Chapter Nine
T he hours stretched on, the dim light weakening as the sun travelled the sky further west.
Darcy was conscious of Miss Elizabeth beside him, her presence oddly comforting despite their dire predicament. She had spoken earlier of Mrs. Collins’s probable concern, and he had agreed that Fitz, if not others, must surely be looking for them. Yet still, no voices called their names, no shifting rubble signalled an approach.
He exhaled slowly. “They will have heard the collapse at Rosings.”
Miss Elizabeth turned her head. “So you have said. But then why have they not found us?”
He sighed. “Because they know I detest this place. They may search for me everywhere else first.”
She hummed in understanding. “Why were you here, then?”
“I always try to check on the position of the folly when I come to visit. But it was not until I viewed it from the road that I could see there had been worrying changes.” He paused. “You said your friend did not know you would walk here today.”
“No, alas. Your cousin intercepted me and suggested I visit the old orchard and the lake. I stopped here on the way back. If she asks your cousin, he will send her in the wrong direction.” She paused. “Why does your family treat you so dismissively?”
Darcy grunted. Her mind jumped from one topic to another, very unlike her typical style of conversation. “For a few reasons, I suspect.”
“What are they?”
“Must we discuss this?”
“No, but we must discuss something. I cannot sit too long in silence, Mr. Darcy, or I shall run mad.”
“No, I suppose sitting in one place is not—”
“Be very careful what you say next, Mr. Darcy,” she said tartly.
He chuckled. He could not help it. “I only meant that you are a very great walker, Miss Bennet, and yet you cannot engage in that pastime now.” He rode when he was agitated or just required peace. He thought Miss Elizabeth might use her walks in the same way.
“That is certainly true,” she replied.
Darcy felt his heart squeeze painfully at the wistfulness in her voice. He wished, more than anything, that he could rescue Miss Elizabeth himself and spare her any further pain or fear. But the prudent course was to wait. How long he did so before acting himself—that decision was not yet one which need be considered.
If speaking on other subjects helped her—well, he was her servant in all things, was he not? Even if she did not entirely believe it. “You may ask me any question you wish, Miss Bennet.”
“Why does your family dismiss your concerns?” she repeated. “I truly would never have expected such a thing.”
His head throbbed and he paused a moment to allow it to subside. “One reason is simply that I am the youngest male in my family, and I had been the youngest of all for nearly twelve years before my sister was born. Old habits are difficult to break.”
“Miss de Bourgh is older than you?”
“By almost two years.”
This seemed to surprise her. “So, old habits. But you believe there are other reasons as well?”
He nodded. He might as well be honest. He had already trusted her with the most important secret he held.
“I had just completed my final examination at Cambridge,” he began, “and was on my way to the tavern with some of my friends to toast the conclusion of our studies when an express rider found me. He handed me a message. It said . . .” He hesitated as he recalled the words with perfect clarity. “‘Mr. Darcy, you are needed at home. Your father has been taken ill. The carriage will arrive shortly after this message. Please be ready to leave immediately.’”
She said nothing, but her eyes were trained on him.
“That was how I learned my father was dying.” He touched the bandage on his head.
She noticed. “You are bleeding through the bandage, Mr. Darcy. Where is the rest of your cravat?”
He picked up the remnants of the cloth. “Not terribly clean, I am afraid.”
“I will only use it over the other bandages, so it will not matter as much.”
She was favouring her arm but managed to wrap the cloth around his head. As she worked, she said, “How did you know that his illness was so severe?”
“My father would not have allowed them to summon me had he been well enough to protest. And he would have written himself.”
“I see.”
It was a wonder how two words could be infused with so much sympathy and yet not feel cloying. He gazed out into the darker part of the cavern. “It is strange how much power a few words can have to change your life.”
She was silent, contemplative as she finished her work.
“I went home right away, of course. And within a week, I was the master of Pemberley. It was a difficult few months, for I moved directly from lectures and examinations to running an estate, from Greek and Latin to sheep and fertilizer.”
She bent close to check the bandage, and Darcy shivered when she spoke nearly in his ear.
“Did you have no assistance?” Satisfied, she sat back and winced.
Darcy frowned. “Old Mr. Wickham was an immense help. But my father and I had planned to take the entire summer to go over everything he wished to begin teaching me, and that was only to be a start. He spoke of relinquishing more of the work to me and allowing me a percentage of the estate’s income. But in our discussions, this was to take place over several years and with his guidance.”
“A double blow, then,” she said quietly.
“More than that, Miss Bennet. I had a sister to care for and an estate to run, and so I kept moving, and I learned. But there were a great many mistakes indeed, though at the time, I believed I was doing my duty well enough.”
“What sort of mistakes?”
He frowned, recalling. “One of my earliest errors was in the matter of the tenant leases. My father had always taken the time to review them personally, speaking with each farmer about their needs and concerns before agreeing upon new terms. All our tenants had been on their farms for at least a generation, and so I thought it a waste of time.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I had a solicitor prepare the documents and sent them out with the steward, assuming that would be sufficient.”
She raised a brow. “And it was not?”
“Hardly.” A wry smile twisted his lips. “Several tenants refused to sign, and one, a man who had been on the land for decades, packed up his family and left rather than deal with a master who would not even grant him the courtesy of a conversation. It was only after I realised what I had done—what I had lost—that I took my father’s place in those discussions, learning firsthand how to listen rather than dictate.”
Miss Elizabeth tilted her head. “A hard lesson, indeed. But I daresay, an effective one.”
“It was not the last.” He ran one hand down his face. “There was also the matter of the sheep.”
“The sheep?” Her words had a merry lilt to them, as though she was in expectation of some delightful bit of foolishness. Well, he would oblige her.
“The shepherd came to me one day with a concern about a particular breed my father had been considering introducing. I had no patience for the matter and told him to proceed with the plan.” He paused, then grimaced. “It turns out that my father had decided against them for good reason. They were ill-suited to Pemberley’s climate and grazing land. Within a season, the flock was sickly, and I was forced to sell them at a loss.”
“Well, that is not so bad,” she said. “Expensive, I am sure, but nothing so calamitous.”
Darcy exhaled, shaking his head. “There was one more mistake in that first year. But I hesitate to speak of it.”
Miss Elizabeth smiled, her eyes were alight with curiosity. “Oh, now you must tell me. I insist.”
Her playful disposition cheered him even here. “Very well. There was an incident with the geese.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “The geese?”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Pemberley has always kept a gaggle of them near the pond, both for their eggs and as a sort of natural guard system. My father always said no intruder could cross the grounds unnoticed with such vigilant sentinels about.” He sighed. “They frightened Georgiana, and I, in my youthful wisdom, ordered them removed.”
She smiled, clearly in expectation of something delicious. “Removed? You dismissed your most dedicated guards?”
He grimaced. “I did. I thought them a nuisance. They hissed at the horses, chased the tenant children, and took an unholy dislike to my valet. I had them sent to one of the farms.”
“And then?” Her eyes were already sparkling.
“And then,” he said heavily, “we were overrun with frogs.”
She let out a delighted laugh. “Frogs!”
“Yes. It seems the geese had been keeping them in check. Without their watchful presence, the pond and the surrounding gardens became infested.” He ran a hand over his face. “For weeks, the croaking was unbearable. They hopped all the way up to the house. They got into the kitchens. Into the cellars. Georgiana found one in her slipper. Fortunately, she was not missish about such creatures.”
Elizabeth clapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with mirth. “Oh, you poor man.”
“I had no choice but to bring the geese back,” he admitted. “They arrived with great self-importance, herded by a rather smug tenant farmer, and promptly reclaimed their domain.”
“And was your valet pleased?”
Darcy let out a long breath. “He left my service two weeks later.”
It was too much for Miss Elizabeth. She threw her head back and laughed, though he noted she held her ribs as though they were painful.
Darcy could not quite suppress his own smile. “I am pleased to have entertained you, at least.”
She straightened, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Oh, indeed, sir. This is far better than your tragedy with the sheep. Pray, tell me, do you still keep geese at Pemberley?”
He sighed. “Yes. And they remain as unbearable as ever.”
Elizabeth laughed again, shaking her head. “I begin to think, Mr. Darcy, that your greatest enemy is not any man, but nature itself. It is a wonder you are so fond of it.”
He smirked and made a show of looking up. “It does seem to hold a particular grudge against me.”
“Well, at least you know your limits now.” She patted his arm. “Do not challenge the geese.”
He let out a small chuckle. “No, I have ceded the field. Fortunately, we also have a lake and a stream at Pemberley, neither of which seems to hold any interest for them.”
She pressed her lips together, but a soft sound escaped—another laugh, stifled this time.
“You find my failures comedic?” he asked, but in truth, he was pleased to give her something to think on other than where they were.
Her expression grew exaggeratedly solemn, though even in the gloom he could see her eyes danced with mirth. “Oh, no, sir. Not at all. A young master, barely out of the schoolroom, being dictated to by a gaggle of geese? How could anyone find such a thing amusing?”
His mouth lifted into a small smile despite himself. “You mock me.”
“Only a little.” She folded her hands before her and assumed an expression of great gravity. “But pray, continue. I am eager to hear whether you set fire to the grain stores or perhaps tried your hand at bricklaying with equally catastrophic results.”
He scoffed. “Nothing so dramatic, I assure you.”
“A pity.” She sighed. “I had quite envisioned you up to your knees in mud, covered in mortar and cursing the foolishness of man.”
His lips curled upwards. “I will have you know, Miss Bennet, that I am quite competent in the matter of mortar.”
She chuckled quietly. “Well, then. That is some consolation.”
The playful banter between them faded slowly.
“I think often of those early years,” he admitted after a moment. “Of what I might have done differently. Of how I was so determined to prove myself capable that I failed to see how little I truly understood.” His voice was quieter now, the words carrying an edge of something more fragile than regret. “I expected to step into my father’s place with dignity, with confidence. Instead, I stumbled—repeatedly—until I learned that leadership is not about certainty, but about listening. About understanding that the land, the people, even the geese, all had something to teach me if I would only pay attention.”
Miss Elizabeth did not laugh this time. When he turned his head, he found her watching him, her eyes thoughtful in the dim light.
“You were very young,” she said at last.
“Yes.” He hesitated. “And I had no choice but to become someone older than my years. But it appears I am not yet finished learning my lessons. If I had, I would have applied them to my life beyond Pemberley.” He met her gaze. “I am sorry for my behaviour in Hertfordshire. Most particularly for insulting you at the assembly. It was badly done.”
The flickering shadows made it difficult to read her expression, but he thought he saw understanding there.
“You are forgiven,” she said simply.
For a time, neither of them spoke.
Then she sighed, her breath soft in the stillness. “I expect,” she said slowly, “that you did not stumble nearly as much as you believe.”
“Less and less as time went on. My family, however, recalls only the mistakes.”
“Your family,” she said thoughtfully. “Your father. Did he truly remain close to Mr. Wickham, as he told me?”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “He did.”
Miss Elizabeth hesitated. “Did it—did it pain you?”
A bitter chuckle escaped him. “Immensely. My father treated Wickham as well as another son, indulging him, believing every lie that issued from his lips. He would not listen.”
“I see. And it is clear to me why you still argue with your aunt.”
“It is?”
“Oh, do not mind me, Mr. Darcy,” Miss Elizabeth said contritely. “I speak nonsense at least half of the time.”
“Miss Bennet,” he replied firmly, “what do you mean?”
She took a breath. “Only that you were never able to make your father see reason. It makes sense that you are still attempting to make Lady Catherine see it too.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. He had not considered it that way. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
Miss Elizabeth waited a moment to speak. “I understand.”
Darcy turned his head to regard her more closely. She had not spoken merely to soothe him.
“You understand?” he prompted, keeping his voice low.
Miss Elizabeth’s gaze remained fixed upon the flickering light. “Yes,” she said at last. “Too well.”
He waited, uncertain if she would continue and unwilling to press her. But after a moment, she let out a soft breath.
“My family does not think much of my opinions either,” she admitted. “My father loves me, in his own way. He encourages my conversation when it entertains him, but when I speak in earnest, he is more likely to turn aside my words with some humorous quip.” Her lips curved, but the expression was bitter. “He thinks me clever, I suppose, but only for a woman.”
Darcy frowned. “That must be difficult.”
“One grows accustomed.” She shifted slightly against the stone. “When I was younger, I spoke often of travelling, of seeing the world beyond Longbourn, of learning how others lived, how they thought. I read every book I could find on foreign lands, practised French and Italian when I could. But my father—” She hesitated. “He laughed. Not unkindly, but as one indulging a child in some fanciful dream. Travel was troublesome, expensive, and dangerous, you see. And my mother, well, she only saw such notions as a hindrance to marriage and so dismissed them just the same. I expect they both thought I would grow out of it.”
“It is not an unreasonable dream. I cannot understand why your parents would behave as though it was.”
Miss Elizabeth shook her head. “It is their way.” Her gaze dropped briefly to her hands. “They do not mean to wound me. I do not think they even realise they do.”
“That does not lessen the injury.”
She did not respond at once. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. “No. But it does mean that I must accept it. I have long since learned that if I wish to be heard, I must dress my words in wit.”
“You should have been listened to,” he said at last.
She smiled, but this time, it was different—softer, warmer. “Perhaps,” she said. “But you have listened.”
A fierce and sudden longing caught him unprepared. He had wanted her before—had burned for her in ways he scarcely allowed himself to acknowledge—but now, after this disaster and the confessions that had followed, his desire was something deeper, more intimate. They had shared more of themselves in these hours than most couples did in a month of courtship. Surely, she saw him differently now. Perhaps this could be an opportunity to speak his mind, to ask whether he might call on her when this catastrophe was over. His gaze dropped to her lips, soft and parted, and the words came unbidden to his tongue.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he murmured. “You know now that I admire you.”
“You have said as much.”
He leaned slightly toward her. “I wish to ask you a question—”