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“Good day, Martha,” Mrs Lovejoy muttered as she passed the housekeeper.

“Good day, Honoria.”

Once the visitors had gone, Mrs Reynolds asked if the family required anything further and withdrew with the same composure with which she had entered.

Uncle Edward waited until the door had closed. “Has either of them forgiven the other about the preserves?”

“No one knows, Edward.”

Elizabeth looked down at Jane’s letter before her aunt caught her smiling. The day had brought one happy surprise from Hertfordshire, and Mrs Lovejoy had managed to leave Pemberley with every cherry still attached to her bonnet. It was more than Elizabeth had expected of the morning.

Chapter Ten: Confessions and Confections

Darcy rode Orion at a sensible, measured trot along the northern boundary of the estate. The morning air carried the crisp scent of damp earth and crushed pine needles, a lingering reminder of yesterday’s summer squall. Mr Digby, the Pemberley steward, rode a grey gelding half a pace behind him, delivering a comprehensive inventory of the storm’s aftermath.

Darcy offered a series of automatic nods. He heard the words shingles, uprooted, and waterlogged, but the syllables refused to knit together into any coherent meaning within his mind. His concentration during the morning inspections proved as fragile as spun sugar.

He was physically present on the muddy bridle path, but his thoughts remained confined in the walls of the billiards room. Miss Elizabeth’s laughter echoed in his memory. He saw the fiery spark in her eyes when she held the ash wood cue, challenging him with a wicked confidence that had nearly driven him to his knees.

Mr Digby cleared his throat, steering his horse carefully around a fallen branch.

“The tenant roof at the eastern cottage will require new timbers, Mr Darcy.” The steward pointed to a distant building. “I estimate the carpenters will need a full week to secure the structure, and we must do it fast, before the next storm. The cottage by the western orchard has lost a few shingles, but that roof needs only a minor repair.”

Darcy adjusted his riding gloves, forcing his attention to the cottage. “See that the carpenters have whatever materials they require, Digby. Provide the family at the eastern cottage with accommodations in the village until their roof is sound, and cover both repairs from the estate accounts.”

“Very good, sir.” Mr Digby pulled a small notebook from his coat pocket, recording the instruction with a stub of graphite. “And the fallen oaks near the lake path?”

“Leave them for the woodcutters.” Darcy spurred Orion forward, eager to conclude the inspection and return to the manor. “The lake path is currently closed to pedestrian traffic.”

He urged his horse into a swift canter, leaving the steward trailing in his wake. Darcy needed to change his mud-spattered boots and to wash the scent of wet foliage from his hands. Above all other necessities, he needed to see her again.

On reaching the stables, Darcy tossed the reins to a stable boy. He strode across the gravel sweep and entered the house through the side terrace doors. The house was blissfully quiet, the mayhem of the previous day subdued beneath the sunlight.

He moved down the passage, intending to seek the sanctuary of his private chambers, when the library’s half-open door caught his attention. Darcy paused, pushing it open with a gentle hand.

Mr Gardiner was there, a volume of poetry on open his lap, though his gaze was fixed firmly on the painted plaster of the ceiling, the brakes of the wheeled contraption securely locked.

Darcy entered, clearing his throat.

Mr Gardiner turned his head, a knowing twinkle illuminating his eyes. “A successful morning surveying the damage, Mr Darcy?”

“The estate fared relatively well, sir.” He crossed the room, taking a seat in an armchair opposite the older man. “A few fallen trees, a minor roof repair at one tenant cottage, and a more urgent one at another. Digby has both repairs in hand.”

“Excellent.” Mr Gardiner closed his book, steepling his fingers over the cover. “Pemberley is a vast responsibility. It requires a steady hand. And, I suspect, a rather distracting amount of attention.”

Darcy adjusted his cuffs, unsettled by the man’s perceptive tone. “I am well accustomed to the demands of the estate, Mr Gardiner.”

“I was not speaking of the estate.” Mr Gardiner leaned forward, testing the limits of his restraining straps. “My wife and my niece share a great many secrets. They whisper in corners and abruptly cease their conversations the moment they realise I can hear them. They believe me oblivious to these undercurrents.”

Darcy swallowed hard, his throat dry.

“I am a man of business, Mr Darcy.” Mr Gardiner said. “I observe details. I observe the way you stare at my niece when you believe the rest of the room is occupied with their teacups. I observe the rather astonishing manner in which you tolerate shattered glassware and mayhem simply because she finds them amusing. There is history between you two.”

Darcy gripped the edge of his chair. Denying the truth would be an insult to the man’s formidable intelligence.

“There is history, sir.” Darcy rested his elbows on his knees and met directly the older man’s eyes. “I value your intellect, Mr Gardiner. I must confess... I am in need of guidance. May I confide in you?”

Mr Gardiner released a rumbling chuckle that filled the quiet library. “You may, Mr Darcy. I could hardly stop you, considering my present lack of mobility. I am a captive audience.”