Darcy glanced up. “Did you have the boundaries of Netherfield surveyed when you took the lease?”
Bingley laughed. “Ah. That sort of ominous. Yes, they have been—well—no. Not by me, at any rate. The place has been standing comfortably for years. I saw no reason to unsettle it.”
Darcy accepted this without visible reaction. “What about before you took possession?”
“I believe my predecessor had it done once. Or perhaps his father. Someone sensible, certainly.” Bingley sipped his tea. “Why? Has the house been quietly annexing Hertfordshire while I slept?”
“No,” Darcy said. “But I am curious.”
That earned him a look. Bingley leaned back in his chair. “You are neverjustcurious.”
Darcy did not dispute this. He glanced toward the door. “Is your steward engaged?”
Bingley followed his gaze, then shrugged with easy good nature. “Mr Bixby is somewhere about the place, no doubt heroically preventing chaos. If you wish to consult him, I shall summon him at once. But I warn you, he will be earnest.”
“I should expect nothing less.”
Mr Bixby arrived promptly: a man of middle years, composed manner, and an expression shaped by decades of orderly service. He bowed to both gentlemen and waited.
“Mr Bixby,” Bingley began, with the air of a host relinquishing responsibility, “my friend has developed a rather… morbid fixation on Netherfield’s land history.”
“An interest,” Darcy corrected, politely.
The steward inclined his head. “Very good, sir. In what respect?”
Darcy laid his paper on the table between them. It held no drawings, no flourishes—only a neat list of questions. “I should like to know whether any portion of the eastern rise has ever been remeasured, adjusted, or remarked upon in the course of the estate’s keeping.”
The steward blinked once. “The eastern rise, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Well.” Mr Bixby considered. “Not to my knowledge. It is not especially notable ground.”
“Has it ever been enclosed?”
“No, sir.”
“Cleared?”
“Not in my tenure.”
“Divided? Possibly purchased or sold off to a neighbour?”
“No land sales have taken place in more than a century.”
“Marked? In any way at all—a stile, perhaps, a fence…”
The steward hesitated. “There are old boundary stones, sir. Or were. Many were set deep. Some are no longer visible.”
Darcy’s pen moved. “And not uncovered?”
Mr Bixby glanced at the paper. “Forgive me, sir, but this is an unusually precise inquiry.”
“It is,” Darcy agreed. “That is intentional.”
Bingley, who had been watching with affectionate bemusement, rose. “I think this is my cue to vanish. You have that look, Darcy—the one that suggests ledgers will soon appear, and I shall be made to regret my fondness for you.”
Darcy did not look up. “You will regret nothing.”
