Chapter 6
Chapter Six
The guns had been brought down before sunrise, and the smell of oiled metal hung in the entrance hall as Darcy fastened the last button of his shooting coat.
Brutus circled impatiently at his heels, nails clicking on the tiles, pausing now and then to stare up the staircase as though expecting someone.
Darcy tugged his gloves into place. “Leave it,” he murmured to the dog. “The ladies will not be coming down merely at your pleasure.”
Brutus ignored him and paced to the door again.
Bingley strode in, bright as if he had slept twelve hours and dreamt of nothing but roses. “Fine morning for sport. A bit misty out, but I daresay it will clear. Hurst, are you ready?”
Hurst, adjusting his waistcoat with more resignation than enthusiasm, gave a grunt. “Ready enough.”
Bingley laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Hurst does not wake so early for anyone but me, Darcy. Consider yourself favoured.”
Darcy managed a faint smile. Anything more would have required real cheerfulness, which he did not feel.
His sleep had been fitful; the memory of Miss Elizabeth’s recoil kept intruding at the edge of consciousness, accompanied now and then by that odd sickening heat he had felt the instant he first saw her. Foolish. Entirely foolish.
Bingley reached for a cartridge case, speaking as he checked the latch. “Caroline had much to say last night after we returned. She declared the Assembly a trial, of course, but even she could not deny that the Bennet sisters made an impression.”
Darcy stilled a fraction. “Did she.”
“Oh yes.” Bingley grinned. “She said Miss Bennet was perfection in every respect. And as for Miss Elizabeth—well—Caroline noticed that you and she held a rather spirited exchange.”
Darcy set his jaw. “Spirited?”
“That was her word. Though Caroline insisted she did not hear what was said.”
Darcy checked the strap of his gun case for the second time. “Nothing of importance.”
“Caroline claims otherwise. Something about a rebuke.” Bingley laughed again. “Though I told her she must have misunderstood.”
Darcy felt the memory of Elizabeth’s voice strike him again—her quick wit, her mockery of his grooming, her casting-off of him as though he were an inconvenience. Entirely undeserved. Entirely… vexing.
He tightened the strap. “Miss Bingley is mistaken.”
“Possibly,” Bingley said, fastening his gaiters. “But truly, Darcy—Caroline insists Miss Elizabeth looked at you with a rather curious sort of interest.”
Darcy reached for his gloves. “Women look. It means nothing.”
Bingley laughed. “Yes, but they do not usually look… like that.”
“I observed nothing of the kind.”
“Of course you did not. You never do.”
Darcy had no intention of pursuing the subject further. He checked the clasp of his powder flask with unnecessary care. Brutus pressed his shoulder against Darcy’s leg, impatient for the door to open.
Hurst finally took up his gun. “If we are to shoot today, let us shoot. Standing about while Bingley speculates on romantic nonsense is no way to start the morning.”
Bingley only laughed again, undeterred. “Very well, very well. Darcy, shall we?”
Darcy nodded once. Ordinary movement. Ordinary conversation. The predictable morning routine would clear the remnants of last night from his thoughts.
The grass was heavy with last night’s rain, bending under their boots as they crossed into the lower meadow. Brutus ranged ahead in wide, eager arcs, nose sweeping the ground. Hurst muttered that the dogs ought to be kept closer this early, but Brutus ignored him entirely.
Bingley adjusted his stride to match Darcy’s. “We ought to try the northern covert this morning. The keeper swears a good covey settled there after the harvest.”
Hurst snorted. “That man says a good covey settles anywhere he wants an easy day.”
“True,” Bingley said cheerfully, “but we cannot shoot the same ground every week. Variety, Hurst. One must give the birds a sporting chance.”
Darcy lifted an eyebrow. “I had not realised you were so humanitarian.”
Bingley laughed. “If I cannot bring down a bird without feeling like a villain, I shall blame you entirely.”
They crested a slight rise, the earth soft beneath them, the smell of damp soil rising with each step.
Brutus checked suddenly, tail rigid, then plunged into a patch of rushes.
A pair of partridge burst from the cover, beating hard for open air.
Hurst swung first and fired; Darcy took the second shot half a heartbeat later. The birds fell almost in tandem.
“Now that was neat work,” Bingley called, already trudging forward to watch Brutus retrieve. “We shall have a fine dinner this evening.”
Darcy reloaded, wiping a smear of damp earth from the barrel with his glove. The morning mist began to thin by degrees, revealing the undulation of the fields beyond—ridges and hollows dotted with late-autumn scrub.
Bingley shaded his eyes with one hand. “Fine ground today. If the weather holds, we ought to follow that hedge line eastward and circle back through the stubble.”
Hurst grunted approval.
Only once they turned east, once the slope stretched out long and uninterrupted, did the distant horizon begin to clarify. A pale line of rooftops edged into view far beyond the undulations of field and meadow.
Bingley straightened, breath visible in the chill air. “Ah—look there. Do you see it?” He pointed with the barrel of his gun. “That roofline. That must be Longbourn. Lucas Lodge sits farther west. We ought to see it a little closer soon, eh?”
Darcy lifted his gaze, following the angle of Bingley’s gesture. The houses were still faint through the thinning mist, but the shapes aligned with the map Bingley had sketched out last evening.
“Likely so,” Darcy said. Hurst squinted. “You mean to call on them so soon?”
“Of course I do,” Bingley said. “We are introduced; what is the point of being sociable if one does not behave as such?”
Darcy gave a noncommittal sound and adjusted the angle of his gun.
Bingley stopped speaking long enough to fire. A grouse burst from the grass; Hurst took the second shot and brought it down neatly. Brutus bounded off to retrieve it, tail spinning with pride.
“Fine shot,” Darcy said.
Hurst shrugged. “Luck.” He reloaded.
They waded through another stretch of boggy ground, the water sucking at their boots. A farmhouse sat crookedly to the east; Darcy caught the scent of woodsmoke from its chimney.
“I must ask Mrs Nicholls about hiring again,” Bingley said as they skirted another boggy patch.
“When we returned from the Assembly, the fires were low, the lamps half-trimmed, and the cold supper laid out as if the staff had abandoned it midway. Caroline swears Netherfield has not seen proper management in years.”
Hurst grunted. “You will never find good help.”
“Well, that is why one asks for references.” Bingley brushed a reed from his coat. “I may inquire at Longbourn. Mrs Bennet knows everyone in the parish. She would have ten names for me by the end of the visit.”
Darcy lifted his gun as Brutus froze near a patch of rushes. “Hold,” he said quietly.
Another bird rose; Darcy fired cleanly. Brutus tore through the grass to retrieve it, shaking water from his coat as he returned.
Bingley beamed. “Very good. I shall put that one down as yours. Now—ah, yes—before I forget: Darcy, did you receive your post last night? I told them to place it in your room before we went out.”
Darcy’s grip tightened slightly on his gun. “I received it.”
“Nothing urgent, I hope?”
“A steward’s report,” Darcy said. It was the simplest way to end the subject, though the words settled heavy in his throat. “I will attend to it in due course.”
Bingley nodded, already scanning the fields again. “Well, if you require assistance with any estate matters, you know I will help however I can. Now—Brutus! Leave that hedgehog alone, you menace.”
The dog abandoned his quarry and dashed on ahead, sending a flock of small birds wheeling up in alarm.
Darcy watched them rise, disappearing into the pale morning sky.
The breakfast table at Longbourn was already in commotion when Elizabeth entered. Mama darted between chair and sideboard with a level of agitation usually reserved for calamity—or advantageous courtship.
Lydia plopped into her chair with an exaggerated groan. “I shall be tired all day, I know it—but it was worth it. If autumn brings half as many assemblies as Mrs Long predicts, I shall never have a quiet evening again.”
Mary sighed over her book. “One wonders whether a quiet evening might be of use now and then.”
Lydia ignored her. “Mama, we must ask at once when the next ball will be. I intend to dance every set of the season.”
Kitty giggled. “Miss Goulding said she had never seen a girl so determined to burn through her slippers.”
Elizabeth reached for the jam to hand it down the table. “Then you had best pace yourself, Lydia, or you will be carried home before the first reel begins.”
Lydia laughed. “I never tire. You know that.”
Kitty frowned. “I danced almost as many as she did, you know, but no one says a thing about it. Should not I be tired, too?”
Elizabeth passed the jam toward her… and her sleeve dragged across her wrist.
A sudden sting lanced up her arm.
She caught her breath and drew her hand back sooner than she meant to, the jam pot tilting in her grip.
Jane caught it at once. “Lizzy?”
Elizabeth forced a smile and shifted the pot into her other hand. “My sleeve snagged. I suppose I shall have to mend it.”
She dropped the offending wrist under the table, hiding it from Jane’s gentle scrutiny.
Beneath the cloth, the skin throbbed once, warm and insistent.
The urge to push back her sleeve and inspect the mark rose sharply—but Kitty was already asking her for the butter, and Mama was bustling behind her chair.
Elizabeth lifted the butter dish with her free hand, nodding at Kitty’s chatter as though nothing at all had occurred.