The clerk blinked. “They are, yes—but—” He broke off, clearly recalibrating. “May I ask, sir, the nature of your request? You do not reside in Meryton.”
“No.” Darcy folded the gloves and set them aside. “But I am conducting inquiries relating to land use and boundary history in the neighbourhood.”
That earned him a longer look. “I see,” the clerk said, though it was clear he did not. “Most gentlemen apply through the steward at Netherfield, or else consult their own family papers.”
“I have done so. I was advised there may be older references here.”
“Well.” The clerk hesitated, then nodded, already half overmatched by Darcy’s manner. “Yes. Quite possibly. The earlier books are not often requested.”
At that moment, Brutus stepped forward, intending to follow.
“Stay,” Darcy said quietly, without turning.
The dog halted at once, then sat just inside the threshold.
The clerk glanced at him, then back at Darcy. “Is—will he—?”
“He will not interfere,” Darcy said. “Nor move.”
Brutus did neither.
After a moment, the clerk cleared his throat and gestured toward the back room. “If you will follow me, sir. The records are… thorough.”
“I prefer it so.”
The room beyond was a collection of clutter and piles of books, folios, and papers—a mountain of accumulation rather than neglect. Shelves lined the walls in uneven ranks, ledgers thick with age and habit, some spines cracked, others stiff with long disuse. Darcy removed his coat and laid it carefully over the back of a chair.
“Where would you wish to begin?” the clerk asked.
Darcy did not answer at once. His gaze had already settled on a particular shelf.
“Enclosure records. Agricultural surveys. Land grants, perambulation records, removed markers, or quitclaims and fines. The older the better. Have you anything copied in the Tudor period or earlier?”
“Tudor! Indeed, Mr Darcy, you are something of an historian.” The clerk paused, then nodded slowly. “That would be… here. And here. Manorial court rolls, certain marginalia. Even some Jacobean era scribblings.” He pulled out one volume, then another. “You may find some duplication.”
“I will manage.” He took the first ledger, opened it, and began.
He worked methodically. Rental agreements. Old surveys. Boundary disputes long settled and never revisited. Names repeated. Names vanished. Notations grew sparse the farther back he pressed, as though the land itself had grown less talkative with time.
Brutus settled near the doorway, watchful.
Darcy traced a finger along a margin, pausing at a note half-crossed out—old stone removed during replanting—with no date and no explanation attached. He turned the page. The next entry referred to a hedge realigned “for convenience.”
He made a note. Then another. He did not allow himself to connect them until he had time to look over them all.
A burst of laughter from the street cut across his concentration. Boots passed the window—heavy, careless, unmistakably martial. The militia, then. He had heard they were to be quartered nearby; Bingley had spoken of little else since it had been announced.
Darcy did not look up at once. When he did, it was only because Brutus had risen.
The dog’s attention fixed on the glass, posture alert but contained. He emitted a small “whuff,” and the hair at his scruff lifted slightly.
Darcy followed the line of his gaze. A man stood across the way, half-turned, speaking to one of the shopkeepers. Darcy saw only his back, the careless angle of his shoulders, theeasy confidence with which he occupied the space. He laughed again—an unremarkable sound, indistinct through the pane.
Darcy’s hand stilled on the page. Was that…?
No.That was absurd.
The coat was wrong. The height uncertain. Any number of men walked with that loose assurance. Memory was not proof, and he would not be led by it.
