Chapter Ten
Bonny Lads and Lasses
Pemberley stood on rising ground on one side of the Pem’s shallow valley, surrounded by woods and green fields.
Had the Pem a resident naiad, she was a watery version of Shakespeare’s Hermia, who “though she be but little, she is fierce”—higher up in the Peaks’ moorlands, a small, rushing torrent threw itself down rocks and dashed through narrow passages between outcrops in a churning, turbulent, defiant swirl of white water, before running pell-mell into Pemberley’s valley where it had been dammed to create the lake before the house.
The outlet at the other side of the lake was a sadly tame affair in comparison, flowing sedately through the lower lands to join a tributary of the Derwent.
Some previous Darcy had loved the wilder, loftier portions of the valley as much as Elizabeth did, and had built a stone gazebo to offer the best views: the wildness of the Peaks to the left, and in front, the valley, with Pemberley’s gardens and its serene west facade, looking down the length of the lake to the bridge at its far end.
The path to the gazebo was one of Elizabeth’s favourite walks.
The last day of August dawned, all gold sun in a cloudless sky.
Freed of all her usual pinpricking duties, Elizabeth made her escape from the house, leaving the gardens by the woodland path skirting one side of the lake before climbing up the valley side to the higher lands beyond.
She intended to spend at least an hour on the stone bench to look over the naiad’s domain and allow her mind to drink in the tranquillity.
Finding Mr Darcy on her bench was a surprise, since she had supposed him to be visiting old Mr Wickham at Sparrowhill. A disappointment, too, if she were honest. She had hoped for an hour or two’s freedom from obligation.
He sprang up the instant he saw her and bowed politely. “Miss Elizabeth!” He glanced around. “Are you alone?”
“As you see, sir.” She dipped into a shallow curtsey. “My aunt has no need of me this morning, as she has gone to Buxton to visit a friend.”
“She mentioned the appointment to me. Georgiana accompanies her, I believe.” He gave her a thin smile. “Were you hoping for solitude, ma’am? Do I disturb that?”
She cast a longing glance down the valley, then smiled. “You were here first, Mr Darcy. I am disturbing you.”
He gestured her to the bench, not sitting himself until she had taken a seat. “Not at all. I am glad to see you. I remember hearing that you enjoy walking, and am pleased you are making time for your own pursuits.”
“I try always to find time to walk. I did not expect to see you, though. I had supposed you to be at Sparrowhill.”
“I went to pay my respects to the older Mr Wickham, but did not see him. The notion made him so distressed, it was best I left.”
Poor Mr Wickham. Such outbursts of emotion on his part were not unusual.
“A pity. Did Mr George Wickham remain to help calm him?”
“Yes. I took the opportunity for an hour’s leisure. I have not been up here in years. We… that is, my cousin Edward Fitzwilliam, George Wickham and I, would run up and down often as boys. Edward and I were at Pemberley for most of each summer.”
“I enjoy nothing better than a brisk walk and do not glide along gracefully in the swan-like manner society demands of an accomplished lady, but I am not quite so unladylike as to run. At least, you understand, not where I might be seen.”
He let out a hearty laugh, the first truly unfettered laughter she had heard from him. A pleasant sound. “If I promise to keep your secret, perhaps I may walk with you occasionally? It would be a pleasure to join such an excellent walker.”
What could she say other than, “Of course, sir. If you can keep up.” And while he chuckled, she looked again down the valley. “This is a favourite place. The prospect is wonderful.”
“My father built this lookout to please my mother, who apparently admired the views as much as you do. My own mother, I mean. Not the current Mrs Darcy.”
“For Lady Anne? So recently done?” Elizabeth twisted to give the gazebo behind her a more critical look. “It looks older.”
“William Wrighte is the architect. I understand he prides himself on creating what he calls grotesque architecture.” Mr Darcy’s smile made him look less serious, more youthful, reminding Elizabeth he was not yet thirty.
“Your father chose the best situation, and I expect Lady Anne was very well pleased.”
“Yes. The view is delightful.”
He was looking at her when she glanced at him, and she could only hope the heat in her face was not visible, or, if she were indeed rosier-cheeked than a milkmaid, that he ascribed it to her exertions to reach the gazebo.
He said nothing more, inclining his head before turning away to take in the view.
They sat for some time. Once or twice they spoke to point to something before them—a brief glimpse of a sparrowhawk swooping down over their heads to the great disadvantage of a slow-moving pigeon, or the herons stalking the reed bed at the far end of the lake.
Mostly they sat in companionable silence.
After half-an-hour, Mr Darcy stirred. “I had best return to my duty before Wickham calls me to account. Pemberley is a hard taskmistress. May I escort you back?” He smiled.
“I am overstepping, doubtless, but it is quite a distance to the house, and you were lately ill. It would behove me to take on a gentleman’s responsibility, and ensure you return safely. ”
“In other words, you think me the most troublesome creature! You should tremble in your boots at the notion of taking any responsibility for my wellbeing.”
He laughed, again. More easily this time. He did better with practice. “I will begin trembling as soon as I can find a moment’s leisure to devote to the exercise. In the meantime, are you ready to return?”
Elizabeth disliked being managed, but this was her first walk up to the gazebo since her illness, and she was more fatigued than she cared to admit. She acquiesced and laid her hand on the arm he offered her.
He might prefer to sit in contemplative silence, but the activity of walking seemed to demand speech. “Now then,” he said, “we must have some conversation... I know! When we last spoke of books, you criticised Romeo and Juliet for its improper behaviour—”
“Shakespeare provides a lesson in the perils of over-indulging children.”
“That was your contention, yes. I was too taken aback at this evidence of a shocking lack of romanticism to properly consider your statement. Perhaps you would care to explain your reasoning?”
Elizabeth smiled and complied, and she and Mr Darcy walked and talked, finding a great deal to discuss in the works of literary giants from Shakespeare to the ancients.
A lively debate made the way shorter, it seemed, yet still George had reached the house before them, and met them in the Great Hall.
“There you are, Darcy. All is well at Sparrowhill.” George raised one quizzical eyebrow, a talent Elizabeth had always envied. “Lizzy. I did not expect to see you, too.”
Mr Darcy grimaced. “I think I am to be taken to task for my truancy. Give me ten minutes to refresh myself, Wickham, and I will meet you in the study. The water rights contract, correct?”
“Correct.”
Mr Darcy bowed. “Thank you for your company, Miss Elizabeth. It has been a delightful hour.”
She murmured a fitting response, and deliberately turned her gaze to George, rather than watch Mr Darcy run up the stairs.
George’s frown was slight but unmistakable. “I did not expect to see you in Darcy’s company, Lizzy. Did you walk far?”
“Up to the gazebo. He was already there.”
“Quite a distance, and all uphill. I hope you have not overdone.”
“A trifle fatigued, that is all.”
“Then perhaps meeting him was fortunate. I cannot quite like you walking alone, you know. Oh, do not frown at me! I know you abhor restriction, and surely here on the estate you are safe enough. It is merely that I would accompany you myself, had I the time.”
“I know you would. It is a benefit of ownership, I suppose, that no one objects to his playing truant.”
“That is but one benefit, my dear. There are many, many others.”
The bite in his tone had her wincing at how maladroit she had been. “George…”
He shook his head, expressing the sort of disgust her mother’s favourite cat showed when some importuning stranger offended its dignity—a slight recoil, a wrinkling of the nose, a brief show of teeth. He did not hiss his displeasure, but it seemed a close-run thing.
Much as she wanted to sympathise, she would not offend his pride and dignity more than she had done already. She laid a hand on his forearm instead, hoping silent contrition would comfort him. After a moment he smiled. A thin smile but enough.
“He told me you often played at the gazebo as boys,” she said. “I am trying to imagine you at ten, say, all tousled hair, grubby neck and scraped knees, running up and down these hillsides. I expect you were scapegraces and hobbledehoys.”
His smile broadened. “I can assure you I was a pattern card of good behaviour.”
She matched him, tone for tone, and in lieu of an ability to quirk but one eyebrow, quirked both. “I dare say.”
“The gazebo made an excellent fort. He and I were usually the defenders, under attack by Edward Fitzwilliam. No wonder Edward is now a colonel. He has the talent for it.” He lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. “It was long ago.”
“In my own case, the enemy was always the Lucas boys. Such innocent days!”
He nodded, and repeated his assertion of earlier that it surprised him to see her in Mr Darcy’s company. “At least, in such apparent amity! I take it you have forgiven him his slight, the night he arrived?”
Reminded, Elizabeth considered the matter. “I suppose I have come to disregard it. I am beginning to understand his disposition better, I believe. Well, I had better allow you to return to your work, George. Not as exciting as defending a fort, perhaps.”