“He sounds magnificent.”
“He is. Was.” He seemed to search for words. “Though age has slowed him, his spirit remains. He has always possessed a docile temperament, yet retained enough fire for riding. In Town, my sister would ride him throughheavy traffic or noisy groups strolling through the parks, without fear that he would be startled.”
Elizabeth could hear the affection in his voice, the same tenderness he showed when speaking of Gracie. “You mentioned that you learned to ride on him?”
“I did, after outgrowing my pony. My cousin Richard—Colonel Fitzwilliam—is two years my senior. His father gave him a mare the same year my father gave me Atlas. Her name is Artemis?—”
“Goddess of the hunt?—”
“And she lives up to her namesake. Lightning fast, fleet of foot, with a daring that matches Richard’s own.” His pace had slowed as he spoke, his gaze distant, lost in memory.
Elizabeth slowed with him, content to listen.
“We would ride together—at Pemberley, or at Matlock, the Fitzwilliam estate. We raced, we jumped, we competed in everything.” A smile played on his lips. “Artemis had speed. Unmatched speed. Atlas had endurance and a hatred of being beaten that bordered on stubbornness.”
“They sound evenly matched.”
“They were. Which made every race a battle.” Mr. Darcy’s smile brightened. “One summer—I must have been thirteen—we were racing on a path that led toward Lambton, the small town five miles from Pemberley. We came around a narrow corner at full gallop and nearly ran headlong into a farmer with a lame horse pulling a heavily laden cart.”
Elizabeth drew in a breath. “Oh no.”
“We pulled up in time, thankfully. The poor man wastaking his produce to market—the profits would sustain his family through winter.”
“What did you do?”
“Richard’s first instinct was to ride for help. But the farmer worried about reaching the market before the best stalls were taken.” Mr. Darcy shook his head, his expression rueful. “I suggested we hitch one of our horses to the cart. Artemis would have none of it. She balked and made her opinion of cart-pulling abundantly clear.”
Elizabeth bit back a smile. “And Atlas?”
“Never complained. Not once.” Pride infused his voice. “He pulled the cart the remaining four miles to Lambton without protest. We helped unload the produce then directed the farmer’s son to where he left the horse. Because Richard could not resist, and I will admit, I could not either—we raced home.”
“After pulling a loaded cart four miles?”
“Yes.” Mr. Darcy grinned boyishly. “And we still won. By three lengths. He is a superior horse, Miss Elizabeth..”
Happiness filled her—not just at the story, but how he told it. The vivacity in his features, the obvious love for both the horse and the memory. This was not the proud, severe man from the assembly.
“Does your cousin still have Artemis?” she asked.
“When he was sent to the continent, Richard brought her to Pemberley, where she remains. She is retired now, kept in comfort.” Mr. Darcy added, “Gracie is one of her foals.”
Elizabeth’s heart gave a peculiar squeeze at the poetry of it. Connection. Legacy. “That is…” Elizabeth struggled to find words. “That is rather perfect.”
“I thought you might think so,” he said.
“Do you have a breeding program at Pemberley?”
“We do.”
They walked on in companionable silence, while Elizabeth tried to steady the erratic beating of her heart. She studied his profile. “When you speak about your horses…you love them.”
“Absolutely.”
She had expected him to deflect, perhaps to frame it in terms of duty or proper animal husbandry, so the immediacy of his answer surprised her.
“I trust them. Trust their instincts, their judgment in ways I rarely trust people. A horse will tell you the truth of a situation—whether a path is safe, whether danger lurks ahead. They do not dissemble.”
“And do they love you in return?”
