“That does not surprise me. You know these fields, the tenants, and the land, much like I know Pemberley.” His expression turned wistful as if he were picturing his home.
“Do you miss it?” Part of me wondered why Darcy and his sister were staying with the Bingleys, so far from Derbyshire.
“Every day,” he admitted, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the grey hills of the North ought to be. “Though there are times when the expectations of such a place can become… restrictive. For Georgiana’s sake, a change of scene was necessary.”
A carefully constructed answer—the sort of thing one says when the truth is much heavier than the words.
“I find I am quite content to be a ‘nobody’ here for a while,” he added, a rare, dry smile touching his lips. “It is a luxury to walk a path where no one is waiting to ask me about the harvest.” A pause. “Orthe drainage.”
“Then you have come to the right place, Mr. Darcy,” I said, stepping over a stray branch. “In these woods, the only thing that cares for your name is the mud, and as we’ve established, it is a very impartial judge.”
He inclined his head, a small gesture that felt more like an agreement than a concession. “It is a different sort of climbing than what is expected in a drawing room.”
My curiosity got the better of me. “Is that why you came today?”
“I came because Georgiana made a decision. And because I suspected the view might be worth the exertion.”
His gaze met mine, lingering longer than the sentence warranted, and I felt the color start in my neck and turned to face the view, which was becoming extraordinary.
We reached the summit breathless and windblown, Georgiana already standing at the edge of the prospect with her arms spread like a girl embracing the sky. Below us, Hertfordshire unrolled in every direction—the patchwork of fields, gold and brown and the stubborn green of winter wheat; the dark line of the river curving south toward Meryton; the church spire catching the morning sun; and there, nestled in its little valley of gardens and outbuildings, Longbourn.
“That is your home,” Georgiana said, pointing.
“Yes, that is home,” I confirmed, a surge of affection for the familiar sight warming my chest.
“It looks warm,” she said, with such simplicity that I had to turn away, because the sentence contained everything Georgiana Darcy wanted and could not ask for, and if I looked at her face while she said it, I would do something unforgivable like weep, and Elizabeth Bennet did not weep on hilltops.
Darcy stood beside me, his gaze following where his sister pointed. He did not speak, and the silence was not his usual silence—the strategic, classified kind that kept the world at arm’s length. This silence had texture. He was seeingmy home for the first time through lenses that had not been available to him a week ago, and what he saw surprised him.
“Four counties,” I said.
“Three,” he said.
“If you squint.”
“I do not squint, Miss Bennet.”
“Then you will have to take my word for it, Mr. Darcy, and accept the fourth county on faith.”
“I prefer geography,” he said, shielding his eyes with his hand. “Bedfordshire and Cambridgeshire to the north, Essex on the Eastern side, Middlesex in the south, and Buckinghamshire to the west.”
“Then your eyes must be sharper than mine, Mr. Darcy.” I also shielded my eyes with my hand and turned around in a circle. “Because you just counted five, and if you look down at your feet, the sixth.”
He raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “I can assure you there are only five, according to the maps.”
“Silly brother,” Georgiana giggled. “I believe Miss Elizabeth refers to Hertfordshire itself. The mud on your boots.”
Darcy looked down at his boots, where the local geography was indeed clinging to the expensive leather in damp, dark clumps. A low, dry sound escaped him—the ghost of a laugh that he seemed to have no protocol for.
“I stand corrected,” he said, his gaze shifting from his boots to mine. “It appears I have been walking through the sixth county all morning without acknowledging its sovereignty.”
“It is the most demanding of the counties. It requires constant attention and a very sturdy brush.”
The gorse behind us parted with a rustle of considerable self-importance, and Cinnamon emerged, looking remarkably unruffled for a creature who had scaled a hilltop. She didn’t head for me but pranced straight to Darcy, her tail a triumphant plume. Stopping at his toe, she deposited her gift onto the toe of his mud-caked boot.
Darcy stared at the small white scrap, its embroidery wanderingin several unintended directions, hem listing to one side, stitching knotted at intervals that reflected a mind that had grown bored and pressed on regardless.
My stomach dropped.
