“Lizzy, slow down!” Charlotte gripped Elizabeth’s hand and brought her apace.

“My father has heard Mr Wickham speak of his treatment from Mr Darcy and thought very ill of him for doing so. He has been acquainted with Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley these past weeks, at dinners and on shooting parties, and finds them both admirable gentlemen. He also says Mr Wickham has neglected to pay Mr Buckle for a rather substantial tab at the Royal Goat.”

Elizabeth considered this new information briefly before quickly settling it in her own mind.

“Mr Wickham is an officer and hosts his friends and those serving underneath him. Unlike many of his peers, he is not a second son with some monies at his disposal and thanks to the Darcys, he must pay his own way. I am certain he will pay his bills. He is a gentleman.”

She did not see Charlotte’s incredulous look but heard the doubt in her friend’s response. “One may be born a gentleman or one may earn the title, but it is not so easy to maintain it when one’s manners and disposition leads one to baser pursuits.”

“Charlotte!”

“Pegg has heard talk from the local housemaids that some men in uniform, and one in particular, are overly affectionate.”

“They are gossiping! You are gossiping!”

“As is Mr Wickham.” Charlotte shook her head. “Pegg has been in our house since I was a little girl. How long has Mr Wickham been known to any of us?”