Page 32 of Mr. Darcy's Christmas Letters
This was skirting too close to intimacy, but neither of them looked away.
“Whatareyou talking about, Miss Eliza?” Miss Bingley said, and Elizabeth could hear the taint of desperation in the woman’s tone.
Mr. Darcy flinched and cast his eyes down at his plate, at last breaking the connection. For a connection it had been.
Elizabeth willed her heart to slow to a more normal beat as she focused on the food, picked up her fork, and began to eat.
Chapter Twelve
Bingleywaswatchingthesnow fall outside, an unlit cigar in his hand. “I think that regardless of what happens with the undergardener, Darcy, you will be delayed here until the roads are cleared. You may as well settle into your rooms.”
”Icannot leave,“ he informed Bingley, who turned to him with a mildly interested expression. “Your staff took my clothing to launder it and only half of it has made its way back. Would you mind making some inquiries?”
Bingley’s lips twitched. God help him if he laughed at Darcy’s plight. Darcy had had quite enough of that.
It was not as though he intended to leave. After their conversation at dinner this evening, he was not leaving this house until he could speak with Elizabeth alone. He might have mistaken her answer tonight or taken it to mean more than it did—misunderstanding Elizabeth was something he had a good deal of experience with—but he did not think that was the case. And when he did, it would be best if his stockings matched.
“I will speak with the staff.”
“Thank you. This is no slight on Scripps, of course. He must be weary of tending to us both.”
“He will manage,” Bingley replied. “I expect he is anticipating a bit extra on Boxing Day, and he shall have it.”
Darcy nodded and joined his friend at the window. The snow was still coming down in great blustery swathes, though it had slowed somewhat from earlier in the evening. It was too dark to see much beyond where they stood, but he doubted it was enough to foul the roads.
Bingley offered him the cigar, but Darcy shook his head. “Usually I smoke to keep Hurst company, but Jane does not like the smell. I shall not purchase more.”
“I am sure Hurst will be glad to have what remains.”
“No doubt.”
“It has been growing progressively colder,” Darcy mused. “I ought to have expected the turn in the weather.”
Bingley huffed, amused. “You are a farmer through and through.”
“I suppose that is true.” Darcy did not mention that he had been terribly distracted. “It comes with being born on an estate.”
“It does not,” Bingley disagreed. “For if it did, there would not be so many old families in decline. Observing you last autumn taught me that success takes a great deal of work. One must keep up with new ways to increase yield or new crops that might do better than the old. It requires managing risk and not relying on previous partnerships if they no longer offer favourable terms, not to mention a knowledge of contracts to sell the goods, and the many letters to interested parties. You must know who to hire and how to oversee their work. And in addition, one must cultivate good relationships with everyone whenever possible, from one’s tenants to the neighbouring landowners.” He paused. “Some of it comes naturally to me, but much of it does not.”
“I had the advantage of being brought up to the work. Pemberley is as much a part of the Darcy family as I am. More, to tell the truth, for if I am a success, it will live on after me.”
Bingley stared straight ahead. “What does a landowner do when the weather turns cold like this?”
His friend was in an unusually pensive mood, but Darcy simply answered the question. “Nothing of consequence if the harvest has been good and the work is done. In a year like this one, however, more care is required. Normally I would be at Pemberley to oversee the preparations, but as you know, business called me back to London soon after my arrival last summer. I have been corresponding with my steward and my housekeeper to make certain the staff and the tenants have what they need to make it through the colder months.”
“What if the next harvest is also poor?”
Darcy shook his head. “I do not like to think of it. I have money in investments and the funds as well, of course, so Pemberley is secure though ten such years. But so many people depend upon the health of the estate for their own livelihoods that two years of poor harvests would be very damaging.”
“Is there any other sort of work that you could put them to that would see them through the leaner times?” Bingley inquired.
“I have considered it, of course, but when the harvest is poor, very few people have funds to purchase anything else we might produce.”
“What if you created some sort of barter system?”
“That is what happens among the tenants and villagers quite naturally. They need none of my help there. The staff alerts me where assistance might be needed. The difficulty at times is getting people to take the help, for many are averse to what they view as charity.”
Bingley glanced at him, and then back out at flashes of white swirling against the dark. “There is a healthy sort of pride, I think, that can lead a man to greater achievements. But there are occasions where pride becomes nothing more than an impediment.”
