2. Chapter 1: The measure of a man

1: The Measure of a Man

Darcy sighed contentedly as he settled back into the overstuffed wing chair. The faded upholstery and somewhat threadbare arms spoke of the welcome familiarity of the place. The fireplace crackled warmly, driving what remained of the spring chill from the air. He smiled to himself, seeing the cane leaning up against the bookshelf that flanked the fireplace. It is good to see him leave that behind again. Leaning his head back into the soft seat, he closed his eyes, drinking in the comforting smells of the place: firewood, books, leather. After a few minutes, his repose was disturbed by the sounds of someone entering the room.

"Glad to see you're making yourself at home," Bradley cried warmly. He walked slowly, laden with a tray of tea and biscuits. He preferred to do the task himself than have a servant disturb his private retreat. "That was your father's favorite chair, you know."

"I remember the times he would let me join you both here when I was small. I would sit on the rug there by the fire, looking at those picture books you always had set aside for me." A warm smile of remembrance lit the young man's face.

"I still have those books, on the shelves there." The curate, too, smiled warmly at the memory. "You would sit that way for hours with us. I lost count of the times your father carried you back to the manor house fast asleep." A deep chuckle followed.

"Do you think my son will have such memories?" Darcy asked wistfully, taking the cup Bradley had poured for him.

"The good Lord willing, I would be happy to have another generation of Darcys playing on my hearth rug." He paused to sip his tea. "So how did you find Rosings this year?"

Rolling his eyes, Darcy pressed his head back into the chair again. "I would much rather be here than in any of Rosings' well fitted drawing rooms. I think there are five, or is it eight now?" He shook his head with a little shudder. "Lady Catherine does, after all, like to preserve the distinction of rank." He snorted.

Bradley smiled understandingly. "I have only met the great lady twice now, I believe. She was singularly unimpressed with my status as curate. She was quite put out with the fact that I did not pursue higher standing in the church." He leaned back in his own well stuffed leather chair, biscuit in hand.

"Be assured, the fact continues to disturb her ladyship to this day," Darcy agreed, stretching to help himself to the plate of biscuits. Biting, he chewed thoughtfully a moment. Even these taste like home somehow. "She cannot seem to understand why you did not accept her invitation to take the living on her estate. It would have allowed you to begin your ascendency in the church, or so she says." The glint in Fitzwilliam Darcy's eye suggested that he wondered this as well, but was too well-bred to ask.

"She has not a pastor's heart." Bradley shrugged. "I love my parish and its people. I cannot leave here, leave them, any more than I would cut off my own arm. What higher calling can there be for a man like me than to be given such people to care for?" His bright blue eyes glittered with his sincere passion for his calling.

"But sir, taking the living…"

"…would have meant leaving my people to the hands of I know not who."

"So you sacrificed yourself for your parish." Darcy sighed. "You know, Mr. Harris has been never to us what you have been. No one will feel his loss. He is here only as often as need be to fulfill the terms of the living. He did not even allow you the use of the parsonage!" Somehow Darcy felt shallow noting such things.

"Yes, all of that is true. Sadly, Harris has made few friends and endeared himself to even less. Difficult though he may be, he is a good man, Fitzwilliam, and what he does do is valuable. I am grateful that he has allowed me to stay here with my parish instead of looking for someone younger and more like himself." He sighed, shaking his head. "Leaving here is far too high a price for a living. My needs are well met here as curate. Thanks to the generosity of a certain family," he winked at the younger man as he reached for another biscuit, "and the grace of the good Lord."

"Would you take the living if it were vacant?" Darcy pressed, ignoring for the moment the challenge the curate presented to his own way of thinking.

"Well, young master, that is an academic argument, is it not? You know me to be much too practical a man to have the taste for engaging in such things," the minister gently deflected the uncomfortable question.

Darcy looked away, his dark eyes fixed on the sunset through the window near the bookcase. "I had a letter in the post waiting for me when I returned from Rosings. Reverend Harris died a little over a week ago."

A cloud of grief descended over Bradley's features. "Do you know…"

With a fractional nod, Darcy continued, "He was staying with his sister in town when he took a cold. It settled in his lungs. He died with his sister and her son in attendance. His last wish was to see you take the living. They report he said you love the people here, you deserve it after serving here so many years."

Tears burned the curate's eyes as he stared into the fire. "I am glad he was not alone. Difficult though he may have been, I have no doubt he is resting in our Savior's arms now."

A soft silence descended, broken only by the crackling of the fireplace and the crunch of their biscuits.

"So, my old friend, would you take the living now?"

He has not yet learned his father's commanding tone. George Darcy would have made those same words a command. "And risk the great Lady Catherine's approval?" Bradley teased gently.

"Oh no, sir! I could not ask that of you! She will certainly not approve," Darcy laughed. I remember Bingley telling me that I never laugh, that I was too serious. I wonder if he would find my curate lively enough for his tastes.

"As long as we are clear on that point, young master." Another sip of tea paused the conversation. "I do not know, sir. I do not know."

"You would not have to leave your parish. I cannot force the new vicar to continue your curacy, though he would be a fool not to." Darcy watched the distress that flickered across his companion's face.

"I do not want to leave my parish," the curate whispered under his breath, grief heavy in his voice.

"In fact, the living would allow you a few more servants. How often have you gone on about wishing you had the means to employ some of the young people in hard straights? If you wished, you could stay here in the cottage Father built you and use the parsonage for parish purposes. Or the other way around…" Darcy offered excitedly.

Bradley chewed his lip thoughtfully. "All of that is true, son. Yet, it is so much more than I need…"

"Have you not taught me, sir, a worker is worth his wage*? Do you not say that it is our Lord's command to those who would accept the work of others? Would you reject such a principle?" A measured smile spread across Darcy's face, knowing he had played his trump card.

A slow, wry smile lifted the corner of the curate's thin lips. "Well spoken, young sir. So you have been listening to something all these years." Bradley gazed into the fire, a distant look in his eyes. Finally he leaned back and set his teacup softly on the table between them. "I will take the living, young Mr. Darcy…" He held up his hand to hold back the gentleman's pleased reaction. "However, you must first show me that you can do more than parrot back those words of mine. You must show me you have lived that tenant, and tell me what you have gained by it." Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned back, having played his own trump.

Darcy snorted, taking another biscuit, looking for something to hold in his hands while he spoke. "What has it gained me? Where shall I begin? It has gained me the contempt of my Aunt. Lady Catherine declared me the most preposterous fool for clearly allowing you, sir, far too much influence over me. The lower classes, she says, only put such wealth to nefarious uses, thus it should be kept from their hands for more noble purposes. On the other hand, it nearly cost me the privilege of reviewing Rosings' accounts each spring, a privilege I would be quite vexed to lose." Darcy's dark eyes rolled with his sarcasm.

'Tis a shame so few are allowed to see this side of him. Too many on the outside believe him cold and aloof. How wrong they are.

"But alas, better a fool like me, related by blood, than her steward who she says she does not trust. So I cannot count that loss. Yet. Let me see, I also gained several long lectures from my good Uncle, Lord Matlock, warning me that I would be giving away my future and Gerogiana's, handling my affairs differently than he advised." The young man's frustration showed clearly on his face."Who was I to question tradition? Moreover, how could you, a man of God condone such thoughts? Is it not your sworn duty to uphold the social order, as we know it, as holy itself?"

What have you done, young Darcy? "Speak clearly now, young master. I must know what you have done and what has happened." Bradley leaned forward, listening intently.

Darcy sighed, hanging his head, oddly embarrassed. "After you preached so eloquently on the topic, I had my steward go over the books with me. We carefully examined the income of Pemberley and how it was distributed. Knowing how Rosings is run, I could compare Pemberley's performance against Rosings, our own people with theirs. I did just that. Lady Catherine is not liberal with her people." Darcy sighed again, stopping to gaze into the fire for a long moment.

As much as I hate the influence of that woman, perhaps there is some good to be worked through his association with her. Bradley studied the young man's face, noting the regret that haunted his eyes.

"Despite my father's goodness and benevolence, I find that there was not as much difference between the two estates as I would have liked to find."

"You are disappointed in your father?" The older man gently asked.

"That is a strong word, sir. " Darcy frowned, his smooth brow furrowing. "But yes, it was hard to see that he was not as liberal a master as I had believed. So," he turned his gaze to the curate now, "with your admonishments ringing in my ears, I chose a different path."

"What did you do, son?"

"After collecting the rents at Michaelmas last year, I purchased two seed drills, one for the home farm and one to be shared among the tenant farmers. My only stipulation was that they maintain and repair the tool at their own expense. My steward administers those details now. I have purchased new stock for the home farm and extra breeding stock as well. I have offered the use of the stud animals to the tenants to improve their lines for one part in ten of their profits on the animals. I also chose not to increase their rents for the coming year as has been the fashion on other estates."

The curate sat up straighter, lifting his brow high in surprise. "That was a very liberal move, young master. Very liberal."

Humbly, Darcy looked at the worn hearth rug. "I am sure you know this already, but much needed maintenance has not been done on the estate. I assembled a team of men, older men who knew a craft, but were not fit to work the fields this spring, and younger men who for other reasons were in need of learning useful skills. I sent them to the tenant houses to make repairs and note the improvements needed. My steward and I are working with those lists now to determine how best to accomplish them. I am uncomfortable with the state I found many of the houses in."

Bradley chewed his lip a moment. "So, what results have you seen from these improvements?"

A wry smile lit Darcy's faraway expression. "Well, several bar fights in Lambton have been credited to my decisions." The smile broadened as he saw the bemused expression on his mentor's face. "Apparently there were words spoken by one of the villagers against the Master of Pemberley, and several of our people took great offense."

The men laughed and sipped their tea. Bradley reached to refill their cups.

"The fall harvest is not in, so the final tally is not yet available. I truly do not know what all will come of this. However, I have many applicants for the two small farms that have become vacant over winter this year when the Smiths went to live with their children and the Martins took the larger farm here. Those applying are of a different caliber than I have seen recently."

The minister raked his grizzled hair with his hand, nodding, pleased with this report.

"The fields are already showing signs of a fruitful harvest, as are the gardens. A number of new fields have been developed and pasturelands improved. All signs suggest that we will see profits over and above my outlay."

Restraining the urge to comment proved difficult as the patient man awaited the young gentleman's comments.

"It appears, at least for now, that you were correct, but perhaps not exactly in the way you thought."

"Oh? How exactly do you see that?"

"You suggested it was right to pay them what they were worth. It seems they are becoming worth what I am paying them." Darcy's eyes glittered with good humor as a warm smile lit his face.

"So it would seem." Bradley laughed heartily.

"Uncle Matlock will credit good seed and good weather for my good fortune." Darcy's gaze wandered out the window once again, surveying the twilight bathed landscape.

"His ideas of men and their worth are very traditional." The curate gently suggested. This was a point that your father and I perpetually disagreed upon. I wonder if you will be open to hear other ideas.

Darcy slowly nodded, clearly struggling with his thoughts. "He believes that a man is great because of his birth, the money and the rank that he inherits. What he would earn with his own hands, produce of his own efforts, is of little or no value." The soft words contained an air of uncertainty that was unusual for the young man.

"This troubles you?"

"I do not know, sir. My father, I know, shared most of my uncle's beliefs. He taught me that being a Darcy, Master of Pemberley, made me a great man. He insisted that our circle was more important than anyone else. He seemed sad though that George would not be… be so significant. The son of a steward could only have limited aspirations. That troubled him. I believe there were times when he wished George had been born his own son so that he could have been a greater man. "

"And you?"

"I do not know yet, sir. I do not know. What makes a great man, Mr. Bradley? I do not understand. When I was at Cambridge, I saw many first sons, heirs to great estates, who behaved as George did. But as long as no respectable woman was involved, a blind eye was turned, and conversations always focused on the greatness of their families and the estates. But George, well what could one expect form a steward's son?" The weight of his question seemed heavy on his shoulders.

Perhaps you will surpass your father, young Darcy. He never asked these questions. "What do you think makes a man great?"

A thoughtful sigh and frown followed. "When I went to Cambridge, I would have told you it was in the nobility of his name and the size of his estate and fortune."

"And now you are not so certain?"

Darcy merely shrugged.

"So because you were born a Darcy, it means you are a better man than Mr. Martin, your tenant?"

"I have been taught so." Dark eyes lifted, searching his mentor's face.

Bradley rose to the challenge, holding his gaze for a long time before he issued his challenge. "Or perhaps it is because you are less than him?"

Darcy sat up sharply, fairly glaring at the curate.

"Our savior, the Good Book says, came to us in the form of a servant,** did He not? The same book tells us He said the first would be last and the greatest would be the servant of all.*** So, perhaps, young master, you were born a Darcy because you were not strong enough to be born a Martin."

*Matthew 10:10. Luke 10:7

**Philippians 2:7

***Matthew 20:26, 23:11