32. Love is Patient
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
LOVE IS PATIENT
Darcy did not bother to change from his riding clothes. The late afternoon sun slanted through the old oak grove as he approached the lake on foot. Mrs. Reynolds had directed him as soon as he had arrived with Wickham in tow, and he had wished to see his wife first.
“The mistress has been spending her afternoons at the pavilion, sir,” she said, with a look that conveyed rather more than her words. “Reading.”
A twinge caused him to swallow at the thought of her reading material, and he did not wish to know what she might have discovered.
He had given her the key to Amelia’s cabinet, and if she had chosen to use it—if she had spent his absence perusing every word his former lover had written about him—that was her right.
He had forfeited any claim to privacy when he confessed the truth in the library.
Days on the road, riding beside the barouche procured for his wayward brother, had afforded him ample opportunity to turn Wickham’s insinuations over and over, until even the rhythm of his horse’s canter became a form of torment.
When had his wife met George? His brother was neither a traveling curate nor a member of the militia, although Darcy had exerted inordinate efforts to secure him an honorable occupation.
He had lurked in the darker corners of London, frequented gaming tables, and coffee shops where radical ideas were debated—
He could not picture Elizabeth debating with libertines, parrying cards, and drinking wine.
She preferred walking on paths of solitude, alone with her thoughts, and climbing the hills for the views.
Her reading material went no further than her father’s respectable, if somewhat damp library, and her wit was aimed at gentlemen she found annoying, and truth to tell, there were no true gentlemen in Wickham’s vicinity that she would find interesting.
His path to the lake led him through the south gardens, past the rose beds his mother had once tended and the ancient oak that had served as his childhood fortress.
Pemberley in late spring was impossibly beautiful—the grounds bursting with color, the air sweet with blossom—and yet Darcy barely saw it.
His mind was fixed on the pavilion, and the woman who waited there.
The path curved through a stand of willows before opening onto the prospect of the lake—that perfect oval of still water his mother had called Pemberley’s mirror. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the grass, and somewhere in the reeds, a moorhen called to its mate.
He saw Elizabeth before she saw him.
She sat in the pavilion his mother had commissioned the year before her death—a small classical folly of white columns and a domed roof, set at the water’s edge where one might watch the swans without being troubled by the wind.
A book lay open in her lap, and her face was turned toward the far shore, where Rose Cottage stood half-hidden among the birches.
A basket sat beside her on the bench—the remains of a small tea, and her hair had loosened slightly in the breeze, a dark curl escaping near her temple.
She appeared as if she had been sitting in that pavilion for years, reading by the lake, watching the swans drift past—as if Pemberley had always been hers.
His boot scraped the gravel, and Elizabeth looked up, her expression unguarded—startled, with a glimmer of pleasure, as though she had been waiting to share some private jest. She closed the book, which he recognized at once as one of his mother’s journals.
Relief, swift and unexpected, swept through him as she greeted him.
“Mr. Darcy. I did not expect you until evening.”
“The roads were favorable.” He climbed the pavilion steps and stood before her, suddenly uncertain what to do with his hands. “I trust you have been well?”
“Tolerably well. Pemberley still stands, and all the swans are accounted for.” Her lips curved with a tiny smile. “Why, Mr. Darcy, you have not changed. Was the journey as arduous as the riding dust suggests?”
He glanced down at himself—mud-spattered boots, dusty coat, cravat wilting from days of travel—and felt heat rise to his cheeks.
He ought to have changed before seeking her out.
Any sensible man would have bathed, dressed, and presented himself as a gentleman rather than a vagabond who had ridden the last ten miles without stopping.
“I came directly from the stables,” he admitted. “I wished to… that is, I thought I should…” He stopped, aware that he was making a hash of it. “I wished to see you first.”
Elizabeth’s brows rose. “Before bathing? Before changing? Before so much as removing your gloves?” The smile deepened, touching her eyes now.
“I am flattered, Mr. Darcy. I had not realized my company was so urgently required. I assure you, I have not stowed away on any ships bound for the Americas, nor otherwise absconded or hidden myself in the cupboard.”
His lips twitched, wariness notwithstanding. Elizabeth’s cheeks were bright, her spirits evidently high. No doubt her triumphs with Thomas and the Apethorpes, her command of Pemberley, had lent her this ease. Yet her eyes still held a trace of caution, though the frost had melted.
“I understand that you managed the Apethorpe visit admirably.”
“Admirably is generous. There was an incident with Harley and the Countess’s fear of fleas, and Thomas threw a fit of considerable magnitude.
” Elizabeth’s voice was dry, but something warmer moved beneath it.
“The Countess fled to the settee and the Earl positioned himself as though defending against Napoleon’s cavalry.
It was not my finest hour as a hostess.”
“On the contrary, I would have loved to witness your finest moments.” He lowered himself to the seat next to her so she had no need to squint into the setting sun. “I hear they departed satisfied.”
“They departed understanding, which is perhaps more valuable. They wished to see that Thomas was loved, and I believe they saw it.” She hesitated. “The Countess was… more forthcoming than I expected about her daughter.”
Darcy said nothing. He did not know what Lady Apethorpe might have revealed about Amelia, and he was not certain he wished to find out.
“She will write when they return from the Lakes,” Elizabeth continued.
“Their path brings them through Derbyshire again, and she expressed a wish to call. I thought—if you are agreeable—we might invite them to the dinner party. The magistrate and his sister were out of the vicinity, and Saturday next would coincide with their return.”
“An Earl and Countess at our table would certainly elevate the occasion.”
“It would also provide a certain… counterbalance.” Elizabeth’s eyes met his. “Mr. Wickham has been settled in the west wing. I thought it best to keep him at some distance from the family quarters.”
“Yes, my sentiments exactly.”
“I am certain Georgiana is quite beside herself to see him,” she remarked, plucking at a ribbon on her sleeve. “Though I suspect she will be disappointed not to receive the promised Kashmiri shawl, and I suppose he has yet to encounter the rear of an elephant.”
“He has squandered the commission on cards and wine,” Darcy said. “Which makes him amenable.”
“Another signature, Darcy? What price is he extracting?” Her eyes darted, avoiding his gaze. “Will he be on his way to parts unknown once his business here is completed?”
She seemed to hold her breath as he searched for an answer. Wickham’s words echoed in his memory, designed to provoke him.
“My brother has no plans, and as we have seen, his movements are subject to change. Do not be surprised if he parleys every incident into an advantage. He is eager to… as he says… to renew your acquaintance.” He watched her carefully, noting the flush on her cheeks.
“However, he is also a master at suggesting more connection than warranted.”
“Then I shall endeavor to keep my wits about me, and let your sister hold the conversation.”
“Yes, a worthwhile endeavor. He is adept at hunting for weaknesses and needs.”
She darted him a glance, her brow knit, before picking up his mother’s journal. “We have spoken enough about him. I find the subject wearisome. Tell me instead—do you object to my reading your mother’s journals? I ought to have asked permission, but they were stored in my bedchamber.”
“I gave you the keys to everything.” His lips almost added the words, my love, but he stopped.
“Even so.” Elizabeth looked down at the journal, her fingers tracing the worn leather.
“It feels rather like eavesdropping on conversations I was never meant to hear. She writes so intimately—about you as a boy, about Georgiana as an infant, about…” She hesitated.
“About George. The child he was, before he became the man you describe.”
“My mother saw the best in everyone. It was her gift and her weakness.”
“Much like my sister, Jane.” Elizabeth paused. “I think she would have loved Thomas. Despite the circumstances of his birth.”
“She would have loved him entirely because of those circumstances. My mother believed that children were innocent of their parents’ choices. She raised George with as much devotion as she raised me, knowing full well the manner of his conception.”
“And she was not… resentful? Of your father’s infidelity?”
“If she was, she hid it completely. She used to say that anger was a poison one drank hoping to harm another. She refused to let my father’s failures diminish her capacity for love.”
Elizabeth’s gaze drifted to the far shore, where the dower cottage stood among the birches. “She writes of Rose Cottage. How she looked forward to retiring there when you married. Close enough to visit her grandchildren, she said. Far enough to give you privacy.”