Page 10 of Master of Netherfield
“Yes Papa,” replied the dark-haired girl who stumbled on a carpet while her mother fussed over her three younger children.
Entering the library, Elizabeth found her sister Jane already seated and reading a book that Elizabeth recognized–Shakespeare’s comedies. She grimaced when she saw the one her father had selected for her that day–Voltaire in French.
“Now, Lizzy, I see that look–working on your French will not curl or straighten your hair. If it did, every woman in the kingdom would learn to speak fluent French so that when Mr Bonaparte and his armies arrive, they will think they are still in France and the English yeomen can defeat them at Hastings.”
“But Papa, the Normans beat the English at Hastings,” Elizabeth argued.
“Now Lizzy, we are the descendants of those Normans,” Mr Bennet lectured. Recognizing that she could delay the French by discussinghistory, Elizabeth argued with her father about the Norman Conquest, and the wars between England and France that had lasted for centuries.
“Now we shall turn to the Voltaire,” Mr Bennet said as Jane smiled and left the library to begin sewing with Mary and Mamma in the parlour.
Elizabeth admitted she preferred Voltaire–even in French–to sewing so she applied herself to the text, translating passages after reading them in French.
“Your accent is still too bookish Lizzy,” Mr Bennet said. “I wish there were a French tutors available but until the wars are settled, our young people will never have the correct accent.”
“Could we not speak French at the dinner table, Papa?” Elizabeth asked. “I read in a novel where the family spoke French within the household so the servants could not understand their gossip.”
Mr Bennet laughed. “I shall suggest it to your mother. If she thought speaking in a foreign language would keep the maids from knowing her secrets, Mrs Bennet would conjugate Latin verbs with determination.”
**++**
Chapter 4.A Call on the New Master of Netherfield
When two days had passed, Mr Bennet rode from Longbourn to Netherfield in the afternoon to introduce himself to the new owner, and to invite the man to supper. Even though the knocker was off the door, Mr Bennet banged on the heavy wooden door and was pleased when Mrs Hobbes, the housekeeper opened the door and invited him inside. He knew few members of the local gentry had a butler or footmen to open the door when visitors called.
“Mr Bennet! Welcome!” Mrs Hobbes greeted the familiar face.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Hobbes, I hope everything is well here at Netherfield.”
“We are all busy sir with the new master come to take charge.”
“Excellent! I should like to meet the man,” Mr Bennet said as he walked into the foyer.
“He is just come back from riding to some of the farms and meeting more of the tenants,” the housekeeper explained. “If you would wait in the parlour, I shall…”
At just that moment, a tall, young man walked into the foyer with several papers in his hands. “Mrs Hobbes, can you tell me where I might find the steward this afternoon?”
Looking up, the young man saw the expectant face of a gentleman in early middle-age observing his every move; he frowned and sighed at finding a local gentleman in the foyer. The knocker was off the door and William had hoped to avoid introductions to the locals for several more days.
“We do not hold much with door knockers in the country,” the visitor explained as he stepped forward. “There are too many times when the demands of the crops or livestock do not allow our neighbours to hide in their fine rooms. A sounder of hogs loose in the fields must be dealt with immediately. I have found that it is difficult for ladies of fashion to chase pigs from among the rows of potatoes.”
William’s face relaxed at his visitor’s description of ladies of the ton in their finery pursuing pigs and he answered in kind, “Ah sir, you forget that the ladies are armed with parasols, and they can drive the pigs from the field easily by flashing and twirling the instruments among the invaders for it is well know that pigs fear parasols.”
His face broken by a large grin, the visitor extended his hand and introduced himself, “I am your nearest neighbour, Thomas Bennet of Longbourn.”
“Yes, my steward has named the next estate as yours,” the young man said, taking the visitor’s hand.
“And your name sir?” Bennet asked.
The young man blinked in surprise–everyone knew who he was and his family’s position but remembering the newness of Hertfordshire, he bowed and said, “Forgive me, Mr Bennet. I am unused to not being known. I am Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire and now of Netherfield in Hertfordshire. Welcome to my home.”
“Thank you, Mr Darcy, I am certain that your cook, Mr Nicholls, is pleased to have you in residence. His roasts and cakes are legendary in Meryton among all of the local families, and Mrs Hobbes is renowned for her exquisite preparations for all entertainments and fox hunt luncheons.”
Mrs Hobbes beamed as the gentleman complimented the table she had set for previous leaseholders.
“And Mr Bennet is known for his wit and easy temper, Mr Darcy,” the housekeeper assured her employer. “The steward is in the library sir where I have stocked your port for visitors.”
“Thank you, Mrs Hobbes,” William said as he gestured for Mr Bennet to walk with him to the library.
