Page 6 of The Longbourn Bloodline

“Managed it into the ground,” Mary murmured, but only Elizabeth heard, and she did not smile.

Her father shuffled by her, too slowly, and caught her eye as if they shared a secret. “Lizzy, I should like a word with you in my study. There is a small matter regarding⁠—”

“If it concerns the new heir,” Elizabeth said, and her voice was tight and did not tremble, “then I have nothing to contribute beyond the sincere hope that he is a better horseman than Mr. Collins. Beyond that, Papa, I am quite sure you and Mr. Darcy have settled everything between you most satisfactorily without consulting any of the furniture.”

“As you wish,” he said mildly. “Though the furniture, I believe, would have a great deal to say if consulted.”

“The furniture has been sat upon quite enough for one day.”

She left the room while her father still smiled and Mrs. Bennet drew breath to renew the ballroom campaign, while Lydia whispered loudly about officers and Mary reached for Fordyce. Jane was the only one who turned toward Elizabeth with that gentle, searching look that always threatened to draw out confidences best left unsaid.

Elizabeth gently shook her head, alleviating Jane of her silent concerns that Mr. Darcy had indeed come for nefarious reasons, mainly that he expected everyone to accept him.

He had said so himself: I will not take no for an answer. He had ridden into Hertfordshire with the proud assurance of a man who had never been refused anything he considered his right, and he believed that Elizabeth Bennet—sharp-tongued, mud-soaked, bonnet-askewed Elizabeth Bennet—could be acquired along with the estate, improved with the drainage, and installed as the mistress of Longbourn as naturally as one might install new drapes.

He was, of course, grievously mistaken. Elizabeth intended to make the most of his error, and would take particular pleasure in watching him depart Longbourn, crushed hat in hand, scratched coat in disarray, and screaming desperately to amend the entail in favor of the female line.

CHAPTER THREE

THE JOY OF WOOING

The steward’s cottage was considerably worse than a gentleman of Pemberley had any right to endure, though Vernon, Darcy’s valet, clearly regarded it as a personal insult engineered by the devil.

The poor man had spent a decade and a half maintaining the pristine standard of Derbyshire’s finest estate, only to find himself pressing a superfine wool coat in a stone chamber that smelled aggressively of damp sheep and rodent habitation.

To Darcy, this water-stained, vermin-infested cottage reflected the ruin his adopted family had come to. The Bennet and Darcy patriarchs had been best of all friends, and so, Darcy’s great-grandfather had been given an honorary position as second son to old Thomas Bennet. Who could have guessed that the line from the elder son would run out of men after Mr. Collins’s death?

And so, Darcy was here as the dutiful heir. It simply would not do to allow Longbourn to languish under such neglect—starting with the thatch roof and leaking windows.

Mr. Bennet himself dropped by the second afternoon, bearing an invitation from Sir William Lucas.

“Now that the entire county is aware you are my heir, I suggest you drag yourself out of this hovel and get reacquainted with polite society. The neighborhood is agog, and please, this time, try not to insult any young ladies as beneath your notice.”

Darcy looked up from the ledger, his gaze sweeping over the damp-stained walls before fixing upon Mr. Bennet.

“I am quite capable of conducting myself in society without your instruction, sir. Though I should imagine the neighborhood’s curiosity is less taxing than the prospect of enduring an evening of Sir William’s tales.”

Mr. Bennet merely chuckled. “Oh, Lucas is harmless. He only wishes to congratulate himself on breathing the same air as ten thousand a year.”

Darcy didn’t crack a smile. He closed the ledger with a sharp snap. “Since we are upon the subject of the neighborhood, have you spoken to Miss Elizabeth regarding the matter we discussed?”

Mr. Bennet let out a low, gravelly chuckle, his shoulders shaking as he tapped the ash from his pipe into an empty grate. “Mention it? To my second daughter? My dear Mr. Darcy, I value the integrity of my study walls far too much to hazard such an experiment.”

“You have not spoken to her?”

“Good heavens, no,” Mr. Bennet said, his eyes glinting. “I have no desire to follow Mr. Collins so swiftly to the family vault. Poor William, as you recall, managed to survive his wedding morning only to take a fatal tumble before his wedding night. Had Lizzy been his bride, I am quite certain the horse would have required no assistance from a rutted road to be rid of him.”

“I am not Mr. Collins.”

“No, indeed,” Mr. Bennet murmured, turning toward the threshold with a dry, parting smile. “I merely suggest that if you intend to provoke my Lizzy into matrimony, you must endure the tedious, old-fashioned drudgery of winning her affections yourself, leaving me quite out of the line of fire.” He paused at the door, his hand resting upon the warped wood with the air of a general abandoning a doomed outpost. “Woo her, Mr. Darcy. Flatter her, chase her across the muddy fields, or whatever it is gentlemen of ten thousand a year do when they wish to make themselves agreeable. Once her temper is sufficiently softened, you may come to me for my blessing.”

“I believed you possessed the authority to determine your daughter’s future.”

“I do, Mr. Darcy.” Mr. Bennet poked at a rotted beam with his walking stick. “But I happen to like you and mean to keep you alive until the repairs are made. In the meantime, should you prefer another one of my daughters, I leave the option open. Now, I trust you shall be gracious to my neighbors and inform Sir William to expect you. Do try to look less as though you are being marched to the gallows, Cousin. Especially if you intend to settle at Longbourn after my demise with my Lizzy as your wife. Although on my part, I shall never understand why a man blessed with all of Derbyshire would deliberately choose a wife who regards him with the specific warmth usually reserved for tax collectors. Still, the match promises to be vastly entertaining, and I should hate to miss a single act.”

With that final, cheerful observation, Mr. Bennet tipped his hat, ducked under the sagging doorframe, and stepped out into the December mud, leaving the master of Pemberley to contemplate the dubious pleasure of wooing Elizabeth Bennet—if pleasure was the word for it.

Darcy tried to keep the scowl off his face as he stepped inside Lucas Lodge. He could not quite manage a smile, but as Bennet pointed out, these rustic and backward oafs would be his neighbors if Elizabeth should choose to live at Longbourn rather than Pemberley.