Preview the Measure of Trust

Preview from Chapter Fifteen

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The weather had dawned fair and bright, the kind of day that promised productivity and progress. However, by the time the Bennet ladies were dressed, breakfasted, and ready to step out the door, the November rains had recommenced. Wet and miserable was, therefore, to be the order of the day.
Yet, there was nothing else for it. Elizabeth adjusted her poke bonnet, tying the ribbons under her chin with a secure knot against whatever wind and rain might conspire to do. The Bennet ladies would join others from town and the surrounding country, all armed with baskets of provisions to observe the repairs at the weir.
The carriage bogged down twice, requiring them all to step out to lighten the horses’ burden until they were through the heaviest of the mud. Lydia complained each time, but it seemed she was less distressed over having to walk than she was about the prospect of delay toward their goal… and seeing the gentlemen who would be there.
Upon arrival, the extent of the devastation was starkly evident. The weir was a hive of activity, with men scattered across the site, labouring under a steady drizzle to reinforce and repair the structure. Timber and stone lay in heaps, the air filled with the sharp sound of hammers and the steady rhythm of saws. Elizabeth's eyes traced the long riverbank line where the floodwaters had breached, the force of nature having carved a path of destruction that demanded immediate and significant intervention.
She alighted from the carriage, her feet sinking slightly into the soft ground. As she walked closer, she took in the scene with curiosity and concern. The scale of the work required was immense. The air was thick with misty rain and the scent of fresh-cut wood, mingling with the earthy smell of the river.
At the forefront of the activity was Mr. Wickham, astride a fine chestnut horse. He cut a striking figure, his posture erect and commanding, his expression one of focused determination. Elizabeth watched as he directed the workmen in an easy manner, his confident instructions carrying over the noise of the labour. His presence was magnetic, drawing the attention and admiration of the gathered crowd, many of whom were local gentlemen and prominent businessmen. Wickham's ability to present himself as both capable and generous had evidently won him much favour.
As Elizabeth joined the group of ladies gathered under a tent erected for their comfort, she noticed a flurry of whispers and curious glances. Mrs Long, who had arrived before the Bennets, was at the centre of the group, her voice low but animated as she relayed some piece of news.
"Mrs Long, what is it?" Elizabeth asked as she approached.
Mrs. Long turned to Elizabeth with a look of pleased importance. "Have you not heard? Mr. Wickham has pledged to cover the entire cost of the repairs himself!"
Elizabeth's eyes widened in surprise. "Surely that cannot be true. It is a large expense that must be borne by the whole community."
Mrs Long nodded vigorously. "That is what I thought too, but Mr. Wickham insisted. He declared it before all the gentlemen, saying he wished to restore the town to its former prosperity."
A murmur of admiration rippled through the crowd, the matrons of the town nodding approvingly, the younger girls whispering among themselves. Jane, who had been listening quietly, turned to Elizabeth with a look of concern. "It is indeed generous, but do you not think it strange that he would take on such a burden alone? The cost must be astronomical."
Elizabeth nodded. "Yes, it is strange. And while his generosity is commendable, I cannot help but wonder why he would not seek the community’s support for such a significant expense. Surely, it is not the fault of the newest comer to the neighbourhood that an old structure has failed."
Mrs Long pursed her lips, glancing back towards the men who were still discussing the repairs with animated gestures. "He said it was his way of giving back to the community that has welcomed him so warmly. A noble sentiment, to be sure, but one cannot help but wonder at the timing."
“Timing? Whatever do you mean?”
“Why! Surely, you know your mother means to play hostess for the ball at Netherfield. A shocking thing, if I do say so.”
“It is… surprising,” Elizabeth conceded. “But why do you think one has anything to do with another? Surely, you do not think Mr. Wickham is playing at anything indecent?”
“Of course not! Quite the opposite—I rather think he means to silence any whispers about the oddity of it by proving his generosity now. Why, if that be the case, he may consider himself well assured of my good opinion. It has been ages since we have had the pleasure of a ball at Netherfield, and why should the little matter that its present master is unmarried be any hindrance when we have among us any number of ladies who would happily do the honours?” Mrs. Long sniffed. “I only wonder that he did not ask me to assist Mrs. Bennet. I did, after all, help a great deal with the last Assembly.”
“I am sure Mama would welcome your advice,” Elizabeth assured her.
“That is what I told her, but she kept running on about the seating arrangements. I tell you, Lizzy, at least you will be assured of some pleasure that evening, seated beside Mr. Wickham at dinner. My poor niece will be lucky if she gets stuck beside Mr. Darcy.”
Elizabeth’s brows arched. “Mr. Darcy is probably wealthier than Mr. Wickham if the rumours about him are true.”
“Yes, but what good is wealth if the man refuses to let a lady catch his eye? I wonder why Mr. Wickham even invited him to Netherfield if all he means to do is stand about by himself and look cross.”
Elizabeth glanced at a grouping of gentlemen, her father among them, and saw precisely what Mrs. Long had said. Mr. Darcy was standing a little apart from the rest, one fist on his hip and the other hand experimentally testing a bit of quarry stone as if he thought the quality of it in question.
“He is… peculiar,” Elizabeth confessed. “But I do not think him a bad sort. Not everyone is garrulous, Mrs. Long.”
“Well, they ought to be. I ask you, what good is a guest who does nothing to recommend himself to one’s neighbours?”
“I am sure I do not know, Mrs. Long.”

Darcy stood a little apart from the crowd, his eyes scanning the scene with frustration. The repairs at the weir were necessary, the damage extensive, but the sight of Wickham at the forefront, directing the labour with an air of authority, set his teeth on edge. Surely, Wickham was not the man to put his head to so much trouble. When had Wickham ever exerted more than the minimal effort required for any task? Yet today, he appeared to be the architect of the project, with many hours apparently spent in planning to pull off the affair.
His head pounded relentlessly, and his vision occasionally blurred. He had experienced another palsy on the right side of his body the night before—thankfully, he had been alone in his room when it came upon him. There was still a “dead” spot near the corner of his mouth, and his fingers were still stiffer than they ought to be.
As soon as the episode was over, he scrawled a letter to his doctor, detailing the worsening symptoms with a trembling hand. What remedy might exist? The thought of admitting that the diagnosis could be correct gnawed at him. Impossible!
He could not yet surrender to that grim reality, so he requested the name of some medication to alleviate his ceaseless headaches. With forced confidence, he wrote that, upon receiving the doctor's recommendations, he would consult a local apothecary to procure the necessary treatment. Hopefully Westing’s reply and the apothecary’s remedy would come before his next bad spell.
Some yards away, Bingley had been speaking animatedly with Mr. Bennet, but now he hurried towards Darcy, his face very full of something. "Darcy, have you heard? Wickham has pledged to cover the entire cost of the repairs! He is paying the workmen; he just reimbursed Mr. Harris for the expense of the logs, and he is doing the same for any other materials required. Quite a gesture, is it not?"
Darcy's jaw tightened as a sharp pain stabbed through his temple. "Indeed, it is a significant expense. One must wonder at his motives."
“Motives! I should think not having the town underwater by spring would be motive enough.”
“But he is not alone in that. Why should he bear the expense of repairing all the damage himself?”
“Well, I am sure I do not know, save that he is quite a generous chap. Good heavens, Darcy, why such a dark look? You, of all people, ought to be proud.”
Darcy narrowed his eyes, struggling to focus through the pain. “Proud? I do not follow.”
“Why, everyone knows that you knew him as a lad, that your father paid for his education. He is not ashamed of that—rather, he speaks of it to anyone who will listen, that the Darcy family are responsible for any good that comes from him.”
Darcy’s jaw clenched. “He says that, does he?”
“That, and a deal more. Oh! You have not heard the splendid things he was just saying to Mrs. Philips about Miss Darcy. He declares she will be next Season’s Incomparable, sure to be courted by… why, Darcy, you do not look at all pleased. Something the matter?”
Darcy’s mouth had screwed to a bitter scowl, his head throbbing more intensely. “What business has he in speaking of my sister? The cad!”
Bingley drew back. “Darcy? What is the matter? You are not… good heavens, no. I know you are not jealous of George Wickham, but I cannot understand this violent displeasure toward a man who speaks only well of you. Are you ill?”
Darcy blinked and forced a gulp of air into his lungs, fighting the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. That excuse would do for the present. “Perhaps I am. Forgive me, Bingley. I ought to consider returning to Netherfield before I spoil anyone’s pleasant afternoon, as I am clearly not required here.”
“Well, hang on. Some of the gentlemen were talking, and you know, there is a question of petitioning for assistance from Parliament.”
“Par…” Darcy squinted against the pain. “Parliament? Whatever for?”
Bingley winced and scratched his ear nervously. “I suppose it depends on how heavily the fields truly were damaged, of course, but Wickham and Bennet were just saying that if the topsoil is washed away, and it becomes a hardship…”
“Yes, yes, I see.”
“So, you will come speak to them?”
“I?” Darcy sputtered. “Why would they ask for me?”
“They did not, but I suggested you might have some answers. Your uncle, the earl, is of course…”
“An uncle in the House of Lords does not grant me any particular insight into the workings of politics. You ought to speak with one of the MPs from Hertfordshire.”
“That is just the thing. You see, it seems that Meryton has its own MP. Sir William was just telling us a bit about it. Something to do with an old agreement with the Marquess of Hertford, and… oh, it would be better if you heard him explain it for yourself.”
Darcy was rigid with interest now, despite the pounding in his skull. He narrowed his eyes, trying to mask his discomfort. “Indeed. Very well, Bingley. Lead the way." As they approached, Mr. Bennet was deep in conversation with Sir William Lucas and a few other gentlemen. Darcy and Bingley lingered at the back, listening attentively. Sir William was animatedly explaining to Mr. Wickham the historical context of the borough’s representation.
“You see, Mr. Wickham,” Sir William began, “the Marquess of Hertford managed to create a pocket borough here in 1703. Quite the thing it was, trading support on various issues to gain a representative for our borough.”
Wickham nodded, and it was probably the first time Darcy had ever seen the man paying any mind to discussions of politics. “And how did he leverage his influence in the House of Lords?”
Sir William continued, “It all began with the great flood of 1701. The River Mery burst its banks, devastating the town and surrounding farmlands. The Marquess of Hertford, who held substantial estates in the area, saw an opportunity amidst the crisis. He understood that to rebuild and protect his interests, he needed more political influence.”
“Ah!” Wickham laughed. “Gracious, but that is a familiar problem, is it not?”
“Indeed. The following January, the Marquess hosted a grand gathering at Hertford House. He invited the Earl of Salisbury, Viscount Grimston, and several other prominent figures. Over lavish feasts and prolonged discussions, he began to negotiate alliances. Hertford promised the Earl of Salisbury his support in a forthcoming bill concerning trade tariffs, which was of significant interest to Salisbury’s holdings in the North. In return, Salisbury agreed to back Hertford’s proposal for a new borough representative.”
“Simultaneously, Hertford forged an understanding with Viscount Grimston, who was eager to secure military funding for a new regiment. Hertford pledged his votes in the House of Lords to support Grimston’s cause, provided Grimston would advocate for the creation of the Meryton seat in the Commons.”
Wickham’s brow furrowed as he absorbed this information. “So, it was a series of quid pro quos, each man seeking his advantage.”
“Precisely,” Sir William affirmed. “The final and crucial move came in October 1702. Hertford utilized his influence in the House of Lords to apply pressure subtly but persistently. During the debates on the allocation of funds for coastal defenses, he swayed key votes by promising to support their interests in exchange for their backing of his borough proposal. His timing was impeccable, aligning his request with the broader concerns of national security and local governance.”
“By February 1703, Hertford’s network of alliances was strong enough to present a united front. They submitted a petition, carefully crafted and supported by both the Lords and influential MPs in the Commons. The proposal highlighted the economic benefits and strategic importance of having a dedicated representative for the Meryton area.”
“And we must presume it passed?”
“Oh, most assuredly,” Sir William harrumphed, tugging at his lapels. “It was spring of 1703—forgive me, I quite forgot the date—the House of Commons passed the motion to include Meryton as a borough with its own representative, much thanks to Hertford’s relentless lobbying. We have enjoyed particular attentions ever since.”
Wickham laughed in astonished pleasure, even clapping his hands. “Why, there is our answer! A masterstroke of political strategy, indeed.”
But Mr. Bennet, who had been listening with keen interest, was shaking his head. “One might think as much, but I daresay if you plan to rely on Sir Harold Fenton, you had best accustom yourselves to mud that floods your Wellingtons and empty coffers.”
Wickham’s pleasure faded, and he turned to Mr. Bennet in dismay. “Whatever for?”
Bennet chuckled. “Sir Harold has been our representative for nearly three decades. A good man for the most part, but his health has been in decline. Though he has served faithfully, his capacity to address our current needs is severely limited.”
“Oh, dear. How dreadful for the poor man.” Wickham sighed. “Well, what other options have we?”
“Wait a moment,” Bingley put in, just as every other gentleman had begun to shake his head and look grave. “Darcy here read law at Cambridge. Darcy, surely there might be some alternative. Is there any chance of putting some more capable representative in the House of Commons?”
Darcy, who had been observing in silence, glanced reluctantly about the curious faces assembled before him. This was not his problem, and he had much rather stay out of the affair. But with everyone looking at him, and the solution so obvious before him, it was a simple matter to speak the words.
“The appointment is for life, so I am afraid he cannot resign. However, if Sir Harold is willing, he could submit a request for the ‘office of profit under the Crown.’ This would allow him to take up another ‘office,’ if you will, making him no longer eligible to serve as MP and creating an opening for a special by-election.”
Sir William’s eyes lit up. “A sound plan, Mr. Darcy. This could be the solution we need.”
Wickham turned to Mr. Bennet with a hopeful expression. “Mr Bennet, do you believe Sir Harold would consider such a resignation?”
Mr Bennet, who seemed to be the only one with personal knowledge of the MP, pondered for a moment. “I do know Sir Harold. He is quite elderly and may welcome the opportunity to step down gracefully. I will draft a letter immediately and see if he might be amenable to the suggestion.”
“Oh, but before you ask the man to resign, you ought to at least put the question to him of our little local disaster,” Wickham urged. “It may well be that we underestimate the man. I should hate to think we might put a good man out to pasture before his time.”
“A capital notion,” Sir William applauded. “Let goodness and fairness be our watchwords, gentlemen. Meanwhile, let us sample a bit of that luncheon our fair ladies have assembled before us, shall we?”

Elizabeth bustled under the tent, her hands deftly arranging the tray of biscuits as she prepared to serve the gentlemen. Rain still seeped through the fabric of the tent, creating running drips wherever some careless youth—Lydia, for example—had touched it, but there was also an odd blend of sun piercing through the clouds, casting a golden haze over the misty work site. She watched the faces of her father and her neighbours as they approached, each man’s expression heavy with both inspiration and fatigue from the day's discussions.
Mr. Bingley was the first to approach. He grinned as he walked into the tent, his gaze fixed solely on Jane, who stood nearby pouring tea. His admiration was obvious to anyone with eyes, his smile wide and genuine as he moved closer to her. Well, indeed! Perhaps her mother would have pleasure from that quarter, at least, for the man seemed only to increase his attentions to Jane the longer he stayed in town. But there was no point in staring at the couple now, so she continued her own task of serving biscuits to the others.
Mr. Wickham walked with Sir William, both appearing quite pleased with something. Whatever their conversation was, it must have been an engrossing one, for Mr Wickham seemed to be oblivious to the fluttering attempts of the ladies around him to capture his attention. His allure was undeniable, yet he managed to maintain his focus on the discussion, only pausing to graciously acknowledge the ladies with a polite nod.
As Wickham approached, Elizabeth offered him a warm smile and a tray of biscuits. “Mr. Wickham, would you care for some refreshment?”
He returned her smile, his eyes twinkling. “Thank you, Miss Bennet. You are most kind.” He accepted the refreshment and quickly became involved in a conversation with Mr. Long, their tones hushed and serious. Elizabeth would have very much liked to ask him what their discussion had been about, but they moved away too quickly for her to inquire.
The flow of gentlemen continued, each accepting Elizabeth's offering with varying degrees of gratitude and distraction. She moved with practised ease, ensuring everyone was attended to, yet her thoughts kept drifting back to the conversation between her father and Wickham. What could be so urgent and secretive?
Finally, Mr. Darcy approached, looking decidedly unhappy about something. His usual stern demeanour was even more pronounced, and Elizabeth’s curiosity fairly simmered over. Gone was her vexation with the man. He might be the only one willing to answer her questions. She met him with a bright smile, hoping to brighten his mood and goad him into a few rare words. “Mr. Darcy, would you care for some refreshment?”
He looked around at the other gentlemen, who had mostly all wandered off or got snared into other conversations, before finally nodding and accepting a biscuit. “Thank you, Miss Elizabeth,” he said curtly.
Elizabeth watched as he stood close, eating in silence. His brooding presence was almost a physical wall. Drawing him out might prove a challenge worth accepting. “Mr Darcy, I could not help but notice that there was a rather serious discussion taking place earlier. Might I ask what the gentlemen propose to do?”
Darcy hesitated, his eyes flickering with some internal conflict before he finally spoke. “We have been discussing the possibility of petitioning Parliament for aid. The damage to the fields is extensive, and without effective representation, our appeal may go unheard.”
“And how do you plan to secure such representation?”
Darcy chewed in silence for a moment, and she thought he would not answer at all. Then, at last, he spoke. “It would seem that Meryton has its own representation in the House of Commons. However, your father informed us all that the current MP is quite elderly and may not be able to advocate effectively. They are considering asking him to resign to allow for a special by-election. If he agrees, the community could elect someone more capable.”
Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully. “And who do you think might take on such a role?”
Darcy’s gaze sharpened. “That remains to be seen. It must be someone who understands the gravity of the situation and is willing to act in the community’s best interests.”
“Well, was no name put forward?”
He dipped his head toward the others. “I believe that is the very subject being canvassed at the moment.”
“And you are not among them to offer your wisdom and advice? Mr Darcy, I misjudged you.”
His brow raised. “I cannot tell whether that is an honest appraisal of my abilities or a sardonic jab at what you must perceive to be my officiousness.”
She shrugged. “What if it is both?”
“Then I am afraid you will be disappointed on both counts. I am not among them because the affair is no business of mine. I have no property or claim in the region, therefore, my input is not wanted.”
Elizabeth was ready with a fresh tea plate the moment Mr Darcy finished the last of his biscuit. If he left, she might very well have no one else to ask, for surely, her father would not trouble himself to answer her questions so frankly. She tugged the empty plate from the gentleman’s hands and traded it for a full one before he quite knew how to respond—he merely stared at her with an empty expression for an instant.
“If you think to bribe me with food in exchange for information,” said he at last, “I am afraid I have little to offer.”
“That is what you say, but I am willing to take my chances. Surely, you must have overheard something else. What are they meaning to do about the washed-out river bed? What of the roads? I heard the North Road was hardly passable where it comes near the River Mery.”
“I am sure Mr. Wickham will pledge his assistance,” the man said, but he looked quickly away as he said it.
“I am sure he will, but… why, Mr. Darcy, whatever is the matter? Was that biscuit bad?”
“It is perfectly acceptable.”
“Then it is the company,” she declared, with a flick of her index finger toward herself.
“I assure you, it is not.”
She set a hand on her hip. “Your assurances weigh little in comparison to that sour face you just made. What…” She glanced to her right, where her father and Mr. Wickham were talking… or rather, her father was nodding, and Mr. Wickham was sketching images in the sky with his hands.
“Is it Mr. Wickham?” she guessed.
“I told you, Miss Elizabeth, there is nothing amiss.” He finished the biscuit, then, not knowing what else to do, relinquished his plate to her with a brisk bow. “It has been a pleasure, Miss Elizabeth.”
She watched him walk away, both empty tea plates stacked in her arms. “Well! At least Mr. Wickham appears to be engaged in the matter, even if his friend is rather useless.”

 

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