Chapter Twenty-Four
The Liberty Of A Manor
The keepers and beaters proved to be skilled at their work, keeping a steady flow of birds over the guns.
While Hugh and some of the younger men, Tom Lackenby among them, climbed up to the high moorland to take their chances with the grouse, Darcy and Reid stayed in the lower reaches, shooting over the wide, tree-ringed fields.
Bingley was at Darcy’s right hand, with Hurst beyond him.
George took the stand on the other side of Reid.
The men stood in a wide line across a field with dry-stone walls and trees a few yards to their backs, a line of trees marking the other side of the field and beyond that, the dark moors reached up to the rocky Peaks.
The tiny figures of the grouse shooters could be discerned in the distance.
Nearer to hand, eager dogs sniffed around the men’s feet, tails a blur of motion in their delight.
Nothing could match a well-trained gun dog for enthusiasm and energy, and Darcy eyed the beasts with interest. Pointers, mostly, with a few spaniels.
Had Hugh indeed written to bespeak one of the new Clumber spaniels for Miss Elizabeth, as he once promised?
If not, Darcy would. He would like to see how the new breeds performed, of course, and if it gave pleasure to Miss Elizabeth at the same time, it was little enough trouble to go to.
The beaters kept the partridge coming over the field ahead of the line of guns, the calls of “Halloo! Halloo!” and the noise of clashing sticks sounding clearly.
Every now and again, the trickle of birds became a rushing flood beaten out from the copses and spinneys, challenging the shooters’ marksmanship.
It was all too easy to be caught by surprise.
Partridges were slow, low flyers as a rule, but could often burst overhead quickly and without warning, prone to exploding out of cover in all directions in a flurry of wings and autumn leaves.
It made the sport a frantic business. Each man had two double-barrelled guns.
He would aim and shoot, empty the second barrel, and hand the first gun to the loader while catching up the second, with the loaders working the powder flasks and lead balls as swiftly as any man could to be ready to exchange after the next shot.
All Darcy could do was lock his gaze onto his chosen target amongst the birds and not allow anything around him to steal his attention and concentration.
The confused rush of birds with their startled chattering, catching up his new-loaded gun, and the purposeful, silent dashes of the dogs to retrieve the spoils, gave the crisp autumn morning the sense of an ancient dance where, for once, Darcy was content he knew the steps.
He was a good shot. Bingley was better, and Reid the master of both, but still Darcy felt he had made a fair showing. At least some of his neighbours agreed.
“Your sojourn abroad has not dulled your eye for our less exotic quarry.” For a man drawing on in years, General Lackenby still had a keen eye himself, and had bagged several brace of partridge. “We will all have plenty of birds to carry home for the table.”
“I am delighted Pemberley offers such sport. I must reward the keepers well.”
“Aye.” The general nodded. “They have earned it. It is a skilled job to keep the birds coming.”
“An excellent morning!” Hurst crowed from his place beyond Bingley. He was more animated than Darcy had ever seen him. “Damn, but it almost makes the country worthwhile!”
Bingley caught Darcy’s gaze, and rolled his eyes in the direction of his brother-in-law.
Darcy grinned back. Bailey, the gamekeeper, came from behind to suggest one more rush of birds before everyone—gentlemen, keepers, loaders and beaters—walked down to the farm to take their meal in the barn.
He had sent one of his under-keepers up to the moor to collect the grouse shooters.
The sun had passed the zenith, and this would be the last drive of the day.
Many of the guests had quite a ride home, and it was understood it could not be an all-day shoot.
Their morning would end with bulging game bags, and in food and fellowship, and Darcy could only hope his personal stock with his neighbours was on the rise.
“An excellent idea, Bailey.” Darcy raised his voice and called out, for all to hear, “The last drive, gentlemen, before we take some refreshments washed down by Mrs Wilkinson’s finest brew! Bring the birds on!”
And Darcy raised his gun to his shoulder, ready for the last covey to come over.
The ladies and their helpers, as embodied in Mrs Wilkinson, a Pemberley under-cook, and the wives of the farm labourers and nearby tenants, had worked wonders.
The barn—the largest building in the farmyard—had been swept clean, and long trestle tables laid out with all manner of excellent provisions, with straw bales doing the service of seating.
As Darcy had predicted, the shooters came in ravenous from their morning in the cool autumn air, and when the younger men scrambled in, hot-faced from their walk down the hillsides, they brought with them the appetites of true trenchermen.
All was as Darcy had hoped: good fellowship, much cheer, good-natured raillery about missed shots and escaped birds, and strengthening friendships, with several of his neighbours taking care to assure him his father would have been proud of what they had achieved that morning.
A small thing, perhaps, holding a successful shoot; but it left him feeling that he was not quite as much at sea over Pemberley as he had once imagined, and he might one day fill the master’s shoes with some credit.
At the end of the meal, when he stood and thanked his guests for the honour they bestowed by attending, he was as much one of them as he had once felt at a feast hosted by a maharajah, or by the doyens of the East India Company.
It was with great pleasure that he lifted his glass, called for silence, and offered a toast to the ladies who had provided their repast. He enjoyed Miss Elizabeth’s unusual pink-cheeked fluster and Mrs Wilkinson’s unfeigned delight and gratification at the hearty cheers that followed.
It was a convivial hour, and he talked to many of his neighbours, learning more of them and understanding them better.
Even old Standley was less tedious, and more the jovial, bluff countryman when he congratulated Darcy on the success of the morning, although Darcy was taken-aback when the man looked up the hill to the moor and muttered something about it being best Hugh had not been at hand.
“Leaving more birds for us, do you mean?”
Standley gave him a long, level look. “Aye, take it that way if you wish. Well, it is of trifling importance, I daresay. Many a younger son must learn he is not the young master indeed.”
So, whispers were making the rounds. Damn Hugh and his ungovernable temper!
Scandal could sink the family name, and make them a laughing-stock in every drawing-room in the county.
How had Hugh’s discontent become widely known?
The general would not have spoken of it, Darcy was confident of that.
But somehow, their family affairs were bruited abroad. It was not to be borne.
Darcy said, putting a chill into his tone, “I do not doubt it. A common enough occurrence, after all.”
“Aye. Well. You show all your father’s character and I do not doubt your steadfastness of temper. I have seen it for myself.”
A comment Darcy took to be a compliment. He nodded, but said nothing.
“Our families have been acquainted for years, Darcy. I have known young Hugh since the day your father and I, and others of the county, wet the baby’s head in a very fine cognac.
He and my girl might make a go of it one day, maybe, but only when he has grown out of his distempered freaks.
It is hard to believe ill of him, but he does not help his own cause. ”
It was a warning, of sorts. Not an ill-natured one, but couched in the only way this gruff landowner seemed to know.
Darcy nodded. “Perhaps I must find an occupation for him.”
“That will steady him, I dare say.” Standley nodded, clapped Darcy on the shoulder in a surprisingly familiar fashion, then said, “On other matters, will you be attending any of the Gentlemen’s Club meetings I mentioned to you when we first met?
I would be glad to put you up for membership, although I suppose young Wickham may undertake the office. ”
“He is a member?” Darcy turned to look at George, who was nearby and must have heard. George grimaced, as though he hardly knew how to look.
“Oh, aye.” Standley beckoned George closer. “Though I did not see you there this month, Wickham. Licking your wounds, I expect.” He turned back to Darcy. “Ten guineas down the last time. Cassino is not his game, I fancy.”
George’s laugh betrayed his discomfort. “I daresay you are right, Mr Standley. It is not my game.”
George went monthly to Buxton, of course, to consult with Dr Barrows as well as carry out Pemberley’s business with the banks and merchants.
Darcy could not blame George for taking an hour or two’s leisure to himself, but at a club for gambling?
It brought back too many memories of Cambridge, and his disappointment with George’s conduct.
He waited until Standley had had his fun and had walked off to be jocular elsewhere in the barn, before turning to George. “Standley surprised me about the Buxton club.”
George looked uneasy. “I do not attend often. I must go to Buxton each month, as you know.”
“Yes.”
“It is a welcome amusement on occasion.”
“I had not thought… Indeed, I remember you telling me you no longer gambled.”