A face rose unbidden in her mind.
Dark hair. Grave expression. A Roman coin held reverently between long fingers. Eyes that had looked at her as though, for one breathless instant, mud and rank and circumstance had all fallen away.
Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth allowed herself three indulgent seconds to remember him.
Perhaps four.
Then a workman emerged from below carrying another tray, and Dr. Llewellyn began demanding that no one breathe too heavily near the contents.
Elizabeth stood, smoothed her skirt, and returned to business.
Chapter 12
September 1811—Hertfordshire
Elizabeth Bennet stood in the drawing room at Netherfield Park and tried not to think of the first time she had seen the room as its new owner.
It had been nearly two years, yet the memory remained vivid. The curtains had been hideous then—gold and scarlet damask heavy enough to make the room feel twice its age—and every available table had borne some costly ornament chosen less for beauty than for its ability to shout of expense. The previous owner, a foolish man of fashionable pretensions and little sense, had cared far more for what visitors saw upon entering the house than for whether the tenants had roofs that did not leak.
Elizabeth had immediately made changes.
The gaudiest furniture had been sold. The ostentatious clocks, vases, gilt mirrors, and ridiculous marble nymphs had fetched enough to repair three tenant cottages, replace two collapsed byres, and mend the bridge near the southern fields. The simpler furniture, sturdy and somewhat dated but honest in its construction, had been brought down from the attics where some former mistress of Netherfield had banished it beneath Holland covers. Now the room looked less fashionable, perhaps, but infinitely more comfortable.
Mrs. Nicholls, the housekeeper, stood beside Elizabeth with a list in one hand and the air of a woman who had been counting sheets, candles, and chamber pots for a fortnight. “The east rooms are aired, miss. The blue chamber has been made ready for Mr. Bingley, and the two guest chambers across the passage are prepared as well. If he brings more company than expected, we can open the yellow room and the small chamber above the breakfast parlor.”
“Very good,” Elizabeth said. “And the fires?”
“To be lit tomorrow morning, unless the damp worsens. If so, we will light them tonight.”
Elizabeth nodded her approval. “Mr. Bingley is said to be wealthy, but that is no reason to waste coal merely because Netherfield wishes to display hospitality. Comfort is one thing; extravagance another.”
Mrs. Nicholls smiled faintly. “You sound very like Mrs. Croft when you say so.”
That pleased Elizabeth. Admiral Croft and his wife had leased Netherfield for nearly two years, and Elizabeth had liked them extremely. The admiral had been practical, cheerful, and entirely uninterested in changing every room merely because it did not suit the latest London fashion. Mrs. Croft had been even better, walking the tenant lanes herself and sending Elizabeth—through Mr. Philips, of course—several useful suggestions for improvements. Elizabeth had been sorry when Mrs. Croft decided she wished to live nearer her brother and the lease was not renewed.
Still, the Crofts had left Netherfield better than they found it, and their lease payments had done what Elizabeth could not have accomplished alone. Much of the income had gone back into the estate. A portion had been invested under Mr. Philips’s careful management. Very little had been spent upon Elizabeth herself, which suited her perfectly. Netherfield wassafer, sounder, and far less gaudy than when it came into her possession, and that was satisfaction enough.
“For the new servants,” Elizabeth continued, “make certain they understand the tenant arrangements as they stand. The families at Warren’s cottage and the lower mill farm are not to be pressed before Michaelmas. Mr. Philips has already informed Mr. Bingley’s agent, but I should like no confusion from the household staff.”
“Of course, miss.”
“And, Mrs. Nicholls—”
The housekeeper looked up.
Elizabeth lowered her voice, though there was no one near enough to overhear. “No one is to know that I own Netherfield.”
Mrs. Nicholls’s expression became solemn at once. “No one shall hear it from me.”
“Not even Mr. Bingley. To him, I am merely Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, come to discuss tenant needs because Longbourn has often assisted Netherfield’s people when the house stood empty. If anyone asks, that is explanation enough.”
Mrs. Nicholls nodded. “And a true one, in its way.”
“Yes.” Elizabeth’s mouth curved wryly. “The best deceptions are often made of truths arranged in convenient order.”
“I should not call it deception, miss. It is only discretion.”
