20. Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty
Tea had been a remarkably pleasant affair until the messenger arrived.
The drawing room windows stood open to admit what little breeze the August afternoon offered.
Beyond them, sunlight lay across the south lawn in broad bands of gold, while somewhere nearer the stables a horse whinnied and received an answering call from another.
Pemberley possessed a particular sort of summer peace.
It was never silent. Too many people lived and worked upon the estate for silence.
The sounds blended into something orderly and reassuring.
Darcy had never appreciated that quality more than he did now.
Mrs. Gardiner occupied her customary chair near the tea table. Georgiana poured with increasing confidence beneath Mrs. Reynolds’s approving eye.
Mr. Gardiner had received a less alarming letter from Gracechurch Street two days earlier concerning an injured clerk and irregularities in one warehouse account.
He had written instructions and believed the matter contained.
Now, he had become engaged in a discussion with Bingley regarding fishing, though neither appeared certain whether they spoke of fishing or the merits of various local inns.
Mrs. Hurst worked upon a piece of embroidery.
Lydia had somehow persuaded Horace to crawl beneath the pianoforte.
The dog occupied nearly the entire space.
“You shall ruin the instrument,” Georgiana informed him.
Horace thumped his tail.
“He is improving the instrument,” Lydia replied. “It now possesses character.”
“I do not believe pianofortes require character.”
“They do if they are to survive long acquaintance with musicians.”
Elizabeth lowered her teacup.
“That is an extraordinarily rude observation from someone who plays no instrument at all.”
Lydia accepted the criticism without shame.
“I preserve my talents for more practical pursuits.”
“Such as?” Mrs. Gardiner asked.
“Disturbing people.”
Bingley laughed outright.
Even Darcy’s mouth threatened rebellion.
Miss Bingley did not join them.
She sat near one of the windows, elegant and faultlessly arranged, her attention divided between her embroidery and the conversation she plainly found beneath her notice.
The omission might once have troubled Darcy.
Now it merely existed.
His attention rested elsewhere.
Elizabeth sat beside him.
Not so close as propriety forbade. Mrs. Gardiner occupied the space between them. Throughout the afternoon he had become increasingly aware of every small detail concerning her.
Her hand curving around a teacup. The faint movement of her lashes when she tried to hide her emotions. The color in her cheeks whenever their eyes met unexpectedly.
He had spent years believing self-command one of his greatest strengths.
Lately it had become remarkably unreliable.
“Mr. Darcy?”
Elizabeth’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
He shifted so he could see her.
She regarded him with unmistakable amusement. “You have missed the entire discussion.”
“I was not aware there was one.”
Her chuckle washed over him. “There was.”
“It concerned geese,” Lydia supplied.
“Ah.” It would seem Miss Lydia could find interest in the strangest of things. Darcy thought it fascinating.
“Lydia claims they possess malicious intent.”
“They do,” she insisted.
Mr. Gardiner stirred his tea. “Your evidence?”
“I have been attacked twice.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “You attempted to ride one.”
“I was eight.”
“An important distinction,” Mr. Gardiner agreed.
“It is.” Lydia opened her mouth with another lively remark before catching Mrs. Gardiner’s eye across the room.
She stopped.
A grin tugged at her lips instead as she reached for another roll.
Darcy noted how Georgiana recognized the tiny victory and smiled quietly into her plate.
Bingley surrendered to laughter.
Darcy glanced toward Elizabeth.
Her gaze met his. Color rose softly along her cheekbones.
His own pulse behaved with unfortunate enthusiasm.
Then a knock interrupted the room. A footman entered carrying a folded packet upon a salver.
“An express for you, sir.”
Conversation ceased.
Darcy accepted the letter and recognized the hand.
Maddox.
He broke the seal.
A boundary dispute.
By the second paragraph, annoyance had begun to gather.
By the third, he already knew he would have to go himself.
“What is it?” Georgiana asked.
Darcy folded the paper.
“A disagreement regarding property lines at Kelton.”
Mr. Gardiner grimaced sympathetically.
“An unpleasant neighbor?”
“An ambitious one.”
Mrs. Gardiner smiled.
“There is often little difference.”
Miss Bingley finally raised her head.
“Surely such matters may be handled by a steward.”
Darcy’s attention shifted toward her.
The remark was delivered lightly enough.
It nevertheless revealed just how little she understood.
A steward could report a problem.
A steward could oversee accounts, supervise labor, inspect buildings, collect rents, correspond with solicitors, and recommend action.
Ownership was another matter.
Ownership required judgment.
Presence.
Responsibility.
Men who entrusted every difficulty to servants eventually ceased to know their own estates. Their tenants paid the price long before they did.
Miss Bingley admired great houses.
She had never understood what it required to maintain one.
“A steward may inform me of a dispute,” Darcy replied. “He cannot resolve every dispute in my place.”
“I should think he might resolve this one.”
“I should think otherwise.”
The words emerged more coolly than he intended.
Miss Bingley’s expression hardened.
Mrs. Gardiner rescued the conversation before discomfort could take root.
“Will you be obliged to travel today?”
“I believe so.”
Elizabeth’s gaze lifted.
“Today?”
The disappointment in her expression appeared and vanished so swiftly another observer might have missed it.
Darcy did not.
The sight produced a wholly unreasonable mixture of satisfaction and regret.
“Unfortunately.”
Lydia groaned.
“Oh, must everyone leave Pemberley the instant they become entertaining?”
Darcy had been absent from Pemberley less than four hours before he began to resent the road.
The sentiment was absurd.
Roads did not choose their location.
Nor did they deliberately place themselves between a gentleman and the place he preferred to be.
He resented this one nonetheless.
He resented the muddy stretch beyond the mill and the loose stones near the bridge.
And there was the farmer whose wagon blocked half a lane while three men debated the condition of a wheel.
Most of all, he resented the necessity of the journey itself.
Twenty-four hours was hardly a separation.
The thought ought to have comforted him.
He found himself repeating it with increasing frequency.
Twenty-four hours.
One night.
Tomorrow evening.
By the fifth repetition, the phrases had become irritating.
By the tenth, it was altogether ineffective.
The landscape rolled steadily past.
August had painted Derbyshire in deep greens and golds. Harvest approached. Fields stood heavy with grain. Cottages appeared at intervals among hedgerows thick with late summer growth.
Ordinarily Darcy would have used such a journey profitably.
There were accounts to review.
Correspondence to answer.
Repairs requiring attention.
His thoughts displayed a remarkable inability to remain fixed upon any practical subject.
He wondered whether Elizabeth had resumed her book after tea.
Whether Lydia had succeeded in convincing Georgiana that geese were dangerous.
Whether Miss Bingley had chosen to nurse her wounded pride in private or seek another audience.
That final thought darkened his mood considerably.
The confrontation lingered unpleasantly.
He regretted none of what he had said.
He regretted just that circumstances had allowed the situation to progress so far before he addressed it.
The memory faded beneath the demands of the journey.
Kelton came into view shortly before evening.
The property itself possessed little grandeur.
A respectable house.
Productive land.
Reliable tenants.
The sort of estate many gentlemen overlooked precisely because it lacked any dramatic feature worth discussing.
Darcy valued it for the opposite reason.
It worked.
Which made Sir John Vale’s sudden interest in several acres of it particularly irritating.
Mr. Maddox awaited him in the yard.
Whitacre, the tenant farmer, stood nearby.
Both appeared relieved by his arrival.
“Mr. Darcy.”
Maddox removed his hat.
Whitacre followed suit.
Darcy dismounted.
“You were correct to send for me.”
Maddox exhaled visibly.
“Then you have reviewed the documents, sir?”
“Enough of them.”
The next several hours disappeared into work.
Survey maps emerged.
Boundary stones received inspection.
Witnesses provided statements.
One laborer produced information after Whitacre’s wife supplied him with a plate of bread and cheese.
Darcy listened.
Questioned.
Measured.
Compared records.
By sunset the essential facts had become plain.
Sir John possessed no legitimate claim.
His men had moved boundary markers deliberately.
The matter would proceed through proper legal channels if necessary.
Maddox handed him another paper.
“Your instructions for the solicitor, sir.”
Darcy reviewed them, made two alterations, and returned the document.
“Good.”
Whitacre shifted uneasily. “Will you remain the night, sir?”
Mrs. Whitacre emerged from the doorway at precisely that moment.
Darcy suspected she had spent the last quarter hour preparing a guest chamber.
Under different circumstances he would have accepted.
The house was comfortable.
The hour advanced and the weather threatened rain.
He found himself glancing east toward Pemberley and home.
Toward Elizabeth.
“No.”
Whitacre blinked.
“No, sir?”
“I shall be back tonight.”
Maddox raised his eyebrows.
“The roads will be poor after dark.”
“Then we shall travel before they worsen.”
Neither man argued further. Darcy suspected they recognized the futility.
Within half an hour fresh horses stood ready.
Necessary documents were packed.
Instructions completed.
The dispute, for the moment, contained.