“Shall we see the grounds?” Bingley suggested.
Darcy agreed, and they set off along a path that led from the terrace into the gardens beyond.
The grounds, like the house, were well kept. There was evidence of careful management—borders tended, walks maintained, trees pruned where necessary. It was not a place of grand design, but it possessed a natural ease that required little embellishment.
Darcy found it agreeable.
They walked for some time, speaking intermittently of tenants, of neighboring estates, of the adjustments that would be required to bring Netherfield fully into Bingley’s possession. Despite its practical nature, the discussion maintained a degree of levity. Bingley’s spirits, always high, rose further with each step.
At length, they came to a more secluded part of the garden, where a cluster of shrubs and trees provided both shade and privacy.
“I must go back to the house,” Bingley said suddenly. “I have forgotten to speak with the housekeeper about the arrangements for tomorrow.”
Darcy waved his friend away. “I believe I shall continue for a time. Rest assured, I will follow shortly.”
Bingley departed, his steps quick, his purpose already fixed upon the next matter requiring his attention.
Darcy remained. He walked a little farther along the path, his hands clasped behind his back, his thoughts pleasantly unoccupied. The quiet of the place suited him. There was a stillness to it that invited reflection, though he did not immediately surrender himself to it.
A sound broke the calm.
It was no louder than a whisper of movement, a murmur of voices carried just far enough to be heard without revealing their meaning.
Darcy paused.
The sound came again, clearer this time.
“Move your fat head,” said one voice in an urgent whisper. “I cannot see him.”
“My head is nowhere near your way,” another replied. “Your head is precisely the same.”
“That is not the point.”
“It is precisely the point. If my head is fat, then yours must be equally so.”
Darcy’s brow lifted slightly.
“I am speaking of your position,” the first voice insisted. “You are directly in front of me.”
“And you are directly behind me.”
“That is because you would not move.”
“I see no reason to move.”
“Then I shall not see him.”
“Then you shall have to imagine him.”
Darcy stepped forward, drawn as much by curiosity as by amusement.
The voices fell silent.
He moved around the edge of the shrub and, after a moment’s consideration, stepped behind it.
Two small figures crouched there, their backs to him, their attention wholly fixed upon the space beyond.
Darcy cleared his throat.
