Now, at last, the mine was operational once more.
Darcy rose and moved to the window. The distant chimneys of the engine house sent thin trails of smoke into the grey morning. Pemberley and everyone around it had come out on the other end of a major obstacle. Life was returning to normal, or as normal as it could be. The guilt remained—he suspected it always would, but Cassandra's letters had given him the strength to carry it without being buried beneath its weight.
His thoughts drifted back to her latest missive.
In the concluding part, she had asked, with her characteristic directness, whether he found satisfaction in the proper resolution of such a crisis or merely relief. He had not yet answered. The truth was, he did not know.
There was a grim pride in managing catastrophe well, in ensuring no family was left destitute, no man abandoned to his suffering. But satisfaction? That seemed too comfortable a word for what he felt.
He would write to her this evening. Perhaps by then he would have worked out what to say. He already knew he would thank her again for the wit and wisdom that had sustained him through the worst of it. Her observation about the absurdity of calling coal "black diamonds" had made him laugh aloud when laughter seemed impossible. Her pointed question about whether he was eating properly had shamed him into taking better care of himself. Her steady stream of correspondence had reminded him that the world extended beyond Pemberley's eastern ridge, beyond grief and guilt and the weight of responsibility.
The mine lay two miles east of the house, accessible by a rutted track that wound through fields and copses. Darcy rode alone, his horse picking its way carefully over the uneven ground. The air smelled of damp earth and coal dust, a sharp tang that clung to the back of his throat.
Mr Smith, his steward, was waiting at the mouth of the shaft, a sheaf of papers tucked beneath one arm. He was a compact, weathered man in his fifth decade, with the shrewd eyes of one who had spent his life managing both land and men.
"Mr Darcy." Mr Smith inclined his head. "All is in order, sir. The new supports are holding well, and the drainage system is functioning as intended."
Darcy dismounted and handed the reins to a waiting boy. "And the men? No complaints?"
"None worth mentioning. A few grumbles about the new timbers being too heavy, but that's to be expected. They'll adjust."
They walked together towards the engine house, where the great wheel turned steadily, drawing water from the depths. The sound of it—a rhythmic creaking punctuated by the splash of buckets—had become familiar over these past weeks. Darcy paused to inspect the mechanism, though he knew little of its workings beyond the principle.
"You handled this well, Mr Smith," he said, straightening. "What occurred here could have been far worse."
Mr Smith shrugged, though a flicker of pleasure crossed his face. "I did what needed doing, sir. But in the end, it was your decisions that saw us through." He gestured towards the mine entrance, where men moved about their work. "The relief funds you arranged—that was the first thing that steadied them.”
He paused to wipe at his face before continuing, “A man can bear injury if he knows his family won't starve for it. And you didn't just authorise the payments and leave me to sort it. You went to each family yourself, spoke to the wives, and assured them personally. That mattered more than the coin, if I'm honest. Your father would have managed it no differently."
Darcy considered his steward’s words. Comparisons to his father always sat uneasily with him, though he knew Mr Smith meant well. The late Mr Darcy had been a man of unshakeable competence, a figure of such calm authority that even in memory he seemed almost untouchable. Darcy hadspent his adult life trying to fill the space his father had left behind, never quite certain he succeeded.
"Thank you," he said at last. "But it was your swift action that saved those men. I was still at Netherfield when the shaft collapsed."
Mr Smith chuckled. "Aye, well. We all play our part."
They continued along the track that skirted the edge of the workings. Below them, men moved about their tasks, hauling ore from the depths and loading it onto wagons. The clang of metal on metal echoed off the surrounding hills, a steady industrial rhythm. Darcy paused to watch a horse strain against its harness, dragging a laden wagon up the sloped track towards the sorting sheds.
The matter at Pemberley was resolved. The mine was secure, the men cared for, the estate in order. There was nothing to keep him here now.
His thoughts turned, as they had with increasing frequency, to Hertfordshire. To Netherfield. To Cassandra.
He would leave tomorrow. The decision settled over him with a quiet certainty. He had kept her waiting long enough, due to the demands of the mine, the need to oversee repairs, the obligations of a master to his land. There had been a steady correspondence between them, but nothing would compare to seeing her once more.
It was unlike him to be so eager—
"Watch out!"
The shout cut through his reverie. Darcy's head snapped up.
The horse—startled by something, a shout or a stumble—had bolted. Its hooves skidded on the loose gravel of the track, the wagon lurching wildly behind it. The animal's eyes rolled white with panic as it careened down the slope, directly towards a young miner standing frozen beside a pile of tools.
Darcy did not think. He ran.
His boots slipped on the damp ground, but he kept his balance, closing the distance in long strides. The miner—a boy, really, no more than sixteen—stood paralysed, his mouth open in a soundless cry. Darcy reached him just as the horse bore down upon them. He shoved hard, throwing the boy clear.
The wagon caught him across the shoulder.
He felt the impact, a dull, bone-deep thud, and then he was falling. The ground came up fast, the back of his head striking something hard—stone, perhaps, or the edge of the track. The world tilted, and then everything went dark.
