Chapter 4
Later that afternoon, gardeners moved methodically through Netherfield’s garden beds, snipping the tops from the spent blooms. Elizabeth’s footsteps on the gravel path provided the only sound save for the occasional cry of geese flying overhead in their neat V-formation.
Deep into autumn, the landscape held a stark beauty—most leaves had abandoned the trees, leaving skeletal branches reaching toward the sky. Like the day Jacob drove Jane in the pony cart to Netherfield Park, clouds had been threatening. Yet, day after day, the sun broke through.
She gazed down the long drive, hoping to glimpse Atlas’s arrival at Netherfield. The crunch of boots on gravel behind her made Elizabeth turn.
Mr. Darcy approached at an easy stride, wearing an amicable expression that she was beginning to associate with their being away from the drawing room. Elizabeth could not resist a smile. “You are on two legs, sir. No horse?”
“Guilty as charged. I have been known to ride from the house to the stables rather than lead a horse the distance. My cousin finds it endlessly amusing, though I have seen him do the same.”
“A matter of mere yards?”
“Perhaps fifty at most.” His cheeks colored with self-deprecation. “In my defense, if one has a horse already saddled…”
Elizabeth grinned. “That is the reasoning of a true horseman, sir.”
“Precisely,” he said, his eyes warming at her understanding. “I see you grasp the principle entirely.”
They fell into step together, walking the gravel path without conscious decision. The ease between them felt natural, inevitable—so different from the stilted conversations from before.
“Will you tell me about Atlas?” Elizabeth asked. “I confess I have been thinking of little else since this morning.”
Mr. Darcy’s mien softened further. “He is a Cleveland Bay—tall, regal, with a rich coat and dark mane, tail, and legs. His ears are tipped with black. He stands over sixteen hands, with a proud bearing. In his youth, he was the very image of a versatile, powerful horse.”
“He sounds magnificent.”
“He is. Was.” He seemed to search for words.
“Though age has slowed him, his spirit remains. He has always possessed a docile temperament, yet retained enough fire for riding. In Town, my sister would ride him through heavy traffic or noisy groups strolling through the parks, without fear that he would be startled.”
Elizabeth could hear the affection in his voice, the same tenderness he showed when speaking of Gracie. “You mentioned that you learned to ride on him?”
“I did, after outgrowing my pony. My cousin Richard—Colonel Fitzwilliam—is two years my senior. His father gave him a mare the same year my father gave me Atlas. Her name is Artemis—”
“Goddess of the hunt—”
“And she lives up to her namesake. Lightning fast, fleet of foot, with a daring that matches Richard’s own.” His pace had slowed as he spoke, his gaze distant, lost in memory.
Elizabeth slowed with him, content to listen.
“We would ride together—at Pemberley, or at Matlock, the Fitzwilliam estate. We raced, we jumped, we competed in everything.” A smile played on his lips. “Artemis had speed. Unmatched speed. Atlas had endurance and a hatred of being beaten that bordered on stubbornness.”
“They sound evenly matched.”
“They were. Which made every race a battle.” Mr. Darcy’s smile brightened.
“One summer—I must have been thirteen—we were racing on a path that led toward Lambton, the small town five miles from Pemberley. We came around a narrow corner at full gallop and nearly ran headlong into a farmer with a lame horse pulling a heavily laden cart.”
Elizabeth drew in a breath. “Oh no.”
“We pulled up in time, thankfully. The poor man was taking his produce to market—the profits would sustain his family through winter.”
“What did you do?”
“Richard’s first instinct was to ride for help.
But the farmer worried about reaching the market before the best stalls were taken.
” Mr. Darcy shook his head, his expression rueful.
“I suggested we hitch one of our horses to the cart. Artemis would have none of it. She balked and made her opinion of cart-pulling abundantly clear.”
Elizabeth bit back a smile. “And Atlas?”
“Never complained. Not once.” Pride infused his voice.
“He pulled the cart the remaining four miles to Lambton without protest. We helped unload the produce then directed the farmer’s son to where he left the horse.
Because Richard could not resist, and I will admit, I could not either—we raced home. ”
“After pulling a loaded cart four miles?”
“Yes.” Mr. Darcy grinned boyishly. “And we still won. By three lengths. He is a superior horse, Miss Elizabeth..”
Happiness filled her—not just at the story, but how he told it. The vivacity in his features, the obvious love for both the horse and the memory. This was not the proud, severe man from the assembly.
“Does your cousin still have Artemis?” she asked.
“When he was sent to the continent, Richard brought her to Pemberley, where she remains. She is retired now, kept in comfort.” Mr. Darcy added, “Gracie is one of her foals.”
Elizabeth’s heart gave a peculiar squeeze at the poetry of it. Connection. Legacy. “That is…” Elizabeth struggled to find words. “That is rather perfect.”
“I thought you might think so,” he said.
“Do you have a breeding program at Pemberley?”
“We do.”
They walked on in companionable silence, while Elizabeth tried to steady the erratic beating of her heart. She studied his profile. “When you speak about your horses…you love them.”
“Absolutely.”
She had expected him to deflect, perhaps to frame it in terms of duty or proper animal husbandry, so the immediacy of his answer surprised her.
“I trust them. Trust their instincts, their judgment in ways I rarely trust people. A horse will tell you the truth of a situation—whether a path is safe, whether danger lurks ahead. They do not dissemble.”
“And do they love you in return?”
He offered a smile. “I have been trying to convince Georgiana otherwise since she was small, to no avail. Animals are not like people, Miss Elizabeth. It is easy to ascribe human qualities to them—love, loyalty, affection. In truth, they are simpler creatures than that.”
“You do not think Gracie loves you?” asked Elizabeth, oddly disappointed by this pragmatism.
“Gracie knows that every time I ride her, she will be brushed afterwards, fed, and rested in her comfortable, clean box. She knows I will not misuse her or demand more than she can give. Is that love? Or is it simply trust built on consistent treatment?”
Elizabeth considered this. “Does the distinction matter?”
“To my sister, no. To me…” He seemed to choose his words carefully. “I prefer not to mistake a horse’s nature for something it is not. Gracie does not lie awake at night pining for my company. She does not love me. But she trusts me, and that is worth far more.”
Although she believed he must be correct, Elizabeth understood his sister’s point of view better. “How do you earn that trust?”
“Consistency. Understanding.” Mr. Darcy’s voice took on a new quality, as though he were already preparing to instruct her.
“Gracie dislikes the activity of the stable. The noise, the other horses, the grooms moving about. It creates tension in her. I can sense it the moment I mount, how her muscles flex, and her attention scatters.”
“What do you do?”
“I allow her to transition from distress to calm as we move away from the stables. To leave the turmoil behind until it is just the two of us. Only then does the pressure release. I can feel her muscles relax beneath me, the exact moment she settles.” His hands moved slightly as he spoke, as though the mare were beneath him even now.
“Only then do we run. To demand speed when she is tense would be to fight her nature. To wait, to allow her to find her calm first—that is partnership.”
Awareness stirred inside Elizabeth—one that had little to do with horses and everything to do with the man beside her.
The care in his voice, the attention to what the horse needed rather than what he wanted—it painted a picture entirely at odds with the proud, dismissive gentleman she thought she knew.
“Although I have read every book I could find about horses, I know so little about riding,” she said. “But I am eager to learn.”
Mr. Darcy’s features warmed. “Then you shall. Atlas is the perfect teacher. And I”—he hesitated, then met her eyes—“I shall do my best to explain what he cannot tell you himself.”
“Thank you, sir. Truly.”
He inclined his head, and they walked on, while Elizabeth tried to hush the voice in her mind that hinted that she no longer thought only of horses.
Darcy stood at the drawing room window, his tea growing cold in his hand as he stared out onto the drive.
He should be anticipating Richard and Georgiana’s arrival.
Instead, his thoughts returned to the garden that afternoon, to Miss Elizabeth walking beside him, listening with such genuine interest as he spoke of horses and childhood races.
He had wasted the opportunity. She had been a willing, engaged listener, and he had been so lost in the pleasure of her company that he had failed to address what mattered most: the insult he had delivered at the assembly.
Tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me. The words haunted him now. He should have apologized. Should have acknowledged his cruelty instead of pretending it had never happened. Instead, he had talked about horses for half an hour like a man with no better sense.
What kind of gentleman offered a woman riding lessons while leaving such a slight unaddressed between them? A fool—that kind of gentleman.
Darcy’s grip threatened his teacup. Setting it aside, he knew what he must do. He would apologize before the lessons begin. Before this went any further. He owed her that much.
But would she accept it?