“My business affairs are none of your concern,” he snapped angrily. “Everything is fine.”
“Bingley, we cannot help you if we do not know the full extent of what is bothering you.” Darcy spoke calmly and evenly, hoping his friend would finally confide his troubles.
“When I need the assistance of the great Fitzwilliam Darcy, paragon of landowners and master of many estates, then I shall ask.” Bingley’s harsh words sounded nothing like the amiable man Darcy had come to love as a brother.
“Hopefully, it is not too late.” Hurst stood and stretched. “We will be going now.” Darcy followed Hurst from the room without another word to the petulant occupant.
The quarrel in Bingley’s sitting room appeared, on the surface, to have evaporated by the following morning.
Darcy knew better.
He had learned, over years of close friendship, that when Charles Bingley withdrew into exaggerated cheerfulness, it was rarely a sign of contentment. It was a defense—one Darcy recognized now with distressing clarity. Never had such behavior troubled Darcy as it did now—never had he interpreted it as a danger. When Bingley descended to breakfast flushed with enthusiasm, speaking rapidly of plans and invitations, even Darcy was momentarily wrong-footed.
“I have determined,” Bingley announced, buttering his roll with unnecessary vigor, “that we shall make a day of it. Aproper country amusement. A picnic luncheon upon the grass, and afterward—” he paused for effect, eyes bright “—a thorough search of the common.”
Darcy’s fork stilled.
Hurst raised a brow. “Search it for what, exactly? Half the county has already been set loose with shovels.”
“Precisely why we ought to oversee the effort,” Bingley replied. “If treasure is to be found, it is best that it be done under proper supervision.”
Darcy met his gaze steadily. “And what supervision do you propose, exactly?”
Bingley waved the question aside. “Neighbors, friends, respectable families. All quite harmless. It will do much to restore goodwill. I have already sent notes.”
Darcy felt the faintest chill creep along his spine. Notes sent without consultation, invitations extended in a flurry of impulse—this was the Bingley who had purchased Netherfield without negotiation, who trusted charm where caution was required.
“And the purpose?” Darcy asked quietly.
Bingley smiled too quickly. “Why, amusement. And curiosity. You yourself remarked upon the speculation. One might as well enjoy it.”
Darcy did not answer. He suspected the picnic was not merely diversion, but displacement—a way to reclaim control over a narrative that had begun to elude Bingley’s grasp. The lust for treasure was already at work, infecting reason with fantasy.
The invitations were accepted with alacrity.
By noon the next day, the common between Netherfield and Longbourn had transformed into something between a fair and a battlefield. Blankets were spread beneath trees, baskets unpacked, servants darting back and forth with bottles and plates. Ladies in walking gowns clustered together, their voices rising in excited conjecture. Gentlemen rolled up their sleeveswith mock seriousness, some bearing spades, others sticks pressed into service as probes.
Darcy stood apart for a moment, surveying the scene.
He recognized many faces: Sir William Lucas, radiant with self-importance and good humor; Mrs. Long already recounting a story that changed with each telling; several of Netherfield’s tenant farmers and their wives, pressed into service by Bingley, all appearing practical and hopeful in equal measure; and, disturbingly, a number of strangers—people drawn by rumor rather than invitation.
Elizabeth Bennet stood with her family near the edge of the gathering, her posture composed but alert. Darcy noted the way her gaze moved—not with greed, but with unease. Miss Bennet, beside her, appeared politely attentive, though her smile lacked its usual ease.
Bingley moved through the crowd like a general inspecting troops, greeting everyone with enthusiasm, pressing cups of wine into hands, laughing loudly. He had not looked once toward Darcy.
“Let us begin!” Bingley called at last. “I see no reason to delay fortune.”
There was laughter, a ripple of anticipation, and then the digging began.
It was, Darcy observed grimly, chaos disguised as recreation.
Some dug earnestly, others half-heartedly, still others merely hovered, eager to be near whatever discovery might be made. Children darted about until called back sharply by mothers fearful of flying clods of earth. Servants hovered nervously at the periphery, unsure whether to assist or restrain.
Darcy watched as the soil was turned—soil that had been quiet for generations, disturbed now by ambition and speculation.
And not, he thought, by accident.
A man near the boundary stone argued loudly with another over where to dig, insisting that “the best finds are always near a marker.”
