Chapter Eighteen
Darcy
The morning carried a bite that warned of winter’s approach as Darcy made his way across the fields of the estate. Frost silvered the grass beneath his boots. He had risen early, as was his custom, to inspect the estate before the day’s other obligations claimed his attention.
This was familiar work—checking drainage ditches, examining hedgerows, noting which fields would benefit from winter fallowing.
He had been performing such tasks since boyhood, first at Pemberley under his father’s tutelage, then at Matlock and then Netherfield and its estates.
The rhythm of it soothed him, the practical concerns of land management providing a welcome respite from the turmoil of his personal circumstances.
Yet something felt different this morning.
The tenants he encountered greeted him with a new formality that sat strangely between them.
Where once they had addressed him as Mr Darcy or simply Darcy in the easy manner of men who worked together, now he received bows and careful responses that created distance where none had existed before.
“Good morning, Darcy. Out early, I see,” Lord Hartford said.
“My lord,” Darcy replied, inclining his head. “Old habits. I wanted to check the progress on the stone wall repairs before the weather turns.”
“Commendable diligence, though you need not concern yourself with such details much longer. The new steward arrives tomorrow. You’ve done excellent work here, Darcy. The estate has never been better managed. But your position has changed now, and you must learn to delegate such concerns to others.”
“I understand completely.” Darcy’s voice remained steady despite the turmoil beneath.
“There is another matter I wished to discuss,” Lord Hartford continued, his tone growing more serious.
“About the unfortunate incident on the night of the ball. If you should happen to remember anything further—any detail about the man who attacked Elizabeth—I trust you would inform me immediately.”
Darcy met the earl’s gaze directly, though his stomach clenched. “Naturally, my lord.”
“Good. The scoundrel cannot be allowed to escape justice, whoever he may be.” Lord Hartford touched his hat brim. “I’ll leave you to your inspections then. Give my regards to Elizabeth.”
As the earl rode away, Darcy remained motionless, the weight of his deception pressing down upon him like a physical burden. The secret of Wickham’s identity felt heavier with each passing day, made worse by Lord Hartford’s evident trust in his integrity.
***
The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of Longbourn’s drawing room as Darcy entered to find Elizabeth seated at the escritoire near the far wall.
She appeared to be examining something spread before her, her dark head bent in concentration.
At his footsteps, she looked up with a guilty start.
“Oh! I beg your pardon,” she said, rising quickly and moving to fold whatever she had been studying. “I was merely—that is, I did not mean to pry into your private correspondence.”
Darcy approached slowly, noting the flush that coloured her cheeks. “There is no need to apologise. We are husband and wife now, after all.” The words felt strange on his tongue, formal yet intimate in a way that unsettled him. “What has captured your interest so thoroughly?”
Elizabeth hesitated, then gestured towards the papers on the desk. “I found this sketch among some documents. I fear my curiosity got the better of me.”
Darcy moved closer and recognised the drawing immediately—a detailed rendering of Pemberley’s main facade, executed in delicate pencil strokes. His sister Georgiana had created it during one of her artistic phases, capturing not just the house but something of its serene dignity.
“You need not feel guilty about examining it,” he said, settling into the chair opposite the desk. “Though I confess myself curious about your thoughts on the subject.”
Elizabeth resumed her seat, her fingers tracing the edge of the sketch without quite touching it. “It’s beautiful,” she said simply. “The proportions are so elegant, and the setting appears quite peaceful. What is this place?”
“Pemberley,” Darcy replied. “The estate in Derbyshire where my father served as steward for many years. Where my sister and I were born and raised.”
“Your family home,” Elizabeth said, and something in her tone suggested understanding rather than mere polite interest.
“In a manner of speaking, yes.” Darcy pulled the estate ledgers towards him but did not open them, his attention caught by her evident fascination with the drawing.
“Though we lived in the steward’s cottage rather than the main house, of course.
A comfortable dwelling, but quite modest compared to this grandeur. ”
Elizabeth’s eyes remained fixed on the sketch. “It must have been a wonderful place for a child. So much space, and the grounds appear extensive.”
“They were paradise to a boy,” Darcy admitted, allowing himself to remember those early years with something approaching fondness. “Miles of parkland to explore, streams for fishing, ancient oaks perfect for climbing. My sister and I had the run of the place, within reason.”
“Your sister must have been very young when you lived there, yes? Is she much your junior?”
“Georgiana is ten years younger than I, but yes, she spent her early childhood at Pemberley. Until our circumstances changed.” The familiar weight of loss settled over him. “Our mother died of consumption when Georgiana was but a babe. I think I told you some of this.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened with sympathy. “Yes, you did. Dreadful.”
“It was. My father never quite recovered from losing her. He continued his duties faithfully, but something vital went out of him. I suppose love will do that. Mr Havisham, Pemberley’s owner, passed soon after his wife died from fever as well.
It was said to be apoplexy but those of us who knew him understood it was a broken heart that took him.
I like to think that they are together somewhere now.
The Havishams. And my mother and father, of course. ”
The room fell silent except for the soft tick of the mantel clock and the distant sound of servants moving about their duties. Elizabeth waited, seeming to sense there was more to the story. Then, when he said nothing, she gently prodded.
“And they are the ones who saw that you were looked after?”
“Yes. They arranged for me to live with Mr Wickham. Mr Wickham was a clerk for them and was elevated to steward. He was fond of my father. They were friends. He was always like an uncle to Georgiana and I. So, it seemed natural for him to succeed my father both as steward and as our guardian.”
At the mention of Wickham’s name, Elizabeth’s posture grew noticeably rigid. Her hands, which had been resting casually in her lap, clenched into small fists, and her breathing became shallow. The reaction was so pronounced that Darcy stopped speaking entirely.
“Forgive me,” he said after a moment. “I did not mean to distress you. Perhaps this is not the appropriate time for such reminiscences.”
Elizabeth drew a breath, clearly struggling to compose herself. “No, please continue. I merely—the name caught me off guard. But I should like to hear more about your childhood.”
Darcy studied her face, noting the tension around her eyes and the tight set of her mouth.
Whatever had caused her reaction to Wickham’s name, it was significant.
But she had indicated her willingness to proceed, and he sensed that pressing for explanations would only create more distance between them.
“Mr Wickham the elder was good to us,” he said.
“Georgiana spent most of her time at Pemberley living with the Havisham’s early on.
She had a chamber there and lived with them for about two years.
I saw her every day, and she spent part of each day with us but eventually, Lady Anne was with child and so Georgiana came to live with us again.
Her sister, Lady Catherine, was quite opposed to her having taken in a ward in the first place. ”
“Ah, Lady Catherine,” Elizabeth said, shaking her head. “I can imagine she was not pleased to see her sister take on someone else’s child.”
“No,” Darcy confirmed, anger rising in him again. “She was confused. She loved Lady Anne like a mother. Which, if course, was also not ideal. She was an orphan child and would never have been seen as a lady. In the end, she moved back into the steward’s cottage with myself and the Wickhams.”
“It must have been confusing for her,” Elizabeth said, sounding genuine.
“It was. Lady Anne continued to see her and dote on her while she was with child, but when the child was lost before drawing breath, she withdrew further. She was never unkind, but melancholy plagued her for the last few years of her life. She always doted on Georgiana and I. And George as well, but it was best that Georgiana lived with us.”
“For you I imagine it was preferable to have her with you. I cannot imagine not having my sisters live with me,” she said, her eyes resting on his face in a way that made him grow warm.
“It was. I adore her. I always have. Mr Wickham did also, as did George. George and I were never close, but I will say he was always good to my sister.” He swallowed, cursing himself for bringing up Wickham again.
Quickly, he added, “His father, our guardian, is a lovely man. He has always doted on us just as much as Lady Anne did. I owe him everything. Georgiana does as well. He was a man alone with three children and raised us wonderfully. Well, two of us, anyway.” He smiled and to his relief, Elizabeth smiled back.
“It sounds idyllic,” Elizabeth said.
“In many ways, it was. Despite our circumstances, Georgiana and I were happy children. The estate provided everything we needed—fresh air, good food, purposeful work, and the security of belonging somewhere.” He paused, remembering those golden afternoons by the water.
“I became quite accomplished at fishing, actually. There’s a particular art to reading the currents and choosing the right bait for the conditions. ”
Elizabeth’s expression shifted, curiosity overcoming her earlier discomfort.
“I’ve always wondered what that would be like.
Fishing, I mean. But my mother considered it thoroughly inappropriate for young ladies.
‘Messy, smelly work better left to men and servants,’ she would say whenever the subject arose. ”
For the first time since their disastrous wedding breakfast, something approaching a genuine smile touched Darcy’s lips.
“Your mother was perhaps thinking of marketable fishing. Angling for trout is quite different—peaceful, contemplative work that requires patience and observation rather than brute strength.”
“You make it sound almost reflective.”
“It can be. There is something restorative about standing knee-deep in a clear stream, watching for the subtle signs that indicate where fish might be feeding. The world grows very quiet, very focused. All the complications of daily life seem to fade away.”
Elizabeth leaned forward slightly, her earlier tension forgotten. “That does sound appealing, particularly after…” she gestured vaguely, encompassing their current circumstances.
“I could teach you, if you’d like,” Darcy offered, then immediately wondered if he had overstepped. “That is, should you ever wish to learn. Streams here are well-stocked, and the technique is not difficult to master.”
She considered this, her head tilted thoughtfully. “I believe I should like that very much. Though I cannot promise to be an apt pupil.”
“I suspect you would take to it quite naturally. It requires the same sort of careful observation and patience that I imagine serves you well in other pursuits.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed and he looked away, not wishing to mortify her by making it obvious he had noticed.
“I shall think about it,” she said quietly, the promise hanging between them like a bridge neither was quite ready to cross.