10. A Husband’s Duty
CHAPTER TEN
A HUSBAND’S DUTY
The mare, a sweet-tempered chestnut named Penny, stood waiting for Elizabeth, chosen by the head groom specifically for her placid nature.
Darcy observed his wife carefully, noting the green riding habit and how it fitted her figure.
He saw the exact moment when she turned and spotted him on the pathway, her cheeks pinking as she glanced between him and the mare.
“Mrs. Darcy.” He stopped himself from bowing, searching her face for evidence of yesterday’s distress.
She had retired early after Prue Duntze’s visit, claiming a headache, and Georgiana had been worried about the injudicious mention of Lady Amelia’s name and her goings-on with the literary crowd.
But Elizabeth seemed recovered, with a sweet smile as she gently laid a hand on the mare’s velvety neck and murmured a soft reassurance he was too far away to hear.
In return, Penny’s ears flicked forward, a silent mark of her attention.
“I hope you have recovered from your headache.”
“Entirely, thank you. It was nothing—merely the excitement of callers.” Her smile was pleasant and told him nothing. “Georgiana mentioned you wished to show me the estate today. The mare seems sweet-natured.”
“She is. Hobson would not have chosen her otherwise.” He came forward to help her mount, cupping his hands for her boot, and felt the brief press of her weight against his palms before she was up and settling herself. “Though I confess I did not think to ask how well you ride.”
“I am rather tolerable, I’m told.” She gathered her skirts with a practiced hand, settling into the side-saddle. “Not brilliantly, and not often on horses this fine, but I manage well enough. You need not hover.”
“I am not hovering.”
“You are standing there with an expression that suggests you expect me to tumble off at any moment.” Her eyes glinted with something between amusement and defiance. “I assure you, Mr. Darcy, I have managed to stay seated on a horse for more than twenty minutes without serious incident.”
“Truly a reassuring phrasing.”
“I must admit, however, that I fell off a pony once when Kitty startled it by screaming at a toad, but I do not anticipate your estate is similarly infested.”
He mounted his own horse, suppressing a smile that tugged at him with unexpected persistence. “The toads are well-behaved this time of year. I cannot, however, offer the same assurance for the pheasants.”
They set out across the park, the morning cool and bright, the sky a pale wash of blue streaked with clouds that might or might not mean rain.
Darcy kept his horse to a measured walk, matching Elizabeth’s pace without appearing to do so.
She sat very straight in her saddle, her hands perhaps a touch too careful on the reins, her focus fixed on the winding path before them.
He offered no comment, for he did not wish to unsettle her.
He should have anticipated the speculation that descended on a great estate whenever its master did something unexpected.
The combination of his hasty marriage and the adoption of his ward, an orphan from the peerage, would invite all manner of creative inventions.
He would not have believed Prue knew about Lady Amelia’s manuscripts, and a rector’s daughter should hardly have an interest in lurid romantic creativity.
Yet there it was, the rumors of a secret love affair, followed by his appearance with a bride no one had anticipated, combined with the boxes that had been unloaded from the carriage and placed in the library that stirred up a hornet’s nest of curiosity and indiscretion.
“The home farm lies just beyond that rise,” he said, gesturing toward the gentle slope ahead of them. “We’ll stop there first. Mrs. Bickford has been a tenant at Spinner’s End since my father’s time—longer, actually. She was here when my grandfather held the estate.”
“She must have seen a great deal of change.”
“She has strong opinions on nearly every subject. I should warn you, as she is not shy about sharing them, so you may wish to brace yourself.”
“I grew up with four sisters and a mother who considers volume a perfectly acceptable substitute for logical persuasion. I am, I assure you, well-prepared for the company of opinionated women.”
“Mrs. Bickford,” Darcy warned, “would make your mother seem like a woman of retiring discretion.”
A smile curved Elizabeth’s lips. “Now you are attempting to frighten me, and I refuse to be cowed. Lead on, Mr. Darcy. Let us see what Derbyshire truly has to offer.”
The path meandered through fields newly sown, the hedgerows brimming with the bright, cheerful chorus of birdsong.
He would be the proper gentleman surveying his estate, yet he was forever finding his gaze straying to his wife—to the line of her throat or the way her face tilted toward the sun with an almost unconscious pleasure, the wisps of dark hair escaping her bonnet to curl against her temples, and the determined set of her shoulders as she guided Penny along the uneven ground.
She was trying so very hard to belong here.
He could see the quiet effort in every line of her body.
She did not choose this, he reminded himself, the thought a familiar weight in his chest. When he had proposed this arrangement, he had told himself he was offering her something of great value in return—security for her family, a respectable status, and a renewed sense of purpose.
Yet he had not truly considered, until this very moment, how much he was asking of her in return: her freedom, her future, the very chance to marry for affection as her sisters might still have the opportunity to do.
The thought, as well as the grief that still caught him off-guard, was like a sharp hook beneath his ribs.
He was being ridiculous, of course. He had no obligation to divulge the particulars of Little Tom’s history, especially concerning the family who had refused to claim their daughter, even in death.
Thus, her son and his few effects had been brought to Pemberley while society wagged its tongues over George’s sudden commission to the East Indies, leaving Georgiana adrift, caught in a whirlwind of rumor and half-truth.
At least Elizabeth’s presence had offered a welcome diversion for his sister, who had departed from every academy he had enrolled her in out of sheer boredom, or so she insisted.
The trail grew rougher as they descended toward the farm.
Elizabeth’s mare picked her way carefully over the uneven ground, and Darcy saw her hands tighten on the reins, her posture growing rigid.
A pheasant burst from the hedgerow in a clatter of wings and a flurry of feathers.
Penny shied sideways with a nervous snort, and Elizabeth kept her seat only through a visible effort, the color draining from her face.
“Perhaps,” Darcy said, “we should walk from here and allow the horses a brief respite. Mrs. Bickford’s cottage lies just over the rise.”
Elizabeth shot him a sharp, assessing glance, and he saw her weigh a moment of pride against the obvious relief the suggestion offered. He kept his expression carefully impassive, offering her an excuse that did not feel like charity.
“That seems wise,” she conceded.
They dismounted, and Darcy secured the horses to a fence post where they could crop at the sweet grass growing along the verge.
He offered Elizabeth his arm, which she took with a murmured thanks that held unexpected warmth.
Her hand was light on his sleeve, her touch barely perceptible through the layers of fabric, and yet he was acutely aware of it—the pressure of her fingers, the nearness of her body, and the natural way she walked in step with him as though they had been walking together for years.
Mrs. Bickford’s cottage sat in a hollow, its new thatch gleaming gold in the morning light. The old woman herself emerged before they reached the gate, wiping her hands on her apron, her sharp eyes taking Elizabeth’s measure in a single sweeping glance.
“So you’ve brought the bride, then. About time. The whole county’s been talking, and here I am, last to meet her as usual.” She fixed Darcy with a look that had been making him uncomfortable since he was a boy. “Well? Don’t stand there gawking. Bring her in.”
“Mrs. Bickford, may I present Mrs. Darcy—”
“Southern girl, aren’t you?” the old woman cut in, her tone direct.
“Hertfordshire,” Elizabeth replied.
“Flat country, soft. Derbyshire has more teeth,” Mrs. Bickford pronounced with a decisive sniff. “You’ll find that out soon enough.”
“I am beginning to understand that, yes,” Elizabeth replied, meeting the old woman’s gaze steadily.
A faint twitch touched Mrs. Bickford’s mouth. “Come inside, then. I’ve tea on, and you look like you could use sitting down. The master’s had you riding all morning, I expect, and him with no notion that not everyone was raised in a saddle.”
Elizabeth glanced at Darcy, a flicker of something in her eyes—gratitude, perhaps, that someone had noticed what he had pretended not to see. He felt heat climb his neck and busied himself with the gate latch.
Inside, the cottage was small and scrupulously clean, smelling of woodsmoke and fresh bread. Mrs. Bickford poured tea into thick earthenware cups and settled herself across from Elizabeth, her gaze direct and assessing.
“You’re managing the boy, then? The little one?”
“I am learning to,” Elizabeth said. “He is… particular about his affections.”
“Stubborn as a mule, you mean. The master was the same at that age—wouldn’t let anyone near him but his mother, and even her he tested daily. Screamed blue murder if things weren’t just so. Could hear him clear through the house.”
“I believe we can spare my wife the details of my infancy, Mrs. Bickford.”