Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
HORSE SENSE
Darcy noticed the scratches on Georgiana’s hands at tea.
He might not have said or even thought much about it, except that when she caught the direction of his gaze, she immediately folded her arms, tucking her hands within her sleeves.
That was when he realised the likelihood of the origin of the injury.
His first instinctive response was anger.
The child was beyond control, already, as a mere infant!
Georgiana, plainly, had taken the boy’s side, even though he had injured her. What she ought to have done was come to him immediately, and explain what had happened. He could not allow his sister’s soft heart to lead her into trouble.
Trouble? his conscience prodded. Or is this an excuse to separate her from Elizabeth, so that you might surrender the constant temptation to beg your young sister for information regarding her?
All week long, the craving for news of her had been a constant one.
On the one hand, Georgiana shared nothing at all with the Bingley sisters regarding her morning ‘rides’ and her time spent with Elizabeth.
He did not blame her for that—after all, those two were so preoccupied with social standing, they would surely have multiple criticisms of a young lady who had abandoned the safety of Longbourn.
Miss Bingley had assumed that his one dance with Elizabeth had been mere chivalry, and even said as much.
Because Bingley’s ‘angel’ had thankfully been circumspect regarding Edward and Elizabeth, and Miss Mary seldom left Longbourn, Miss Bingley had by now seemingly forgotten that Miss Bennet even had sisters.
Obviously, Georgiana had no intention of reminding her.
He had been restraining himself from asking his own questions. Did the child show any improvement? Was Elizabeth encouraged? Did she seem any happier?
Clearly, here were his answers. Edward could not be allowed to abuse those around him. He understood why Elizabeth protected him from the sort of mistreatment Mr Philips meted out, but he should be punished for injuring others.
It was while he was grappling with these thoughts, alone in the library—the least-used room in the house—that his sister approached him.
“Fitzwilliam, I must speak with you about something very important. I know what you are going to say and I am begging—pleading—with you not to say it.”
He frowned. “The child is responsible for those scratches, is he not?” He nodded at her hands.
She plopped down beside him on the settee in a most unladylike fashion. “Elizabeth told me I had to tell you, but I do not want to. You do not understand! She believes you will not allow me to return, but it will not happen again!”
So, Elizabeth had already decided for him, had she? Even though he had been leaning in that very direction, he was annoyed. “How will you prevent it?”
“For one thing, if he has another tantrum, I will not interfere. Elizabeth knows how to deal with him.”
“Hardly. She simply takes the ill-treatment upon herself.”
“Well, she is better at holding him in such a way as to avoid injury. As soon as she got him into the house, she made him go to bed, which obviously upset him, since he cried for about an hour, but it was the usual sort of crying. He did not understand, Brother!”
She gave him a rather lengthy and slightly convoluted explanation of their habitual routine, and how changing the sequence of their actions upset Edward, and her theory of why it did so.
He stood, pacing in front of the library’s hearth. “Do you mean to provide excuses for his terrible behaviour?”
“Do not you wish to understand why he loses his control over a change in routine?”
That was the trouble, was it not? He was trying to forget Elizabeth Bennet and her brother, and Georgiana’s involvement was bringing them right to the forefront of his mind.
“I do not. It is nothing to me,” he all but spat, sick of the whole struggle.
“I cannot believe that of you!”
“Believe it!”
She gaped at him. “When you saw Gallant being abused by Lord Roden, you stopped at nothing to rescue him, offering him twice what the stallion was worth! Is not a child worth a hundred horses?”
“Edward is not abused. The opposite, in fact.”
“If he were drowning, would you gallop on by, or throw him a rope?”
“What is it with you and the horse metaphors? No one is drowning.”
“Elizabeth is. Fitzwilliam, she needs help. I am here for what…another few weeks? She is my friend. Maybe nothing I do helps, but what if it does? At least she will not be completely alone for a time. I will not intervene again with Edward when he is in a temper. Please?”
Darcy scowled, but knew he had been beaten. “Very well.” His response was terse and surly, but she hugged him as if he had acceded graciously.
After she left him, he was too restless to remain indoors, and had Gallant saddled. It was not many minutes later that he was galloping across the stormy fells, determined to forget.
He urged the steed onwards despite the rain, thankful that Gallant would rather be racing in poor weather than remain warm and dry in his stall.
The creature simply loved to run. Georgiana’s words had recalled him to his first sight of the stallion, his flanks bloodstained from an obvious overuse of the whip, the snarling Lord Roden—having been bucked off—swearing with a creativity Darcy had not known the man possessed.
His lordship was a big, stupid man, accustomed to instant obedience and without the slightest bit of patience for his animals.
Or his wife or children, for that matter.
I knew instantly that the horse would be disastrously, probably irreparably damaged within a month if I did nothing.
He had not been able to leave the idea of rescue alone, not until the horse was his.
Darcy rode on, until both man and beast were fatigued, not slowing until they were in sight of the stables.
“You are simply a high-strung, strong-willed old fellow, are you not?” Darcy said, patting the stallion on the neck as he slowed and dismounted, once out of the icy wind. A boy came running up to take the reins but Darcy waved him off; he usually cared for Gallant himself.
As he brushed the horse’s flanks, his eye was caught by a thin, long-healed scar where Roden’s whip had left its permanent mark.
It had not been easy to lead Gallant away from the cusp of ruin.
He and Frost had worked with him relentlessly—carefully introducing him to situations which had the capacity to provoke his worst behaviours while treading that fine line between ‘practice’ and ‘dangerously flooding him with overwhelming exposure’.
Consistency and patience had worked wonders.
Gallant had grown more trusting; his nerves grew stronger over time, though even still—such as when startled by an adder—he could respond badly.
The notion pierced his conscience in a sudden spike: Edward needs the same.
It was not the same, of course, he immediately reminded himself. Edward had not been abused.
He might become so, however, if that churl Philips has anything to say of it.
Like Gallant, the boy was high-strung and strong-willed. His tantrums even reminded Darcy of those early days with the horse, the responses of a creature who was fighting for all he was worth in a situation he could not understand.
Some had criticised his purchase, believing the horse was savage and uncontrollable. Frost had not, however; instead, he had advised helping Gallant grow inured to all that unnerved him. The training could not be performed all at once, but a little at a time.
Edward needed the same help, and a lot of it.
Perhaps it was an odd idea; certainly some would criticise, saying the child was spoilt, that a regular whipping or two would cure what ailed him. Certainly, whippings are what Lord Roden would have recommended.
That alone felt like his answer.