“That alone gives me pause.” Bingley clapped Bixby lightly on the shoulder. “Answer whatever he asks. If he requests parchments from the reign of Henry VIII, humour him. There’s a good fellow.”
Darcy shook his head as the door closed and returned to the map. “Have there ever been complaints regarding that ground in years past?”
The steward frowned. “Complaints, sir?”
“Poor growth. Unaccountable cold. Captured pockets of frost, or perhaps even fissures from spring run-off—that sort of thing.”
Mr Bixby paused longer this time. “No complaints of that nature have ever been formally lodged.”
“Informally, then.”
The man considered his words carefully. “There have been… remarks. Shepherds do not linger there. Game does not take to that stretch readily. But such superstitions are common enough. One learns not to give them undue importance.”
Darcy made a note. “And the harvest?”
Mr Bixby blinked. “Sir?”
“This year’s yield,” Darcy clarified. “I am aware that the season was not ideal—late planting, thin heads, sluggish summer weather. How has Netherfield fared?”
The steward’s expression changed at once—not to caution, but to something like pride. “Exceptionally well, sir.”
Darcy looked up.
“In truth,” Mr Bixby continued, “it has been our strongest year in recent memory. Wheat above expectation by nearly double. Barely clean and heavy—why, I daresay we had to sell a great deal of it merely for lack of space in the barn. No loss worth remarking upon. I laid the figures before Mr Bingley last month.”
Darcy’s mouth tightened slightly. He did not comment on that. Bingley would have accepted the statement with pleasure and asked no further questions; of that, Darcy had no doubt. No comprehension of the true bounty in his lap. The failure was his own, then, for not having insisted earlier upon instruction where instruction was plainly needed.
“You have those figures still?” he asked.
“Of course, sir. I can have them brought at once. As well as the previous years, if you wish.”
“Yes.” Darcy paused, then added, “And any older field notes. Tenant records. Drainage plans.”
Mr Bixby hesitated. “I believe you have already seen the extent of what we possess. Netherfield’s papers are… serviceable, but not especially deep. Anything earlier than my predecessor’s time was not preserved with care.”
Darcy inclined his head, accepting the answer without satisfaction. “Then I may need to look beyond this house.”
“Sir—may I ask—are these inquiries prompted by some recent concern?”
“I prefer to understand what I am responsible for. While this land is notmyresponsibility, per se, my friend has taken up its stewardship, and he is inexperienced in certain matters.”
Mr Bixby frowned, then nodded. “Of course. If you are seeking older context—records beyond the estate accounts—some matters were once noted in the parish books at Meryton. Land use. Enclosures. Boundaries that no longer exist as such. Not everything was preserved here.”
Darcy’s pen stopped. “Meryton,” he repeated.
“Yes, sir. The clerk there keeps older materials. Dusty things. Rarely consulted.”
Darcy folded his paper with care. “Thank you, Mr Bixby. You have been most helpful.”
Mr Bixby nodded, though his expression had grown thoughtful. “I will have the harvest figures sent up directly.”
Darcy turned back to the table. “Please do.”
What troubled him was not that Netherfield prospered.
It was that it did so alone.
The sitting room atLongbourn had regained its usual volume.
