“Thank you, Mary.” Elizabeth said. “I am certain with warm bricks and blankets we shall be as comfortable as may be. I will ask you and Georgiana to gather up any old linens and spare cloth. My mother and I can see to the baskets of food, and Mary, you might talk to the stable master to prepare the wagons and warming items?” In Elizabeth’s mind, the ladies of the house had spent far too much time doing little and a bit of distraction was warranted.

“I’m afraid the cold will not do well for my nerves! I am much older than you young ones, I should not presume to accompany you on your visits. No, it is best that I stay behind.” Mrs. Bennet tittered on about her constitution while her daughters smirked. Never in their time at Longbourn had Mrs. Bennet deigned to visit tenants.

Elizabeth Darcy stood and swept over to her mother’s chair, offering the woman a loving care which Mrs. Bennet eagerly accepted as she craved attention. “Of course, dear Mama, I would not expect you to go with us. But I could use your experience in planning the baskets,” Elizabeth strategically plumped up her mother’s ego, “and you certainly should remain behind to help entertain our cousins with your sister while we are gone.”

Mrs. Bennet’s smile faded and the girls’ attitudes became so jubilant over their new purpose for the day, that the room sounded once more joyful and vibrant.

A sly fox early in his fifth decade stood on deck of the HMS Plato watching the crew heave mooring lines over the sides to the waiting men below on the dock. Twenty-five years gone since he last stepped foot in his home country. Forced out of his family and banished to seek his fortunes in the jewel of the British Crown, he inhaled the bitter English air feeling it mightily unfortunate to not return with his pockets lined in riches.

“You there! Who gave you permission to come above deck?”

The man flinched slightly at the gruff address, but held his palms up by his chest in a mock surrender.

“My orders were for all civilians to stay below or in their staterooms!” The executive officer of the Plato challenged the man as he stood innocently by the railing. The passenger flashed the officer a charming smile.

“No harm done, sir. I merely wished to observe our arrival. It has been many years since I’ve been home.”

The executive officer grumbled something about civilians seeking safe passage a burden to naval operations, but he had more pressing matters to attend to before the plank could be fastened. Shouts and jeers rang through the air as the crew of the Plato eagerly wanted leave and the dock hands treated the boat like any other arrival: slowly. Eventually, the great vessel became secured allowing cargo and riffraff alike to disembark.

The Plato would likely spend many months in port repairing her numerous injuries from no less than three naval skirmishes from India to England. Although a naval vessel, she was no battleship. Impressed into His Majesty’s Service from a loyal merchant, she was haphazardly outfitted with guns and best used to ferry cargo and much-needed supplies. Not a thrilling assignment for any sailor until the American embargo put further strain on England’s perpetual fight with the French. Plato had not sailed robustly home, she had limped.

Within the hour, the man held his measly belongings and wound his way to a local pub for a much-needed drink while regaining his land legs. Two months aboard the  Plato had thwarted his balance. Other nabobs had suffered far worse injury from the cannon fire and general dangers of a sailing ship. If only one of the rich turkeys in a stateroom, rather than the dingy hold the man had traveled in, had died mid-voyage, the man would have secured an easy payday.

Fickle Fortune had not shined on her wayward son during the voyage, unless one counted his survival, but he had nipped some coins before escaping topside to avoid his victims’ realization. Paying for the drink with money earned by another, he plunked down in a dark corner of the pub with his mug of ale and listened.

In time, an opportunity to make more would find its way. It always did for Alistair Darcy.

Holed up in his study, Fitzwilliam Darcy carefully examined the plans for spring planting created by his steward, Mr. Hampton. Possessing over seventy-five fields of arable land, the grid before him explicitly labeled crops, grazing lands, and fallow fields for both the plots farmed by the estate proper, and Darcy’s tenants. The western border caught his attention as he noticed two fields unusually labeled fallow out of rotation.

“Have the Cortlands decided not to farm?”

Ernest Hampton gripped his hat in his hands a little tighter. “I rode out last week with no sign of the Cortlands to be seen. The house inside empty.”

Darcy rubbed his chin and pondered. The Cortlands were a four generation family of Pemberley tenants. It was unfathomable for them to suddenly pack up and leave without warning.

“Have you served notice to the inn for the vacancy?”

The steward shook his head. “I thought it best to wait for you, sir, and with it only being two fields…”

The Cortland farm actually composed of six fields, but the main house had farmed four of them as Mr. Cortland negotiated the lower lease amount in exchange for the use of the land. Darcy pinched his brow as he considered his options. It would be best to open the property to his current tenants if any of the other families wished to move, but the squabbling and discord such a decision could create was a legitimate worry. The last time lands on the Darcy estate opened for new tenants was over seven years ago when his father still ran the estate. The tenant families of Pemberley simply did not leave.