Chapter 1
For three days, Elizabeth, now twenty, had nursed Jane through fever and sore throat at the neighboring estate of Netherfield.
Miss Caroline Bingley, their hostess, offered barbed remarks about uninvited interlopers whenever Elizabeth ventured downstairs.
Her brother, Mr. Charles Bingley, hovered with anxious kindness.
Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, the wealthy, arrogant master of Pemberley in Derbyshire, maintained studied indifference.
Needing to be away from rooms that smelled of illness and corridors that echoed with Miss Bingley’s false solicitude, Elizabeth slipped outside while the rest of the household likely still slumbered.
Her half boots crunched softly on the gravel path that led toward the stables.
The morning air at Netherfield Park was fresh and crisp.
The stable yard lay quiet in the early morning, too early for much activity.
Most of the horses remained inside, though one occupied the paddock—a chestnut mare with a coat that gleamed like polished copper in the early light.
Elizabeth stopped at the fence, her hands curling around the top rail as the animal’s muscles rippled.
A beautiful mare. Clean lines, elegant proportions.
She moved with the confidence of a creature who knew her own worth, head high, tail swishing with each deliberate step.
When a groom approached with a halter, the mare turned her head just enough to fix him with one dark eye, then tossed her mane and trotted to the far side of the enclosure.
Elizabeth smiled. The mare reminded her of someone, though she could not quite say who.
“She does not care to be approached until she is ready.”
Elizabeth started, turning to find Mr. Darcy standing a few paces behind her. Dressed for riding, he wore a perfectly tailored dark coat, his boots polished to a mirror shine. His features remained unreadable as ever, though he watched the mare rather than Elizabeth.
She ought to curtsy, and retreat to the house. Instead, she said, “She has spirit.”
“That is one word for it.” Mr. Darcy moved to stand beside her at the fence, his hands clasped behind him. “Stubborn would be another. Willful. Determined to have her own way in all things.”
“She knows her own mind.” Elizabeth chuckled, realizing he very well might be describing her. “Sixteen hands, I would estimate? Perhaps sixteen-one?”
Mr. Darcy’s head turned sharply toward her. “Sixteen-two, actually. You have a good eye. You know horses.”
“I know of them,” Elizabeth corrected.
“You do not ride?”
“No.” The admission cost her more than she expected. “I do not ride.”
“Why not?” The question was direct, genuinely curious rather than merely polite.
Elizabeth hesitated. She could offer the excuse about money, the one her father had given her for years. However, Mr. Darcy’s steady regard made her speak the truth instead.
“When I was small, there was an accident. My young cousin was killed by my father’s hunter.” The words came out flat. “My father sold every riding horse he owned. What remained are the farm horses. Jane and I were forbidden to enter the stables or attempt to ride.”
Mr. Darcy was silent for a moment. “And you have wanted to ride ever since.”
“The only time I have ever been on a horse was when I was five.”
“Once.” His voice held an emotion she could not identify. “You have not ridden in—”
“Fifteen years.” She forced herself to look away from the mare, back toward the house. “I should return to Jane. She will wake soon.”
“Miss Elizabeth.” Mr. Darcy stopped her.
When she turned to see his expression, it was still reserved, though it contained a measure of warmth.
“The mare is Lady of Pemberley by King’s Ransom out of Morning Star.
My father intended to call her Lady. Instead, my sister named her Gracie when she was a foal.
Her coat matched the hair on Georgiana’s favorite doll of the same name. ”
Elizabeth startled at his unexpected confidence. “Your sister must have been quite young.”
“She was five. I was fifteen and thought it a ridiculous name for such a fine animal.” He continued to watch the mare. “Georgiana was insistent, and even then, my father and I could not deny her.”
His tone held a gentleness that Elizabeth had not heard before. It did not fit with the cold, proud man who had slighted her at the assembly. Who had rarely spoken to her since her arrival at Netherfield, save for a few stiff courtesies.
“As the lead mare, the other horses defer to her. She knows her place and expects everyone else to know theirs as well.”
“A female confident of her rank,” Elizabeth teased. “How unusual.”
His head turned sharply toward her, and she thought she had gone too far. But then his expression shifted, a hint of a smile crossing his features. “Indeed. Though I suspect Gracie’s understanding of her place and society’s understanding of it are not quite the same thing.”
The mare finally deigned to allow the groom to approach, though she made it clear through every muscle that she permitted it rather than submitted.
Elizabeth watched the horse’s every move. “You have your Gracie. We had Jackson, a black giant with an easy temper. When we were children, Jane and I climbed onto his back. That one ride was…” She was unsure how to explain what that single ride had meant to her.
“It was everything,” Mr. Darcy said softly.
Elizabeth turned at something in his tone. He no longer watched the animal. The understanding in his eyes—the recognition of what that single ride had meant, what fifteen years of denial had cost her—made her gasp softly. She could not look away. Nor did she want to.
“Yes,” she said. “Everything.”
Gracie stamped impatiently, reminding them of her presence. The groom slipped the halter on and led the mare toward the stable, though her attention remained on the man standing next to Elizabeth.
“I should return to Jane,” Elizabeth said, though reluctant to leave. The conversation had been unanticipated. Mr. Darcy spoke to her without the cold superiority she had come to expect from him.
“Of course,” Mr. Darcy said. He inclined his head slightly. “Miss Bennet is fortunate to have so devoted a sister.”
Elizabeth curtsied and turned toward the house, her mind whirling.
She had abhorred him from the moment they met and had steeled herself against any further interaction with him.
Despite this, standing by the paddock, he had been different.
Perhaps she had simply seen a part he kept hidden behind that unapproachable exterior.
She shook her head as she climbed the steps to the side entrance. It did not matter. Mr. Darcy’s good opinion meant nothing to her. The mare, lovely as she was, was not hers to admire.
Still, as Elizabeth ascended to Jane’s room, she could not quite banish the memory of his voice when he spoke of Gracie. Or the bewildering gentleness in his eyes when he said, “It was everything.”
She paused outside Jane’s door, one hand on the latch. Mr. Darcy had understood what that single ride as a young child had meant. How had he known? And why did it matter so much that he had?
She slipped into Jane’s room as quietly as she had left before she could examine those questions too closely.
Jane’s breathing still labored, though not as much as the day prior. Elizabeth moved to the window, intending to open it to let in some fresh air.
Movement in the stable yard below drew her attention.
Mr. Darcy stood beside Gracie while the groom finished checking the saddle’s girth. Even from this distance, Elizabeth saw the ease in which horse and master interacted. Mr. Darcy’s hand moved along the mare’s neck, his touch slow and deliberate. He bent to run his gloved fingers down each leg.
The groom stepped back, and Mr. Darcy reached into his pocket.
Gracie’s nose pushed against his coat with unmistakable intent. Elizabeth could not hear the man’s words from this distance, but she saw his smile—a genuine smile, unguarded—as he produced a small apple. Gracie snatched it from his palm with more enthusiasm than grace, and Mr. Darcy laughed.
Elizabeth inhaled sharply. She had never imagined he could look so handsome. The severe lines of his face softened, and he looked almost boyish, delighted by his horse’s eagerness.
He swung into the saddle, settling himself before leaning forward to speak into Gracie’s ear.
Whatever he said made the mare’s ears swivel toward him.
Then he gathered the reins—his gloved hands light, without tugging.
Gracie moved forward toward where the groom held the gate open, her response immediate but unhurried.
Elizabeth noted the absence of harsh commands, how his heels signaled the mare’s flanks. Mr. Darcy carried no whip. He treated the animal as a partner rather than a possession.
They started sedately enough. But once through the gate, Gracie broke into a lope, her gait smooth and ground-covering.
Mr. Darcy sat easily, moving with the horse rather than against her.
When they were far enough from the house that decorum no longer mattered, Gracie transitioned into a canter, then stretched into a full gallop.
Elizabeth leant closer to the window, her hand pressed against the glass.
Horse and rider moved as one across the field with a speed and grace that made her pulse quicken.
Gracie’s hooves barely touched the ground, her mane streaming behind, Mr. Darcy’s figure bent low over her neck.
She remembered the old plough horse’s plodding trot, how she had thought they were flying. But this—this was truly soaring.
What would it be like, Elizabeth wondered, to experience that power beneath her, that freedom? To challenge Mr. Darcy to a race and win?
Behind her, Jane coughed—a wet, rattling sound that pulled Elizabeth’s attention to the present.
“Lizzy? What do you see?” Her sister’s voice was hoarse.
Elizabeth turned from the window, pushing the wistful images aside. “Blue sky and horses in the field,” she said, moving to pour Jane a glass of water. “The weather looks to be another fine autumn day.”
Only in her dreams could she ride like that. Only in her dreams could she know what it meant to gallop, to race, to be truly alive.
She helped Jane sit up to drink, and, determinedly, did not look toward the window.
That evening at the Netherfield dining table, Mr. Bingley inquired after Jane’s health. Elizabeth assured him that her sister had improved.
“I am certain Miss Bennet will be quite ready to return to Longbourn soon,” Miss Bingley said, her smile icy. “Then you shall be free to return to your walks about the neighborhood, Miss Eliza. I understand you are quite devoted to the exercise. An excellent walker, are you not?”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply, but movement across the table attracted her notice. The hint of a smile played at the corners of Mr. Darcy’s mouth.
Their eyes locked for the briefest moment at Miss Bingley’s error. Elizabeth lifted one shoulder with a faint shrug.
Mr. Darcy returned his attention to his plate, but the slight smile remained.
Elizabeth stared at him. He had actually listened when she spoke. And he remembered.
“Miss Eliza?” Miss Bingley’s voice cut through her thoughts. “You have not answered. Surely you must agree that walking is your preferred mode of transportation?”
“I walk a great deal,” Elizabeth said, dragging her gaze away from Mr. Darcy. “Whether it is my preference is another matter entirely.”
Mr. Hurst, the Bingleys’ brother by marriage, grunted from his end of the table and reached for his wineglass. Mrs. Hurst adjusted her napkin, paying no attention to the conversation.
“How mysterious you make it sound,” Miss Bingley said mockingly. “But then, country habits are often difficult for those of us from Town to comprehend.”
“I beg to disagree, Miss Bingley,” Mr. Darcy said.
“I spend equal months in London and at Pemberley. Country habits are not difficult to understand. In London, I have observed many ladies promenading in Hyde Park and Bond Street with great pleasure. When those same ladies are at Pemberley, they equally enjoy strolling through the gardens and footpaths through the woods. Wherever we are, we each do as we must. There should be no reason for disdaining one and accepting the other.”
Elizabeth’s eyes flew to his face once more. He studied his wine glass, turning it slowly between his fingers. Yet she could have sworn that the last comment was meant for her ears alone.
Miss Bingley, oblivious, continued to prattle about the superiority of carriages and the inconvenience of muddy hems. Elizabeth barely heard her.
A smile tugged at Elizabeth’s lips before she could stop it. She ducked her head, studying her plate. Mr. Darcy was proving to be a puzzle—one she curiously wanted to solve.