Chapter Eleven
Quarter Day
Michaelmas. Seven weeks since Darcy’s return, and his first quarter day as master of Pemberley. A wet, tedious Sunday, the sort of day that had Darcy wishing for something—anything!—useful to occupy his time.
He sipped his wine, and cast a glance over the top of his book, taking in the family congregated in the drawing room in the half hour before dinner was served.
Quarter day was a day of reckoning. Men of business in Bengal used it to take stock, to review, to consider contracts, obligations, relationships.
He might stave off tedium by doing the same, to consider how he stood after so many weeks at Pemberley.
George, first, since of those Darcy accepted as family, George was the closest. Perhaps Darcy’s concerns and doubts on his return had been for naught.
He would banish memories of drunkenness and debauchery, of wild wagers, or of returning late to his rooms in Cambridge and finding George with two naked doxies on his lap.
The friend of his childhood was returned to him.
These days, George could not work with more dedication and faithfulness if Pemberley were his.
The reformation appeared real and lasting—he would not permit George to associate with the family if it were not.
George was devoted to the wellbeing of the estate and the family. Exemplary.
Mrs Darcy, next. His stepmother sat at her embroidery as usual, serene and remote.
Darcy’s relationship with her was as civil as he had expected, but although he would not call it a motherly connection, she was kinder and warmer than he recalled from his visits when a boy.
Perhaps they could be easy with each other in time, and overcome the remaining distance.
Georgiana sat beside her mother, a much smaller piece of stitchery in her hands.
Was it all women did? Sit and sew? Poor child.
Georgiana bent her neck to the yoke without complaint, being sweet and shy, obedient and eager to please.
He did not anticipate she would be anything other than an affectionate sister.
She certainly was a dutiful daughter, absorbed in whatever stitch Mrs Darcy was showing her.
Hugh, though, was as distant as he had been the night Darcy had arrived, and Darcy struggled to bridge the gap.
Hugh did not appear to be a great reader, so they had no common interests there.
Darcy had tried talking of the theatre and plays, remembering their father’s telling him of Hugh’s enjoyment of acting in family theatricals, but it was as if Hugh had never heard of drama.
Shooting was a passion, but although his younger brother responded when Darcy spoke about the sport, Hugh usually soon allowed the conversation to drizzle away.
Darcy had tried to involve him in the work he was doing with Wickham and Reid.
Hugh loved Pemberley, and could have been of immeasurable help, but all Darcy had achieved was to increase Hugh’s resentment that Darcy had inherited at all.
Several times George had sighed over instances of Hugh’s sullenness and ill-temper, and tried to school him.
Darcy did not attempt it. The cause, he considered, was lost, and though he allowed George his attempts at mediation, he was not inclined to share George’s hope that Hugh would soften and all would be love and brotherhood.
Neither did he subscribe to the occasional fear George expressed that Hugh’s distempered freaks hid real malice.
Hugh was an unmannerly puppy, but Darcy did not suspect more.
At least, he strove not to do so, and tried to forget that George knew Hugh far more intimately than he did.
Rent collection was, of course, deferred to the next day.
George’s was the principal part, collecting the quarter’s rents in the estate office but still, Darcy must attend.
He would greet the farmers, take part in the noon repast ordered for the tenants to entertain them, thank them for their efforts, be convivial and welcoming.
Hugh would be invaluable at such a time.
He knew the men, knew their strengths and weaknesses, and could help bridge the gap between tenant and master.
Could, but was unlikely to be so accommodating.
No. Darcy must call on every skill and trick learned in the king’s service, bolster the armour of polite courtesy he kept between himself and strangers.
George would help. He was to dine and stay the night, leaving his father in the care of the nurse and a footman.
At least it gave Darcy one friendly face in the company that evening. Two, counting Miss Elizabeth.
Which brought him to consider her, at last.
After their difficult start, she no longer held him at arm’s length.
Perhaps the talk about tigers had broken the impasse.
They had both been more honest in that discussion than was strictly proper, but it had served to bridge the divide between them.
Since then, they had many discussions in the drawing room of an evening, and she proved to be as apt a listener as she was a conversationalist. It was particularly noteworthy that she did not hesitate to disagree with him.
She was no toadeater, out to flatter him.
No indeed. He raised his book quickly in case his smile became too noticeable.
He had a lively memory of an exasperated hiss in answer to one of his comments the previous night, and the look accompanying it.
He would wager a guinea some uncomplimentary words hovered on her lips.
Always the lady, she would likely call him nothing more vulgar than a chucklehead for disagreeing with her opinion on Marlowe’s Duchess.
Though she restrained herself from voicing it, she did not hide that she considered him one. Definitely not a toadeater.
More than once he had come across her as he went about the estate, and she had done what Hugh would not: she had been a link between him and his tenants.
He joined her morning walks occasionally, too, and was pleased when she greeted him without reserve.
Her walking at a brisk pace matching his own, her conversation, and her unfeigned delight in the views and sights of Nature donning autumnal dress, all combined to ensure he counted such occasions as a source of quiet pleasure.
His doubts and cares about Pemberley and his inheritance were eased.
In short, she had become a friend.
Miss Elizabeth agreed to play for them as they waited to be called into dinner, George and Hugh following her into the alcove where the pianoforte stood. Perhaps music was her remedy for relieving Sunday dullness.
Darcy put down his book—another layer of armour to keep the world at bay—and moved closer.
It was unseemly to try and overhear, but his years in the king’s service had taught him how to gather useful intelligence, politeness and good manners be damned.
That it brought him closer to the lady was mere coincidence, and not at all a ploy to admire the way the candlelight lit the side of her face and sparkled in those remarkable eyes.
Hugh leant on the pianoforte, flicking a fingernail against the pile of music on the lid over and over. Miss Elizabeth rescued a sheet of music from his clutches.
“You, Hugh Thomas Darcy, sting worse than a gadfly! There is no more awful object than a Darcy on a Sunday evening with nothing to do! What is amiss?” She settled the music in place on the rack.
“Amiss? Nothing! Well, I meant only to ask after your family, Lizzy, and ask you how they all did. I have barely seen them this month. I do not count falling over Kitty and Lydia outside the schoolroom on their days here as seeing… well, you understand. Your mamma and the girls were out when I called a day or two ago.”
Miss Elizabeth started to play, keeping the volume low. She was not a capital player, but perfectly pleasant to listen to. “Was it Thursday? I believe they went into Lambton, shopping.”
“Mmmph,” was all Hugh said, but it was a morose and disappointed mmmph, if ever Darcy had heard one.
Miss Elizabeth glanced up, her expression merry. “I am certain if you go again, Hugh, they will be at home.”
This time the mmmph was interrogatory and held a note of hope.
“And glad to see you, of course,” Miss Elizabeth added, and Darcy could only marvel at his idiot younger brother missing the quirk of her lips and the light in her eyes.
It struck him that in the few weeks since his return, she had improved in looks and health.
She had gained a little weight and no longer looked gaunt, although her figure remained light and her movements graceful and lively.
Her clothing fitted better, and her face was not as thin and drawn as it had been when he arrived.
The merriment that was her usual expression suited her, lending her a piquant, sparkling air.
It was obvious what George had said about her illness was correct, and he felt a flash of shame for his ungenerous criticism, the night of his arrival, of her looks and manners.
She was a pretty lady indeed, and a clever one. She deserved his respect.
Miss Elizabeth appeared to notice him for the first time.
She smiled, and said with her usual raillery, her fine eyes alight with laughter, “Do you mean to daunt me into playing the wrong notes, Mr Darcy, coming upon me unawares? I should warn you I am not easy to intimidate. I am too defiant for that!” She chuckled.
“Besides, I play quite enough wrong notes without encouragement.”
As if he or anyone else had the power to discompose this particular lady! “I am certain it would difficult to intimidate you, Miss Elizabeth. I gained that knowledge through experience.”
She smirked, and inclined her head.