“How old is this paragon?” Elizabeth asked.
“Five-and-twenty, I believe,” their father replied. “Young, but well recommended.”
Mary’s eyes took on a speculative gleam. “If he is handsome, Lydia will set her cap at him within a week of his arrival.”
“Mary!” Lady Hartford snapped. “Such inappropriate thoughts regarding someone so far beneath our station! Really, what has got into all of you today? Jane, you brought this one, being so moon eyed over this Bingley fellow.”
Elizabeth caught Jane’s eye and saw her own thoughts reflected there. First Jane’s attachment to Mr Bingley, now a strange steward coming to manage their estate. Change seemed to be sweeping through their ordered world.
Lady Hartford’s social consciousness revealed itself fully as she continued her tirade. “An earl’s daughter, consorting with a tradesman! What will people say? We have a position to maintain, standards to uphold. Your dear father may have earned his title through heroics, but that makes our duty to marry advantageously all the more important.”
Jane’s face had gone very pale. Elizabeth felt a familiar surge of protective anger towards her gentle sister, who absorbed their mother’s criticisms like rain into parched earth.
“When would this Mr Darcy arrive?” Jane asked diplomatically, changing the subject with her usual grace.
“Within a fortnight, if we accept Matlock’s recommendation,” Lord Hartford replied. “Percival’s accident has rather forced our hand. The man can barely walk, let alone oversee the harvest.”
Lady Hartford continued her pacing, muttering about the impropriety of bringing unknown persons into their household and the shocking state of everything from the larder to the candle expenses.
“Perhaps we should retire to discuss these developments privately,” Jane suggested quietly, rising from her chair with obvious desire to escape their mother’s dramatics.
Elizabeth stood as well, recognising the wisdom of retreat. “Indeed. We shall leave you to your correspondence, Papa.”
Lord Hartford nodded absently, already returning his attention to the papers before him. Lady Hartford continued her recitation of domestic disasters, now focused on the deplorable state of the wine cellar.
In Jane’s chamber, they settled on the window seat overlooking the rose garden.
“A steward,” Jane mused, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them in a gesture reminiscent of childhood. “I wonder what sort of man this Mr Darcy might be.”
“Someone seeking employment, apparently,” Elizabeth replied, though without malice. “I wonder why he would not stay under-steward at Matlock, until the steward retires. Matlock is grander than the Hartford lands.”
Jane’s charitable nature asserted itself immediately. “Perhaps he has family to support. A mother, or younger siblings. Lord Matlock would not recommend someone unsuitable—his reputation depends upon such judgements.”
Elizabeth nodded, though privately she wondered if their quiet existence at Netherfield was about to become considerably more complicated. First Mr Bingley’s obvious infatuation with Jane despite their mother’s objections, now a mysterious steward who might prove to be anything from salvation to scandal.
Outside, the first leaves of autumn drifted past their window, carried on a breeze that whispered of change. Elizabeth shivered slightly, though whether from the cooling air or from some unnamed apprehension, she could not say.
“Do you think,” Jane asked, “that our lives are about to become very different?”
Elizabeth reached for her sister’s hand, squeezing the slender fingers gently. “I think that whether we wish it or not, change is already upon us.”
The words hung between them like a promise—or perhaps a warning—as the September shadows lengthened across the garden below.
Chapter Two
The road to Netherfield
October 1811
“You earned this position through merit, not charity,” Lord Matlock said, settling back against the burgundy leather seats of his travelling coach. The brass fittings gleamed despite the grey October morning, and a small, secured library of books swayed gently with the coach’s movement.
Fitzwilliam Darcy clasped his hands to prevent fidgeting, his jaw tight with tension despite his patron’s reassuring words. His best coat of dark blue wool was well-tailored but not first quality—a fact he was acutely conscious of in Lord Matlock’s presence. “I am grateful for your recommendation, my lord. I shall endeavour to prove worthy of your confidence.”
“I have no doubt of it.” Matlock’s weathered face creased with something approaching paternal pride. “Orphaned at thirteen years of age, and look at what you have accomplished. First under Wickham at Pemberley, then these past years with Jones on my estate. You have learned from good men.”
Darcy nodded, though privately he wondered if his training would prove sufficient. At Pemberley and Matlock’s estate, there had always been senior men to consult when difficult decisions arose. Here, every choice would rest upon his shoulders alone.
“Tell me of Netherfield’s particular challenges,” he requested, hoping to focus his mind on practical matters rather than his mounting apprehension.
