6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Elizabeth had meant to be sensible. She had intended to see Pemberley, admire what deserved admiration, thank the housekeeper for her civility, and depart with as much composure as could reasonably be expected of a woman who had once refused its master in language sharp enough to furnish several years of mortification.
Instead, Lydia Bennet had been nearly ridden down by Miss Darcy, had made friends with her within minutes, and now passed in front of her and Mr. Darcy, arm in arm with the girl as if they had been acquainted since infancy.
It was difficult to be sensible under such circumstances.
Pemberley itself offered no assistance. The house stood in summer magnificence, softened by use rather than diminished by it.
The great sweep of stone rose from its grounds with a naturalness Elizabeth had not expected.
Rosings had imposed itself upon the eye.
Pemberley seemed to belong to the valley.
Its windows stood open to the warm air. Curtains stirred faintly behind glass.
Somewhere within, a dog barked, and another answered from the stable yard.
Servants moved with purpose near the side entrance, not with the stiff ceremony of display but with the ordinary confidence of a household long accustomed to being well ordered.
Roses climbed along a lower wall near the terrace, their scent carried by the breeze whenever the path curved toward the house.
Beyond the lawn the stream flashed between stones, running clear and lively beneath the trees.
Sunlight touched everything in broken pieces: the gravel path, the slope of grass, the pale face of the house, Miss Darcy’s loosened ribbon, Lydia’s crooked bonnet.
Elizabeth had imagined Pemberley—and its master—too often for her own peace, though never with accuracy.
It was worse than she had feared. It was grand, certainly, and impressive in ways Elizabeth had expected. None of that disturbed her half so much as the spirit of it.
Rosings had announced itself at every turn.
Rank, wealth, consequence—one could hardly cross a room without being reminded of them.
Pemberley, by contrast, felt inhabited. A garden boy hurried past carrying a basket of cut flowers and nearly stumbled when he saw the master walking with visitors, but Mr. Darcy asked whether Mrs. Reynolds had ordered the roses for the blue parlor.
The boy blushed, answered that she had, sir, and went on with greater speed.
Elizabeth looked away too late.
Mr. Darcy had seen her observing him. He did not appear offended.
That was one of the difficulties. He had not once appeared offended since they had met upon the grounds.
Not even when Lydia introduced herself to Miss Darcy as the victim of equestrian assault.
Not when Mr. Gardiner, after recovering from alarm, had asked several practical questions about the house, the path, and the nearest bench.
He had remained polite even when Mrs. Gardiner’s concern for Miss Darcy’s ankle had nearly resulted in that young lady being ordered indoors before anyone had exchanged ten sentences.
He had been attentive, restrained, and painfully civil.
That unnerved her more than she wished to admit.
Once, his politeness had carried impatience beneath it.
Now he spoke with the caution of a man determined not to offend.
He walked beside her without crowding her, adjusting his pace whenever the path narrowed or widened again.
His words came with thought before them.
If she hesitated, he did not force the conversation forward.
Every now and then, when Lydia exclaimed about something or Georgiana answered with unexpected animation, his attention moved toward his sister, and the reserved line of his face eased.
Elizabeth had never seen him look so young.
That observation irritated her. Or perhaps it perturbed her. She refused to examine the distinction while he stood within arm’s reach.
Ahead, Lydia leaned close to Miss Darcy and whispered something that made the latter lift one hand to hide a laugh. Miss Darcy’s riding habit was still marked with dust from her hasty dismount, and Lydia had grass stains caught on her gown. They acted improper, delighted, and utterly unrepentant.
Mr. Darcy’s attention rested on them for a moment. “I do not believe I have ever seen my sister so easy with a new acquaintance.”
Elizabeth faced the stream. “Lydia can make herself acquainted with anyone in less time than it takes most people to decide whether they wish to have the honor.”
His mouth moved, but he mastered the smile before it could become too visible. “A useful gift, in some circumstances.”
“In some,” Elizabeth agreed. “In others, a terror.”
“Does she often befriend those who nearly run her down?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Not often. But Lydia has always preferred a dramatic beginning.”
This time he did smile, not broadly and lacking the nonchalance of Mr. Bingley, but enough to alter his face. Elizabeth found herself studying the house before he caught her staring.
Miss Darcy looked over her shoulder, perhaps to ensure her brother remained near. Lydia tugged at her arm and pointed toward the stream.
“Miss Darcy says the bridge is near,” Lydia called. “Lizzy, you must come admire it, so that you may say something sensible and ruin it for me.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I should hate to disappoint you.”
Mr. Gardiner, who walked a little behind with his wife, chuckled. “Lydia, if your sister ruins bridges by sense, we must have her inspect all the unsound ones in England.”
Lydia wrinkled her nose at him but remained beside Miss Darcy.
Mrs. Gardiner drew nearer to Elizabeth as the path widened. “Your uncle and I are nearly persuaded to accept Miss Darcy’s invitation.”
Elizabeth’s fingers fiddled with the edge of her shawl. “Are you?”
“It is not a small thing, to remove ourselves from Lambton and take possession of another person’s hospitality.”
“Absolutely not,” Elizabeth responded, averting her eyes from Mr. Darcy.
He stepped aside slightly so Mrs. Gardiner might walk more comfortably beside her niece.
“I hope you will not consider it an imposition. Pemberley has more empty rooms than any family can justify, and my sister has already shown more pleasure in Miss Lydia’s company than in a month of expected guests. ”
Mrs. Gardiner studied him with the frank kindness that had always made Elizabeth both love and fear her perception. “You are very generous, Mr. Darcy.”
“Not generous.” He paused, as though dissatisfied with the answer before it had finished leaving him. “It would give us pleasure.”
That was worse.
Elizabeth studied the gravel path. Pleasure.
He had said it plainly, without ornament or demand.
At Hunsford, he had spoken as a man pressed beyond endurance by unwelcome feeling.
Here, at Pemberley, he offered hospitality as if he expected refusal and would accept it.
The difference should have relieved her.
Every small kindness disarmed her further.
Mr. Gardiner came forward, brushing a leaf from his sleeve. “Then we shall speak with Mrs. Reynolds and make a proper decision before we trouble your servants.”
“My housekeeper will not be troubled,” Darcy replied. “Mrs. Reynolds has governed Pemberley longer than I have.”
“I saw that,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “She has the air of a woman who tolerates masters merely because someone must sign the accounts.”
Darcy gave a short laugh. “That is remarkably near the truth.”
Elizabeth studied him then, surprised by the sound. He met her eyes, and for one brief, inconvenient instant she forgot what answer might be expected. The amusement lingered a moment before he checked it
He nodded toward the stream. “The bridge is just ahead.”
The bridge deserved Lydia’s praise, though Elizabeth did not say so in those words.
It crossed the water at a natural narrowing, made of pale stone warmed by sunlight.
The stream ran beneath it over a shallow bed, catching light in a thousand quick flashes.
Ferns grew along the bank. A great dog, shaggy and brown, came bounding from somewhere near the trees, stopped short at the sight of strangers, and then proceeded directly to Mr. Darcy with the confidence of an old friend.
“Horace,” Mr. Darcy said, bracing one hand against the dog’s enthusiastic greeting. “You are not invited to knock anyone into the stream.”
The dog ignored this prohibition and attempted to place his head beneath Darcy’s hand.
Lydia gasped. “Oh, what a creature!”
Miss Darcy bent to stroke the dog’s neck. “Horace belongs more to the house than to us, I think. He goes wherever he likes.”
“He is enormous.” Lydia approached with a degree of caution Elizabeth rarely saw in her. “Does he bite?”
“Indeed: bread, gloves, and the occasional cushion,” Miss Darcy answered.
Lydia held out her hand. Horace sniffed it, approved her, and leaned his considerable weight against her skirts.
“Oh!” Lydia staggered and seized Miss Darcy’s arm. “He has no manners.”
“Then you have something in common,” Elizabeth said.
Lydia shot her a look over the dog’s head. “I have excellent manners when I choose to employ them.”
“Do you keep them packed away for special occasions?” Elizabeth bit her tongue, dismayed by her display of impertinence in front of Mr. Darcy.
Miss Darcy covered a laugh with her glove.
Lydia was delighted rather than offended. “There, Miss Darcy. You see how she abuses me.”
“I begin to understand,” Miss Darcy said, still stroking the dog’s ear.