Bingley stared straight ahead. “What does a landowner do when the weather turns cold like this?”
His friend was in an unusually pensive mood, but Darcy simply answered the question. “Nothing of consequence if the harvest has been good and the work is done. In a year like this one, however, more care is required. Normally I would be at Pemberley to oversee the preparations, but as you know, business called me back to London soon after my arrival last summer. I have been corresponding with my steward and my housekeeper to make certain the staff and the tenants have what they need to make it through the colder months.”
“What if the next harvest is also poor?”
Darcy shook his head. “I do not like to think of it. I have money in investments and the funds as well, of course, so Pemberley is secure though ten such years. But so many people depend upon the health of the estate for their own livelihoods that two years of poor harvests would be very damaging.”
“Is there any other sort of work that you could put them to that would see them through the leaner times?” Bingley inquired.
“I have considered it, of course, but when the harvest is poor, very few people have funds to purchase anything else we might produce.”
“What if you created some sort of barter system?”
“That is what happens among the tenants and villagers quite naturally. They need none of my help there. The staff alerts me where assistance might be needed. The difficulty at times is getting people to take the help, for many are averse to what they view as charity.”
Bingley glanced at him, and then back out at flashes of white swirling against the dark. “There is a healthy sort of pride,I think, that can lead a man to greater achievements. But there are occasions where pride becomes nothing more than an impediment.”
Darcy clasped his hands behind his back. That hit very close to the mark. His pride had been a significant impediment to his own happiness. But he was well past any sense of superiority now. He would be insufferably proud again, though, if only he could convince Miss Bennet that he was worthy of her. For a man worthy of her regard could truly be proud to have won it and her.
“Not a prize to be won,” he murmured.
“Did you say something, Darcy?” Bingley asked, finally drawn away from the scene outside.
“Nothing of import.” Elizabeth was a treasure, that much was true. But her respect, dare he hope—her love—was something he would work every day to preserve, to deepen.
Bingley tossed the cigar back in its box and poured two small glasses of brandy. Darcy took one and sipped it slowly.
As tirelessly as Darcy worked to maintain the family seat, to make it prosper for his family and those who depended upon it, Pemberley would never love him. He might have scoffed at such sentiment once, but no more.
He loved Elizabeth. He wanted, more than anything, to be a man she could love in return. He wanted to share Pemberley with her in all its trials and triumphs, but it was another sort of legacy he wanted more, the legacy of a love that would live on in their children and grandchildren.
It was a great deal to hope for. To make it happen, he must first speak to Elizabeth.
“Are you ready to rejoin the ladies, Bingley?” he asked.
Charles nodded. “I am.”
Elizabeth followed Jane out of the dining room and into the hallway. Mr. Carstairs was shaking out Mr. Darcy’s greatcoat but draped it over his arm when he saw them. “Mrs. Bingley, Miss Bennet,” he said, and then paused. “Miss Bingley.”
Miss Bingley frowned. “Is that Mr. Darcy’s coat?”
“It is.” Carstairs addressed Jane. “I was about to have it sent up to his rooms, now that it is dry and has been brushed.”
“Thank you, Carstairs,” Jane said approvingly.
When they entered the parlour, Miss Bingley was not with them. They waited for a few moments before Jane returned to the hall to locate her. Miss Bingley was not far from the door, and she was wearing a self-satisfied smile that Elizabeth could not like.
“What shall we do to pass the time?” Miss Bingley asked. “Perhaps some music? Mr. Darcy has always appreciated my playing.”
“That would be lovely, Caroline,” Jane said, seemingly relieved that the woman was not continuing to be difficult.
Miss Bingley moved to the pianoforte and began a few country airs. Even Elizabeth had to admit she played them very well. Jane spoke quietly about her plans for Christmas dinner, and Elizabeth tried to quell the happiness that welled up inside. She would be able to spend Christmas with Mr. Darcy. Unless the snow grew very deep indeed, they would go out to gather greenery and decorate the house. Perhaps they might even hang a kissing bough where she would be sure to be caught standing. She clasped her hands together in her lap and said a silent little prayer that she was not wrong. How he could have overcome his aversion to Mr. Wickham so far as to contemplate marrying into a family that counted him among their members, she did not know, but at this moment, she did not care.
Thus they remained for three quarters of an hour. Elizabeth caught only a few words from Jane in all that time. Pudding.Goose. Pies. They took up some work, finishing some infant clothing for the parish.
When the music shifted rather abruptly into Clementi, which she knew Mr. Darcy enjoyed, Elizabeth looked up to see the men entering. Due to Charles’s desire to be with his wife, no doubt, not to any haste on Mr. Darcy’s side. Still, she watched him closely, and he smiled at her, a gentle smile of promise.
“Mr. Darcy,” Miss Bingley called in a voice as sweet and yet sophisticated as Elizabeth had ever heard, “I must claim your assistance to turn the pages, sir. Do say you will.”
