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“There now, wife,” said Mr. Biddle. “He won’t know it to miss it now, will he?”
Darcy looked into the sad gray eyes of his old friend. He wondered how his aunt could permit this? To throw them off the land on which they—and their fathers—had been raised was a travesty.
“Spring is some time off,” Darcy said, struggling to keep his voice calm. “A lot can happen between now and then.”
“Mr. McGinty won’t change his mind,” Mr. Biddle said. “He’s a hard man is McGinty.”
“Is there anything you can do, Mr. Darcy?” Mrs. Biddle asked.
“Hush woman! It’s not for Mr. Darcy to concern himself with our problems,” Mr. Biddle scolded, then turned back to Darcy. “I’m sorry, sir.”
The room was smoky, and it stung Darcy’s eyes. “It’s not McGinty’s decision. And I intend to do what I can to help you.”
Mr. Biddle hung his head. He looked at the felt hat he was twisting in his hand. Mrs. Biddle continued to rock the infant, whispering something softly in the child’s ear.
Darcy explained that he would do what he could to change the plan to fence the common at Rosings. He told them that he could not promise anything but that if he were to fail, they would have a place at Pemberley.
“I know it’s not the same. I know that you do not wish to leave your home. But do not worry yourselves about where you will go,” Darcy said. He would be able to find a place for the Biddles at Pemberley, and for some of the other families who the scheme to fence the common would displace, but he doubted that he could find a place for all of them, or that all of them would choose to travel so far from their home.
“I knew you would take care of us, Mr. Darcy,” said Mrs. Biddle. “I said to Mr. Biddle that if Mr. Darcy knew what was happening, he would put things right.”
Mr. Biddle said nothing, but he looked up at Mr. Darcy with new hope in his eyes. Darcy could not—he would not—let him down.
Georgiana was waiting for him in the carriage. He did not wish to trouble her with the problems of his old friends. Although he had spent his boyhood summers at Rosings Park, Georgiana had only visited the manor house and did not know the many tenant farmers. Besides, there was nothing she could do. He wondered whether there was anything that he could do. According to Biddle, the plan to fence the common had been in the works for some time, and it was certain that the steward, McGinty, would not change them of his own volition. Darcy would have to prevail upon his aunt. He must prevail upon her.
“What is troubling you, brother?” Georgiana asked as the carriage lurched away over the rough country lane.
“Nothing that need concern you,” Darcy said, and seeing her questioning look he added, “It is a matter that I must take up with your great aunt.”
Darcy debated whether to call on the steward, then decided against it. He’d see the man soon enough.
As the carriage navigated the rutted lanes, Darcy looked out at the fields and cottages. Kent, it was said, was England’s garden and even in the winter with the bare fields and the hay up, he could see how fertile and how good the land was. There was an earthy smell in the air, mixed with wood smoke from the cottages, and Darcy saw the haunts of his boyhood, where he had ridden his pony or a tree he had climbed, and reminded him of those fresh, carefree days.
But it had been the people, the tenants of the estate that he remembered most fondly. At Pemberley, he was always very consci
ous of his position and had been careful always to appear serious. Even as a boy, he’d been treated with great deference and circumspection and he had reciprocated in kind by displaying a maturity which he did not always feel.
Here at Rosings Park, although the farmers and their wives and children had known who he was, he was not their master’s son, and they were more relaxed with him and he with them. He played, even roughhoused, with the boys and had his share of crushes on the girls.
And he had learned a great deal from the adults who were franker with him than those who dwelt at Pemberley and had shared with him their secrets, how they made the land so fruitful and abundant.
Darcy knew how to graft a branch on a fruit tree—old Biddle himself had an apple tree which grew seven different varieties of the fruit—dig an asparagus bed and birth a lamb. He could lay a stone wall or tell whether it would rain by watching the way the birds behaved—all thanks to those good people whose livelihood depended on their intimate relationship with the land they worked and had worked for generations.
As they turned onto the gravel lane leading to the manor house, the horses picked up speed. The road was smoother now the carriage stopped his lurching.
“Look,” said Georgiana. “There’s the house! I’m so excited. Will Mr. Bingley and his party be there, do you think? And Mr. Pettigrew and your friend Lord Northover?”
Darcy saw the gray stone of Rosings, the stately manor house standing implacable against a cold winter sky, and it chilled rather than welcomed him given the nature of his business with his aunt.
“What is that?” Georgiana asked, leaning over him and pointing out the carriage window. “Are they doing repairs?”
Darcy saw the canvas which covered Rosings’ cupola which was flapping in the brisk winter breeze. He had no idea whether repairs were underway and it reminded him that his aunt was not in his confidence. The affairs of Rosings were of no concern to him in her eyes, notwithstanding the fact that he was, if her plans for him to marry Anne proceeded, to one day be its master.
“I’ve no idea,” Darcy said to his sister, “what that tent, or whatever it is, is for. But yes, your Mr. Pettigrew and Lord Northover ought to be there. As for Mr. Bingley and his party, your guess is as good as mine.”
Georgiana blushed at his reference to “your Mr. Pettigrew” but said nothing.
One day be its master.
