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

CHAPTER TWO

“Yes, no, yes, no, yes, no, yes!”

Laughing, Elizabeth Bennet tossed aside the denuded bloom and roughly brushed the petals off her skirt. “Even the flowers scheme against me today.”

“I promise not to tell anyone,” said her sister Jane as she slid to the ground beside her. “You know Mama is not completely wrong. Kitty and Lydia are too young to be out, but Mary’s refusal to take part has frustrated them.”

“Lydia is too young to be out and too wild to be kept away. ‘A beribboned conundrum,’ according to Papa,” came Elizabeth’s reply. “Our parents will not be the ones keeping their eyes on them and ensuring they do not embarrass themselves or shame our family. It shall be our responsibility.”

“I believe it has ever been our responsibility as their elder sisters.”

Heedless of the dirt and grass her gown might carry back to Longbourn, Elizabeth lay back on the ground. “Do you not wish to escape that responsibility and go to a card party or assembly without younger sisters? To think only of yourself and your own enjoyment? ”

“I could not enjoy any of those gatherings without at least one of my younger sisters,” Jane replied with a sly grin. “Every room graced by Lizzy Bennet is much more entertaining.”

Her sister’s compliment brought a smile to Elizabeth’s face, but she remained pensive, lying in the field amidst autumn’s browning grasses and fading blooms. At twenty years of age, she felt herself…

if not on the cusp of some great change, at least in need of it.

Minding her younger sisters’ behaviour at every social engagement until they were all wed was not the change she had anticipated.

“You are off to London tomorrow, where the rooms shall be without my entertainments,” Elizabeth replied glumly.

Jane grasped her sister’s hand. “You will follow me there shortly. It shall only be a fortnight or so.”

Yes, once her aunt gave birth and her aunt’s sister had left, there would be room for Elizabeth to join them in the house at Gracechurch Street.

It gave her much to look forward to, but even that visit could not scratch the itch she felt for something new, something different from life at Longbourn, where her mother would prevail in arguments, and her father would roll his eyes, say nothing, and then mock all of it to her within the walls of his book room.

As she took in the horizon, she wondered what it might be like to put on the seven league boots she’d read of in fairy tales and strike out on a walk of hundreds of miles.

As pretty as Hertfordshire was, it was known to her.

New vistas, new lands, and new adventures would sate her thirst. None of that was likely, however, for the second daughter of a country gentleman with little inclination to leave his books and pipe and chessboard.

Elizabeth squinted into the sun and watched the wisps of smoke coming from the chimneys at Netherfield, one of Longbourn’s neighbouring estates. She would have to make do with meeting new acquaintances. At least they would be different, and those differences were nearly always entertaining.

It was hopeless. Hopeless in Hertfordshire. His sister would like a novel with such a dramatic title. Darcy could almost— almost —laugh at himself and his idea of hopeless. Restlessness is not a fate , he told himself, it is a state of being .

His mood was not better as he walked with his horse the last hundred yards to Netherfield’s stables. Darcy had hoped a fast ride would clear his thoughts, but instead they only seemed dulled. There was nothing to tempt or interest him in this country town.

It had been another long day. Bingley was earnest if a little dense about numbers and the importance of keeping accounts.

Netherfield was currently taking in only a few thousand pounds a year; if Bingley would listen to his tutelage, Darcy was certain it could bring in at least five thousand.

But if Bingley did not listen, or as he often did, shifted his attentions to something else—a horse, a lady, a new piece of land—then what was the purpose of his efforts?

If his friend was disinterested, Darcy thought, he could purchase Netherfield, make it into a fine estate and sell it for a profit, gift it to Georgiana, or hold onto it for a third or fourth son.

Once he had his first, and second, sons of course.

But before that came a wife, and before that, finding a lady he would wish to marry.

“Darcy, there you are!” cried a familiar voice. “What do you find so interesting about my stables?”

He turned and nodded at Bingley. “Your horseflesh. I was admiring it.”

“Hmm. Were you?” Bingley looked askance at Darcy, who shifted his attention to a scuff on his boot.

“I know nothing of their excellence beyond their speed and gentle strength, but I do notice the barn and stable are far tidier and well-ordered than prior to your arrival. I believe I owe that to your thorough observation. Pray, you did not harass my stablemaster overmuch?”

“A few hairs remain on his head.”

“Brilliant,” Bingley said, smiling. “Were you not a Darcy, you would make an excellent steward.”

Darcy frowned, though it was limned with good humour. “Yes, and as you know nothing of horses and even less of crops and drainage, I would take you on to scrub the cooking pots.”

“Zounds, you are cruel!”

“Mayhap as a footman if the pots stayed free of dents.”

“Understood,” Bingley said, as the friends shared a chuckle. “We should rejoice in the good fortune of our births.”

“Indeed,” Darcy replied. “And honour it.”

Bingley straightened his cuffs and strode over to a black mare. “If I do not ask too much, would you join me for tonight? We have been invited to dine with a Colonel Forster, of the militia.”

Darcy glanced down at his hay-splattered boots and peered closely at Bingley’s dove-grey coat. “Now? You are telling me this now?”

His friend paused and pulled his own clean boot from the stirrup. Turning, he laughed. “Come now, we are going to an encampment full of unwashed soldiers and straw-covered walks. Why are you fussing?”

Darcy could only shake his head, both annoyed and amused by such logic from his least logical friend.

“Ah, well, yes. I can see that you might wish to refresh yourself. Wouldn’t do to set a poor example of landed gentry looking as though he lived atop his land.” Bingley chuckled. “Will a quarter hour suffice?”

Three-quarters of an hour later the two men, along with Hurst, rode into the encampment, and found their way to Colonel Forster’s offices.

He welcomed them warmly and introduced him to two fellow visitors, Mr Lucas and Mr Bennet.

Darcy found himself in the rare position of being only the second most taciturn man at a table.

While their host, Bingley, and Mr Lucas prattled on about the area and its many glories and historical follies, and Hurst busied himself with the table’s many delicacies, Darcy found himself wondering at the silent man beside him.

“Mr Bennet, I believe your estate shares a common border with Netherfield?”

His companion turned his head slowly. “Yes, though our boundaries meet happily, and thus it is business I need not concern myself with.”

Darcy tilted his head, wondering at the man’s tone and meaning. “I see. The land meets in the wood rather than under a flowing stream bed?”

He saw a flicker of amusement in Mr Bennet’s eyes. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and leaned back in his chair. “You are Bingley’s learned friend from the north. He spoke well of you when I called on him some days ago.”

“Bingley speaks well of everyone.”

“Thus you are here to reveal the harsh reality of the estate he leases, the fallow nature of his fields, and the foibles of those characters whom he will encounter in Hertfordshire.”

Darcy struggled to maintain an impassive expression. “I am here to pass on my knowledge and experience as a master of my own estate for some five years. There is much to take in?—.”

“Lest one be taken in.”

“In order to understand the complexities of land use, crop rotation, tenant needs and disputes, and staffing his household.” Irritated, Darcy trailed off.

He glanced at Bingley, seemingly rapt as Colonel Forster related some tale of battlefield glory.

He had heard enough tales from his cousin to know how rare glory was to be found or celebrated amongst the suffering and agony of the dead and injured.

Success as an estate owner and as a good manager of fortune and his sister were enough for him, and he could not speak to his talent.

His faced warmed when he realised Mr Bennet’s attention on him had not waned. “I was fortunate to have my own father’s excellent example and his capable steward to guide me.”

“Bingley is a fortunate man indeed, to have a friend he can call on and count on. We should all have such a friend, be we young greenhorns or creaking old men.”

Darcy discerned melancholy underneath that drollery. “He is a good friend to me as well.”

“He does not know estate business and has informed me your knowledge far outstrips his in history and books. Dare I suppose he counsels you on horses, waistcoats, and lamps?” Mr Bennet enquired with a chuckle.

Darcy could hear a slight, all-too-familiar wheeze under the laughter; after years visiting Anne and three months of marriage to her, he felt himself an expert on weak lungs.

The recognition both repelled him and compelled him to further the exchange.

And so he nodded and provided a small answer to the larger question.

“Bingley is well-versed on waistcoats, social pleasantries, and the means to happiness. I have long found his companionship invaluable.”

Then, uncomfortable with the personal turn the conversation had taken, Darcy steered his companion to a new topic. “He tells me you have an admirable collection of books.”

Mr Bennet reached for his glass. “Your estimation of admirable may be at variance with that of your friend. My library is the best collection in this county, but we are a small society here.”

His companion remained silent, thinking, until a boisterous voice broke through his thoughts.

“Gads, that was capital!”

“Indeed it was,” Bingley’s chimed in, pleased to agree with Mr Lucas. “And only a scratch to your cheek and a split boot!” Laughter rang out. “Darcy, Hurst! Were you paying attention, or shall I share the story with you later?”

Darcy shook his head. Hurst raised his glass and chuckled. “Amazing tale, sir. I am cowed by such adventures and prefer to wage my battles with a well-oiled gun and complacent, low-flying birds.”

Half an hour later, before he climbed on his horse, Mr Bennet turned to Bingley. “I hope you and your friend will join me at Longbourn one afternoon. If dinner suits, Mrs Bennet sets a fine table, and I believe Mr Darcy might find a book or two on my shelves we can discuss.”

Bingley nodded his agreement while Darcy pulled on his gloves. He could hear Hurst expounding on something or other with Forster and Lucas.

“We will see you Tuesday next,” the older man replied. “Mr Bingley. Mr Darcy.”

As the men walked to their horses, Bingley glanced at Darcy. “He requested the two of us only? What of Hurst?”

“We will ask Netherfield’s cook to make his favourite ragout and say we have an appointment to discuss estate matters.” Darcy thought a moment. “The name…what is Bennet’s estate called?”

“Longbourn,” Bingley replied. “Smallish, I believe, but important here.”

“Is there a younger Bennet, a son, to join us in the conversation?”

“No,” Bingley replied. “Daughters. Five of them, I hear.”

Darcy cursed under his breath . Sharing his books was not Bennet’s motive.