Chapter 8
Mrs Reynolds led Richard up the main stair. She did not speak. She gripped her chatelaine to her side. At the first landing, a young girl in a maid’s livery crossed their path and stopped short, lowering her eyes.
“Carry on, Delia,” Mrs Reynolds said softly.
The staircase smelled of beeswax, and beneath it vinegar—laid too recently to have settled.
Richard followed, counting steps as he went. Black ribbon threaded round the bell-pull at the turn.
“Pemberley is in mourning, my dear. Keep that foremost in your thoughts,” his mother had counselled him.
He kept his hands still and his eyes forward and continued up the stair in silence.
Mrs Reynolds stopped before a door. She knocked twice and opened it inward, stepping through.
Richard remained at the threshold. Light fell clean across the floor. Books lined the walls. A chair stood pulled back from the table. Shoes rested neatly beside the panelling.
To his right, a boy lurched upright. He held a book in one hand, his other braced against the wall.
“Master Darcy,” Mrs Reynolds said.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs Reynolds.”
“May I present your cousin, Master Richard Fitzwilliam.”
Richard stepped inside.
His cousin stood before him, taller by several inches, his balance settling unevenly before it held. The coat he wore fit him closely, the black band fixed high upon the sleeve. His hair was darker and longer than Richard’s, falling forward despite its brushing. He inclined his head, just so.
“You are to be together for the summer,” Mrs Reynolds said. “I expect no mischief.”
She closed the door.
His cousin did not move away. His feet remained where they had landed. His hands hung at his sides, fingers loose, not clenched. He held Richard’s gaze.
“I am Fitzwilliam Darcy. You may call me Darcy—unless you prefer otherwise.”
Richard inclined his head in return. He waited a breath. Then another.
“Richard.”
Darcy nodded once. “I am pleased to meet you.”
Richard crossed to the window. The lower pane stood raised an inch. The gravel drive ran straight to the trees and ended there. No bend. No cover. Beyond it, pasture sloped away, broken by a single gate and a fence in good repair.
“Would you like to ride? Reynolds will fit you for a mount,” Darcy offered.
Richard shook his head.
“We could go outside and race around the lanes. Would that not be fun?”
Richard spied a rabbit at the tree line. It sat up and sniffed the air.
“Would you like to read a book with me?”
Richard turned, looked at Darcy, and nodded. Once.
“Thomas Day?” Darcy asked, lifting the volume as he crossed to the table beside the bookshelves. Richard stepped to the wall beneath an engraving of the Duke of Marlborough. The sword hung low at the duke’s hip.
He pointed to the floor.
“Would you like a chair?”
Richard shook his head and sat on the floor, his knees drawn up.
Darcy approached. “Where do I sit?”
“Behind you?”
Richard gestured with his thumb over his shoulder.
Darcy moved to the spot and relaxed back until their shoulders met. Richard settled his weight against him, and after one adjustment, held still.
“You do not talk much, cousin.”
Richard pushed against Darcy—once—and Darcy snorted softly.
Darcy read aloud.
“Virtue, my dear Tommy, is not the ornament of fine words but the habit of good actions. He who would be truly wise must first be truly kind.”
* * *
They rode at first light. The mist clung low and cold, the turf dark beneath the hooves. Richard swung up first and gathered the reins. The grey stood square, neck arched, ears pricked forward.
“Mine does not like to wait,” Darcy said, mounting beside him. His bay stamped once, muscle rolling beneath a dark coat.
“Nor does Argus.”
Darcy glanced once at the grey. “He suits you.”
“And yours?”
Darcy settled his seat and shortened the reins. “Samson.”
“A hunter.”
“A giant,” Darcy said.
They broke together, hooves striking wet turf. Argus leapt forward light and clean, feet barely touching the ground. Samson took the first stretch in long, devouring strides, ground eaten rather than skimmed. Darcy pressed him harder. Richard did not.
“You drive him,” Richard called.
“He answers,” Darcy returned.
At the hedge, Darcy took it full and high. Richard waited half a breath, then sent Argus through the narrow gap beside it. They came out level. Samson surged. Argus held.
Darcy laughed. “Again.”
Richard checked his mount and nodded.
Argus tossed his head. Samson pawed the turf. The mist thinned.
Two mounted grooms appeared over the horizon.
Darcy pointed. “Shall we wait?”
Richard smiled. He set his heel and sent Argus forward.
“Oy, cuz!” Darcy shouted, laughter breaking after—then hooves struck in pursuit.
* * *
They ran on Sunday afternoon, coats shed at last, the lanes empty.
Darcy broke first and took the lane hard, stride long and easy, breath already settled. Richard followed and let the distance open. The dust rose. The ground stung the soles.
“Catch me!” Darcy called.
Richard did not answer. He set his pace and held it.
The lane bent. The hedges closed. Darcy’s footfalls rang bright and quick ahead of him. Richard counted his breath and the fall of his steps. The burn came early and stayed. He did not change.
Darcy glanced back and laughed; the sound shortened. Richard held and watched the space narrow.
The wall rose ahead. Darcy faltered a fraction. His stride shortened. Richard lengthened his and went.
They reached the stones together. Darcy struck the wall with his palm. Richard stopped beside him, breath steady.
“You slowed,” Darcy said, between breaths.
Richard touched each finger to its thumb, each in turn. “You spent too quickly.”
Darcy dragged a sleeve across his face and leant back against the stone. “You always do that.”
Richard shook his head once, then stepped to the wall.
He stood beside Darcy, eyes on the fields.
* * *
The walk from the house took little time, yet Darcy felt it in his collar before they reached the yard. The air pressed close, heavy and unmoving. Richard drew a breath and slowly let it go.
Stevens came out to meet them. He had not his gloves on. His sleeves were rolled.
“My apologies, masters,” he said. “It will not do this morning.”
Darcy looked past him, toward the dark within. No horses stirred. “So early?”
Stevens shook his head. “The air has no turn. They would labour before the first bend.” He hesitated, then added, “It would be unkind.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Thank you, Stevens.”
Stevens stepped aside and left them.
They stood a moment longer. Sweat traced the line of Darcy’s temple. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. “Well,” he said.
Richard slipped his coat from his shoulders.
Darcy glanced at it. “Coats?”
“No.” Richard looked toward the trees. “Water.”
Darcy followed his gaze. “Water.”
They crossed to the stable door. The horses stood quiet, heads low, flies thick at their flanks. Richard hung his coat upon a peg. Darcy followed, tugged free of his cravat, and set it beside his cousin’s things.
They broke into a run the moment they cleared the doors.
Dust lifted underfoot. The treefall loomed ahead—oak split and heaved from the earth, roots bare and pale. They cut round it and went on, breath quickening, the heat chased back by motion.
The lake lay beyond, low and bright. They left their boots at the treefall.
Richard reached the water first and went straight down the bank and in, water closing over his legs without pause. Darcy followed.
They swam hard. The surface broke white at their arms. They raced once, then again, laughter sharp and breathless, the heat driven from them at last.
Richard climbed out on the far side and crossed to the stones, slick with weed and warm at the edges. He stood upon the grass, water darkening his hair and shirt, and waited.
Darcy emerged from the water and shook his head. Water flew. He set his foot down. “My heel—” he cried out, quick and unguarded, and hopped on the other.
Richard looked up to the trees, then looked back at him.
Darcy followed more slowly. Each step bit. He reached the bank and sat, rubbing one heel with both hands. A thin red line traced its edge.
He glanced sideways. Darcy stopped rubbing. “You are bleeding,” he said.
“Am I?”
Richard looked down. Blood ran between his toes. He shifted his weight and left a darker print upon the stone. He raised his foot and looked.
Darcy pressed his own heel into the grass and drew breath through his teeth.
Richard watched him then. “Does it hurt?”
Darcy nodded. “Yes.”
Richard set his foot back upon the stone. The blood spread.
Darcy looked from the foot to Richard’s face. He nodded once.
Cicadas rasped in the trees. The heat pressed close again.
After a while, Richard said, “Few people know.”
Darcy drew his foot nearer and wrapped his arms round his knees. He kept his eyes upon the ground. “I would not tell.”
Richard inclined his head once.
They stayed.