“Ah, not a man of faith, then?”
Fitzwilliam shrugged. “Trust but verify, as the Russians say. I was hoping to have a look in the registry.”
Mr. Hanson gave them both a serious look. “I do have the parish records in the vestry, but I am afraid the Bennets do not attend church here. They have a small chapel in Longbourn village, and you will have to apply there.”
Fitzwilliam grunted softly beside Darcy, and to own the truth, Darcy was no less frustrated. How had he not been aware that Longbourn had its own chapel? The Netherfield party had also not attended services here during the autumn, but rather at a smaller church that served those closer to the estate.
“This inquiry should be considered a private one, if you would,” Fitzwilliam told Mr. Hanson.
“Why is that, may I ask?”
Fitzwilliam frowned. “We are asking for a rather sensitive reason.”
Mr. Hanson tipped his head slightly to one side. “I am afraid you shall have to trust me, Colonel.” He spread his hands out wide to indicate the church around them. “If you are determining whether you can do so, this is my verification.”
“Darcy here does not wish even Bingley to know, but we are concerned that he does not know the Bennets well enough for . . . a deeper connection.”
That was a complete prevarication. “Fitzwilliam,” Darcy hissed, but his cousin only held up a hand.
“If you are asking whether the Bennets have connections in town,” Mr. Hanson replied seriously, “I cannot help you there. As you may imagine, I do not spend much time withDebrett’s.”
“I realise that you must have come into your position somewhat recently,” Fitzwilliam continued, “but do you know anything about where Mr. Bennet’s family lived before they came to take possession of Longbourn? That might help.”
Mr. Hanson’s gaze travelled from Fitzwilliam to Darcy and back again. There was a look of genuine puzzlement on his face. “I cannot say I have heard Mr. Bennet speak of it directly. He is not a man much given to idle conversation. But his family has certainly been here for as long as anyone can remember.” He seemed to consider the request for a moment before saying, “Perhaps Mrs. Long would know more. Her grandmother lived until a few years ago and knew every tale about every family. She made sure that her granddaughter knew it all.”
Each bit of gossip was as good as a banknote in these little country towns. It was the same in Kympton and Lambton. It wasno surprise to Darcy that Old Mrs. Long had passed down her knowledge like an inheritance.
Darcy attempted a polite smile. “You do not happen to know from where his father might have come?”
“Ah!” Mr. Hanson exclaimed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I believe from some distant county, though which one, I could not possibly say. Yorkshire, perhaps? Or perhaps it was Hampshire. It is difficult to recall.”
It was best not to pry further. “Thank you, Mr. Hanson,” Darcy said, trying to sound grateful. “You have been most helpful.”
Chapter Eight
Darcy and Fitzwilliam stepped out of the church. “When did you ever meet someone from Russia?” Darcy inquired as he placed his hat back on his head.
“Whitehall,” Fitzwilliam replied. “One of the officers attached to the ambassador. Ugly fellow, not at all well liked. But his daughter . . .”
“Stop,” Darcy said, holding up his hand. “I have heard enough.”
“It is so easy to mortify you,” Fitzwilliam said with a laugh. “The phrase came from one of their folktales. She was eager to acquaint me with—”
“I beg you to stop.”
“Theirculture, you idiot.” He chuckled, tugged at his gloves, and returned to the matter before them. “Yorkshire or Hampshire. Hundreds of miles between. The man might as well have said the Antipodes. And the Bennets not attending here complicates things further.”
Darcy pressed his lips together and stared down the main street of Meryton. “I should have known. I spent two months in Hertfordshire.”
Fitzwilliam grunted. “You were preoccupied, I imagine,” he said, his tone deliberately neutral. “But it will not be possible to check the register at a chapel so near Longbourn without alerting its master unless we know precisely when it shall be empty.”
Darcy inclined his head. “We will begin with Mrs. Long,” he said. “The vicar was correct about that. She is the worst gossip in the neighbourhood.”
“Then why did we not begin with her?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“Because she is the worst gossip in the neighbourhood,” Darcy repeated.
They made their way back toward the carriage, their boots crunching against the frosty ground.
