Elizabeth almost lost her breath as her husband turned toward the sound. His assessing gaze focused on the trio. Her heart pounding in her throat, she raised a hand to greet him, waiting for the delight of recognition and the intense focus of those dark eyes brightening at her sight.
Instead, his brow furrowed, so much like his son’s. He gave her a slight nod, appearing puzzled.
When she did not drop her gaze, he turned away with a curt, “Good day,” as if she were one of the farmhands or house staff.
Elizabeth nearly dropped to her knees, had Georgiana not offered her an arm. She gave his back an unseen curtsey,mortification flooding through her as she realized what he saw, a disheveled, impudent serving maid acting above her station. Lady Eleanor’s expression was filled with pity as she steered Darcy toward the farmhouse where Graham stood with William still on his shoulders.
“Mr. Darcy, sir.” The steward bowed slightly. “Welcome to Bellfield Grange. We are honored by your presence.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
A STRANGER’S GLIMPSE
The jostlingof the carriage on the Yorkshire roads pained Fitzwilliam Darcy more than he would admit. There was the persistent ache behind his temple, the stiffness of his back, and various healed bones that weren’t quite straight. He stared at the landscape rolling past, rolling green hills dotted with white sheep like scattered clouds fallen to earth, another irritating reminder of all he had lost.
Almost two years of his life had vanished like a misty raincloud, and he’d awakened to this nightmare diminished in a manner that grieved him. The way people tiptoed around him, speaking in hush voices, exchanging meaningful glances, and the maddening sense that crucial information was being withheld for his supposed benefit.
“Are you comfortable, Fitzwilliam?” Georgiana’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “We could stop if you need to rest.”
“I am perfectly well,” he replied, more sharply than intended. Her face fell, and he immediately regretted his tone. “Forgive me. The journey is… taxing.”
“We should arrive within the quarter hour,” Aunt Eleanor observed, her tone carrying the particular brightness reserved forinvalids and children. “I am certain the country air will prove beneficial to your recovery.”
Darcy inclined his head politely, though inwardly he bristled at the implication that he required special consideration. His mind, they assured him, was sharp as ever—merely missing certain fragments that might or might not return in time.
It was those missing fragments that plagued him most. Not the lost memories themselves, for one could hardly mourn what one could not recall, but the way others reacted to their absence. The pitying looks, the careful omissions, the obvious relief when he failed to ask uncomfortable questions. Most disturbing of all were the persistent rumors that had reached his ears in London—wild tales of secret marriages and compromised women that bore no resemblance to any life he could imagine living.
“You always loved Bellfield Grange,” Georgiana said. “The rolling hills dotted with sheep, the streams filled with fish… harvest time, so picturesque, Brother.”
“A sheep farm,” Darcy said flatly. “How… invigorating.”
“You enjoyed your visits there,” Lady Eleanor replied evenly. “The simplicity of the place appealed to you.”
Had it? Darcy could not recall ever expressing such a sentiment. The Darcy he remembered valued refinement, elegance, and the ordered grandeur of Pemberley. Not the rustic isolation of a sheep farm, however prosperous it might be.
But then, the Darcy he remembered would never have engaged in a hasty marriage at a coaching inn, if the whispers he had overheard were to be believed. The very notion was absurd. He, who valued propriety above all, who had spent his life upholding the Darcy name, would never act with such reckless disregard for family honor and social standing.
Yet everyone around him behaved as if he were some impulsive stranger capable of any folly.
“The physicians believe the quiet here will benefityour recovery,” Georgiana ventured, clearly trying to fill the uncomfortable silence.
“The physicians believe many things,” Darcy replied coldly. “Including that I am too fragile to manage my own estate, despite having done so since Father died.”
“Pemberley is… extensive,” Lady Eleanor said diplomatically. “The responsibilities would tax even someone in perfect health.”
The reminder of his failure stung. His first attempt to review estate matters at Pemberley had ended in disaster—ledgers that made no sense, tenants whose names he could not recall, improvements begun under his direction that he had no memory of ordering. He had retreated to his chambers, overwhelmed and humiliated, only to be discovered hours later by his valet, staring blankly at the walls.
The physicians had declared him “overstimulated” and prescribed this exile to Yorkshire.
“The farm has prospered under Mr. Pullen’s management,” Aunt Eleanor said, apparently deciding to engage his business mind. “The quality of wool has increased significantly through his selective breeding program. He’s engaged a pair of brilliant minds to improve both pasture quality and sheep health. The ledgers show a fifteen percent increase in profits since last season.”
“I had not thought Pullen required additional assistance,” Darcy commented, remembering his capable steward. “Pullen has always been the sort to consult me on such matters.”
Lady Eleanor’s hands tightened almost imperceptibly in her lap. “Mr. Pullen has been most conscientious in seeking appropriate guidance during your… absence, Fitzwilliam. He has proven most… accommodating to our unusual circumstances.”
There it was again—that careful phrasing that suggested layers of meaning he was not privy to. Darcy made no comment, having learned that direct inquiries often yielded only more evasions wrapped in gentle concern for his health.
“There it is,” Georgiana said, pointing ahead as the carriage crested a hill.
