Chapter 15 #2
Cinnamon did not follow us so much as haunted our perimeter—a flash of ginger in the boxwood, and then a moment later, waiting for us on a low branch.
Whenever she reappeared, she would weave a figure-eight through Mr. Darcy’s legs only to ignore me entirely.
I suppose the Darcy magnetism was not limited to young ladies of fortune; even my own cat appeared ready to abandon her heritage for the promise of a Pemberley rug.
The morning, however, was crisp and golden with that quality of autumnal brightness where every color was heightened by the fact that frost would soon wash the landscape with dull browns.
Georgiana strode ahead, her step light and buoyant as she paused at every hedgerow to remark on the lingering leaves and berries.
“She is different,” Darcy said, watching his sister crouch to examine a late blackberry.
“She is choosing,” I replied. “That is what different looks like.”
He absorbed this without remark with a slight inclination of his head.
Georgiana circled back to us, her cheeks flushed with the exertion and a natural smile brightening her face. She looked from her brother—standing as straight and somber as a sentinel—to the vibrant gold of the turning elms, and then back again.
“Fitzwilliam,” she said, her voice small but clear, “next to the autumn, your coat is very… brown.”
Darcy looked down at his expensive superfine with an expression of mild bewilderment. “It is a very practical color for the country.”
“Then my brother has dressed for a walk,” she said to me, “which means he intends to enjoy it, which is a development I shall note in my programme journal.”
“I was not aware you kept a programme journal,” Darcy replied, his brow furrowing.
“I do not. But if I did, today’s entry would read: Brother wore a comfortable coat. Suspicious.”
I laughed and examined the coat with exaggerated interest. It was indeed brown and matched my brown ribbon, the one that was never misplaced.
“It is a very sensible color, Mr. Darcy,” I said, catching my breath as the path trended upward. “Though I am surprised you chose it. I thought you preferred the dark, brooding hues of a thunderstorm.”
Georgiana tilted her head, watching us both. “Your ribbon from yesterday was a lovely shade of green. Why did you change it? I thought you said that was your favorite.”
“It was,” I said, a small frown tugging at my brow. “But I must have lost it during our adventures.”
“Then we shall retrace our steps all the way to the boundary stream,” Georgiana said. “Although I daresay finding a green ribbon in the meadows would be next to impossible.”
Darcy, I noticed, was examining the apple tree with a focus that struck me as excessive, given that the tree contained nothing more remarkable than apples.
“I shall keep an eye out,” he said to the tree.
“That is very kind, Mr. Darcy, though I suspect a ribbon hunt is not in the programme.”
“It will turn up…” his voice trailed.
“Not if it had already washed away in the stream…”
“Or eaten by pigs,” Georgiana added, snorting in an unladylike sound I found entirely delightful.
We broke through the orchard’s edge to meet the weathered wooden stile flanking the pasture.
Half-convinced I might yet spot a gleam of green silk crushed in the clover, I neglected to watch the uneven footing.
My toe caught the top rail, and for a heart-stopping second, the “four counties” and I were about to become very acquainted with the mud.
In an instant, a gloved hand clamped firmly around mine.
Darcy didn’t just steady me; he anchored me. His grip was certain and surprisingly warm through the leather, with a strength that made me feel suddenly, strangely small.
“Careful there, Miss Bennet.” The low, gravel-scrape of his voice brushed against the shell of my ear. “The earth here is far less forgiving than it appears.”
My heart pounding over my lost footing, no doubt, I stepped over the stile onto steadier ground. He did not release me immediately, nor did I withdraw, and the moment lasted exactly long enough for us both to pretend it had not happened.
“The path improves from here,” I said, which was not true but was serviceable as a change of subject.
“Does it?” He looked at the increasingly rocky track with open skepticism.
“In character, Mr. Darcy, if not in gradient.”
“The way divides ahead,” I called out, pitching my voice toward Georgiana. “The shorter route cuts straight up the spine—steeper, but much faster, while the longer wraps gently around the eastern face. Which do you prefer?”
She considered, looking at both options with the seriousness of a girl who has recently learned that being asked to choose is not the same as being tested.
“The longer path,” she said decisively. “I should like to see the eastern view, and I am in no hurry.”
“Nor am I,” Darcy concurred.
As the climb steepened, Georgiana forged ahead, driven by the energy of seventeen, while I slowed to navigate a patch of loose stone. Darcy fell into step beside me, his presence a steady counterpoint to the uneven terrain.
“You walk here often,” he observed, his tone more statement than question.
“Papa used to bring me when I was small—before he lost interest in anything that required leaving his library.”
“And your mother?”
“Mama’s empire ends at the garden gate. Beyond its iron hinges lies the wilderness, and wilderness breeds mud, and mud is the sworn enemy of marital strategy.”
A suppressed vibration rippled from his chest—a rough, smothered sound masquerading as a clearing of the throat. “And your sisters?”
“Jane walks as far as the meadow. Mary walks to church. Kitty and Lydia walk to Meryton, which involves ribbons rather than exertion. I am the only Bennet who climbs.”
“That does not surprise me. You know these fields, the tenants, and the land, much like I know Pemberley.” His expression turned wistful as if he were picturing his home.
“Do you miss it?” Part of me wondered why Darcy and his sister were staying with the Bingleys, so far from Derbyshire.
“Every day,” he admitted, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the grey hills of the North ought to be. “Though there are times when the expectations of such a place can become… restrictive. For Georgiana’s sake, a change of scene was necessary.”
A carefully constructed answer—the sort of thing one says when the truth is much heavier than the words.
“I find I am quite content to be a ‘nobody’ here for a while,” he added, a rare, dry smile touching his lips. “It is a luxury to walk a path where no one is waiting to ask me about the harvest.” A pause. “Or the drainage.”
“Then you have come to the right place, Mr. Darcy,” I said, stepping over a stray branch. “In these woods, the only thing that cares for your name is the mud, and as we’ve established, it is a very impartial judge.”
He inclined his head, a small gesture that felt more like an agreement than a concession. “It is a different sort of climbing than what is expected in a drawing room.”
My curiosity got the better of me. “Is that why you came today?”
“I came because Georgiana made a decision. And because I suspected the view might be worth the exertion.”
His gaze met mine, lingering longer than the sentence warranted, and I felt the color start in my neck and turned to face the view, which was becoming extraordinary.
We reached the summit breathless and windblown, Georgiana already standing at the edge of the prospect with her arms spread like a girl embracing the sky.
Below us, Hertfordshire unrolled in every direction—the patchwork of fields, gold and brown and the stubborn green of winter wheat; the dark line of the river curving south toward Meryton; the church spire catching the morning sun; and there, nestled in its little valley of gardens and outbuildings, Longbourn.
“That is your home,” Georgiana said, pointing.
“Yes, that is home,” I confirmed, a surge of affection for the familiar sight warming my chest.
“It looks warm,” she said, with such simplicity that I had to turn away, because the sentence contained everything Georgiana Darcy wanted and could not ask for, and if I looked at her face while she said it, I would do something unforgivable like weep, and Elizabeth Bennet did not weep on hilltops.
Darcy stood beside me, his gaze following where his sister pointed.
He did not speak, and the silence was not his usual silence—the strategic, classified kind that kept the world at arm’s length.
This silence had texture. He was seeing my home for the first time through lenses that had not been available to him a week ago, and what he saw surprised him.
“Four counties,” I said.
“Three,” he said.
“If you squint.”
“I do not squint, Miss Bennet.”
“Then you will have to take my word for it, Mr. Darcy, and accept the fourth county on faith.”
“I prefer geography,” he said, shielding his eyes with his hand. “Bedfordshire and Cambridgeshire to the north, Essex on the Eastern side, Middlesex in the south, and Buckinghamshire to the west.”
“Then your eyes must be sharper than mine, Mr. Darcy.” I also shielded my eyes with my hand and turned around in a circle. “Because you just counted five, and if you look down at your feet, the sixth.”
He raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “I can assure you there are only five, according to the maps.”
“Silly brother,” Georgiana giggled. “I believe Miss Elizabeth refers to Hertfordshire itself. The mud on your boots.”
Darcy looked down at his boots, where the local geography was indeed clinging to the expensive leather in damp, dark clumps. A low, dry sound escaped him—the ghost of a laugh that he seemed to have no protocol for.
“I stand corrected,” he said, his gaze shifting from his boots to mine. “It appears I have been walking through the sixth county all morning without acknowledging its sovereignty.”
“It is the most demanding of the counties. It requires constant attention and a very sturdy brush.”
The gorse behind us parted with a rustle of considerable self-importance, and Cinnamon emerged, looking remarkably unruffled for a creature who had scaled a hilltop.
She didn’t head for me but pranced straight to Darcy, her tail a triumphant plume.
Stopping at his toe, she deposited her gift onto the toe of his mud-caked boot.
Darcy stared at the small white scrap, its embroidery wandering in several unintended directions, hem listing to one side, stitching knotted at intervals that reflected a mind that had grown bored and pressed on regardless.
My stomach dropped.
“Cinnamon!” I hissed, heat rising to my cheeks as I recognized my own lackluster handiwork.
Darcy reached down and retrieved the cloth, holding it by the corner. His long fingers were stark against the uneven, jagged stitches. Rather than looking appalled, he appeared… curious. He traced a crooked line of thread with his thumb, a blocky letter ‘E’—my attempt at a monogram.
“It is mine,” I admitted, my voice sounding much more defensive than I intended. “I am afraid my needlework lacks the ‘improvement’ your sister has mastered. I have a habit of losing my way when the thread becomes tedious.”
He looked up, and at that moment, the distance between us felt as thin as the linen.
“It is a thoroughly honest monogram, Miss Elizabeth, and the hem can be said to possess character,” he said. The usual aristocratic edge had bled completely from his timbre, leaving only a low, resonant warmth. “I find I vastly prefer a line that tells a story over one that merely follows a rule.”
He didn’t hand it back immediately. Cinnamon wove between his legs, pressing against him and purring, clearly considering the gift to be his now.
“May I?” he asked, indicating his intention to return it.
“Please,” I reached for it, my fingers brushing his as I snatched the evidence of my domestic failure away. “Though I suspect I should give it back to the cat. She clearly thinks it is her property now.”
Georgiana stooped to pet the cat. “I do not think she wants you to have it back, Elizabeth; she clearly believes Fitzwilliam’s pocket is a much safer place for a crooked hem.”