Chapter 9
Richard arrived at Netherfield as the sun dipped toward the horizon, his borrowed mount lathered despite the cold.
A groom met him at the stable, and the Colonel dismounted with barely a word of thanks before striding toward the house.
He found Darcy in the library, a book open but clearly unread in his lap.
His cousin looked up the moment Richard entered.
“Well?”
Richard closed the door firmly behind him.
“Wickham arrived in Meryton with the militia less than a se’nnight ago.
The louse is already in debt to half his fellow officers from cards.
” He crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy.
“Not an hour ago, he was overheard assuring his creditors that a golden opportunity had presented itself only this morning. Enough money, he claimed, to settle his future.”
Darcy’s countenance turned to stone. “This morning.”
“The very morning he sees Georgiana.” Richard downed half his drink. “The timing cannot be coincidence.”
“It never is with Wickham.” Darcy rose, setting the book aside with barely controlled violence.
Richard set down his glass, his usual levity gone. “Darcy, if he approaches her—if he threatens to expose what happened at Ramsgate—”
“He will not get near her.” Darcy’s voice was flat, absolute.
“He does not need to.” Richard dragged a hand through his hair. “He could destroy her reputation with a few well-placed words. Or worse, convince her he still cares for her.”
“Georgiana knows what he is now.”
“Does she? Or does she simply know she disappointed you?” Richard’s tone was rough. “She was fifteen, Darcy. In love, or what she believed was love. Wickham is skilled at making young women believe exactly what he wants them to believe.”
Darcy’s fists clenched. “What does his commanding officer say?”
“That he had no knowledge of Wickham’s character when he accepted his commission.
I enlightened him. Mentioned debts, gambling, a pattern of preying on young women.
” Richard paused. “Forster is a decent man. He has agreed to reassign Wickham to Newcastle. But it will take time to arrange without raising suspicion. A week, perhaps more.”
“A week.” Darcy turned toward the window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. “What is Wickham’s plan, Richard? It has to be blackmail. Despite my threats, he knows I would pay handsomely to keep Ramsgate quiet.”
“Or he might approach Georgiana directly. In one of the shops or at church. Convince her to run away again, this time successfully. Her thirty thousand pounds would solve all his problems.”
“Over my dead body.”
“It may come to that if he grows desperate enough.” Richard moved to stand beside his cousin. “We must be vigilant. Georgiana does not leave Netherfield without both of us. No trips to Meryton, no morning calls, nothing until he is gone. Neither should you go anywhere alone.”
“I agree. He will not hurt Georgiana again. And he will not touch anyone else I care for.”
The emphasis on the last words was not lost on Richard. He raised an eyebrow. “Anyone else?”
“Do not start, Richard.”
“I am not starting anything. Merely observing that you seem particularly concerned about a young lady at Longbourn. One who happens to love horses as much as you do.”
“This is not the time.”
“There is never a good time with you, cousin.” But Richard’s tone softened. “We will sort out Wickham together, as we always do.”
Darcy gripped his cousin’s shoulder briefly. “Thank you.”
“What are cousins for, if not to clean up after scoundrels and point out when you are falling in love?”
“Richard—”
“Go! Tell Georgiana our restrictions.” Richard waved him off with a grin that did not quite reach his eyes. “Before I say something else you will pretend not to hear.”
The next morning, Elizabeth joined her father, who was already ensconced in the breakfast room with his coffee, absorbed in the morning’s news.
“Good morning, Papa.”
“Lizzy.” He lowered the paper enough to peer at her over the top. “You look as cheerful as the weather. Disappointed about your riding lesson, I suppose?”
“The rain will eventually pass.”
“Eventually is not today, however.” He raised the paper again. “Your mother lamented the loss of Mr. Bingley until late. I thought it prudent to seek refuge before she began cataloguing every manner in which you have ruined Jane’s prospects.”
Elizabeth sighed and poured tea. “She blames me entirely, I suppose.”
“Naturally. Though I confess I am more interested in what Miss Bingley said to prompt your hasty departure. Your mother’s account is so colored by hysteria that I cannot extract the truth of it.”
The sound of a carriage on the drive made them both look toward the window. Through the glass, she saw the Darcy crest on the door.
“Well,” Mr. Bennet said mildly. “It seems your gentleman caller is undeterred by inclement weather. How very devoted.”
“He is not…” Elizabeth began, but her father’s knowing look silenced her protest.
Hill appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Miss Darcy have arrived. They are proceeding directly to the stables. Miss Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy asked if you might wear the riding habit and join them there?”
Elizabeth was already rising, her breakfast forgotten. “Tell them I shall be there immediately.”
“Lizzy,” her father called as she hurried to her chambers. “Take a cloak. You will catch your death running about in this weather, and then your mother will blame me for that as well.”
The stable felt like a sanctuary. Outside, rain poured in sheets, but inside all was dry and warm. Atlas stood with his head over the door, ears pricked forward with interest at the unusual activity.
Mr. Darcy spoke with Jacob. Colonel Fitzwilliam leant against a post, looking remarkably cheerful for a man who had ridden three miles in a downpour. And Miss Darcy sat on an overturned bucket, her riding habit damp but her expression bright.
“Miss Elizabeth!” Miss Darcy rose when Elizabeth entered. “We were beginning to think you might not brave the weather.”
“And miss a day with Atlas? Never.” After greeting everyone, Elizabeth went directly to the animal, unable to resist stroking the horse’s soft nose. “Good morning. I hope you slept well in our humble quarters.”
Atlas huffed warm breath against her palm, and Elizabeth’s spirits lifted despite the dismal weather.
“He settled beautifully,” Jacob reported. “Ate his breakfast. No signs of distress.”
Mr. Darcy’s groom joined them, brushing raindrops from his coat as he walked toward the box. Sam nodded his approval as he ran his hand up Atlas’s neck to scratch behind his ears. “He is a contented fella, indeed.”
“Excellent.” Mr. Darcy’s expression was warm. “I hope you do not mind our invasion, Miss Elizabeth. I know the weather is not conducive to riding, but I thought we might begin your education, regardless.”
“Begin?” Elizabeth could not hide her eagerness. “Even in the rain?”
“Especially in the rain,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said with a grin. “One cannot control the weather, after all. Better to learn in less than ideal conditions and be prepared for anything.”
“My cousin exaggerates,” Mr. Darcy said. “We will not be riding today. However, there is much to learn before you ever sit in a saddle. Would you like to begin?”
“Oh, yes. Please.”
What followed was the most instructive morning. Jacob and Sam showed her how to groom Atlas, how to use the currycomb and brush properly, how to check his hooves for stones, and how to run her hands down his legs to check for heat or swelling that might indicate injury.
“A horse cannot tell you when he is in pain,” Mr. Darcy explained, running his ungloved hands along Atlas’s leg. “You must learn to read the signs. Here—this is how the bone should feel. Cool, firm. If you ever detect heat or swelling, that is cause for concern.”
Elizabeth absorbed everything—the geography of Atlas’s body—the powerful shoulders, the sensitive areas behind his ears that made him lean into her touch, the spot on his chest he loved scratched.
“You have good hands,” Mr. Darcy said as she worked. “Gentle but confident. That is important. Horses sense hesitation.”
“Like people,” Elizabeth said, then flushed when she realized she had spoken aloud.
“Yes.” His eyes held hers. “Very like people.”
Jacob stepped forward with a bridle. Sam carried a side-saddle that must have belonged to Miss Darcy. Sam said, “It is our job to see to the horse, miss. However, Mr. Darcy’s father insisted that Lady Anne and Miss Darcy learn to saddle a horse.”
Miss Darcy showed her how to fit the bridle, how to hold the bit so Atlas would take it willingly. “Never force. Wait until he opens his mouth. See? Like this. He is willing. You need only to be gentle.”
The saddle came next—far heavier than Elizabeth had imagined. She struggled to lift it, and Mr. Darcy stepped in to help, his hands steadying hers as they set it onto Atlas’s back.
“The girth must be snug,” he explained, his voice close to her ear as he showed her how to fasten it. “But not too tight. You should be able to slide two fingers beneath it. Here, try.”
Her hands fumbled with the leather straps, acutely aware of Mr. Darcy’s nearness. Atlas stood still through it all.
“Well done,” Mr. Darcy said when she finally had the girth properly secured. “Now. Would you like to sit on him?”
Elizabeth felt like she might burst from anticipation. “I can ride?”
“No riding today,” he explained. “Simply sitting. Sam will hold his head, and I will be right beside you.”
“I see. However, just know that Atlas is welcome to move if he wants to.”
A smile tugged at Mr. Darcy’s lips.
Her heart hammered as he led Atlas into the center aisle, where there was more room. Sam took a position at the horse’s head, one hand on the bridle, murmuring reassurances. Jacob positioned the mounting block.