The hills of Derbyshirelay burnished beneath an amber sky, the late sun striking fire from the stubble of harvested fields. Wagons stood in neat rows beyond the south lawn, their beds piled high with wheat and barley; garlands of oak leaves and red berries had been tied along the gateposts that morning, and ribbons fluttered lazily from the orchard trees where the tenants’ children ran shrieking in play.
Elizabeth stood upon the terrace with a basket balanced against her hip, watching the preparations with a satisfaction that was no longer edged with vigilance. The air smelled of crushed apple and warm grain. From the lower meadow rose the lowing of cattle being counted and led, the murmur of men in cheerful dispute over measures and yields.
It was a good harvest.
It had been a good harvest everywhere, she had learned—though not everywhere equally. Only the week prior, when her father had arrived from Hertfordshire, he laughed about a letter he had from a magistrate inquiring, with polite bewilderment, how Longbourn’s fields contrived each year to outstrip neighbouring estates by such a consistent margin. Papa had written back, she suspected, with a dryness that concealed more amusement than explanation.
Bingley and Jane, settled scarcely five miles distant at an estate newly purchased and cheerfully restored, had arrived that morning in high spirits, reporting that their own tenants spoke of the season’s bounty with something approaching reverence.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had ridden in from Matlock two days earlier, declared that if Parliament sought proof of providence, it might begin in Hertfordshire and proceednorthward. And then Mr Harrowe, who had been in Derbyshire only long enough to pass one dinner with them, had spent the rest of the evening arguing with the colonel over ale and army concerns and how ignorant politicians truly were about agriculture and history.
Elizabeth smiled at the recollection.
Below her, upon the sweep of autumn grass, her son’s voice rose in fierce triumph.
Gareth William Darcy was five years old and entirely ungovernable in his energy—dark curls escaping every attempt at discipline, boots grass-stained, stockings perpetually sliding. He had claimed a fallen willow switch and now wielded it as though it had been forged for him in some ancient armoury rather than snapped from a hedge.
Colonel Fitzwilliam stood before him, coat discarded, sleeves rolled with exaggerated gravity. In his hand, he held a walking cane, which he presented with solemn ceremony.
“Guard first,” the colonel instructed, dropping into a half-crouch. “A gentleman never strikes before he knows how to defend.”
Gareth planted his feet with great care, jaw set. “Like this?”
“Wider,” the colonel replied. “You intend to keep both legs, I presume.”
Darcy, who stood several paces off with Bingley, folded his arms and called out mildly, “You may wish to inform him, Richard, that orchards are seldom stormed by cavalry.”
Bingley laughed. “Speak for your own orchards. Mine have been threatened twice this week by Mrs Bingley’s favourite pony.”
Gareth lunged without warning. The willow switch whistled through the air and met the colonel’s cane with a decisive crack. He staggered back dramatically.
“Well struck!” he declared. “But you dropped your shoulder.”
“I did not!” Gareth insisted, affronted. “Papa, did I?”
Darcy stepped forward then, unable to prevent the faint curve at the corner of his mouth. “You did,” he said. “Though you were very nearly victorious in spite of it.”
Gareth frowned, considering this grave injustice. “I shall not drop it next time.”
“That,” Bingley said cheerfully, “is the proper spirit. One cannot conquer the orchard in a single campaign.”
“Nor ought one to attempt it,” Darcy added dryly. “Harvest is not war.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam lifted his cane again. “On the contrary, cousin, harvest is precisely the reward for discipline. Now then—again.”
They circled. Brutus—now grizzled, but stalwart in his loyalty to his young master—barked once in encouragement and trotted clear of the arc of combat.
Gareth advanced more cautiously this time, brows drawn in intense concentration. When the colonel feinted left, Gareth did not overreach. He recovered, adjusted, and struck with greater care.
The cane tapped his switch aside, but not cleanly. Colonel Fitzwilliam lowered his weapon. “Better,” he pronounced. “Very much better.”
Gareth’s face broke into incandescent pride.
Elizabeth rested her hands against the terrace stone and watched them—the earned patience in Darcy’s stance, the way Bingley leaned close to offer commentary no one had requested, Richard’s theatrical flourishes, and at the centre of it all, her son, fierce and earnest and so very alive.
“May I have a real sword when I am grown?” Gareth called suddenly.
Darcy answered before the colonel could. “You may have one when you have learned first that strength exists to protect, not to dominate.”
