Page 52 of The Briar Bargain
"Yes." His reserve seemed to fall away entirely in his enthusiasm. "I believe that land, at least, if properly tended, can continue to provide abundantly for generations. But it requires a scientific understanding of soil composition, of which crops complement rather than deplete each other, of how weather patterns affect growth cycles. Agriculture and anatomy are connected, in my mind.” He paused, looking at her with an expression shecould not quite interpret. "I do not often have the opportunity to discuss such matters with . . . that is, most people find such topics rather dull."
Elizabeth felt a pang of something that might have been longing. Here was a man whose mind worked in ways that were similar to her own, who shared her belief that knowledge should serve practical purposes, who seemed genuinely interested in her thoughts on subjects most would dismiss as inappropriate for feminine consideration.
If only circumstances were different. If only she were the sort of woman a man like Mr. Darcycouldchoose. A woman of fortune or standing.
But she was not. Even if she sometimes caught him looking at her with something warmer than mere friendship, she could not allow herself to hope for more. A man of his position, his responsibilities, his connections needed a wife who could enhance his standing in society, not one who read law books and made herbal remedies.
"I should return inside," she said quietly, suddenly aware they had been standing quite close together, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. "Jane will wonder what has become of me."
"Of course," he agreed, though something in his voice suggested reluctance. "Perhaps we might continue such discussions in future? I have some books on agricultural methods that might interest you, and I should welcome your perspective on their practical applications."
Elizabeth felt something thrill inside her. "I should like that very much."
The smile he gave her in response was warmer than any she had seen from him before, and Elizabeth felt her resolve to maintain proper perspective waver.
Chapter Seventeen
To Darcy’s eye, Bingley’s study was a testament to well-intentioned inexperience. Maps lay partially unrolled across the desk, weighted down by an inkwell and a half-eaten apple. Ledgers lay open at various pages, marked with scribbles in Bingley's illegible hand. Correspondence formed what might be called “piles,” but to Darcy’s sensibilities, were precarious monuments to disorganisation. He resisted the urge to straighten them, but the absence of order made him long for his own study at Pemberley.
A surveyor's measuring chain hung from a hook near the window, and what appeared to be soil samples sat in small glass jars along the windowsill, each carefully labelled in the absent Mr. Grant's precise script. The walls bore more maps of the estate’s plots and roads, several of which were marked with pins and coloured threads that Darcy assumed represented various ongoing improvement projects.
"You know, Bingley," Darcy observed, noting the signs of genuine industry and wishing to encourage it, "when you do finally settle on a permanent estate, you might consider employing a secretary. A good man could helpyou maintain better order while leaving you free to make the more important decisions."
Hurst, who had been contemplating the brandy decanter with obvious longing despite the early hour, let out a bark of laughter. "Hear, hear! Though I suspect any secretary worth his salt would take one look at this chaos and demand additional pay."
"It is not chaos," Bingley protested mildly. "It is an evolving system. I know where everything is."
"Do you?" Darcy asked with amusement, noting a letter that appeared to be protruding from beneath a treatise on crop rotation. "Then where, pray tell, is the correspondence from your uncle with his business accounting for the first half of the year?” Bingley, still an investor in his family’s holdings, had spoken about receiving it shortly after Darcy had arrived in Hertfordshire.
Bingley glanced around the room with sudden uncertainty. "It was . . . I distinctly remember . . ." He began moving papers with increasing urgency. Then he put those papers down and opened a drawer in his desk. Then another. "Aha! Here it is. Beneath the soil analysis from the fields nearest the river."
"Naturally," Hurst said with a roll of his eyes. "One can see the obvious connection between them."
"There is a connection," Bingley insisted with the earnestness that made him so endearing. "If the soil quality is poor, it affects the yield, which in turn affects the price of . . ."
"Of course it does," Hurt interrupted.
Darcy chuckled. "I maintain that a competent secretary could help you establish a more systematic approach to your correspondence."
"And perhaps," Hurst added, "teach you to finish eating before beginning your morning correspondence. That apple has been decomposing on your desk for two days."
Bingley glanced at the offending fruit with mild surprise. "Has it?"
Darcy and Hurst exchanged a look.
"Bingley," Darcy said carefully, "please tell me you do not conduct business meetings in here while that apple decays."
"Only small meetings," Bingley replied defensively. "And I open the windows."
"Good God," Hurst muttered, reaching for his brandy. "Let the maids in to do their job, man."
They had their laugh at Bingley’s expense, but he soon joined them. After, though, Darcy found his fingers unconsciously moving to the pocket where he had secured the folded sketch. He was not the only one whose thoughts were still on the scene they had just witnessed.
“Well,” Bingley said eventually, dropping into the chair behind his desk with a long-suffering sigh and casually nudging the apple out of arm’s reach, “that was certainlysomething.”
“Something ridiculous,” Hurst muttered. “Those sketches were about as scandalous as a wet sponge.”
He was not wrong. The drawings might have caused a stir among other ladies, but most gentlemen had seen far racier artwork displayed in the windows of London shops. He was surprised Miss Bingley herself had not seen them, though Bingley had often mentioned she thought it common to stand about on the pavement, and the printer’s windows always drew a crowd of gawkers.
