Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE BOUNDARY LINE
Elizabeth
I woke late, and I knew it before my feet touched the floor. The angle of light through the curtains had that warm, settled quality of mid-morning rather than the thin apology of early dawn, and Cinnamon was not on the bed.
With no time to spare chasing a cat granted free rein of the estate, I hastily splashed water on my face, dressed, and pinned my hair with more speed than artistry.
I descended the stairs at a pace that would have earned stern reprimands from every governess I had never been able to afford.
Miss Darcy could be waiting for me in either the breakfast room or, likely at this hour, the music room, seated at the pianoforte, expecting her companion to turn her pages.
Blessedly, the music room held no strains of Haydn or any other Baroque composer, and the breakfast room was…
Not quite empty, as Mr. Darcy occupied one of the place settings.
My arrival—neck swiveling and breathless from my hasty descent—was far from my most dignified entrance.
Darcy, however, barely glanced up from his newspaper, his coffee cup poised elegantly in one hand.
His coat was dark blue, his cravat freshly tied, even the errant curl pressed in place; his posture suggested a man for whom mornings had been designed specifically, and the rest of us were merely welcome to participate.
“Miss Bennet.” He rose. Because good breeding operated whether he wished to or not—a Darcy had to appear faultless.
“Morning, Mr. Darcy.” I curtsied as I surveyed the vacant table, the pushed-in chairs, and the silence where Bingley’s cheerful morning commentary should have been. “Where is Miss Darcy?”
“Riding.” He set down his cup. “She went with Miss Bingley and Charles. They departed an hour ago. Caroline suggested the exercise, and the weather is fine.”
Riding. An hour ago—Caroline and Bingley and Georgiana—across the autumn fields while I slept like a woman with nothing to contribute and nowhere to be. The exclusion was not cruel, exactly, but it stung, nevertheless. No one had thought fit to knock on my door or send a note.
“I see.” I crossed to the sideboard with what I hoped was an air of unconcern and reached for the coffeepot.
“Allow me.” He was there before I had lifted it—rising from his chair, crossing the distance, and pouring with an attentiveness that I had not requested and could not quite resent because the coffee was hot and my need was urgent.
“Mrs. Nicholls mentioned your fire went out overnight. I have spoken to the housemaid about banking it properly. The east wing is poorly insulated.”
“Thank you. The room was comfortable.”
“A room without a fire in October is not comfortable, Miss Bennet; it is endured.” He set the pot down with the satisfied efficiency of a man who had identified a deficiency in his operations and corrected it.
“I have also instructed her to leave additional blankets. You will find them in the press.”
As he placed the cup before me, I couldn’t help but notice our fingers did not touch.
This observation, entirely unnecessary, occupied my thoughts with disproportionate significance, recalling how those same hands had gripped a wine glass and consumed a Shrewsbury cake the previous evening with the reluctance of a man swallowing a concession.
Indeed, the evidence rested on a plate near his newspaper, which still held the golden crumbs and a scatter of caraway seeds. A second cake sat untouched, as if he had taken two from the kitchen and eaten one in the privacy of an empty breakfast room.
I did not remark on the discrepancy between a public “commendable” and a private second helping, because the observation, once made, could not be unmade, and I was not prepared to admit what it meant that Fitzwilliam Darcy secretly enjoyed my Shrewsbury cakes.
I sat down with as much dignity as I could recover, and I saw the cat hair.
A generous dusting of orange hairs across his dark-blue trousers, right above the knees, where Cinnamon preferred to rest. My cat—my constant companion—the one who would not abandon me for Lydia’s balls of yarn, Kitty’s ribbon collection, Jane’s stockings, and Mary’s sheet music had betrayed me for a gentleman’s attentions.
I said nothing, because noting it would present him a victory, that a man who would have had me removed might have been prevailed to keep my cat.
“Miss Bennet.” He returned from the sideboard with a plate—a poached egg and a slice of ham, toast and marmalade—and set it in front of me. “Since we find ourselves with a private moment, I should like to discuss Georgiana’s programme.”
No doubt, he would instruct me on proper “programme” activities. I suppose next he’d be asking my opinion on the color of his cravat, to which I’d recommend orange to match Cinnamon’s hair on his trousers.
“By all means.” I spread marmalade on my toast with deliberate calm and let him proceed, because a man delivering his expectations without interruption will reveal more than a man being challenged.
“Her music is advanced. I should like practice to continue at no fewer than two hours daily. The masters in London will assess her progress when we return, and I do not wish her to fall behind. Italian and French, she reads both with competence, but her conversational fluency wants reinforcement. Needlework. Deportment. And naturally…” he paused, as though the list had run ahead of his certainty “…her correspondence with our aunt Lady Catherine should be maintained.”
“And her reading?”
“I have provided an appropriate selection. Histories, sermons, and essays of moral philosophy. The library here is adequate for the purpose.”
“You have curated her reading.”
His brow lifted a fraction. “I have ensured she has access to material suited to her improvement.”
“Assuredly,” I said, and thought of the bottom shelf in the library, the one holding sermon notes and agricultural pamphlets, hiding a collection of Gothic romances. “I suppose my role as a companion is to provide diverting conversation and debate?”
“To sharpen her mind, yes. My sister is not confident in her judgments.” His brow wrinkled as I detected he was on the verge of revealing too much. “Her mind is not the only part to exercise, hence the riding. Naturally, she is an accomplished horsewoman and has ridden since she was six.”
“Naturally,” I echoed, the word tinged with dry amusement. After all, I was an accomplished walker, a skill born of necessity rather than leisure, but one I had honed to perfection over the years.
“Then it’s settled. Georgiana enjoys daily rides. You may need to rise earlier to accommodate her schedule.”
He arched an eyebrow in silent challenge, daring me to voice any objection. But I stubbornly held my tongue, denying him the satisfaction.
“Well then, Miss Bennet, I believe we are in agreement. Exercise and fresh air are essential, and I am glad Caroline thought of it. In fact, Miss Bennet, you should join them. They rode toward Oakham Mount and will likely return by the western path. If you go to the stables now, you would catch them easily enough.”
“I… uh… did not bring my horse.” I did not ride. Not because I lacked courage or coordination, but because five daughters and two thousand a year did not stretch to a riding horse, a side-saddle, a habit, and the instruction to make use of all three. I could tell him this, or I could swallow it.
“Bingley has spare mounts aplenty.”
“I prefer to walk.”
Darcy accepted this with a nod that might have contained a faint puzzlement—but he did not press, and I was grateful, in a furious, complicated way, for his discretion in not asking a question I would be required to dodge.
“Miss Bingley is an accomplished horsewoman,” he observed. “She will ensure Georgiana is well exercised.”
“How reassuring. It seems Georgiana shall have accomplishments from Miss Bingley and literature from the library, fresh air from the horses, and improving conversation from her companion.” I set down my cup. “One wonders what remains for Georgiana to choose for herself.”
The sentence startled us both. I had not meant to say something so direct—so stripped of wit. Darcy remained silent, though I noted with some satisfaction the telltale flush creeping up to the tips of his ears.
We finished breakfast in silence, and when I rose to excuse myself, Darcy gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”
I wasn’t quite sure where he was leading me, but once I stepped outside into the crisp morning air, I took a deep breath and let the sun warm my face as he most assuredly led me toward the stables.
“Miss Bennet. Enjoy your stroll. The western path follows the field boundary toward Longbourn. You will know the terrain.”
“Indeed, I shall,” I replied. “The morning is too fine to resist, and I prefer to admire the countryside at a more leisurely pace.”
He touched his hat—a small gesture that I found annoyingly charming, and he held my gaze for one beat longer than the courtesy required—and then, he accepted the saddled horse from a groom, mounted it with a single fluid motion, and rode off.
I watched him go.
I should not have. There was nothing instructive in the sight of a man riding well on a fine horse through an October morning, the dark coat sharp against the amber of the stubble fields.
And then I started walking in the direction he pointed.
The path ran along the edge of the Netherfield grounds, past the ornamental lake where ducks conferenced noisily, and then out into the open fields where the stubble from the harvest lay in pale rows, and the hedgerows blazed with hawthorn berries.
The western fields were visible from the rise—a broad slope of field and pasture descending toward the stream that marked the boundary between Netherfield’s grounds and Longbourn’s lower acreage.
I had walked this land since I was twelve and knew every fence, ditch, and place where the stream bent and the ground softened after rain.
I also knew where the water collected and where it drained.
Which is why I stopped.
Two laborers worked near the far end of the field, digging a channel, a raw brown scar across the pasture.
The ditch collected the waters from the waterlogged fields Darcy and Bingley had inspected—whose drainage was “rather a catastrophe”—and directed it along the new channel toward a natural depression that would carry the water into Longbourn’s lower fields, where our tenants grew winter wheat.
The very fields where our plough horse now toiled would flood and turn to bog should Darcy’s drainage scheme succeed.
I was certain Darcy did not know. For all his faults—his imperious manner, his taxonomical mind, and his insufferable assurance of his competence—Fitzwilliam Darcy was not a man who would deliberately flood a neighbor’s fields.
But he had not walked our side of the boundary, nor had he examined the contours of the land beyond what he considered the edge of his concern.
This, I was understanding, was a pattern.
I could not stop the laborers. I could not shout corrections across a field at men who were following their employer’s instructions.
What I could do was walk faster, which I did—breaking into a run along the boundary path, startling the ducks on our pond, thinking of Papa and how quickly I could reach him and whether the channel was deep enough yet to matter and whether the rains would come too soon.
Two horses galloped toward me, riderless, interrupting my chain of thought.
Side-saddled, reins trailing, nostrils flaring—they came across the open field, snorting and prancing with the freedom of having recently dislodged their riders.
Beyond them, I saw two feminine figures. One was on the ground, not moving, and the other waved at me, running toward me with long, desperate strides.
The morning, which had been managing admirably up to this point, went cold in my chest.
“Georgiana!” I cried, but I was already running.