Chapter Three #2
“Early next month, I think. I must outfit myself for life back in England by hiring a valet and replenishing my wardrobe.” He smiled at Bingley. “Oh, and outfit Reid, of course.”
Bingley’s jaw dropped. “Reid is going with you?”
“He is. If the ladies will excuse me for saying this, he has decided it is a case of better the devil he knows. He prefers not to act as nursemaid to the new envoy to Bengal.”
Miss Bingley’s laugh tinkled prettily, as practised as her performance on the pianoforte before dinner. “Oh, I cannot imagine you were ever considered a devil, sir!”
“I cannot vouch for Reid’s opinion, Miss Bingley. Your brother will tell you he demands the highest standards.”
“He had me practising my marksmanship for weeks.” Bingley brightened. “Still, that will stand me in good stead if I get in some shooting this autumn. Well done for keeping him with you, Darcy. He was always devoted to your interest.”
Which was more than Darcy dared vouch for most of the people at Pemberley. Odd how much easier he felt, with the solid presence of John Reid at his side.
Miss Bingley must have tired of a conversation in which she had little to contribute, for she changed the subject with a coy, “Well, sir, I hope you will make yourself quite at home here while you are in Town. Now the Season is over, society is thin, but still some noteworthy events are planned. Catalani will sing at the Argyle Rooms on Friday, and she is never to be missed, you know. Do attend with us, I beg! The Aquatic Theatre at Sadler’s Wells has a programme of delights, too, we may enjoy.
” She pursed her mouth into a small moue.
“Town is sparse over the summer, with too few people of quality to meet. It is of all things most vexing that we cannot retire to the country. You must look about you for an estate as soon as may be, Charles. Perhaps something in the vicinity of Mr Darcy’s? ”
Bingley caught Darcy’s glance at this unsubtle speech, and rolled his eyes. Darcy eyed Miss Bingley sidelong.
Oh dear.
Bingley was his friend, and Bingley’s family would be treated with courtesy as a result. That was all. Miss Bingley was quite correct in one thing: the undesirability of Town in summer made it a place to be endured, not enjoyed. He would grit his teeth and endure it.
And her.
August had rolled in, unseasonably cool, wet and stormy.
On his way to Pemberley, Darcy had stayed several nights with his uncle, who had been as a father to him all his life, glad to spend time with his mother’s family.
If only he had stayed in Ashbourne one more night!
Anything would be better than this miserable road and this miserable weather.
Indeed, he could wish he were back in Town and escorting the determinedly charming Miss Bingley to event after event.
Anywhere but this God-forsaken road across northern Derbyshire, helpless against floods and a broken coach wheel.
Darcy, Reid, and Merson, Darcy’s new valet, sloshed through the foot of rushing water threatening to wash out the road entirely, while the coachman nursed the damaged vehicle up out of the flood onto higher ground.
The man made all secure and rechecked the wheel. “We’re going no farther on this. Needs a wheelwright, sir. T’blacksmith in Lambton will likely have spare wheels to hand.”
“Lambton is about three miles up this road, I think? Very well. Merson, if you remain to take charge, Reid and I will walk into Lambton and send the blacksmith back.” Darcy fished his watch out of his waistcoat pocket.
“We will be after our time, no matter what we do. I will hire a gig at one of the inns and go on to Pemberley. Follow us with the coach when repairs are made.”
Merson bowed, and the coachman touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgement.
Darcy glanced at Reid. “You will not mind the walk?”
Reid grinned widely. “Naught but a step. The rain’s slackening off and we’ll walk ourselves dry.”
“Or into a consumption.” Darcy blew out a sigh.
Instead of bowling up to Pemberley in the earl’s most stylish travelling coach, he would arrive looking a wet ragamuffin in a hired gig. Not quite the impression he wished to make. Ah well. No help for it, but turn his face north and walk.
Pemberley glowed, even in a rainy August twilight.
Built of limestone from the estate’s own quarries, it was the third Pemberley to sit atop the gentle slope above the great ornamental lake.
It offered a fine prospect to a lover of the picturesque, with the ruins of its ancient predecessors incorporated into the garden as walls and folly, and its backdrop of the Black Peaks visible on a clear day.
That day, the Peaks were shrouded in cloud.
Darcy paused the borrowed gig on a bend in the road on the opposite side of the valley, to allow Reid to see the house in its best aspect, its porticoed garden frontage reflected in the lake.
“A fine house.” Reid made a soft whistling sound to suggest appreciation.
“It is a mishmash of a place. Elizabethan at its heart, though my ancestors continually added rooms here or threw up a portico there. The last great change was a century ago, when an architect—Venetian, if you please—built the north wing and reworked the other sides of the house. He garbed the old Tudor in a fine new coat.”
“A place to be proud of, though.”
“I suppose it is something to be Darcy of Pemberley. Mind you, the roof probably leaks, and I remember a gale blew through my bedroom whenever the wind was in the west. It usually is in the west.” Darcy blew out a long breath and stared a moment longer at the many-windowed facade.
And facade it was. An uncertain welcome awaited him behind those elegantly regular walls.
Best delay it no longer. He clucked to the horse to get it moving again.
“Still, it’s home, sir.”
The road wound down to the bridge over the stream draining the excess waters from the lake.
The horse, perhaps scenting the stables, quickened its pace, hoofbeats echoing on the stone arch.
They had passed through the grand entrance in the north face into the internal courtyard before Darcy spoke again.
“It is my house, John. It is not yet my home.”