CHAPTER ONE #2
Elizabeth stared at him, mouth momentarily gaping. The impropriety of the remark was breathtaking—a gentleman did not reference a lady’s refused proposals, particularly not with the air of a man discussing poor investments at his club. That he said it with apparent sincerity only made it worse.
“I did not know you took such careful interest in my romantic decisions, Mr. Darcy. Particularly given that my situation must be so very far beneath your general notice.”
“I take an interest in the welfare of the neighborhood,” he said, recovering with the air of a man who had rehearsed formality until it functioned as a shield.
“How generous. We are all sensible of the honor.” Elizabeth drew her shawl closer against the wind, which had sharpened in the last quarter-hour.
“And yet I find you here, on the lane to Longbourn, examining my father’s hedgerows as though they owed you a report.
If you are not collecting forgotten items from Netherfield, what business brings you to our corner of the world?
Have you come to remind us of Mr. Bingley’s absence?
Or merely to enjoy the December air, which, as we have established, is not generally recommended? ”
Darcy fell into step beside her—uninvited, as though walking with Elizabeth Bennet down a frozen lane were a thing he had every right to do.
She felt a spark of irritation at his presumption, sharpened by the uncomfortable awareness that his stride, being considerably longer than hers, required visible adjustment to match her pace.
She did not wish to be accommodated by Mr. Darcy.
“You are entirely correct, Miss Elizabeth, that I am not collecting forgotten items,” he said. “But perhaps retrieving forgotten impressions and past observations—particularly about characters I have found hard to forget.”
“Your past observations, Mr. Darcy, revealed the essential character of the man who made them. Neither the December air here nor the characters in this vicinity see any reason to revise their opinions.”
“Perhaps I seek not opinions but information, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, his voice dropping into that measured cadence that usually preceded some unasked-for judgment.
“Not of the trivial sort bandied about in your drawing rooms. One observes that an estate like this—left to drift without management, its tenants idling and its boundaries neglected—requires more action than resignation. A property does not maintain its dignity by accident.”
“No, indeed, but your own acres are so far to the north they are indeed free from the taint of such casual ruin,” she snapped, wheeling away from him to resume her march.
“Though I shudder to think how heavy a burden it must be, carrying the entire weight of other people’s shortcomings upon your shoulders. ”
“Then it would be my responsibility to carry their improvement.” He persistently led his horse at her side.
“Tell me, Miss Bennet, if a man should wish to elevate one of the residents of this county, should he not seek her best interest in improving her lot? Including the proper maintenance of her dwelling place, as well as her education and level of accomplishment?”
Elizabeth halted, turning to face him fully. Her expression must have given him pause; indeed, her eyes narrowed into slits, and his hand tightened on the reins, his chin lifting.
“You speak of elevating the residents of Hertfordshire as if you were a feudal lord and we are either peasants to be improved or vermin to be exterminated.”
“You misunderstand me.”
“Then enlighten me, Lord Darcy, if you may, why you are currently lurking on a muddy lane near Longbourn instead of running your own academy for rustics—deportment on Mondays, watercolors on Tuesdays, perhaps a brisk constitutional on Wednesdays to correct any lingering deficiencies of posture.”
“I am on a rather important errand.”
“Indeed.” Elizabeth looked exaggeratedly to the left and then to the right and finally at his horse, a statuesque bay stallion snorting in the blustery morning.
“I see nobody in need of ten thousand a year awaiting your proud refining hand.” She took a step back, putting distance between them.
“I thank you for your concern, Mr. Darcy, but the residents of this county do not require elevation. We are in need of being left alone by gentlemen who mistake condescension for kindness.”
His jaw tightened. “Then I wish you a good day, Miss Bennet.”
“It will all be the better.” She turned her back on him. “When you find your way back to whatever hole of refinement you crawled out of. The road back to London passes through Meryton, and the way to Derbyshire lies further over those hills.”
She turned and walked—not toward Longbourn, but across the frozen field, taking the path that would bring her around through the orchard.
He would not dare turn his horse’s ankle over the treacherous, half-frozen muck.
The cold bit at her cheeks as she crossed the stubbled ground.
Her boots would be ruined, but she did not care as the fury in her chest was hot enough.
“Arrogant, insufferable man,” she railed at the wintry air and bare branches.
“As if we needed his beneficent attention. Why doesn’t he return to London and tutor the Bingleys on social niceties?
Such as not departing a neighborhood without the requisite farewells or giving unwarranted hope to young ladies by fervent praises and insincere attentions. How utterly unrefined.”
She reached the orchard wall and paused to catch her breath.
From here, she could see the back of Longbourn House—the kitchen garden, the stable yard, and the study window that her father never properly latched because the casement had warped years ago and he could not be troubled to have it repaired.
Voices whistled through the gap—men’s voices, alerting her suspicion, especially as a stablehand was leading away a snorting, head-tossing bay stallion.
She could step into the house and inquire with her mother, but the presence of gentlemen, no matter how odious, would have her mother in the early stages of rapture. She would be pressing Jane’s hair, pushing Lydia and Kitty up the staircase, and confiscating Mary’s spectacles.
No… far better to creep toward the partially open window.
“This is most unexpected, I confess.” Her father chuckled. “My wife is no doubt caught between curiosity and barbarity at my subterfuge. When your letter arrived, I did not know what to make of it. A third cousin—and such a third cousin! The neighborhood will be astonished.”
“I do not concern myself with the neighborhood’s astonishment.” Darcy’s voice was deeper and measured. “The legality is unambiguous, and our solicitors have confirmed it. That my great-grandfather, George Darcy, was named an heir by the entail set up by your great-great-grandfather, Thomas Bennet…”
Elizabeth sagged against the cold stone wall, her hand covering her chest as the blood drained from her head. Fitzwilliam Darcy, the most despicable man she’d met in ages, was her father’s heir, replacing the hapless Mr. Collins?