In another moment, Elizabeth paused by the hedge and commented on the turning leaves, the way the gold seemed to cling to the branches, unwilling to let summer go. Darcy found himself watching her instead of the scenery.They returned to Longbourn far later than intended, but Mrs. Bennet received them with the ease of someone convinced they had merely stepped into the garden for five minutes.
“Oh! What a delightful outing you must have had,” she cried, bustling forward. “Jane, my sweetest, did you enjoy your walk? Mr. Bingley, you look positively rosy with happiness. Come, all of you, sit, sit! Hill! Tea at once.”
Darcy braced himself out of habit—for the exuberant chatter, the fluttering hands, and the rapid questions to which he was usually exposed. But strangely, it did not trouble him today. Mrs. Bennet’s excitement felt…understandable, given what Elizabeth had described. She spoke of the assembly, of the fine weather, ofMr. Bingley’s excellent dancing, of Rose Phillips’ dreadful new gown, of the vicar’s misbehaving cow.
Elizabeth’s eyes widened in apology at least twice.
Darcy only smiled.
Hill brought in the tea tray, and Mrs. Bennet served everyone herself—tea sloshing a little, her tongue unceasing. Bingley glowed every time Miss Bennet looked at him; Miss Bennet glowed every time he offered to refill her cup. Miss Mary participated occasionally but largely kept to herself. And through it all, Darcy sat patiently, unexpectedly comfortable.
This family…they are lively, yes. But warm. Genuine.He found he did not mind their noise, nor their lack of London polish. He minded only when Elizabeth drifted slightly out of his line of sight.
At last, propriety demanded their departure. Mrs. Bennet graciously (and loudly) invited them to return any time. Bingley could not have agreed faster.
The ride back to Netherfield was blessedly short—for Darcy’s mind buzzed with matters far less pleasant than Elizabeth Bennet’s smile.
Once inside, Darcy steered Bingley toward the study before the younger man could escape. “Bingley, we must speak.”
Bingley blinked. “Of course! About Miss Bennet—?”
“AboutNetherfield,” Darcy corrected, tone firm. “Your financial health, and the estate’s. We must ensure you are not taken advantage of again.”
“Oh,” Bingley deflated slightly, but nodded. “Yes, yes, I suppose we must.”
Darcy shut the study door behind them.
At this moment, all he wanted was to think of Elizabeth Bennet. But he had come to Hertfordshire to advise Bingley—and he would do his duty. Still…
As Bingley fetched the account books, Darcy’s thoughts drifted to a pair of fine eyes shining beneath an autumn sky.
Darcy spread the ledgers before him, fingers resting on the inked columns that revealed far too much.
“Bingley, the estate accounts show several irregularities. The previous owner made improvements without securing sufficient rents to cover them. You must be cautious with your expenditures for at least the next year—”
Bingley waved a hand dismissively as he lounged in the armchair, still glowing from his morning call at Longbourn. “Yes, yes, I hear you, Darcy. But nothing can be so dire. Morris assured me that the estate is profitable.”
Darcy pressed his lips together. “Morris assured you without supplying documents. These numbers prove otherwise. The estate may recover, but only with careful management. Already you have overspent on the purchase. Sixty thousand pounds was—”
“Enough.” Bingley stood abruptly. “I know you mean well, but must you always look for flaws? The estate is mine. It is beautiful. And the neighborhood…” His expression softened dreamily. “Well, I have no complaints.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “Bingley, if you do not attend to these matters now—”
“Later,” Bingley insisted. “I promise, Darcy, we will examine it all later. Today has been far too pleasant to ruin with figures and income projections. I intend to enjoy my new home.”
Enjoy. Darcy nearly sighed. Enjoyment was not the point. Responsibility was. Before he could reason further, a sharp, authoritative voice cut into the room.
“There you are.”
Miss Bingley swept in with an assessing look, followed by a footman burdened with swaths of fabric and a stack of wallpaper samples. Without greeting either gentleman, she marched toward the smaller drawing room, which had been freshly dusted for their arrival.
“Set them here,” she commanded the footman. “I intend to rework this room entirely. The draperies are deplorable. The color of the walls—ghastly. And as for the carpet—well! We shall have it replaced at once.” She bustled forward, fingers already pinching at upholstery, clearly offended by it.
Darcy fought to keep his tone even. “Miss Bingley, such changes should perhaps wait until—”
“Oh, nonsense, Mr. Darcy,” she said brightly. “One cannot live in such unfashionable surroundings. I shall begin immediately. Of course, the real improvements will be accomplished when we return to Town for the Season. This is merely to make the place tolerable.”
Tolerable. Darcy’s thoughts flew unbidden to Elizabeth Bennet—warm eyes, genuine laughter, the pleasant jumble of Longbourn’s drawing room—and he nearly smiled at the contrast.
