He climbed the steps and fitted the key into the lock.
It turned with effort, the door seeming to resent being disturbed after months—perhaps years—of infrequent use.
The hinges groaned when he pushed it open.
The air within was stale, carrying the faint scent of dust and disuse.
Darcy stepped over the threshold and paused, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light.
The entry hall was handsome enough, though shadows clung to every corner and dust coated the tiled floor in a thin, even layer undisturbed by servants’ feet.
So, this is what sixty thousand pounds purchased.
He shut the door behind him and began his inspection.
The drawing room was first: Sheet-covered furniture. Dust motes dancing in the thin light. A fireplace cold and empty, gray with old soot. Curtains hanging limp, their colors faded by years of sunlight.
Darcy moved deeper into the room, lifting one curtain gently between his fingers. The fabric nearly disintegrated at his touch.Replaceable,he thought.But costly.And inevitable.
In the dining room, the long table was bare, its surface dulled by a fine film of neglect. A draft whistled through a loose windowpane. The sideboard bore a water ring the size of a dinner plate.
The pantry held nothing but the faint smell of old onions.
The library—if it could truly be called that—held fewer books than a modest London parlor. Half the shelves stood empty; the previous owners having taken anything of value without bothering to disguise the absence.
Darcy’s jaw flexed.
Bingley might as well have thrown his money directly into the Thames.
He exited through a back door, stepping into the late September air. From the terrace, the estate stretched peacefully before him: rolling hills, tenant fields beyond, a small copse to the west, and a distant patch of woodland. It was serene—almost lovely.
But nothing remarkable.
He descended the steps, boots crunching on the gravel.
The fences, viewed up close, bore signs of simple wear:
Some rails warped. A few leaning posts. One section noticeably sagging.
Repairable, yes. But repairs cost coin. And Bingley had spent too much of his on the purchase itself.
Darcy walked farther, inspecting the fields bordering the house. The soil was decent in quality—good Hertfordshire loam—the kind of land that produced steady, moderate yields. It was the kind of land that could support a gentleman. But not the kind of land worth sixty thousand pounds. He shook his head. As he walked the perimeter of the home grounds, Darcy let the numbers fall into place:
Normal price for an estate this size: 35,000–40,000 pounds
Overpayment: at least 15,000–20,000 pounds
Necessary repairs: 500–1,000 pounds immediately
Annual maintenance: 800–1,200 pounds
Likely net income after expenses: 1,400–1,800 pounds
Bingley was accustomed to four thousand a year in interest income—simple, stable, easy. Now? He would spend more time stopping holes in the roof than attending balls in London. He would have scarcely more than twenty-four hundred pounds a year when the income from the estate was combined with the interest from the capital left in the four per cents.
Darcy exhaled sharply.He has shackled himself to this place. And he does not yet understand it.He rested one hand on the fence rail, surveying the fields once more. The land was good—respectable and pleasant. But nothing about it justified the price Bingley had paid. Nothing warranted such reckless haste. Nothing excused the lack of counsel sought.
As he turned back toward the empty house, Darcy felt a familiar heaviness settle in his chest. Bingley was his friend—perhaps his dearest friend—and Darcy could not in good conscience let him amble blindly into financial ruin. If Bingley insisted on taking possession of this estate, Darcy wouldhaveto guide him. Teach him. Shield him where possible.
