Suspense and Sensibility Page 6

  “It is kind of you to say so,” Elizabeth said. “Nevertheless, if I ever tried to hunt, I no doubt would fall off my mount while jumping the first ox fence. You, on the other hand, could probably manage fairly well. Better than I, at least.”

  Georgiana ducked her head at the praise of her equestrian skills. “I would have to stop before the fox was treed, for I do not think I could witness what follows.”

  “Neither could I!” Kitty exclaimed. “I couldn’t bear to see the poor fox set upon by hounds and killed.”

  “That is precisely why foxhunting is an inappropriate pastime for ladies,” Darcy said. “Blood sport runs counter to their gentle natures.”

  Elizabeth thought about many of the well-bred women who occupied society’s highest ranks, and chuckled softly. “Ladies are quite capable of blood sport, darling. Their field is the drawing room.”

  After dinner, the gentlemen withdrew to the library. Darcy offered Mr. Dashwood a glass of port, then took his customary chair beside the fire. Though invited to avail himself of the seat opposite, Mr. Dashwood instead perused the titles lining the walls.

  “Homer, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Johnson, Wordsworth . . . You have an impressive collection.”

  “I keep some favorite volumes here. Pemberley’s library is far more extensive. Whenever I come to town for long periods of time, I bring additional books for study and pleasure—and visit booksellers to add to the shelves.”

  A row of novels caught Mr. Dashwood’s eye. He traced their spines with his fingertip. “Mrs. Lennox, Mrs. Burney, Mrs. Radcliffe.” He selected a volume and thumbed its pages.

  “Those belong to Georgiana and my wife. Do you have a large library at Norland?”

  Mr. Dashwood frowned. “I’m not sure, come to think on it. Oh, the room’s big enough, but as for what occupies its shelves, I have little idea. I don’t think I’ve been inside above half a dozen times.”

  “Six times in your whole life?” Darcy could scarcely comprehend such a thing. His own thirst for knowledge, the lessons of his private tutor, and hours spent at his father’s elbow learning to administer their estate had seen him practically raised in Pemberley’s library. Economics, business, law, literature, philosophy—only Cambridge had offered more wisdom than that room contained.

  Mr. Dashwood shrugged. “When I was a child, my lessons were in the nursery, of course. Then it was off to Eton and Oxford. I was seldom home, and when I was, the library was the last place that held any interest for me.”

  “Your father conducted all his instruction in the field then? My own father did a good deal of that, too.”

  Darcy’s father had been a strong advocate of direct experience, encouraging his son to talk with tenants and occasionally get his hands dirty as he prepared to one day assume the responsibilities of a landlord. He’d believed a man who has never seen a calf born or rubbed soil between his fingers cannot ever truly understand the principles of agriculture. One’s status as a gentleman might free him from toiling to survive, but the best landlords were at least passingly familiar with the land and people in their care.

  “Instruction? I don’t understand you, sir.”

  “Training you to take over for him eventually.”

  Mr. Dashwood replaced the book on the shelf. “We seldom talked about Norland. Or much else.”

  “You were not close?”

  “Not especially.” He moved toward the fire. “As soon as I could read, my parents sent me off to obtain a gentleman’s education. Each month, I received a parcel containing an allowance and a letter from my mother expressing her hope that I was cultivating the right sort of acquaintances and conducting myself in a manner that promoted our family’s reputation. So long as I met their expectations, they left me to myself. I suppose my father would have explained a few matters about estate management to me had I ever asked—it seemed at times that money was all he ever talked about—but I never asked. I was content to simply enjoy the privileges of wealth without any responsibilities.”

  “And now?”

  Mr. Dashwood studied Darcy, seeming to weigh how much more he cared to reveal about himself to the sponsor of a woman he hoped to court. “Now I find myself in possession of an estate I know little about,” he said finally.

  “You certainly are not the first gentleman to discover himself ill prepared to govern his affairs.” Darcy could think of many estates that had fallen into mismanagement by heirs who lacked the interest or aptitude to properly administer them. It reflected well on Mr. Dashwood that he had recognized this failing in himself, particularly at such a young age. As Harry had owned Norland for only a few months, Darcy hoped his indifference had been of a duration too short to cause damage. “The question is, how do you intend to correct that deficiency?”

  “I hadn’t planned to do anything about it. None of my friends seem to pay the least attention to such matters—if they own land at all, they just leave everything in the hands of their solicitors and stewards. And I don’t know that I really have the temperament to supervise so many little details.”

  He took a chair, perching on the edge of the seat and leaning toward Darcy. “But this past week, I roamed all over Norland, from its attics to its parkland. I thought about what it would be like to show it to Miss Bennet, to see it through the eyes of someone beholding it for the first time. I wanted it to be a place that would impress her. And then I realized that in wanting her approval of Norland, what I really sought was her approval of me. That when I inherited Norland, it became as much a part of me as any other possession, a representation to the world of who I am. And just as I would never neglect my appearance or my manners, neither can I afford to neglect my estate.”

  Darcy would hardly have equated the importance of overseeing Pemberley with that of selecting a waistcoat, but if that mode of thinking had led Mr. Dashwood to a fuller cognizance of his responsibilities as a landholder, he could not criticize the comparison.

  “In my experience, a good steward is invaluable,” he suggested. “Though your father is gone, perhaps your steward can educate you. He will likely be gratified by your interest in Norland.”

  “Or threatened by it.”

  “An honest man would not be so.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m not entirely confident that I’m dealing with an honest man.” He took a swallow of port. “I spent some time this week reviewing Norland’s accounts for the period since my father’s death. I’d never looked at the record books before, so I had trouble making sense of them. When I went to our steward with questions, he became defensive.”

  Darcy frowned. “Do you believe he cheats you?”

  “I don’t know what to believe. He has been at Norland since I was a boy. I never had cause to deal with him while my father was alive. I doubt, however, that my father would have retained a steward he didn’t trust.”

  “He might simply resent a young, inexperienced new master questioning his work. Though I had assisted my father for years, I encountered that prejudice among some of my older tenants when he passed away.”

  “Truly? You, Mr. Darcy?”

  “Why should that surprise you?”

  “You are a man born to run an estate.”

  “If you have inherited one, then so are you.”

  He smiled ruefully. “I suppose I am. You, however, know what you are doing, while I do not.”

  “Then you must change that.”

  Dashwood swirled the port around in his glass, his face pensive. “Mr. Darcy, I wonder if I might impose upon you to—that is, when you come to Norland, if you would take a look at the accounts and advise me as to whether everything appears in order?”

  “Certainly. Not being familiar with Norland will limit my ability to detect inconsistencies, but I will determine what I can.”

  “I am most grateful for your help, sir.”

  Darcy hesitated, not wanting to insinuate himself further into Harry’s affairs than he’d been invited. But he was pleased to see the younger m
an taking an interest in his new responsibilities and wanted to encourage him. “If you like, Mr. Dashwood, I would be happy to explain the records to you so that in the future you can make you own determinations.”

  “I would appreciate that very much.”

  He finished his port but declined Darcy’s offer of more. He appeared to have something further he wished to say. Darcy waited patiently, letting him seek his words.

  “I am most desirous of your good opinion, Mr. Darcy, and that of your family,” he finally said. “For as long as I can remember, my mother has held great ambitions for me. She longs to see me distinguished in the world somehow, or at the very least to gain entrée into the drawing rooms of every great family in England. I’ve never had any interest in politics or Parliament or any of the other schemes she’s set before me, nor in the debutantes she perpetually throws in my way as candidates for an advantageous alliance. The young ladies she presents harbor even more ambition than she does. They would not be satisfied as Mrs. Harry Dashwood until I made a great name for myself.

  “Miss Bennet, however, is different. I think that if Norland meets with her approval—if I meet with her approval, as I am, today—that will be enough. She won’t spend the rest of my life trying to mold me into someone I don’t want to be.”

  Darcy was inclined to agree. Kitty might not possess the accomplishments and polish of most young ladies of the ton, but neither did she suffer from their social-climbing pretensions. Yes, she chattered about the possibility of meeting a young duke or earl, but, as Elizabeth said, her hopes were no more than the idyllic dreams of any girl. Realistically, she knew her slight dowry made a modest marriage probable, and she was prepared to accept that.

  Too, there had been no talk of dukes since Kitty had met Mr. Dashwood. In her eyes, he wanted no improvement.

  “I believe you already possess Miss Bennet’s good opinion,” Darcy said. “And today’s demonstration of a more serious approach to your affairs puts you well in the way of securing mine.”

  “My interest in Norland is genuine. I appreciate your guidance, Mr. Darcy.” He rose and set his empty glass beside the port decanter. “Do you suppose the ladies look for our return, or have they forgotten us altogether?”

  They passed the remainder of the evening in pleasant conversation with the ladies. Mr. Dashwood enquired whether Kitty had yet enjoyed many of London’s amusements. At her negative response, he insisted she allow him to escort her to the Vauxhall Gardens, drive her through Hyde Park, and visit Madame Tussaud’s. Before he left, he’d invited them all to accompany him to a concert the following night.

  “Mr. Dashwood seems to have risen in your esteem tonight,” Elizabeth observed as they prepared for bed. She had changed into a white lace nightgown and sat brushing her hair at the dressing table. “Of what did you speak in the library for so long?”

  Darcy loosened his cravat. “He is developing a greater interest in his property at Norland.”

  A sly smile played across her lips. “Does he think of settling down?”

  Recalling her earlier badinage about his love of sport, he deliberately withheld the information she sought, teasing her in turn. “A man requests bookkeeping advice and you are ready to order Kitty’s wedding clothes. That is a leap of logic I would expect from your mother.”

  “You accuse me unfairly. Besides”—she turned back to the mirror and continued brushing her hair—“I notice you did not answer no.”

  “If a lady has indeed inspired this newfound regard for Norland, I would not betray a gentleman’s confidence by revealing that fact to her sister. One might as well just tell the lady herself and spare the intermediary.”

  “You know me to be a better keeper of secrets than that.”

  “Who said I referred to you and Kitty? Perhaps I spoke only hypothetically.”

  “Oh—hypothetically.” She set down the brush. “In that case, you need say nothing more.” Mischief danced in her brown eyes, but he could not make out her meaning.

  She worked her hair into a braid, then walked to the bed, slid beneath the covers, and opened a novel while she waited for him. He thought no more of Mr. Dashwood, or Kitty, or anyone save his wife. Anxious to join her, he finished changing into his nightclothes and went to extinguish the candle at the bedside.

  She looked up from her novel. “What are you doing?”

  He took the book from her hands and set it atop the night table. “You suggested we retire early tonight.”

  She picked the book back up. “Didn’t you realize, darling?” She cast him an innocent look and reopened the volume. “I was speaking hypothetically.”

  Six

  Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a favourite with any of her husband’s family; but she had had no opportunity, till the present, of shewing them with how little attention to the comfort of other people she could act when occasion required it.

  —Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 1

  Upon learning that her son planned to hold his birthday fête at Norland, and that a certain Miss Catherine Bennet topped the guest list, Mrs. John Dashwood paid a call upon the Darcy family.

  The announcement of her arrival sent Kitty into a state of shock followed immediately by a flurry of nervous agitation. She cast aside her needlework frame and raised her hands to her face. “Mr. Dashwood’s mother! Lizzy, whatever shall I say to her?”

  Elizabeth set down her own stitchery and rose in preparation for their visitor’s entrance. “ ‘How do you do?’ might form a good beginning.”

  Georgiana, who had been practicing her harp in the corner, abandoned the instrument to join Kitty’s side in support. “I am sure she is as kind as her son,” she said.

  “Oh, gracious!” Kitty exclaimed. “Please tell me my hair looks tolerable!”

  No one had opportunity to offer Kitty reassurance on issues of grooming or any other, as the lady in question just then appeared in the drawing room. Fanny Dashwood was a thin, proud-looking woman, with sharp cheekbones and a tilt to her chin that threatened an unrestricted view of her nostrils to those of shorter stature. Her sharp eyes assessed the three ladies to determine which was her hostess. Elizabeth greeted her and performed the necessary introductions.

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Mrs. Dashwood said to a Chinese vase as her appraising gaze drifted about the room. She took in the draperies, artwork, and furniture, then studied Elizabeth, Georgiana, and Kitty with the same calculating interest, her attention lingering longest on Miss Bennet. Elizabeth wondered if Kitty had been judged more or less valuable than the chesterfield.

  Kitty, already flustered, struggled to maintain her composure under the intense inspection. Elizabeth attempted to divert Mrs. Dashwood’s attention.

  “We had the pleasure of dining with your son last night,” she said.

  “Yes, I know.” She held Kitty in her unyielding gaze a full minute longer before finally turning it on Elizabeth. “He told me at breakfast this morning. I summoned him as soon as I rose, and my Harry always accords me the utmost respect and deference. He came directly he received my note.”

  “He seems a fine gentleman.”

  “He is. And a good son. Not like some of these wild young men who run about making their own decisions regardless of the consequences. Harry knows his responsibilities to his family.” She studied the room’s appointments once more. “That is a lovely harp. Was it you whom I heard playing as I came up, Miss Bennet?”

  “No, the harp belongs to Miss Darcy.”

  “Harry adores music. Has he heard you play the pianoforte yet?”

  “That is also Miss Darcy’s. I don’t play any instrument.”

  Mrs. Dashwood’s face registered mild disapproval. “You sing, then?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Dashwood blinked. “Well, perhaps if he calls here again, Harry will have an opportunity to enjoy Miss Darcy’s talent.” Fanny cast a warm smile at Georgiana. At least, it would have been a warm smile if Fanny Dashwood
possessed any warmth.

  As it was, Harry’s mother shuddered and shifted closer to the fire screen. “It is a blustery day for April.”

  “I hope you did not catch a chill coming here,” Kitty offered.

  “I possess a hearty constitution,” Mrs. Dashwood declared, “and little patience for those who do not.” She looked more closely at the fire screen. “This is covered very prettily. Is it your handiwork, Miss Bennet?”

  “No, Georgiana’s.”

  “This is Miss Bennet’s first visit here as our guest, so our house does not yet enjoy her influence,” Georgiana said in defense of her friend. “Perhaps she will grace it with a gift, but until then, I am afraid my things clutter it, as I have spent most of my time here these past five years.”

  “You speak too modestly, Miss Darcy. I would hardly call ‘clutter’ something as beautiful as this screen, or that watercolor on the wall. Do I assume aright that it is yours, as well?”

  Georgiana confessed that it was.

  Kitty fidgeted and took up her embroidery. Elizabeth, desirous of something to do with her hands, picked up her own hoop but left the needle secured in the muslin.

  “Are you skilled with a needle, Miss Bennet? What do you work on?”

  “An infant’s cap—a gift for our sister Jane.”

  “Has she recently delivered?”

  “She expects her first child in autumn.”

  “How delightful. I see you also work on infant clothes, Mrs. Darcy. I wish I’d had sisters to help with Harry’s layette when he was born.”

  Elizabeth indeed had a sleeve for a tiny frock stretched in her frame, though it was for her friend Charlotte Collins, due to be brought to bed any day. After completing the frock, she would finish the quilt she’d started for Jane. Elizabeth had never been fond of needlework but took pleasure in creating these gifts. The more she worked on them, however, the more she found herself wishing, in the secret recesses of her heart, that they were for a child of her own.