A man came out of a cottage carrying a large horse collar. “Be my job, repairing harness and the like. Mr. Baxter brought this over just this past week. I’ve not finished it, sir, but reckon it’ll do. Better’n trying to pull with just the harness of the cart.”
Soon, the Old English Black—likely the strongest horse on the estate, standing near sixteen and a half hands high—was freeing logs and pulling them up away from the creek. Like the day before, Darcy felt his muscles ache as they worked to clear the stream of debris. Long, arduous hours, yet he realised, guiding the horse, he had the better of it. For the men, all accustomed to heavy labour, worked tirelessly shovelling mud and gravel, hacking branches off trees, digging channels to release water trapped in pools about the village. The sun had gone a little way past its zenith when a commanding voice, richand melodious, called a halt. “There’re pies and ale, courtesy of Mr. Darcy’s kitchen,” the lady called. “Enough for everyone, and bread besides, if you’d prefer it.”
As he came up to the cart, where several women were handing pies and buttered bread covered in slabs of sliced mutton to the men, Elizabeth moved to stand beside him.
“As you can see, Mr. Darcy, most of the lower houses were flooded. But the families have been taken in by those on higher ground. I’ve made a note of which families lost their winter stores—but they are proud, and don’t take kindly to charity. Perhaps, if we give the whole village some sacks—oats, wheat, barley, from Pemberley’s stores; also, tools to replace those lost in the flood—that will allow the villagers themselves to allocate them where needed.”
Finally, the stream was cleared of debris. Elizabeth had distributed blankets and the giblet soup that had been served the evening before.
“I believe the under-cook misunderstood my instructions,” she said, smirking. “Some five times the amount requested for our evening meal, both to feed our guests and Pemberley’s staff. There’s certainly sufficient remaining for Beeley. It’s already been ladled into the cooking pots and is heating on the hearths.” Her dark eyes flashed with good humour—very fine eyes indeed.
Darcy turned the cart towards Pemberley, again wearied by a long day’s work. Unconsciously, Elizabeth leant into his shoulder, exhausted, having spent the day assisting the women with their children, sweeping mud from the floors of the cottages. Once, Darcy had seen her chasing a squealing pig towards a makeshift sty.
Elizabeth straightened, suddenly aware of her closeness to Mr. Darcy. “You said that you wished to speak of our letters.Perhaps now is appropriate, for there will be little chance of privacy later.”
Darcy thought back to their correspondence. He had shared withBennetmany personal confidences that he would normally not have shared with anyone, apart from, perhaps, his cousin Richard. Yet, he had felt such ease in their communication that it seemed ever so natural to speak of matters that had only recently begun to occupy his thoughts, the more so because of his isolation in Ireland. He recalled thatBennet—it was impossible to think of his correspondent in any other way—had spoken of a Miss Lucas, who had stated that ‘happiness in marriage was entirely a matter of chance. If the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other, or ever so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the least. They always contrive to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.’
He glanced at Elizabeth, who had quite given up trying to pin her hair and had tied it up in a loose bun. A few chestnut curls had sprung loose—oh, how he was tempted to guide them back behind her delicate ears. Was Miss Lucas correct; did couples grow apart after marriage? Did they remain indifferent? Was it necessary to have interests in common—books, the sciences, the management of an estate? He determined, at that moment, there was but one way to discover it.
“Mr. Darcy?”
“Pardon me, Mrs. Elizabeth, I was woolgathering. No, I do not believe there is any need to revisit our correspondence. Indeed, having come to know that it was you who wrote, and notBennet, I am quite content.”
Elizabeth looked up at Darcy, once again struck by how handsome he was. He was staring ahead; seemingly he had not a care in the world. He held his broad shoulders and back straight.There was pride, a confidence in his demeanour, a faint smile creasing his lips.
* * *
Chapter 26
Pemberley, November 1813
Georgiana had delayed dinner so that Elizabeth and Darcy had time to dress. At six o’clock, Darcy led Lady Catherine and Mrs. Hurst into the dining parlour; Elizabeth and Anne de Bourgh took the arm of Mr. Hurst, followed by Georgiana, Bingley, and his sister Caroline.
“You are to leave us soon, Mrs. Elizabeth?” said Miss Bingley, once they had sat at table and the soup had been served. “You will stay with your relatives in Cheapside?” Both she and her sister, Mrs. Hurst, sniggered.
“Yes, it is a convenient location for my uncle,” replied Elizabeth, ignoring their rudeness. “It is nearer to the Thames than Lombard Street, where many of the banks are located, including the Bank of England, though Child & Co. is in Fleet Street.” She turned to Mr. Bingley. “Mr. Bingley, do you bank in London or in Cheshire, which I believe was the location of your father’s mill?”
Miss Bingley pursed her lips—her fortune’s origin in trade was something she preferred to ignore.
“Ah, we are outgrowing our northern connections, and might require the deeper pockets of London banks to finance our plans to expand the business—or, should I say, my uncle’s business, for he has taken over the mills,” said Bingley. “My father sold out some years ago and intended to purchase an estate, but did not live to do it. It was his wish that his grandchildren should be gentlemen, and it falls to me topurchase. Though I must admit that the responsibilities of running a large estate may not suit me. Nevertheless, I found Netherfield Park very pleasant—particularly the neighbourhood—but my sisters did not prefer it, and persuaded me that I should look elsewhere. Perhaps Derbyshire, Darcy?”
Darcy looked up from the white soup, which was excellent—another of his favourites, and that of his cousin Anne. “Derbyshire? A long way from Town. Netherfield Park is but four hours by good road. Pemberley is at least three days, and more during the winter. Miss Bingley, your brother said you did not enjoy the location—why so?”
“Oh, it was the society,” she said carelessly. “There were very few titles—indeed, only a shopkeeper elevated above his natural rank, I daresay.”
“Sir William Lucas was knighted by His Majesty the King himself,” interposed Elizabeth. “It must have been vexing that you were not introduced to more of the leading families. Perhaps you had returned to Town when the Marquess of Salisbury, whose seat is but nine miles from Meryton, held his annual ball. Mr. Bingley, did you not attend the meetings of the Harpenden vestry? Lord Salisbury often attends. I am sure, Mr. Hurst, you would have enjoyed the society; like your father, there are several baronets in the neighbourhood who all attend.”
“B—but a vestry is only for farmers and the like. I cannot imagine a marquess mingling with such people.” Miss Bingley disdainfully dismissed the idea.
“Indeed not,” said Darcy. “The vestry is an important part of parish administration. Certainly, Lord Salisbury would attend—he cares greatly for his estate and neighbourhood. The roads thereabout are some of the best I have seen in the county.”
“Just as those of the Parish of Edensor, in which Pemberley lies, are the best in this county. Likely due to the Darcy interest,” said Elizabeth, smiling at some past recollection.
“Mrs. Elizabeth, there were several meetings of the local vestry whilst I was away. Do you know if Baxter attended?” Darcy looked inquiringly towards Elizabeth.
“At the time of the last meeting, he was unavailable. If you recall, he travelled to the Soho Mint to have more Pemberley Pennies struck,” she replied. “Forgive my impertinence, but I attended in his place. Perhaps it was fortunate that Pemberley was represented—for the vestry was reluctant to replace rotten timbers on the Lambton bridge. With a little persuasion”—she chuckled—“they voted to do so. Unavoidably, the work was not completed before the recent great storm. Yet the bridge would have collapsed sooner were it not for the repairs already made. I believe, Mr. Darcy, that Lambton and the villages downstream owe much to Pemberley’s generosity.”
Darcy gazed at her, a hint of pride in his countenance; blushing, Elizabeth returned her attention to the soup.
