Hertfordshire
Michaelmas
The road narrowed asDarcy’s carriage turned off the main coaching way and onto the lane that wound toward Netherfield. The hedgerows here ran tall—untidy, overgrown in a manner that suggested neither neglect nor diligence, only a kind of haphazard enthusiasm. He could see why Bingley found them charming. Charles had always preferred abundance to order.
The afternoon light slanted across the road in pale gold sheets, warm but thinning. Autumn was settling over Hertfordshire with a softness Derbyshire never attempted; the hills in the distance smoothed themselves into gentle humps, their edges blurred by a lingering haze.
Brutus trotted alongside the carriage for a short stretch, tongue lolling, fur catching the light. He was too intelligent to exhaust himself following for miles, but he enjoyed these last furlongs of a journey, inspecting new scents and periodically glancing up as if to confirm that Darcy was noting everything properly.
Inside the carriage, Darcy shifted slightly, one gloved hand resting on the window frame. Nearly there. The journey had been mercifully uneventful. A brief conversation at the market town where he exchanged news with an officer escort riding north—grim tidings of blockades in the Channel, of rising prices and merchant delays—but otherwise nothing to occupy the mind. And yet Darcy’s thoughts had refused to cease their rolling. A restlessness had hounded him since they left the Pemberley stables, like a question forming behind a closed door.
He pushed it aside. The matter of disease in his hedges and orchards still gnawed, though he had spoken of it to no one. He would not bring ghosts of Derbyshire into Hertfordshire. Bingley deserved better than to host a man preoccupied with groundskeeper’s business and half-formed impressions.
The carriage rounded a bend where the hedgerow dipped low, giving a clear view across a stretch of open field. Brutus suddenly paused—head lifted, ears sharp.
Darcy followed the line of the dog’s attention.
A figure moved in the distance—too far for features, but unmistakably a young woman. She was crossing a narrow footbridge that spanned a shallow ditch, but rather than walk the length of it, she vaulted lightly over the last plank, landing with quick, easy balance before striding on.
Through the carriage window, Darcy watched as she wandered closer to the small copse that bordered the lane. She carried something under one arm, a parcel or satchel by the look of it, though the distance made it impossible to be certain.
Reaching a low-hanging branch of an old oak, she paused only long enough to toss the parcel up onto a higher limb—an action so practiced it could not have been her first attempt—before gathering her skirt and climbing after it with quick, nimble confidence. Not a scramble. Not quite decorous either. Simply efficient.
Brutus huffed an approving sound, tail giving one slow wag. He had frozen entirely still, and was falling some distance behind the coach.
Darcy’s brow ticked upward, more in curiosity than any real surprise. “Leave her be,” he said. Brutus whimpered—a discordant sound for a dog of his size, and then resumed his easy trot beside the carriage. The trees closed in again, and the figure disappeared as though the land had swallowed her whole.
The house appeared at last over the rise—Netherfield Park, cream-stone and wide-shouldered, sitting with all the assurance of a gentleman who has just taken off his coat and declared himself comfortable. Smoke curled from two chimneys; the stable roof glinted; and somewhere beyond the gardens, faint voices carried on the air.
Brutus barked once, the sound sharp and echoing too far. Darcy frowned. The echo returned a half-second late, as though the hedgerow had caught the sound and released it reluctantly.
The shape of the land, surely. A hollow. A damp pocket of air.
As he approached the front of the house, the door was thrown open in a manner that would have startled any footman trained within thirty miles of Darcy’s aunt.
“Darcy!” Bingley bounded down the steps, coat unbuttoned, hair wind-ruffled, and entirely himself. “I thought you’d arrive tomorrow—I told Mrs Nicholls to expect you, but she insisted the ducks needed glazing—good God, you brought Brutus. Excellent. He’ll terrify the poachers.”
Darcy dismounted with a laugh. “Have a care, my friend! I have not even removed my hat. Good afternoon, Bingley.”
“Afternoon? It feels like morning here. Hertfordshire has its own time entirely. Do you know, the kitchen garden insists on growing mint everywhere? The housekeeper calls it ‘a blessing.’ I call it an invasion.”
Darcy allowed the corner of his mouth to tilt. “Your letter said as much. You are being outmanoeuvred by herbs.”
“Repeatedly. And without mercy.” Bingley clapped him on the back. “But Caroline is pleased that the flower garden is still something to look at. Come in. Everyone will want to greet you—but don’t worry, one of them is Hurst, who is barely awake after his luncheon, so that doesn’t count.”
Darcy’s gaze flicked over the façade of the house. The shadows cast by the columns were long—longer than they ought to be for the hour. A trick of the sun, no doubt. Southern counties had different light.
He followed Bingley through the entry. The hall was bright and pleasant, if slightly too warm. A cluster of flowers sat on a side table, their scent richer than most—overripe roses, edged with something sharper. Linden? No. Thorn blossom? Impossible. They were out of season.
Bingley was still talking. “—and the west field drains terribly, but I’ve had men working since last week. You must see it tomorrow. Oh, and there’s talk of militia movement in the next county—nothing dramatic, but enough to stir the taverns. My groom says half the village expects French spies in the hedges.”
“Villagers often do,” Darcy said, removing his gloves. “War makes imagination a national pastime.”
“Yes, but Hertfordshire imagination is a special breed.” Bingley leaned closer. “Someone swore the birds have been flying strange patterns. ‘Not natural,’ they said. I daresay it is only talk to cover up a bit of poaching, eh? But the talk is all over. You’ll see.”
Darcy schooled his expression. “Birds do as they please. They require neither excuses nor reasons.”
“Exactly what I said.” Bingley turned back toward the drawing room. “Come along. Caroline is in a mood to be impressed.”
