Mr Bennet nodded sagely. “That speaks well of you, sir. I am pleased we are neighbours and look forward to knowing you better. For now, my wifeextends an invitation for you to dine with us in two days’ time. We should be most happy if you would accept.”
“Thank you. I have no fixed engagements.” Fiennes rose and escorted his friendly neighbour to the door. When the man had gone, he reviewed in his mind the list of gentlemen who had called at Netherfield the past few days.
Sir William Lucas was a knight, though not of long standing, if Fiennes were to judge. He fancied himself the foremost gentleman in the vicinity, though his speech betrayed the lack of a genteel upbringing. He had three sons and two daughters, but spoke chiefly of the latter. The elder, Charlotte, was of marriageable age; the younger, Miss Maria, was only ten. Sir William seemed eager to advance his eldest, which led Fiennes to wonder what defect she concealed.
Sir William appeared intelligent enough, though not overly so. His dress was plain, suggesting a past marked by thrift or want. He would not serve as a prudent mark.
Arthur Goulding had one daughter and two sons. Both boys were still at school, and his daughter had been out two years. Goulding spoke at length of his flaxen-haired children, especially his daughter. He admitted that his estate was in good order, though it was his business interests that yielded the greater part of his income. He mentioned his late father, who had nearly ruined the property before his death. That gentleman, Fiennes decided, would prove too wary to invest with him.
Rupert Long, meanwhile, had the care of his two nieces—Miss Priscilla, one-and-twenty, and Miss Penelope, nineteen. He showed little eagerness to see them married, declaring that they possessed substantial dowries and that he drew only the interest of their capital for their maintenance. He insisted his nieces had no wish to marry. Long bore watching; he might serve, but not yet.
It was the master of Longbourn who appeared every inch the gentleman ripe for harvest: five daughters, a modest income, and nothing reserved for dowries or emergencies. His clothes were well cut and of costly cloth, and his manner suggested a man who would welcome additional funds. His eyes had brightened when he spoke of investment. And though his motives sounded charitable, Fiennes discerned a certain indolence, a complacency regarding his estate.
These gentlemen never valued what they possessed before Fiennes stripped it from them. It was his right to do so; if they were too foolish to manage their affairs, he would gladly do it in their stead. Though Longbourn was entailed, there were other means of obtaining what he wanted. Bennet would be ruined, and too proud to do aught but capitulate to his demands.
Two days later, attired in his finest waistcoat, Fiennes arrived at Longbourn. He knew he cut a fine figure. His light-brown hair was artfully arranged to appear carelessly dishevelled; he had attended to every detail. The gold-and-diamond sleeve buttons and matching cravat pin testified to his wealth—subtle, deliberate signs of showing his prosperity.
Longbourn appeared well-kept. The red-brick house was softened by climbing ivy and roses. From his discreet inquiries, Fiennes had gained a sense of the estate’s income, and two thousand a year proved a disappointment. Bennet likely lacked ready funds for indulgence, but that would not hinder Fiennes from cultivating his friendship until the proper moment to strike. People, after all, were tools—useful only to those clever enough to wield them.
The door opened to reveal an elderly butler, who admitted him and led the way to a large parlour on the east side of the house. It was perfectly suited to evening use, for the sun had long passed, leaving the room pleasantly cool.
“Mr Damian Fiennes,” the butler announced.
“Thank you, Hill.” Bennet rose. “Mr Fiennes, we are pleased you could join us. Allow me to present my wife, Mrs Frances Bennet, and our two eldest daughters, Miss Jane Bennet and Miss Elizabeth. My Lizzy is particularly delighted—this is her first formal dinner.”
Fiennes bowed and then straightened, intent on studying the family. Mrs Bennet’s hands fluttered, her eyes darting about. She spoke in quick, shrill bursts, confirming his suspicion that she was not of gentle birth. Even in the first moments of their acquaintance, she had managed two or three small breaches of decorum.
Miss Bennet was a young woman of great beauty. At seventeen, her charms were already considerable, and Fiennes had no doubt she would grow still lovelier in time. Yet her downcast eyes and timid replies failed to hold his interest. Others might censure his habit of judging swiftly, but he prided himself on the accuracy of his assessments; he was rarely mistaken.
His attention turned to Miss Elizabeth. Before him stood a spirited beauty of fifteen years. Chestnut-brown curls framed her face; her composure trembled on the edge of excitement, fighting to maintain a calm demeanour. Her eyes sparkled with amusement as she greeted him warmly. The dulcet tones of her voice washed over him, and to his surprise, he found himself inexplicably intrigued by the diminutive creature.
That interest endured throughout the meal, and while he attempted to converse equally with all those at table, his gaze kept returning, almost involuntarily, to Miss Elizabeth. She spoke with animation, intelligence, and modesty—rare in women of his acquaintance. Her sister, by contrast, uttered scarcely ten words all evening. Miss Elizabeth, however, could not seem to help herself, equally participating in the conversation, and even venturing into debate with her father.
Fiennes observed the exchange, fascinated. He had never before met a young lady able to match a man’s reasoning, and Bennet did not temper his arguments for her sake, either. The more Fiennes watched, the greater his curiosity became.
When the ladies rose, signalling the close of dinner, Bennet remained seated. Fiennes leaned back, awaiting the port.
“I hope you do not object to the lack of tobacco, Mr Fiennes.” Bennet poured two glasses. “Mrs Bennet cannot abide the smell and insists I refrain.”
“That is quite understandable.” Fiennes accepted the glass and sipped with evident satisfaction, inclining his head in approval. “Your daughters are charming,” he said, hoping to draw the gentleman into speaking further.
Bennet’s grin broadened. “Indeed, they are exceptional. Jane is her mother’s pride and joy—a rare beauty. Her uncle was obliged to dismiss a man from her company two years past for writing her execrable poetry and refusing to leave her be. My Jane is tender-hearted and the picture of elegance and propriety.”
“Your younger daughter is her equal?” Fiennes’s interest appeared casual.
His host looked pleased. “No. Elizabeth surpasses her sister entirely. Though Jane is educated, it is Lizzy who owns true intellect. She is every bit as clever as a man—cleverer, I dare say. And though she lacks classical beauty, she is a lovely girl and more than tolerably handsome. With her lively disposition and ability to make anyone feel at ease, Elizabeth will marry far better than any of her sisters.”
And she is your favourite. Excellent. That may serve me well.
They rejoined the ladies, and Fiennes seated himself near the young ladies. An attempt to engage Miss Bennet in conversation elicited littlebeyond polite monosyllables; the handkerchief in her lap twisted under nervous fingers. Her discomfort amused him, and smirking inwardly, he took quiet pleasure in having unsettled her.
“Miss Elizabeth, I understand from the conversation at dinner that you are fond of walking.” Attentive, he leaned nearer, the movement deliberate rather than impulsive.
She answered his motion with a graceful inclination. “I am, sir. I walk out every morning when the weather is fine.”
“Do you venture far from your father’s lands?”
She nodded eagerly. “I have walked three miles over the fields to Netherfield before. Oakham Mount is my favourite walk, though.”
