At that moment, the breakfast room door opened, and Bingley entered, his face alight with cheer. “Good morning, gentlemen! I see you have started without me.”
“Good morning, Bingley,” Darcy said, managing a smile as he settled back into his seat, twisting his fork so he could eat with it rather than consider spearing his host.
Bingley helped himself to a plate of food and joined them at the table, quickly becoming the centre of the conversation. “Darcy, Wickham and I were discussing plans for some shooting later today. The pheasant population seems particularly abundant this season and ‘left to themselves far too long,’ as Mr Bennet says. We have permission to hunt on Longbourn’s lands as well, you know.”
Wickham straightened in interest. “Hold a moment. You have met Mr Bennet?”
Bingley blinked innocently, rolling a bit of his breakfast in his cheek until he could swallow it. “Me? No, no. But I spoke with Mrs Bennet at the Assembly, and she promised her husband would save all the best coveys for us. I believe it was Miss Elizabeth who quoted that line about the pheasants being left to themselves. Yes, it must have been she, for she seems to like a good joke.”
Darcy’s spine stiffened at this second mention of Miss Elizabeth’s name. Drat it all, why did he care that Bingley had met the lady again? But an afternoon outside of Netherfield’s walls… particularly if that outing took them near Longbourn… could not be entirely disagreeable.
Wickham nodded enthusiastically. “Then, to the northern woods, we shall go. We have yet to enjoy a proper hunt. How perfectly fitting, Darcy, that you are here for it!”
Oh…He winced at the thought of fowling pieces blasting off beside his head. He had not anticipatedthat… heaven have mercy, he might be locking himself in a dark room by mid-afternoon. Darcy smiled tightly. “That sounds like a fine idea.”
Bingley beamed. “Excellent! It will be like old times. We could use your expertise, Darcy. I fear,” he confided to Wickham, “that I am not the shot my friend is. I scare the birds away more often than I bring home dinner, but Darcy almost never misses.”
“Of course he does not,” Wickham laughed. “He rarely ever did. But you know, it was always Colonel Fitzwilliam who was the eagle eye. I do not suppose you know Fitzwilliam, do you?”
“By Jove, I do,” Bingley vowed. “And you are right there. I’ve a hope of aspiring to Darcy’s skill one day, but Fitzwilliam is another thing altogether.”
Darcy pushed his plate back. “Your skill will only improve if you practice, Bingley.”
“There, I knew you would say that. Well?” Bingley hastily scraped the rest of his egg onto his fork. “Let us away as soon as may be.”
Bingley was still chewing his last bite when a footman entered the room and cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir. There is a Mr Bennet at the door. He wishes a moment of your time.”
Bingley swallowed and exclaimed with pleasure, “Mr Bennet! How wonderful that he has come.”
Wickham rose, jerking the front of his jacket. “Well, well, this is, indeed, a surprise. Darcy, if all I have heard is true, this is a gentleman you will want to meet.”
“Good morning, gentlemen,” MrBennet announced, his voice carrying the weight of a man interrupted from his preferred leisure. His steps were brisk, eyes sharp and slightly amused as he surveyed the room. “I supposeyou already know, but I may as well introduce myself. I am Bennet of Longbourn, here to discuss matters of less than joyful nature, I am afraid.”
Wickham came forward, extending his hand with a practised air of authority. “Mr Bennet, welcome. George Wickham, at your service.”
Mr Bennet accepted the handshake. “Ah, Mr Wickham, the master of Netherfield. I trust your stewardship is treating the estate well, though I hear the river has other ideas.”
“Yes, I understand the same. Mr Bennet, sir, allow me to introduce my guests. You have probably heard of Mr Charles Bingley, I presume?”
Mr Bennet’s gaze flickered to Bingley, who offered a polite nod. “Mr Bingley, a pleasure. I have heard your name mentioned with great frequency and enthusiasm by the younger members of my household. It seems you have made quite the impression.”
Bingley’s cheeks reddened slightly, and he gave a modest smile. “I am honoured to hear that, sir.”
“And,” Wickham said, extending a hand toward Darcy, “a very old friend, Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, Derbyshire. Darcy only arrived last evening and has yet to explore the delights of Hertfordshire.”
Darcy bowed slightly as Bennet’s eyes flicked over him. Interesting eyes…
He stiffened when he realised he was staring, just to sketch a resemblance to the man’s daughter. A daughter, he reminded himself, to whom he was not supposed to have been introduced already.
“Pemberley, you say?” Mr Bennet’s brow arched, his eyes narrowing with curiosity. “Never heard of it, but do not take that personally, sir. I have yet to visit Derbyshire, though my brother-in-law claims it the most breathtaking part of the world.”
“I would be dishonest if I did not agree with him,” Darcy replied.
“As would I,” Wickham put in with a laugh as he extended an arm to welcome Mr Bennet into the study. “But I am also quite smitten by the charms of Hertfordshire. Please, Mr Bennet, do be seated and tell us what brings you here this morning.”
Mr Bennet settled into a chair with an air of reluctant duty, his expression suggesting he would rather be anywhere else but here. He was a man of middling height, his once-dark hair now liberally salted with grey. His features were marked with the lines of long-standing contemplation and occasional wit, giving him an air of both intellect and benign neglect.
He glanced at each of them in turn until everyone else had settled. “The matter at hand, gentlemen, is a broken weir on the River Mery. I am afraid it is rather deep in the woods,and the original breech went undetected for far too long. The flooding it has caused since its rupture is quite severe.”
