Chapter Ten #2
“I am less likely to have my head beaten with a wooden sword.”
She smiled, squeezed his forearm with the hand still resting there, and turned to mount the stairs.
The back of her neck prickled as she went.
She would wager, were she prone to such unladylike behaviour as gambling, that George was watching her every step of the way, but she would not turn to look at him.
She did not want to see whatever look lived upon his face.
The Wilkinsons held one of the farms on the higher portion of Pemberley’s lands, in the hills rolling up to the moors where the Peaks towered in great buttresses of rock.
Sparse they might be, but the high places teemed with life: badgers and foxes, and red deer wandering the moorland.
Birds aplenty, too. Ravens sheltered in the stony cliffs, while goshawks and red kite nested amongst the ancient forests lining the lower slopes of the Peaks.
Visiting the Wilkinsons’ farm, Elizabeth always made time to halt the gig made over to her use, to sit and wait in quietness until she sighted one of the creatures who made those high lands their home.
Jack Hill, son of the Bennets’ own Mr and Mrs Hill, was the groom most often assigned to be her escort and always waited in patient silence, allowing her the peaceful moments that eased her spirits.
Mrs Wilkinson was a welcoming, motherly soul, and she and Elizabeth were on excellent terms. Her son Thomas held the farm now her husband was gone, and he was yet unmarried—a lack of ‘wife and bairns’ she bemoaned whenever Elizabeth visited.
They sat in the parlour to enjoy a cup of tea and a comfortable coze, while Jack took a mug of home brew outside to talk with Wilkinson about the sheep and beef cattle that were the farm’s main concern.
“I hear the new master is making the rounds of the farms.” Mrs Wilkinson had started the conversation with looking intently into Elizabeth’s face and pronouncing her to be “Back to the same bonny lass you were afore you were sick, hinny, though you’re too thin yet.
’Tis a boon to see you so well restored, and a glad day you’re back at your old ways,” before laughing at Elizabeth’s blushes and turning the conversation to less personal concerns.
She was not a Derbyshire woman, but from farther north and east, a native of north Durham, and the lilting accent had never left her.
“’T’will be for the best, him making hisself known.
Folks were content enough wi’ the old master, but none of us ken the young ’un.
He spent most of his time with his mother’s people, hence he doesn’a ken us nor we him. That’s no good for us nor Pemberley.”
“Did he not spend any time here?”
“A few weeks come summertime most years, afore he up and went to foreign parts, that’s all.
Wi’ the old master, the men knew where they stood, and old Mr Darcy knew them and put his trust in them.
They knew he wouldn’t just take his rent monies doon to Lunnon and live a grand life on the broken-back of their labour, leaving Pemberley to the steward and not putting a penny back into the place. They’re no’ so sure of the young ’un.”
“Mr Darcy shows no sign of yearning for a frivolous, fashionable life. He was long abroad, and his work was serious and important, and it seems to have made him an equally serious, dutiful sort of man. He is taking great pains to learn the business of managing Pemberley.”
Mrs Wilkinson nodded emphatic approval. “The place needs its master. Our Tom saw him for a minute or two at the Robertses’ farm last week when he took the bull over, and he promised to visit us soon.”
“He hopes to spend time on every farm before the Michaelmas quarter day, I believe.”
“So he told Ned Roberts.” Mrs Wilkinson let out something only to be described as a snicker. “I’m looking forrad to seein’ him, mind. The Roberts girls were well taken with him, I hear. A bonny lad, is he?”
“Oh, well, yes. I suppose he is.” Goodness, why did the heat of the tea work its way out by making her cheeks burn? “He is well-favoured, and well set up. I suppose he must be something like old Mr Darcy when younger, and he, you must agree, was a fine-looking man until his illness struck him.”
“Is it so, then?” Mrs Wilkinson sat facing the window giving out onto the cobbled farmyard. “Aye, I see that for mysel’. A canny lookin’ lad, he is, and he does have the look of his da aboot him.” She nodded at the window. “Leastwise, I suppose that’s our man, coming up wi’ Mr Wickham.”
“What?” Elizabeth twisted in her chair, as George walked past the window towards the barn. The tall figure at his side must indeed have been Mr Darcy. “Yes. I think it must be.”
As indeed it was. The man himself appeared in the doorway within ten minutes, coming to make his bow to the lady of the house. He was all that was polite and civil, though expressing his surprise at seeing Elizabeth.
“Oh, the lassie visits often. She’s a braw ’un.
Now then, you’ll tak’ tea with us, and ha’ a bite of fadge and cake?
I have new churned butter for the fadge, and my own honey, and nowt’ll go down finer.
I’ll call in Mr Wickham and wor lad.” Mrs Wilkinson did not wait to hear his response, but bustled out of the door, calling instructions to her maid-of-all-work in the kitchen as she went and leaving Elizabeth to keep company with the master.
“Fadge?” he asked.
“A flattish bread. A delicacy from her home county. She bakes it herself, of course.”
He took a seat and frowned at the shiny brown teapot. “Kind of her to offer tea, but I would not put a strain upon her household. Tea is ruinously expensive, and must have cost her dear.”
It spoke well of him that he did not like to impose.
Tea was indeed expensive. At Pemberley, the servants had the second use of the tea served to the family, and Elizabeth’s mother used the leaves thrice before they were dried and sprinkled on the rugs to help brush them clean.
The third brewing was pitiful stuff, but needs must.
“Her home brewed beer,” remarked Elizabeth, “is famous in the district.”
Whatever his faults, a lack of understanding was not one of them. He favoured her with a swift smile. “Thank you. You save me from giving offence.”
“You are very considerate, sir.”
“No more than any gentleman should be, I think.” He widened the smile, and Elizabeth was struck by how it lightened his whole face, making him appear less solemn than she had described him to Mrs Wilkinson, and how his eyes were warmed by it, and kind. “Do you visit the tenants often?”
Brought back from her musings—and most inappropriate they were, too!
—she said, “They are seldom in need of our charity the way the poor of the district are, but it is to Pemberley’s advantage to have good relations with them.
While the Christmas feast, and the noon meal you will give the farmers each rent day are fixed in the estate’s calendar, other social obligations are best seen to by we women.
We are a softer link between them and the big house.
A wedding, or a new babe… Pemberley always provides a token at such times.
I arrange those on Mrs Darcy’s behalf. I enjoy visiting people, you see. ”
“I hope if there are concerns, you will not hesitate to share them.”
“There is little, but I make sure George— That is, I make sure Mr Wickham knows, but of course I will speak to you direct.”
“Thank you. I have much to learn, I am sure, but between you and Wickham, I hope not to come to too much grief. I shall depend upon you, you see, Miss Elizabeth. Ah, Mrs Wilkinson—” He jumped up at once when their hostess bustled back, bringing George and her son with her.
“Did I take your chair, Tom? Forgive me!”
Mrs Wilkinson snorted at this civility. “He’ll stand, sir. He’s all beclarted from the byre and knows better than to dirty my chairs! Sit you back down, and tak’ a cup of tea with us.”
Mr Darcy smiled and obeyed. George, who was grinning, bent over Elizabeth with a “Well met, Lizzy.” His eyes were bright and warm with an affection that did not seem in the least brotherly.
He joined a sheepish-looking Tom in leaning against the mantel over the wide inglenook, leaving Elizabeth trying to banish a blush and a feeling that her nerves were more prone to imitating her mother’s flusterings and flutterings than she was strictly comfortable with.
“It is a warm day for September, Mrs Wilkinson,” Mr Darcy said, “and tea can be overheating. Besides, I hear yours is the best home brew on the estate, and if you were to offer a mug or two, Mr Wickham and I would be very grateful.”
He could say nothing to please Mrs Wilkinson more.
She blushed as prettily as a girl when presenting her home brewed beer, dark and fragrant with a thick foamy head on it, to many a compliment from ‘the master’.
Mr Darcy gave Elizabeth a warm smile suggesting fellow-feeling and confederacy, mouthing ‘Thank you!’ at her, and she hid her answering smile by raising her teacup to her lips.
The tea was cool by then, but could not be wasted, and the teacup could hide more than smiles.
With luck, it hid the heat rising in her cheeks.
Mr Darcy was turning out to be more considerate, thoughtful of others, kind and polite than he had seemed at first impression. Not to mention, Mrs Wilkinson was right.
He was a bonny lad.