“But this path only places them in greater danger,” Darcy continued. “I believe that the correct authorities must be notified. And not merely informed but informedproperly.”
Mr. Bennet studied him. “Meaning?”
“I have connections,” Darcy said simply. “Antiquarians, magistrates, officials who understand discretion as well as duty. If this discovery is handled correctly—presented to the proper people, with proper documentation—it may result in a generous finder’s fee. Greater, perhaps, than if it were simply seized and catalogued without care.”
Richard straightened. “He speaks truly. I have seen such matters mishandled. I have also seen them rewarded.”
Mr. Bennet’s shoulders sagged, relief and resignation washing over him in equal measure. “Very well. I will not pretend I have the stomach for this alone. My delay is evidence enough of that. If you are willing, Mr. Darcy, I place it in your hands.”
Darcy inclined his head solemnly. “I will do all in my power to ensure this is conducted honorably—and to your greatest advantage.”
He moved at once to the writing desk, drawing forth paper, pen, and ink. His hand was steady as he began to write, addressing a man he trusted, phrasing his words with care. Each letter was precise, discreet, unmistakably urgent.
Elizabeth watched him, something in her countenance easing at last.
As Darcy sealed the letter, he looked up at her and allowed himself the smallest, reassuring smile. “You have done the right thing,” he said. “Both of you.”
Darcy set down his pen, but did not at once move. The letter lay before him, its lines orderly, its argument sound; still, he felt no ease in having written it.
My dear Uncle,
I trust you will forgive the length of this letter, but the circumstances compel me to write with both clarity and urgency. I beg your discretion, for what I am about to relate concerns not only property and law, but the peace of an entire neighborhood.
During my stay in Hertfordshire, a discovery was made upon the lands of a family with whom I am closely acquainted—one of such magnitude that it will stir considerable excitement among the surrounding villages. Though the objects of which I write were discovered first, they were kept hidden. A later, small finding upon the common set tongues wagging: a handful of Roman bronze coins and fragments of pottery, enough to awaken imaginations but not, in themselves, of great value.
Unfortunately, that modest find has given rise to a frenzy of speculation. The common and adjoining lands have been combed by every class of person, from laborers with spades to ladies walking withsticks pressed into unlikely service. Gossip has outpaced reason, and reason has retreated accordingly.
The true matter, however, lies elsewhere. Upon private land—not the common—there was uncovered a substantial hoard of Roman antiquities, consisting of gold and silver objects of remarkable preservation and workmanship. I have examined them myself. Even a conservative estimate places their value at not less than thirty thousand pounds, and possibly more, should scholars confirm their rarity and completeness. More than their monetary worth, they are of undeniable historical importance.
The gentleman upon whose land the hoard was discovered delayed reporting it, not from malice, but out of fear—fear for his family’s future, of attracting attention in a countryside already unbalanced by rumor, and that the law, once invoked, would leave him exposed and unprotected. That fear was not unfounded. Just last night, his library was forcibly entered and ransacked. Though the treasure itself was secured and not taken, the intent was unmistakable. Someone believed it to be there, despite the efforts put forth to hide it.
This act has resolved his indecision. He is now prepared to notify the proper authorities and to surrender the hoard in accordance with the law governing gold and silver antiquities belonging to the Crown. Yet the manner in which this is done may determine whether justice is accompanied by fairness—or by ruinous exposure.
It is here that I entreat your assistance.
You possess both the influence and the discernment to ensure that this discovery is brought to the attention of the correct people: those within the appropriate offices who understand antiquities, who value order over spectacle, and who may manage the matter with discretion. If there is to be a finder’s fee—and by precedent there ought to be—I wish to see it handled honorably and without unnecessary delay. More importantly, I wish to shield an innocent family from the worst excesses of public curiosity and predatory interest.
The neighborhood is already unsettled. One gentleman of my acquaintance, distressed by his own financial difficulties, has behaved with increasing desperation, and I fear what such a temperament might attempt if he believes fortune is within reach. The longer this matter lingers in uncertainty, the greater the risk to all involved.
If you are willing, I would ask that you advise me as to whom I should write next, or whether you might yourself make discreet inquiries on our behalf. Your guidance would carry a weight that my own letters cannot.
I remain, as ever, grateful for your counsel and your kindness. Pray give my respects to my aunt, and believe me,
Your affectionate nephew,
F. Darcy
It was done. Or rather, it had begun.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, though no ease accompanied the motion. The act of writing had imposed order upon the matter—given it shape, sequence, and reason—but the reality it described refused such neat arrangement. What had been contained within the walls of Longbourn would soon extend far beyond them, carried by ink and seal into circles where curiosity was not easily restrained.
He found himself wondering—not for the first time—whether he had misjudged the moment at which silence ceased to be protection and became instead a form of risk. The distinction, once so clear, had grown increasingly difficult to discern.
For a moment, he allowed himself to consider whether he had acted too quickly.
Then he dismissed it.
Delay had already proven dangerous.
