Laying it on a bit thick,Darcy thought, doubting that people would like him just because Bingley praised him.
“Five years?” Mr Goulding said. He turned his pale blue eyes to Darcy speculatively, remarking, “You were young when you inherited, sir.”
It seemed a prying question, but Darcy swallowed his annoyance and offered a tight nod; he did not appreciate the reminder ofwhyhe had been barely three-and-twenty at the time. “Regrettably, yes.”
Another man whose name he could not remember asked, “You are from the midland counties, are you not?”
Darcy inclined his head.
“I heard Derbyshire,” yet another man said, and over the next while, several people made comments about Pemberley all without Darcy having to open his mouth. How people had learnt so much about him and his estate, he did not know, especially not in a small, out-of-the-way neighbourhood such as this. He felt the coldness of vexation creeping over him and, glimpsing Bingley out of the corner of his eye, saw that he was regarding him with disappointment. It was only then that he understood that his discomfort was causing him to stiffen his spine and scowl. He forcibly relaxed the muscles in his face and shoulders. Despite how it might appear to Bingley, Miss Elizabeth, or anyone else, he did notwantto be disliked. The notion was somewhat of a surprise to him, perhaps born of feeling excluded from the present gathering. At the very least, he would prefer to be respected. His position in life should be enough reason for people to view him favourably—and it might have been, had he not spoken so thoughtlessly at the assembly. Everything led back to that one brief yet fateful moment.
Accordingly, Darcy did his best to sit and chat with the other men. He found they were interested in hearing of his experiences at Pemberley and how he and his neighbours had confronted various issues, including those they were presently struggling with in Meryton. He presumed they were seeking novel approaches to try, which was admirable. When he went to the table to refresh his cup of coffee, he was surprised that Mr Bennet joined him.
The older gentleman cleared his throat and gave every appearance of being reluctant to ask anything of him. “I would appreciate learning more about the drainage works you mentioned.”
Darcy nodded once. “I shall ask my steward to send you the information. He keeps excellent records, including about what did and did not work as well as what we intend to try in the future.”
“Thank you.”
They remained where they were, Darcy because Mr Bennet did not move away, leaving Darcy with the impression there was more he wished to say. Had his daughter told him of their unexpected meeting? If Mr Bennet chose to again reprimand him, Darcy would walk out of the room and immediately set out for London; nothing would stop him.
At length, Mr Bennet said, “I was at school and later Oxford with a chap named Frederick Darcy. He and I were good friends, but we later lost touch. Life takes over, leaves us with little time for correspondence, let alone visiting friends. It did not occur to me until lately that you share a name. His grandfather had an estate in, goodness, was it Staffordshire? Or perhaps Shropshire. He would not happen to be a relation of yours?”
Darcy felt stupid for how shocked he was—and that it made him inadvertently gape and stammer as he replied. “I believe you must mean my cousin—my father’s cousin. His maternal grandfather lived in Shropshire, near Shrewsbury. He inherited the estate about fifteen years ago. The Darcys usually attend Cambridge,but I recall that my cousin went to Oxford to please his mother and grandfather.”
Mr Bennet explained that he and Frederick Darcy had first met when they were about ten or eleven years old. He asked after his old friend in what went beyond a polite enquiry, if Darcy had the right of it. It encouraged him to answer more freely than he otherwise might have; if he hoped it would improve the older gentleman’s opinion of him, he did not acknowledge it.
“My cousin is very well. My sister and I often refer to him as our uncle, given he is of a similar age to our late father. I only mention it so that, if I do, you understand why.” He paused and silently told himself not to ramble like an idiot; it was unlike him. “He and his family visited my sister and me at Pemberley in June. We meet in London frequently too. He has a house there, as do I. He has two children, a son who is at Cambridge and a daughter who is about Miss Elizabeth’s age.” Darcy stopped suddenly and watched to see how Mr Bennet would take his casual mention of his second daughter.
Mr Bennet cleared his throat. “Well. It is an interesting coincidence. I suppose there is some resemblance between you and him. In person, I mean. I thought very highly of your cousin. Everyone who knew him did. He is a gentleman in every sense of the word.”
“He is an excellent man,” Darcy said, his tone quiet and chastened. He believed Mr Bennet was comparing Frederick Darcy to him, and it was evident he considered only one of them worthy of praise.
“If you are so inclined, please do send him my regards. As I said, I regret that our connexion was lost. Iwould be pleased to rectify it, if he agrees.” He gave Darcy a stiff nod and walked away as Darcy was saying that he would.
“You are distracted.Is there a particular reason?” Bingley asked.
Admittedly, Darcy was lost in thought as he and Bingley rode back to Netherfield a little later. He shook himself and said, “I apologise. Did you say something?”
“I thanked you for going with me. I was worried I would be asked something I had no notion how to answer.” Bingley grimaced, then laughed. “And I was. Am I really expected to know what arrangements have been made for the spring? It is months away. I have hardly thought of Christmas, let alone next year!”
Darcy appreciated his friend’s ability to find the humour in almost every situation and gave him a brief smile. “My steward and I are always thinking of these things—what we have done in the past and how successful it was, what repairs and other work should be attended to after the harvest and then after the winter snows have gone, what new agricultural techniques are being developed, and so on. It is never ending, I am sorry to tell you.”
Bingley’s eyes were wide, and he slowly shook his head. “I am beginning to understand why you are always reading all those treatises. That last one you gave me was?—”
“Dry and dull,” Darcy suggested, to which Bingley nodded enthusiastically. “My situation is different fromyours. I know I shall be master of Pemberley next year and the year after that until the day I die. You might not be at Netherfield beyond this winter.”
“That is true.” Bingley glanced at him before turning his eyes back to the path. “I saw Mr Bennet speaking to you. Did he say something…upsetting?”
Darcy assumed he wanted to know whether there had been another disagreement between them. Later, he would have to give consideration to how to draw the line between wanting to make up for the poor impression he had given the neighbourhood when he first arrived and tolerating this ongoing suspicion and feeling like he was constantly being observed and judged. “He told me he went to school and attended university with one of my cousins.” He considered his conversation with Mr Bennet and the other gentlemen—and his recent meeting with Miss Elizabeth—and asked, “Am I truly so…unpleasant, Bingley?”
His friend took a long moment to respond, then shrugged. “No, but also yes, upon occasion. Especially lately, as I told you the other day. I am sorry, Darcy, but you seem to want to hate everyone and everything at present.”
This time, it was Darcy who needed a period to contemplate before speaking. “You owe me no apology. Rather the opposite. I did not realise it—I—had become so disagreeable. There is a reason, a…situation this summer affecting a member of my family. I would tell you, but my uncle has decreed we are to be silent about it. I understand why, and indeed, I hope to keep knowledge of it to as few people as possible.” He was struck byhow that might sound, and added, “It is not that I do not trust you?—”
“No, no,” Bingley interjected, waving a hand dismissively. “Other people’s secrets are not ours to share. If one of my sisters were involved in some sort of scrape, I might not be inclined or feel able to tell you. Not that I am suggesting Miss Darcy?—”
Darcy had felt the blood drain out of his cheeks as soon as Bingley mentioned sisters, and at that inopportune moment, Bingley looked his way. His demeanour must have shown the dread he felt recalling the events at Ramsgate.
