“Then we shall be discreet with great determination.”
That earned another small smile. Mrs. Nicholls had served under the Crofts and had quickly learned to appreciate her young mistress’s unusual manner of management. She was one of very few people in Hertfordshire who knew the full truth, and Elizabeth valued both her competence and her silence.
After reviewing the pantry, linens, guest chambers, and kitchen stores, Elizabeth at last took up her bonnet and gloves. Mrs. Nicholls walked with her to the entrance hall, where thescent of beeswax and lavender polish lingered pleasantly in the air.
“Mr. Bingley is to return tomorrow, correct?” Elizabeth verified.
“Yes, miss. He comes first from London, I am told, with two sisters and a brother-in-law.”
Mr. Philips had said much the same. The new tenant was a young man from the north, possessed of a handsome fortune inherited from a father who had made his wealth in trade. Mr. Bingley wished to become a landed gentleman, and Netherfield was to serve as his first experiment in that direction. Elizabeth hoped he would prove sensible. A wealthy young man eager to impress could either be a blessing to a neighborhood or a terror to an estate.
She stepped out into the mild September afternoon and turned back once more to look at the house.
Netherfield Park.
Hers.
The thought still astonished her at odd moments, though less frequently than before. In public, she remained only the second Miss Bennet, with no fortune to speak of and no prospects beyond what her wit, face, and connections might accomplish. Privately, she possessed an estate, investments, and a dowry large enough to make her mother faint if she ever learned of it.
Sometimes Elizabeth wondered whether secrecy had become habit or armor.
Perhaps both.
The walk back to Longbourn was pleasant. The air held the first suggestion of autumn, crisp enough to stir energy without yet carrying chill. Hedgerows rustled on either side of the lane, and the fields beyond lay golden and tired after harvest. Elizabeth walked briskly, glad of the solitude after the practical business of the morning.
The assembly would be held that Saturday.
All of Meryton was already in a state of anticipation bordering upon fever. Mrs. Bennet had spoken of little else since word arrived that Netherfield had been let at last, and Lydia and Kitty had spent three days debating whether a wealthy young gentleman from the north would dance more agreeably than the officers. Mary had declared assemblies frivolous, which meant she would attend in her plainest gown and look pained to see anyone enjoy themselves.
Elizabeth smiled at the thought.
She hoped Mr. Bingley would attend. Not because she intended to catch him, despite her mother’s certain ambitions, but because the neighborhood needed new life. A good tenant at Netherfield could mean improved roads, better trade in Meryton, work for servants, and attention to families who had long been neglected. If Mr. Bingley proved amiable and responsible, his arrival might benefit far more than the young ladies eager for dances.
Her thoughts drifted, quite without permission, to another man.
It was absurd, of course.
Colonel Fitzwilliam Darcy would never lease Netherfield. He was in Derbyshire, or wherever his militia duties took him, far removed from Hertfordshire and from secret heiresses who discovered Roman treasures in cellars. She had seen him only briefly two years earlier, and yet he returned to her mind at the most inconvenient moments. A grave expression. A hand turning an ancient coin reverently in lantern light. A voice filled with wonder when he spoke of Rome. Eyes that had made her forget, for one mortifying instant, that she was covered in mud.
She had met other young men since then.
Several had been handsome. One or two had been clever. A few had danced well enough to make an evening pleasant.
None had made her feel as Mr. Darcy had, standing in that cellar with history in his hand and seriousness in every line of his face.
Which was ridiculous.
Utterly ridiculous.
Elizabeth stopped at the edge of the lane and looked toward the fields, as though the sight of Longbourn’s familiar hedges might restore her sense. “You will not moon over a man you met twice,” she informed herself firmly. “Particularly not one who lives half the kingdom away and likely remembers you only as the muddiest young woman of his acquaintance.”
A crow answered from a nearby tree, sounding remarkably unimpressed.
Elizabeth laughed despite herself and resumed walking.
No. She would put Mr. Darcy from her mind. The new neighbors were coming, the assembly approached, and Hertfordshire would soon be full of novelty. That was quite enough excitement for any reasonable person.
And yet, as Netherfield disappeared behind the trees and Longbourn came into view ahead, Elizabeth could not shake the strange flutter of anticipation beneath her ribs. It was foolish, perhaps, but it felt almost as though the arrival of these new tenants marked the beginning of something.
