"My protege, as you call him, is a sensible man,
and sense will always have attractions for me."
Harry Dashwood possessed an address as fashionable as the rest of his accoutrements. Upon coming into his inheritance, he had taken a townhouse in Pall Mall from which he could enjoy his new independence free from his mother’s watchful eye. From what Darcy had heard of Mrs. John Dashwood, Harry need not have bothered. By all accounts, Fanny was an indulgent mother unlikely to curb any pleasure of her only son, so long as he did nothing to seriously jeopardize his own or the family’s reputation.
Darcy handed his card to the servant and waited patiently at the door while it was determined whether the master was at home. Mr. Dashwood’s voice emanating from the hall indicated that he had indeed completed his journey back to London, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was receiving visitors. A few moments, however, brought the servant back with an invitation to step inside.
"Mr. Darcy!" Dashwood exclaimed upon sighting him. "You honor me with this visit." He paused to direct three footmen who carried a large looking glass. "Put it in my dressing room."
The servants ascended the stairs with the mirror. Darcy noticed a pair of trunks also awaiting relocation.
"Forgive me," Mr. Dashwood said, gesturing toward the baggage. "I’ve just arrived home."
"Perhaps I should return at a later time."
"No — do stay! You must, however, allow me to change my shirt. This one is travel-worn."
"Of course."
"Come along, then. This way."
Harry took the stairs two at a time, forcing Darcy to trot to keep up with him. At the landing Darcy paused, presuming he was to wait in the drawing room. Mr. Dashwood, however, urged him up the next set of stairs. "You must see the looking glass I brought home with me. Found it in Norland’s attic."
Darcy followed Mr. Dashwood to his dressing room, where the servants were propping the mirror against the wall.
"Leave it for now," Harry instructed. "You can mount it when I’ve decided exactly where I want it." The servants departed.
The mirror was indeed a striking objet d’art. The glass itself was perhaps five feet long and two feet wide, with a heavy gold frame that added another six inches to the sides and bottom. Intricately carved images of nude athletes stood out in bas relief, laurel leaves entwining their muscular forms. At the top, a twelve-inch crown boasted a man’s face at its center, his features perfectly capturing the classical ideal of male beauty.
"What do you think?" asked Mr. Dashwood. "It has to be centuries old, at least — a real antiquity. Looks to me like it could have come from ancient Greece."
Darcy paused before replying. Though he appreciated its artistry, he doubted the treasure could be as old as Mr. Dashwood believed. To his knowledge, the ancient Greeks had made only hand mirrors of polished metal; the techniques used to fashion a looking glass of this size and construction were much later developments. This mirror, therefore, must be a relatively modern creation, designed to appeal to the current vogue for classical art and architecture.
Yet the mirror seemed older. Despite the differences in construction, somehow it could stand among other ancient artifacts in the British Museum and not be out of place. He supposed Elizabeth would say it had the character of a genuine antique — an aura of history about it. "How long has the glass been in your family’s possession?" he asked.
"I have no idea. My housekeeper thought it belonged to Sir Francis Dashwood, an ancestor, but where he got it from, I don’t know."
"You are descended from Sir Francis Dashwood?"
Mr. Dashwood grinned. "Heard the shocking stories, have you? The Hell-Fire Club and all that? Yes, he occupies a branch somewhere in my family tree, but he died childless, so I’m uncertain exactly how he fits in. I also don’t know how this mirror found its way to Norland, as his main estate was in Buckinghamshire. But when I saw it, I simply had to bring it back here with me."
His valet entered. The servant removed Mr. Dashwood’s coat and started to unfasten his cuffs.
Darcy took this as his cue to leave. "Shall I await you in the drawing room?"
"No. Do stay! I’ve always aspired to be like Beau Brummell, entertaining visitors while completing my toilette." He shed his rumpled shirt for a clean one.
"Quite a lofty ambition," Darcy said dryly.
"I wish I had but half his skill with cravats." The valet offered a highly starched neckcloth. Harry stationed himself before the mirror. "What do you think, Mr. Darcy? Should I try the mathematical today? Or settle for the Napoleon? Which does Miss Bennet prefer?"
"I am not privy to Miss Bennet’s opinions on the subject of gentlemen’s neckwear." Darcy ardently wished for another topic of conversation altogether. To emulate the vain Brummell’s practice of holding court in his dressing room seemed the most ridiculous form of idolatry. A rooster imitating a peacock.
Mr. Dashwood attempted the mathematical, fumbled its folds, and had to discard the cloth for a fresh one. "I’m told Brummell often goes through stacks of neckcloths before achieving perfection."
"Such a practice sounds like an incredible waste of his own and his servants’ time."
Mr. Dashwood met Darcy’s gaze in the mirror. His natural exuberance dimmed at the disapproval he detected in Darcy’s eyes. "I suppose you are right in that." He began tying the next cravat in the simpler Napoleon style.
Darcy studied Mr. Dashwood’s reflection. He was so very young — not only in age, but also in knowledge of the world. In many ways, Darcy had never been that young. But he also recalled his own sense of lost direction in the period following his father’s death. Harry Dashwood was even younger than he had been, and Darcy suspected his own foundation was steadier than Dashwood’s to begin with. Perhaps cravats and looking glasses claimed Harry’s attention because he did not feel adequate to the responsibilities he had just inherited along with John Dashwood’s estate.
Darcy regretted the mild criticism he’d tendered. "Forgive me. I meant only that an intelligent man benefits from devoting his resources to more worthwhile endeavors. And you strike me as a man possessing the potential to do much more with his life than Mr. Brummell ever will."
Mr. Dashwood turned from the mirror to face Darcy directly. "I do?"
"Did you not, I would never have come here today bearing an invitation. If you are not previously engaged, Mrs. Darcy would be pleased to have you at her table tonight for dinner."
"Tell her I am most gratified and look forward to her hospitality. Will Miss Bennet be among the party?"
"Assuredly."
"Then I can think of no pleasanter way to spend an evening."
Seven o’clock had been the appointed hour for Mr. Dashwood to present himself at the Darcys’ townhouse. He arrived at half past six, bearing flowers for Kitty and a bouquet of apologies for his hostess.
"Pardon my untimely appearance," he said as Elizabeth received him in the drawing room, "but the anticipated delight of seeing Miss Bennet this evening caused the day to grow unbearably long. At last I found I could not wait thirty minutes longer."
"You may have to," Elizabeth replied, "as my sister is still readying for dinner. But I will tell her you are come."
In truth, the announcement was hardly necessary. Like a thunderclap proclaiming the arrival of a spring storm, Mr. Dash-wood’s presence reverberated throughout the house, sending Kitty into a flustered frenzy of preparations she’d thought she had more time to complete. Elizabeth had left her upstairs rushing to make up her toilette, torn between equally violent desires to perfect her appearance and have done with it.
Elizabeth believed, however, that she could forgive Mr. Dashwood nearly anything with an earnest devotion to Kitty as its motive. She gestured toward the flowers. "Shall I deliver those to Kitty now, or would you prefer to present them to her yourself?"
"Oh, please take them now, with my most sincere compliments."
"Those I will leave you to tender yourself, as I surely possess neither the inspiration nor the eloquence of their true author."
She was spared the trip by the immediate entrance of Kitty herself, wearing an entirely different gown than the one in which Elizabeth had seen her just minutes earlier. Her hair was attractively arranged, though swept into a much simpler style than the maid had been working on when Elizabeth left to greet their visitor.
Mr. Dashwood presented his flowers and compliments to the lady, who accepted both with equal delight.
"I adore daffodils! Are they from Norland’s gardens?"
"Covent Garden, I’m afraid. My trip to Norland did, however, inspire the gift. The daffodils and crocuses were in bloom, and as I walked the grounds, I found myself thinking of you and wishing you could see them. I consulted my gardener about bringing some back for you, but we both doubted they would survive the journey from Sussex."
"If they arrived utterly wilted, I should have valued them. But I do appreciate these." She admired the bouquet again before relinquishing it to a servant for placement in a vase.
They were joined presently by Darcy and Georgiana, and soon went down to dinner. Mr. Dashwood enquired how Kitty had kept busy in his absence. She rattled off their list of entertainments.
"I declare, Miss Bennet," he said when she’d finished, "you have been more engaged in a single day than I was the entire se’nnight."
"Did you conclude your business at Norland?" Darcy asked.
"Yes and no. I handled the affairs that originally took me there, but it seemed that with every dispatch, another item of business arose to take its place."
Darcy nodded, his eyes reflecting perfect understanding. "As your father no doubt taught you, proper management of an estate requires constant vigilance. Even when in town, I maintain close communication with my steward. Rarely do more than two days pass without a letter between us."
"Indeed?" Mr. Dashwood appeared surprised by the revelation. He seemed about to say more, but Kitty spoke.
"I hope these new matters won’t force you to leave again?"
"Actually, I intend to return to Norland three weeks hence."
Disappointment clouded Kitty’s face. "So very soon?"
"Yes, but for another reason entirely. My twenty-first birthday approaches, and I’ve decided to celebrate with a country house party at Norland. It is my dearest hope, Miss Bennet, that you and your family will honor me with your company."
"Lizzy, may we go? Do say we might!"
Elizabeth cast Kitty a mild look that bade her show a little restraint.
"The grand fete will be Friday the thirtieth," Mr. Dashwood continued. "I am inviting most of the guests to arrive on Wednesday, but I would be delighted if you could come on Tuesday so that I might show Miss Bennet — show all four of you — Norland before the house becomes crowded."
Kitty held her tongue but now begged just as passionately with her eyes.
Of course they would attend. Elizabeth would hardly deny Kitty the opportunity to see the home of a man with whom she seemed to be forming an attachment. But, wanting to keep her younger sister in suspense a bit longer, she glanced to Darcy. "That is after Easter. Does not the London season pick up once Lent has passed?"
"It does. There will be balls, and masquerades, and many more routs."
She nodded gravely. "Perhaps we ought not leave town just as much of the ton is arriving."
Kitty appeared ready to burst. "Oh, forget the silly ton!"
Elizabeth raised her brows, her astonishment only half-exaggerated. That statement would never have issued from her sister’s lips two weeks earlier. "Are you not afraid of missing something momentous in our absence?"
"For heaven’s sake, Lizzy! What could be more exciting than visiting Norland and celebrating Mr. Dashwood’s birthday?"
Mr. Dashwood, who had been following the exchange with amusement, seemed gratified by Kitty’s eagerness.
"I cannot imagine." Elizabeth, unwilling to prolong Kitty’s torment further, smiled. "We happily accept your invitation, Mr. Dashwood."
Harry’s face broke into an expression of elation. "I hope Norland offers much to interest you all. And should its pleasures prove insufficient, Brighton is not far."
"Brighton? I have always longed to go to Brighton! Lizzy, might we — "
"Norland, yes. Brighton, no," Darcy declared.
Elizabeth concurred. As far as she was concerned, their family had experienced quite enough of Brighton, the scene of Lydia’s disgrace. Though the Prince Regent’s fondness for the seaside resort drew the fashionable to it in flocks, Elizabeth had no desire ever to lay eyes on the place.
Kitty released a sigh of resignation. "I suppose it is too cold yet for seabathing anyway"
"Perhaps on a future visit," said Mr. Dashwood.
The implication that Kitty would be spending more time in Sussex eradicated her remaining disappointment. Anticipation lit her features once more. "I should like that."
Mr. Dashwood, his attention now focused entirely on Kitty, failed to notice Darcy studying him. Darcy’s countenance was open, yet assessing, and Elizabeth wondered how Mr. Dashwood was faring in the evaluation. She rather liked him herself, and wanted to distract Darcy before their guest sensed he was on trial.
Playfulness still dominating her mood, she turned to Harry. "Mr. Dashwood, my husband has developed quite an interest in hunting of late. Since meeting Lord Hartford, he simply cannot hear enough sporting talk. Does Norland offer good quarry?"
She felt Darcy’s gaze shift to her. His expression thanked her profusely for reminding him of the longest social call he’d ever endured, and promised she’d pay for her raillery later. She responded with wide-eyed innocence.
"Yes, indeed! In fact, I plan numerous hunts and shooting outings during the week of the party. Are you partial to any particular game, Mr. Darcy?"
"No," he said, his eyes still on Elizabeth. The slightest smile played at the corners of his mouth. "But apparently my wife is."
Mr. Dash wood, mistaking Darcy’s meaning of "game," regarded Elizabeth with surprise. "Do you hunt, Mrs. Darcy? We shall be too late for prime fox season, of course, but the pack will still give us a good run."
She laughed. "I find it difficult enough to maintain my balance in a sidesaddle on flat ground."
"You are a better rider than that," Georgiana asserted.
Elizabeth realized Darcy’s sister had said little during the meal. Though handsome and accomplished by even the strictest standards, Miss Darcy disliked drawing notice and participated in many conversations primarily as an attentive listener. Some erroneously perceived her silence as arrogance, but Elizabeth recognized it as simple shyness.
"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. Rad-cliffe." 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."
Dash wood 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 man taking an interest in his new responsibilities and wanted to encourage him. "If you like, Mr. Dash-wood, 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 entree 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."