Wilkens bowed and withdrew, leaving his master to his thoughts.
I am five-and-thirty.Most would say I have done well for so young a man. What else is there?He did not know, but he intended to discover it.
It took some time to arrange his affairs. He trusted no one entirely with his interests; a master ignorant of the goings-on around him was an easy target. He ought to know—had he not sought out such men himself, many times over?
At length, he was ready to depart. His house in town, purchased the previous year and situated on a fashionable street a stone’s throw from Hyde Park, was closed for the season. He ordered the refurbishment of several rooms in his absence before stepping into his carriage to embark on a new venture.
He had avoided the country for many years. Raised in London, the stillness and restraint of country life held little charm for him. What could it offer that might rival London and all its diversions? Yet he must review Netherfield Park, catalogue its contents, and determine what was to be done with it. He could sell it, though letting the property might prove the wiser course. Only a thorough examination would supply the information he required, and he trusted no other hand to perform it.
The journey occupied several hours. Fiennes alternated between watching the landscape from the window, reading, and consulting his journal. Within its pages lay the names of several men ripe for harvest in the coming months. Foremost among them was Lord Carlisle, who had borrowed against his secondary estate, a pretty property in Kent. The nobleman’s eldest son, Viscount Norton, was a notorious gambler, and the earldomstrained beneath the weight of the heir’s debts. The father hoped that his speculations would discharge them.
Heaven forfend they should sell the secondary estate. Such is ever the pride of the peerage; to part with land is to part with consequence.
It was nearly tea-timewhen the carriage turned from the main road and proceeded along a sweeping drive. Fiennes set aside his journal and peered through the window, eager for the first sight of his new estate.A true gentleman at last.
Chapter Two
July 1805
Hertfordshire
Fiennes
Fiennesexaminedeachroomwith care, his assistant, Wilkens, following close behind and noting particulars in his memorandum book. Netherfield Park was in tolerable condition, though certain areas required attention. The ballroom, for instance, bore the marks of neglect; before it might be presentable for company, the oak floor would need to be planed smooth, then dry-scrubbed with fine white sand, and afterwards stained and polished.
When they retired to the study, Fiennes asked, “Have you an accurate accounting?”
“Yes, sir.” Wilkens nodded eagerly, his spectacles sliding down his nose as he did. “I shall write the letters and dispatch them to London without delay.”
“Very good.” Fiennes clasped his hands behind his back and crossed to the window, surveying the verdant gardens beyond. “You may go.” His eyes remained fixed on the pleasant view. Morgan Fields would miss it, for all his bluster that he disliked estate management. And now it belonged tohim—his first estate, his official entry into the ranks of thegentry.
Few knew the truth of his origins. If he managed matters with discretion, no one ever would. He would be welcomed into the neighbourhood with open arms; the denizens eager to court the favour of the single gentleman of fortune newly settled amongst them.A perfect opportunity to prosper.
Within a se’nnight, several gentlemen called to introduce themselves. Most were dull, unremarkable men, save one. Mr Thomas Bennet of Longbourn, the neighbouring estate and the second largest in the area, appeared to possess more discernment than the rest.
“Welcome to Hertfordshire, sir,” said Mr Bennet, when calling at Netherfield. “I must own, we were all surprised when Fields sold the place. I know he prefers town to the country and was eager to spend more time there now that his daughters are married.” There was a glimmer of intelligence in Bennet’s eyes. Fiennes wondered, though only briefly, whether Fields had confided in him, but dismissed the thought at once. Fields was like all the others—so absorbed in himself that, when at last he fell, there would be none to uphold him. Pride would ensure his silence to all but those who absolutely needed to understand his situation.
“I could not pass on the opportunity to acquire Netherfield Park,” Fiennes accepted the man’s offered hand with deliberate civility. “I have been received with warmth.”
Bennet laughed. “Be warned; there are many mothers in our corner of the country eager to marry off their daughters. I dare say you have already been apprised.”
Fiennes gave a quiet laugh, amused that the man knew his neighbours so well. “Aye, let me see if I recollect. Sir William Lucas has a daughter—Charlotte, I believe—two-and-twenty years of age. Mr Goulding has one daughter of marriageable years—Miss Harriet Goulding, said to be ‘lovely and refined.’ And then there is Mr Long, who hosts his two nieces, Priscilla and Penelope.”
“You have it nearly complete, sir, save the tradesmen and their families. I myself have five daughters, though only one is out, and she is but seventeen.”
“Five?” Fiennes allowed himself a fleeting look of amusement. “My, that is a veritable profusion of femininity.”
“I confess I grow weary of lace, ribbons, and embroidery. Had Providence favoured us with a son, I should be more content in my own house. For now, the girls are largely occupied with their studies. We mean to engage a governess for the younger three. Jane and Elizabeth have no need of one—their aunt has attended to their improvement.”
Fiennes observed Bennet closely as the man continued speaking. With a few well-placed questions, he learned that Longbourn was entailed away from the female line and that no portion was set aside for the daughters’ dowries.Folly. Yet, advantageous for me.
“I mean to invest some capital in a venture, in hopes of providing a dowry for Jane and Elizabeth. The others are far from needing one.” Bennet looked well pleased with himself.
“I have dabbled in investments myself,” Fiennes’s manner betrayed nothing beyond polite interest.
“You have done exceedingly well if you managed to purchase this estate from Fields,” Bennet remarked. “You cannot be more than five-and-thirty.”
Fiennes lowered his eyes briefly, the very picture of modesty. “I do not wish to boast, but yes. My parents left me little enough, and I was forced to make my own way. I flatter myself that I have made a success of my life despite the circumstances in which they left me.” Enough truth to satisfy curiosity was all his guest needed.
