2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
One week later
The morning mist had not yet burned away when Darcy sighted down the barrel of his fowling piece. One breath—then the muffled crack of shot as a pheasant burst from the underbrush, scattering in a wild flurry of feathers.
“Well shot,” Richard Fitzwilliam called from behind. “I swear the poor creature gave you a bow before it fell.”
Darcy lowered the barrel and turned. “Your jealousy does you no credit.”
“Jealousy? Hardly. I am simply concerned for the local pheasant population. At this rate, Derbyshire will have to import from Hertfordshire just to fill its tables.”
Richard’s grin spread as he strode forward, kicking through frost-hardened grass, his gun resting carelessly across his shoulder. His jacket, though tailored, bore faint scuffs at the cuffs, a reminder that the man had spent more hours in bivouacs than ballrooms these past years.
“You might consider aiming before firing,” Darcy said, breaking the barrel to reload. “I thought you were taught marksmanship in the line of duty.”
Richard swung his gun down, not bothering to check the powder. “I aimed at the sky. The sky remains. My duty is done.”
Darcy shook his head and walked on. Brutus padded at his heel, nose twitching as they neared a cluster of cottages nestled in a shallow valley. Smoke curled from chimneys in tight columns.
“Your valley looks well enough,” Richard said. “It’s good to see something thriving. God knows the villages I passed through in Spain would make this look like Versailles.”
“You were near Salamanca last, were you not? You never named the place in your letters, so I was left to guess.”
“Was never permitted to name it, but I knew you would put it together. Salamanca, yes. Then we pushed further south. I do not recommend it as a holiday destination. Mud up to your knees, lice in your hair, and French cannon fire to rattle the nerves.” He grinned.
“Still, the wine is tolerable. When we could get it.”
They crested a rise, and Darcy raised a hand to a man mending a low stone wall. “Good morning, Mr Telford.”
The tenant straightened, wiping lime-stained hands on his apron. His face, weathered but alert, broke into a cautious smile. “Good day to you, sir. Fine morning for it.”
“Indeed. How is Mrs Telford recovering?”
“Well enough, sir. The little one’s come through the fever, too. She still tires quickly, but Mr Barnes says there’s no lingering harm.”
“If there is any further need of the apothecary, send word. I will see him sent for.”
Telford’s eyes shone with quiet gratitude. “We’re obliged, Mr Darcy. Truly.”
“Not at all. How is your root cellar? I recall some trouble last year.”
Telford touched his cap. “Dry as a bone, sir. Danny helped me with the mending. All it wants is some stores. My potato crop were fair-middling this year, sir.”
Darcy grunted, his gaze flicking over to the little door built into the earth. “You were not alone, Telford. I will have Granger inquire whether there may be barley or oats yet to be had from the next market town. And salt pork, if it can be secured at a reasonable rate.”
“Aye, sir. There were talk at Lambton fair that the southern fields did not yield as hoped. Too much wet in June, then that sharp heat in July. Blighted some of the late potatoes outright.”
Darcy’s expression altered by a degree. “And your wheat?”
“Short in the ear, sir. Not empty—but lighter than we’d wish. Mr Granger says we must not count on the winter as kindly as the last.”
A wind moved low across the yard, lifting the dust along the path. Darcy glanced toward the hedgerow beyond the cottage. The leaves had turned early at their edges, a faint rusting where there ought still to be strength.
“Has the miller remarked upon it?” he asked.
“He has, sir. Grain’s coming in thinner. He says he’s had to set the stones closer to make good flour of it.”
Darcy inclined his head once. “Then we will not wait upon Providence alone. I shall see what may be purchased before prices rise further. Keep careful account of what remains in your cellar. If your stores run low, you will inform Pemberley at once.”
Telford swallowed. “Aye, sir.”
Darcy gave a final look toward the low, earthen door set into the bank.
Sound construction. Proper drainage. But construction would not conjure abundance where the fields had withheld it.
He tipped his head in brief farewell to the tenant and turned down the slope.
A moment later, Richard’s boots caught up beside his, the rhythm of his stride quickening to match.
“You know,” he said, brushing his glove against a low-hanging branch, “you are wasted on London society. Striding about dispensing medical care and cellar stores and justice, too, no doubt—one might mistake you for a minor deity.”
Darcy brushed a fleck of mud from his cuff. “It is mere responsibility.”
“Call it what you like. That man will speak of you in the village with the reverence of a saint.”
“I prefer to be spoken of not at all.”
“Modest as ever. Meanwhile, my men in the regiment would have given a year’s wages for half your management skills. You would have had supplies landed at Cadiz and rations distributed before breakfast.”
“Perhaps. But I doubt I would have been as popular with your officers.”
Richard gave a bark of laughter. “True enough. I won them over with my magnanimous smile and my willingness to lose at cards.” He slowed his pace. “It was all a sham, you know. There were days I thought we would never see England again.”
Darcy glanced toward him, but his expression did not shift. One hand closed loosely around his walking stick, the knuckles whitening just slightly.
Richard looked away. He kicked a stone from the path, watched it tumble into the brush. “Still. One survives. One finds amusement where one can.” He cleared his throat and nudged Darcy with his elbow. “Speaking of amusement—have you endured Aunt Catherine lately?”
“I have not,” Darcy said. “I take it I should be grateful.”
“That depends on your tolerance for repetition. But I passed through Kent after we came ashore at Dover, thought I would call on our dear aunt. A handsome bed and full table, only a handful of miles from port? I daresay not one in a hundred lads had such a proud welcome back to England. But it did not come free of cost, I am sorry to say.”
“Let me guess. She enlisted you to work upon me for some scheme that involves marriage and duty and family dignity. Did I get it all?”
Richard laughed. “She has not altered her opinion in the slightest. Only her volume.”
“How original.”
“She spoke of duty, naturally. Of legacy. Of matters long deferred and now—apparently—pressing.” He shook his head. “It was the same old argument, only delivered as though time itself had grown impatient.”
Darcy’s mouth curved. “I suppose it did not occur to her to consult the intended.”
Richard shrugged. “She prefers proclamations to conversations. Easier to win those.”
They walked on. A pheasant rustled in the underbrush but did not take flight.
“Still,” Richard went on, as though idly turning over the matter, “you cannot fault her consistency. She has believed you and Anne inevitable since we were all in shortcoats. Do you recall the old justification? Something about bloodlines aligning at last.”
Darcy made a dismissive sound. “I recall being bored.”
Richard laughed. “Ah. Then you will be pleased to know she has not confined herself to memory. She has been rummaging. Asked after the Harrowe folio, of all things. I told her you still had it.”
Darcy stopped short.
The pause was brief—no more than the time it took him to adjust his grip on the gun—but it was enough.
“That book is nonsense. Antiquarian indulgence. Your father asked about it, too, and I offered it only as a courtesy. He never answered, and I had quite forgot about it.”
“Of course,” Richard said easily. “I thought as much. Still, Aunt Catherine has never been one to distinguish between myth and mandate. She speaks of it as though it were evidence of something.”
Darcy resumed walking at once. “Then she is welcome to her fancies. I have no intention of conducting my life by half-remembered verse.”
“Just so,” Richard chuckled. “Now—are we likely to find any decent game, or have your tenants scared it all off with their cheerful greetings and visible affection?”
Darcy gave a low huff that might have passed for agreement. He glanced toward the tree line ahead, where the path narrowed, and the sun flickered low between the branches.
“We shall try the south ridge,” he said. “There is a clearing near the stone fence—last year it was full of partridge.”
“Excellent,” Richard replied. “I have every intention of shooting something today, if only to justify the state of my boots.”
They walked on, boots breaking through dry grass and the occasional brittle patch of heather. The dogs ranged ahead, vanishing and reappearing like thoughts that would not settle.
Richard’s gaze swept the landscape with the ease of long habit. “It is a good stretch of country. You have done well with it.”
“I have tried to do right by it.”
“You have. Most of the old families are hanging on by their teeth or courting heiresses in town.” He nudged a stone with his toe. “You do not court anything, and yet the place still breathes.”
Darcy did not answer at once. His gaze tracked a kestrel overhead, then dropped again to the fields beyond.
“Pemberley is not meant to be impressive,” he said finally. “Only enduring.”
“Well,” Richard said, adjusting his coat, “it certainly endures your company with greater grace than I do.”
That earned him a faint smirk, and they fell into a comfortable silence that had nothing to prove.
When they reached the ridge, Richard paused to scan the horizon, shading his eyes more from habit than hope. “Do you suppose there is news from the front today?”
Darcy followed his gaze. The fields lay open and untroubled, the sky pale and unremarkable. “If there is, it will reach us a week too late.”