“Do I understand you correctly, Mr. Darcy,” interrupted Lady Jersey, “that your father was a dabbler in shares, stocks, and the like, and was an original stockholder of the Royal Canal Company in 1789? I hardly countenance that a three-thousand-pound subscription is meredabbling.”
“Neither can I, ma’am,” Darcy replied. “I was similarly astonished when the share certificate was discovered. Following my father’s passing, I spent considerable time sorting through his affairs, in some disarray to my dismay. I only cleared the last of his investments some six months ago, five years after I inherited his estate. I had thought all was done, for the subscription in the Royal Canal Company was unknown to me. It was found by an exhaustive search through Pemberley’s archives and offices, misplaced in a folio of receipts for Irish linens in the housekeeper’s closet—the last place my steward and I searched.”
Ah, the reason for Miss Darcy’s precipitous departure from town and her missing the Spring Gardens exhibition of paintings by female artists, thought Elizabeth. She herself had attended, and particularly enjoyed “Portrait of a Lady” by François Villiers; the image reminded her so very much of her sister Jane—exactly herself, size, shaped face, features, and sweetness. Elizabeth returned her attention to the matter at hand. If Mr. Darcy could make a case for his business with the bank, then, though his character appeared rude and judgemental, she caught glimpses, beneath his haughty demeanour, of a man of sense and integrity.
“But there is more, is there not?” Harry Smith asked, leaning forward in his seat. They had come to the core of the matter.
“The Capital Stock of the company was £200,000—the estimated construction cost of the canal, £197,000.” Darcy had no need to refer to his notes, for he had come to know the finances of the Royal Canal Company in great detail. “Of this, £134,000 was raised by subscription, and the remaining £66,000 was granted by Act of Parliament.”
Elizabeth handed a pamphlet to Lady Jersey, who gave it a cursory glance. “I am well aware of the period, Mr. Darcy, for the first stone of the first lock and bridge of the Royal Canal at Phibsborough in Dublin was laid by my father, the Earl of Westmorland, when he was Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. Though but a child, I remember the event very well.”
“My apologies, your ladyship, but the figures are central to my narrative. In particular, the Act stated that for every two pounds the company expended on the canal, the government would pay the company one pound.”
“We should pause for refreshment,” said Lady Jersey, taking the time to peruse the notes handed to her by Elizabeth, whoarose to summon the housemaid for more tea and coffee. She attempted to keep her expression neutral, for she had learnt that facial expressions were often mistaken by clients; they grew angry if her smile was interpreted as acquiescence to their requests rather than as mere politeness and courtesy.
Darcy tracked the young woman as she walked to the door. Young indeed, perhaps not more than one and twenty; her figure was light and pleasing, and her countenance was uncommonly intelligent, notwithstanding the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. What was he doing? Staring so when he should be focused on the matter at hand. He glanced across the table—once again Lady Jersey was looking at him with amusement. Was his interest in her companion so transparent? Confound it! He, Fitzwilliam Darcy, was not usually so easily unsettled.
“Please continue, Mr. Darcy.” Harry Smith resumed the meeting after Elizabeth had poured fresh tea and coffee.
“My father’s shares were of a peculiar kind, of which I am certain he was not aware. In order to keep the capital of the company balanced with the expenditure on the canal, on payment of two shillings in the pound—that is, ten percent—the capital value of his shares rose to match expenditure by the company which was funded by borrowings.” Darcy paused, taking a sip of coffee, prepared exactly to his taste.
“Let me cut to the chase,” he continued. “Over time, the capital value of my father’s shares increased—and I am now the majority shareholder. But the company is insolvent—if it were not for the importance of completing the canal, at least to its summit, then the Directors of Inland Navigation in Ireland would have declared the company bankrupt long ago.”
“Surely, Mr. Darcy,” said Harry Smith, “you’re not wishing to recover your father’s investment? While it is a substantialsum, and grown even larger over time, I cannot see why you would pursue the matter.”
“You are correct, sir. If it were only the cash value of the shares, I would give them up and walk away from the whole sorry affair. The canal has reached Thomastown, a village in County Westmeath, some ten miles from Mullingar, where the canal is to be connected to Lough Owel, the water supply for the canal. Mullingar is a substantial town in Westmeath, surrounded by fertile fields growing corn and the like. It is located at the summit, the highest point of the canal, with a convenient water supply; the logical terminus of the canal, should Parliament not wish to extend it to the River Shannon, further to the west.”
“If you recall, the shares were only partly paid,” Darcy said, attempting to keep his demeanour calm. “The government demands that the canal be completed, at least to Mullingar. Without that connection, it is merely a ditch, a trench across the countryside, for otherwise, there is little water to supply the locks or offset natural seepage. The company has made a call on the partly paid shares to fund completion. With their debentures already trading at a discount, they can raise no further capital through public loans.”
“A peculiar story indeed, Mr. Darcy. Pemberley is among Derbyshire’s largest estates—second only to Chatsworth. Surely the estate can cover these obligations?” Lady Jersey pressed, her gaze unwavering. Darcy, unaccustomed to such scrutiny from a woman, shifted uneasily.
“My father’s investments were often ill-advised or unprofitable. Apart from the Royal Canal, settling his affairs has depleted the estate’s reserves. Recent poor harvests have left little surplus.” Darcy paused; the time had come to lay bare the sorry position in which he had found himself: “The call amounts to £184,500.”
There was a stunned silence around the table—such an enormous sum.
“And you wish to raise this through bank borrowing?” Harry Smith could barely restrain his incredulity. “Have you thought to syndicate the loan across many banks?”
“That was my original plan, but Masterman’s—our family’s bank since 1780—refused to entertain my request. I’ll be candid: Child’s is my last resort. I’ve been turned down by every other major house—Hoare, Drummonds, Barings, and more.”
“Why come to Child’s only now?” Lady Jersey asked with a hint of sharpness. “Surely we should have been your first choice—we are, after all, the largest private bank in the City.”
Darcy blushed. “Frankly, Lady Jersey, your reputation gave me pause. You know I’m Lady Matlock’s nephew, and while she is formidable, I was told she is but Ophelia to your Rosalind. I have little experience dealing with women in business—my mother died when I was twelve, and I was never taught their ways. I confess, perhaps I’m a misanthrope, though I don’t dislike women, far from it”—he glanced, involuntarily, at Elizabeth—“but I admit, I don’t understand them.”
Lady Jersey laughed. “Well said, Mr. Darcy! Do you think, Harry, that many men would dare to express such an opinion before me? Oh, I know you and the other partners often grumble about my interference in the bank’s affairs. But never to my face, for which I am exceedingly grateful, for I have no wish to exert my authority other than at directors’ meetings.”
Her tone grew serious. “£184,500 is no small sum, Mr. Darcy. Before we dismiss your request outright, let’s at least understand your reasoning.”
“Were the canal completed to Mullingar,” replied Darcy, “then the government have committed to pay their portion of the expenses. The Directors of the company have agreed to convert my shares to loan stock—as allowed by the company’s charter—then repay it in full. I have suggested that I be repaid only the £184,500, and that other small note holders, such as widows and the like, be paid out preferentially from the remainder. It is not my intention to profit at their expense.”
“And interest on the loan, which, if it were granted, is likely to be eight percent?” asked Lady Jersey.
“Eight is rather high—I was anticipating six percent, some two percent above government consols.” Darcy was thoughtful. “It would be possible, from cash at hand and returns from the estate, though I do not favour retrenchments.”
Lady Jersey leant back in her chair, then turned to Elizabeth. “Perhaps, my dear, as you have been so silent, you could summarise where we are at.”
What was this? Darcy was taken aback. Was he to be further humiliated by having the young woman recount his misfortunes, then for Lady Jersey to throw him onto the street? He steadied himself. Harry Smith was looking at the woman with respect—there was so much at play here, he scarcely knew what they were about.
“Please correct me if I’m mistaken, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, consulting her notes. “You own shares now valued at £248,000, stemming from the original £3,000 investment, with the remainder issued as partly paid shares—£184,500 of which is unpaid.” She smiled as Darcy acknowledged her calculation. “The government wants the canal extended from Thomastown to Mullingar, and the company has called up the outstanding amount to complete the project. If you default, the government will likely press the company to recover the funds—possibly forcing the sale of Pemberley. By your own admission, you don’t have the liquid assets to meet the demand.
