Chapter Text
If selling was the best paid profession, then Leland Archer’s bank account was the proof.
Take Netherfield – a country listing for a grand estate in a backwards shire. The listing had sat dormant for several years, until the distraught heir had finally been persuaded to try Sansregret & Archer - and he himself had let the property within a fortnight.
After signing a memorandum of understanding with the owner, M. Archer had gone home and made arrangements for a weekend away in the north with his wife, leaving the children to the care of their governess.
It was only a twenty-five mile journey from their residence in Cheapside, and M. Archer did so enjoy driving the team of matched grays himself. Along the way, he talked with his wife about what his predecessors had done, continually lowering the price to appeal to bargain hunters looking for an investment property.
Leland Archer had married up - and he knew it and was grateful. Without her keen advice, he would never have reached the pinnacle of his profession. He was that rarest of species - a self made man who did not worship his creator.
***
It's truly lovely dear, but how are you actually going to get someone to come all the way out here and see it? His wife queried as they toured the house and then called on several of the neighbors, pretending to be lost and exchanging pleasantries while getting directions.
These country folks are so friendly and welcoming, he pronounced to his wife as they drove by a group of girls walking in the lane who smiled and waved at them. I would venture that they are just as flawed and irrational as people in the city: petty, myopic, and vindictive. His wife had countered.
Once back in Meryton, they discussed ideas for positioning the listing over dinner. It had snob appeal - as it was the grandest residence in the neighborhood, replete with an actual stone driveway, and a grand ballroom for hosting what would certainly be the social event of the season. It had woods and fields galore - suitable for the contemplative, the naturalist, and the huntsman.
An easy days ride from London: so near but yet so far.
After staying the night at the inn, he and his wife drove slowly out of Meryton, as the retreating mist was heavy along the lane, obscuring their visibility, for one more look at the property. Suddenly the manse appeared before them, the sun shining through.
So wonderful, his wife had gasped. It looks like a magical castle from a fairy tale. And he had stopped the grays there in the lane and they watched together in silence as the mist slowly dissipated, before drawing near. Oh, look... His wife exclaimed and had pointed - and he knew then that he had found the key to closing a prospect.
When he returned to the office on Monday, he doubled the price of a seasonal listing, and then drafted an advertisment - describing its virtues: an idyllic situation for the gentleman of taste and discernment, who sought to balance country living with the requirements of his station in society.
***
Soon enough, two such men came to call on him at his office. His clerk presented their cards to him, and announced them. Major Louis Charles Bingley, lately of His Majesties army - and Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley - in Derbyshire.
As expected, once seated they looked anywhere but at his face, and then predictably gazed at the portrait placed strategically at the corner of his desk, looking to see if any of his progeny were similarly disfigured, and what kind of woman would marry such a one as him.
Is that your family? One of the gentleman asked with undisguised incredulity – to the amusement of M. Archer, who had instructed the portraitist to capture his wife with her arms around their children, all smiling and happy – so unlike the staid norm.
It is, he owns proudly. I like to keep them near me – to remind me to conduct my dealings with integrity, as if my wife and children were in the room with me, observing.
He watches the men exchange a glance at his clear precise diction – knowing that they were likely expecting a lisp from someone such as him.
Are you a family man, Mr. Darcy?
I am not. Darcy answers.
Do you aspire to be? The agent asks.
I’m not opposed to the idea, should I meet someone who I cannot live without. Darcy answers.
And you, sir – Major Bingley?
I have high standards for what I want in a wife, the well-built man with reddish blond hair answers.
I pity you young romantics - unwilling to settle for anything less than a grand passion, the listing agent sighs.
Why settle? The handsome gentleman with the dark hair replies flippantly, only to catch himself too late.
The agent can see the man visibly wince at his faux pas, as he looks away from his scarred lip.
You didn’t come here for a homily, the agent defers graciously. Now how may I be of service, sirs?
I saw your advertisment for the Netherfield listing, and wish to tour the estate, Bingley speaks.
Forgive me, Major, but are you in a position to purchase such a landmark property? The man asks skeptically.
Darcy chuckles at this impertinent question.
I recently came into my fortune upon the death of my father, Bingley explains with a cold stare, his jaw clenched.
You have my condolences, Major. I also lost my father when I was a young man.
Thank you, sir. Bingley responds curtly.
Now - what is the provenance of this freeholding?
The elderly gentleman died, and his heir has no interest in maintaining such a grand residence in the country, as he wishes to be close to his club in London.
Is the property mortgaged? Darcy asks.
I trow not, sir.
How much is the asking price? Bingley asks.
***
That’s ridiculous! Darcy snarls. How can you ask such a sum in good conscience?
The listing agent sighs, and looks at the portrait of his family, as if to say we all have to eat.
Because it has a trouble tree, he answers with a straight face.
A trouble tree? Bingley repeats incredulously.
Yes. It was my wife who first saw it through the mist.
What exactly is a trouble tree? Darcy asks.
It must be seen to be understood. Please go and tour the freeholding, the listing agent says - taking care to use the prospect's own word. My wife and I came across a bevy of handsome and friendly young ladies in the lane when we visited. I'm confident one of them would be willing to give an explanation - if asked.
He sees the men exchange a glance.
M. Archer wills himself to remain silent and stares at the picture of his family, his elbows on his desk, his fingers steepled and splayed.
I believe I shall take up your challenge, Darcy announces. Let’s go for a ride, Bingley.
My clerk will see to all the arrangements, M. Archer replies, standing up from his desk and bowing to each gentleman.