Grinning, Bingley re-dipped the quill pen, tapped it once again on the side of the inkwell, and carefully lowered the pen to the paper.
Of course, there was a blot. There was always a blot. Bingley adjusted the angle at which he held the pen and scratched out his name before any further disaster could occur. At the end of his signature, he managed to leave another, smaller blot, and he bit his lip in embarrassment.
But, being Bingley, his enthusiasm surged, and he forgot his momentary discomfiture.
Just a few minutes later, he was out the door of the office, climbing back into the carriage. He lifted the large iron key as he grinned at the man he considered his greatest friend. “Congratulate me, Darcy,” he said. “I am a leaseholder!”
Fitzwilliam Darcy nodded his head and smiled as he complied with Bingley’s demand. “Congratulations! You are well on your way to becoming a landowner, Bingley, and you are only three and twenty! Your father would be so proud!”
Bingley’s smile could not be wider. “Thank you, friend, for all of your help through this process, and especially for finding Netherfield Park. I am greatly indebted to you.”
Darcy lifted his hand as if to brush away the thanks. “Pray, say no more,” he told his friend.
The younger man relaxed back into the squabs. He remembered the moment he had noticed something odd about one of the papers, and he sat up again, saying, “I say, Darcy. A wind blew the papers just as I was about to sign, and I could have sworn that I saw a paper with your handwriting.” Bingley had always admired Darcy’s handwriting—it was flowing andprecise, every letter perfectly formed and slanted, not a blot to be seen.
Chuckling, Darcy asked, “Do you think that every fine hand is mine? Bingley, you know that almost everyone at Eton and Cambridge has achieved what somehow has evaded you.”
Bingley nodded. “You are correct, Darce. I was being silly.”
It was not long before the carriage pulled up to the manor house of Netherfield, and Bingley saw that the steward, butler, and housekeeper were all on the front stairs, waiting to welcome him and take over the keeping of the key. Bingley eagerly greeted them all by name, and he admitted, “I cannot remember to whom I am to give this giant iron contraption.”
Mr Conrad, the butler, put out his hand for the eight-inch key, saying, “Thank you, sir. Welcome home.”
Bingley bounded through the door, waved his arms as he caught Darcy’s eye, and he said, “Finally, after all the times that you hosted me, I am able to say, ‘Welcome tomyhome, Darcy.’”
“Thank you, Bingley. And again, my congratulations. I would love a brief tour.”
Darcy had pored over a report about the house several months before and had brought the estate to his friend’s notice, but he had never seen the house. Bingley excitedly showed him all the public rooms of the ground and first floors, pointing out the beautiful mouldings and indicating that some rooms had been updated with new wallpaper. Bingley also explained how he had arranged his family heirlooms within the already-furnished home. “There was a very ugly yellowish-brownish sofa here, before I moved in,” he said, “but I had this matching sofa and a settee from my dear Papa, so there was no room for the other, and I had it taken to the attic.”
Nodding, Darcy asked. “I imagine you ordered it well covered against dust?”
Bingley cringed a bit and said, “I assume the servants knew to do so, but I will be certain to ask.”
He concluded the tour in the blue drawing room, where a tray of ale, wine, cold meats, and fresh rolls awaited them. The men immediately moved to slake their thirst. Darcy took no food, but Bingley piled one of the small plates high with two rolls and a generous helping of tongue and ham.
“Of course, our rooms have been readied, Darcy, and Mrs Nicholls can take you up whenever you wish. But, before you do…. Well, I have waited to spring this on you, because I did not wish to be grumbled at all day long, but I have accepted an invitation for both of us to attend a local assembly. You will have to pretend to be sociable, old chap.”
Bingley was expecting a flash of annoyance—or something like it—to cross his friend’s face or, perhaps, settle dramatically between his eyebrows, but Darcy surprised him by nodding, his mouth twitching with the smallest version of his subtle smile. “Quite right, Bingley. I have a bit of a headache, but it should be gone soon, and you should get to know your neighbours. Also, I am certain that your decision not to invite your sisters while you become acquainted will pay off. People will get to know the real you and will not be puzzling over your sisters’ over-inflated airs.”
Nodding in agreement, Bingley said, “Yes, I think it was a wise idea. If I recall correctly, it wasyourwise idea.”
Darcy shrugged. Bingley grinned, thinking that his friend’s shrug meant,Naturally.
Relieved that Darcy was accepting that they go to an assembly, Bingley continued, “You remember, I told you that I had met one man when I was viewing this place the second time. His name is Sir William Lucas. He is the owner of Lucas Lodge. I was under the impression from the attorney, Mr Philips, that it is quite a modest house with a large garden, but Sir Williamseemed as proud of it, and of his knighthood, as if he were a duke.” Bingley laughed, but he did not think meanly of the man, or of anyone who aspired to better his station. After all, he was attempting to do so, himself.
“At any rate,” Bingley went on, “Sir William used to be the mayor of Meryton, and he seems to have taken on the role of the Master of Ceremonies at all assemblies, almost acting as a host, from what I understand.”
“Good to know,” Darcy said. “Do you know any of the other neighbouring families by name? It might help us tonight if we already know something about who we will be meeting.”
“Ah…let me think…. The Gouldings are lease-owners of Haye-Park. Mr Philips mentioned them several times to me, because he kept comparing my estate to theirs. —Did you see what I did, Darce? I fully intend to say the wordsmy estateas many times per hour as I can manage!”
Darcy chuckled. “Goulding,” he repeated. “Haye-Park. How didyourestate fare in comparison to theirs?”
Bingley laughed in delight. “Mine was far superior; thank you for asking.”
“Anyone else?”
Thinking hard, Bingley said, “I know he said a few other names. Oh! One Philips mentioned by saying that there were four pretty girls in the family plus one plain one. Let me think; what was the name of that family?”
