CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Cottages Beyond Longbourn
Before Darcy's accident, he had imagined Mrs. Bennet's knowledge of her neighbours consisted chiefly of incomes, marriage prospects, illnesses, and scandals.
This was not entirely wrong.
It was merely incomplete. He discovered the rest on a cold February afternoon when Mrs. Bennet informed Elizabeth that the Parkers' youngest boy had taken a fever and the Widow Clarke's chimney was smoking again.
"Hill has packed broth, and there is flannel in the basket. Lizzy, you may take it when you walk. And tell Mrs. Parker not to send the older children to school until Thursday. They will only carry illness to everyone else."
Elizabeth looked out at the sky. "It will rain."
"Then wear your old boots."
Darcy, seated near the fire, closed his book.
"May I come?"
Mrs. Bennet stared at him.
Elizabeth stared too.
"To the cottages?" Mrs. Bennet asked.
"Yes."
"Why?"
Darcy considered several answers and chose the true one. "Because I have heard you speak of these families for three months and know almost nothing of them." Mrs. Bennet's surprise softened into approval.
"Well. You cannot walk the whole way."
"I can walk farther than last week."
Elizabeth said, "That was not Mama's point."
Darcy sighed. "Then the carriage part of the way."
"And your cane," Mrs. Bennet said.
"Yes."
"And no pretending your leg does not hurt. Men are foolish about pain."
Darcy looked at Elizabeth.
She smiled. "You see where I inherited my tyranny."
Mrs. Bennet heard. "You inherited a great deal from me, young lady, though you prefer to credit your father."
Elizabeth opened her mouth, then closed it.
Darcy wisely said nothing. They took the Longbourn carriage as far as the tenant road and walked the final quarter mile.
The day smelled of wet earth and chimney smoke.
Water stood in the ruts. Darcy moved slowly, placing the cane before each step when the ground became uneven.
Elizabeth matched his pace without making it obvious.
He noticed. He noticed many things now. The Parker cottage was small but sound, with a new thatch roof and a kitchen garden lying dormant behind it. Mrs. Parker opened the door with a baby on one hip.
"Miss Lizzy! Mrs. Bennet said you might come. Oh, Mr. Darcy, sir."
Her alarm made Darcy immediately uncomfortable. He bowed as well as one could with a cane. "Mrs. Parker." The woman bobbed a curtsy. Elizabeth stepped inside as though she had visited a hundred times. She probably had.
"How is Tom?"
"Better this morning. Fever broke before dawn."
Mrs. Bennet's broth was accepted. The flannel was for a jacket the oldest girl had outgrown.
Elizabeth examined the child in question, declared that three inches of wrist were too much wrist, and promised to send buttons.
Darcy stood near the hearth and watched.
At Pemberley, he knew the names of every tenant farmer.
He reviewed leases, crop yields, drainage, repairs, and rents.
He knew which families had occupied cottages for generations.
But Pemberley was large enough that much daily care passed through stewards, housekeepers, and agents.
Mrs. Bennet possessed no steward for domestic charity.
She had Hill, a basket, and a memory like a parish ledger.
On the road to Widow Clarke's, Darcy said, "Your mother knew the Parker girl's coat was too small."
Elizabeth glanced at him. "Mama notices clothes."
"I had noticed."
She laughed.
"But she also knew the boy was ill before you did."
"Mrs. Parker's sister works two days a week at Longbourn laundry. Mama hears everything."
"That used to be one of my objections to her."
"Only one?"
Darcy gave her a look.
Elizabeth smiled. He continued, "Information may be used for kindness as easily as gossip."
"Now you are becoming philosophical. Mary will be delighted."
Widow Clarke's chimney did indeed smoke. Darcy stood in the yard, studied the stack, and asked when it had last been swept.
"October, sir."
"Too recently for this much draw trouble."
He walked around the cottage slowly, then looked toward an overgrown yew almost touching the roofline.
"That branch may be disturbing the draft in east wind."
Elizabeth looked at him. "Do gentlemen with ten thousand a year know about chimneys?"
"Gentlemen with large old houses know too much about chimneys."
He sent a Longbourn labourer to cut back the branch. The smoke improved before they left. Widow Clarke thanked him three times. Darcy was embarrassed by the third.
On the way home, Elizabeth said, "You liked being useful."
"Most people do."
"Not everyone notices where usefulness is required."
Darcy looked across the fields.
"My father did."
"At Pemberley?"
"Yes. He knew every family. Better than I do."
Elizabeth heard the old ache in his voice.
"You were young when he died."
"Old enough to inherit his responsibilities."
"Not his years of knowledge."
Darcy glanced at her.
She said, "You are very severe with yourself for a proud man."
"Pride and self-reproach are not opposites."
"No. I suppose both may depend upon believing oneself responsible for everything."
He stopped walking. Elizabeth took two more steps before noticing.
She turned.
Darcy stared at her.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You have that look."
"What look?"
"The one where I have accidentally said something you will think about for a month."
Darcy resumed walking.
"You are impertinent."
"And correct."
"Frequently."
"Be careful. Praise may make me unbearable."
"That condition is already established."
She laughed and slipped her hand through his free arm for the muddy part of the lane.
Darcy looked down at her gloved fingers resting on his sleeve.
He thought of Pemberley, its farms and cottages and people.
For the first time, he imagined Elizabeth not merely in its drawing rooms but on its tenant roads, arguing over roofs, remembering children's boots, asking questions he had failed to ask.
The image felt so right that he had to look away.