No one could be blamed for that.
Miss Bingley’s voice drifted across the room—some speculation about what she might wear, a remark on the tiresome habits of neighbouring families who thought calling weekly was the norm—and Bingley, who was now canvassing the subject of a menu for the ball with such enthusiasm that it required no effort at all to let it pass around him rather than through him.
Darcy stood near the mantel, one shoulder braced against it, glass untouched in his hand. He nodded when expected. He smiled when politeness demanded it. He even answered once or twice, briefly, with enough presence of mind to avoid remark.
The knock at the door was sharp enough to cut through conversation without apology. Bingley turned at once. “Good Lord—what now? We are not besieged, are we?”
The footman entered with unusual haste, crossing directly to Darcy without waiting for invitation. “A letter for you, sir. By express.”
Darcy set his glass aside. “From whom?”
“Your steward, sir. At Pemberley. The messenger did not stay for a reply.”
He did not open it at once. He turned slightly away from the hearth, unfolding the page with deliberate care, his posture composed even as his eye moved rapidly across the hand he knew as well as his own.
Sir,
I beg leave to trouble you with a matter that has arisen in the ordinary course of estate management, and which I would not press upon your attention were it not, in my judgment, time-sensitive.
Our stores remain sufficient for the present, though they have begun to draw down more quickly than anticipated. In seeking to supplement them, I have made inquiry among our usual correspondents in Derbyshire and the neighbouring counties, only to find that many report shortages comparable to our own, and some far worse. Requests that in other years would have been answered readily have met with delay, apology, or refusal.
It has been mentioned to me—indirectly, and with somecaution—that Hertfordshire did not suffer the same deficiencies this season. I do not know whether this is mere optimism born of rumour, or a fact grounded in account, but the suggestion has arisen more than once.
As you are presently in that county, and in company with Mr Bingley of Netherfield, I thought it prudent to ask whether there is any truth to the report, and if so, whether it might be possible—discreetly—to ascertain whether a limited arrangement could be made before wider notice is taken. I would not wish to invite attention where none is needed, nor to impose upon hospitality, but it seems wise to consider the matter while the opportunity remains quiet.
I await your direction, and remain, as ever,
Your obedient servant,
Nigel Granger
Impossible.
Darcy read the letter again.
Then again.
Miss Bingley’s voice intruded faintly. “Is everything quite all right, Mr Darcy?”
Darcy folded the letter, but his gaze had grown muzzy, distant.
Bingley had risen now. “Darcy?”
He looked up. For a moment, he considered saying nothing. Of treating the matter lightly—of dismissing it as a steward’s over-caution, the sort of anxious accounting that always followed a middling harvest. It would be easy enough. Comforting, even.
Instead, he found he could not.
“A matter for tomorrow, I daresay. No doubt some accounting error—Bingley and I may investigate it tomorrow.”
Miss Bingley tilted her head. “You cannot mean here at Netherfield? I assure you, Mr Darcy—”
He slid the letter into his pocket. “My steward writes that supplies are drawing down faster than expected. He has been attempting to secure additional grain and finds that very few counties have any to spare.”
Bingley’s expression sobered at once. “I had heard the harvest was poor in places, but—”
“So had I,” Darcy said. “I did not suppose it was so general.”
“And yet,” Bingley said slowly, “you speak as though this concerns us.”
