Bingley leaned forward in his saddle. “Come—there’s excellent cover near the eastern line. Williams swears he saw at least a dozen birds rise there yesterday.”
They continued along the narrowing path. Bingley drew a deep breath and let it out with satisfaction. “There is something remarkably civil about this neighbourhood. Everyone greets one another, and even the roads appear to approve of visitors.”
Darcy allowed a faint smile. “You will credit the roads next with opinions.”
“Why not? Miss Bennet said much the same—that Hertfordshire prefers to welcome rather than impress. I like the notion.”
Darcy tipped his head in acknowledgment. “She has a sensible manner, though far too agreeable to my taste.”
“Why, Darcy, you speak as if that is a bad thing! And the countryside itself—look at those trees.” Bingley pointed with his riding crop toward a distant stand of ash beyond the hedgerow. “They make a better canopy than anything in London.”
Darcy studied the line. Pemberley’s trees were nearly bare by now, but the leaves here were hardly even turning, though they were fully into October. Perhaps the unseasonably warm weather accounted for that. Still, his mind returned—unbidden—to Pemberley’s weakened harvest. He doubted very much that Hertfordshire had seen any such ill luck this autumn.
Bingley nudged his horse a little closer. “Darcy, if you stare at those trees any harder, they will pick their leaves back up out of sheer modesty.”
“Only considering whether those in Derbyshire are faring as well,” Darcy grunted. “After last week’s storms, we ought to be watchful.”
“Well, the groves at Netherfield seem perfectly content.” Bingley gave a little flourish of the reins. “No reason we cannot enjoy a morning without improving the world’s forests, Darcy.”
“True enough.”
The hedgerow ahead opened slightly, offering a view of the lower slope. Darcy glanced at the field out of habit. A man accustomed to managing a vast estate rarely walked anywhere without taking stock. The ground here appeared even, the rise gentle, the colour of the grass unremarkable.
Bingley pointed toward a patch of scrub. “Williams swears he saw partridge there yesterday. If we circle round that way, we may flush a few.”
Darcy nodded. “Lead on.”
Bingley glanced over. “Are you brooding already? It is barely ten. Smile, man. The countryside is good for you.”
“I am not brooding,” Darcy said.
“You are,” Bingley replied cheerfully. “If you brood any further, the pheasants will surrender out of pity.”
Darcy offered no answer. His gaze lingered on the line where the hedges met the field, a faint tremor of instinct drawing him forward faster than reason could account for.
Bingley slowed first, lifting a hand to signal the change. The ground ahead dipped toward a narrow copse—thin trees pressed together in a way that suggested shelter for birds. If they rode straight in, they would scatter whatever game hid there.
“Wind’s turned,” Bingley said, glancing at the angle of the branches.
Darcy felt it too—the faint shift of air brushing the right side of his face. Coming from the copse toward them. Any approach on horseback would be folly.
“We go on foot,” Darcy said.
Bingley nodded. “Downwind and quiet, then.”
Darcy looped his reins over a low branch, testing it with a brief pull; the horse stood quietly at the end of the rein. Bingley tethered his own mount beside it. The cover ahead offered a clear line through the undergrowth if approached carefully.
Darcy stepped forward first, boots sinking into the softer earth beneath the trees. The air grew stiller here, muffled by the cluster of trunks—a good sign for game, though something about the silence prickled faintly against his awareness.
Bingley followed close behind, keeping enough distance to avoid breaking twigs or rustling brush. “Birds might lift from the far edge,” he murmured. “If we circle, we may see them rise.”
Darcy inclined his head and continued toward the opening between the trees, prepared to scan the ground for movement. They rounded a bend in the rise, and Darcy stumbled to a halt.
A shape lay in the grass ahead—small, still, and out of place.
Bingley’s steps carried onward, light and untroubled, but Darcy only stared. That was no fallen branch. The outline was wrong; the colour did not belong to the field. Fabric, not bark. A figure, not debris.
His heels hit the earth in a rapid staccato before he formed any conscious decision. The distance between them and the shape closed too slowly for his liking. Something in him had already leapt to recognition, though he could not yet see enough to name it. He dropped his fowling piece and ran.
