Chapter 13

Pemberley

A Few Minutes Later

Birds sang in the trees, bright little flashes of color and song among bare gray branches. Brave brightly colored leaves clung to twigs, fluttering in the wind like pennants. The stream burbled along beside the path, clear and cold and glittering like diamonds in the sun. It was all beautiful and a large part of the reason Darcy so loved his home, but today, it was subsumed beneath the acute consciousness of Elizabeth Bennet on his arm. He wondered uneasily if she would garner the wrong impression from this walk; he did not wish her to think that he viewed her in a romantic sense, though, of course, his rebellious heart did indeed yearn for her. But it was vital that he hide such feelings, as she was not a worthy bride. She was a sensible young woman, however. Doubtless she would interpret his invitation to walk precisely as he meant it, a very blatant notice to Miss Bingley that he believed Miss Bennet to be in the right in their quarrel.

He was, he realized, exceedingly tired of Miss Bingley’s unceasing sneering and haughtiness. Despite his own education and the pride instilled in him regarding his name and his position, he had not been taught to denigrate those around him, but to see that each person was valuable for the position he or she held. He had always been aware of impatience with Miss Bingley’s incessant criticism of those she considered beneath her. Now, with Miss Bennet, and her wit, and her kindness, and her vibrant, unique charm providing such a close contrast, Darcy had even less patience than usual with Miss Bingley’s simpering and arrogance. He intended to make plain where his sympathies lay.

Presently, he found himself walking along the familiar gravel paths, arm in arm with the lady he admired. He stole a glance at her and found his breath quite taken away – her eyes sparkled, and her admiration of the scenery, though not effusive, was open and honest. She made soft sounds of delight over vistas and the lake in the distance and the stream near at hand, with trout bubbling to the surface to send rings expanding across the slow-moving water to lap at the muddy banks. A rabbit rustled through the fallen leaves to dart over their path and vanish into a burrow on the other side.

“Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth asked suddenly, breaking into his thoughts.

“Yes, Miss Bennet?”

“I appreciate your willingness to walk with me, but I wonder if we should return to the house.”

Darcy had been entirely distracted by the feeling of the lady’s gloved hand on his arm and was thus surprised when he looked around and found that they were at least a mile from the manse.

“I suppose we ought!” he said and then, at the befuddled look on her face, chuckled and said, “I have thoroughly enjoyed our walk and quite lost track of how far we have come.”

“I expect that you have a great deal of work to do on an estate of this size,” his companion remarked as they turned back toward the house, gazing out at a distant field currently lying fallow after the harvest.

Darcy regarded her curiously. This was the sort of thing which Caroline Bingley might say, but Miss Bennet’s tone was thoughtful as opposed to simpering.

“Yes,” he agreed as they began their return walk.

“Longbourn is, of course, much smaller, but I am aware that there are always issues with tenants and soggy fields and the like. Though perhaps your land does not experience flooding?”

Darcy stared at Miss Bennet in wonder. What kind of woman was this, that she knew about such plebeian matters as waterlogged fields?

“The fields on the eastern side of Pemberley have had problems with flooding,” he said. “Fortunately, we have always had excellent stewards and have never lost a harvest due to sheer negligence.”

Miss Bennet made a soft humming sound of agreement, and for another few minutes, the pair walked in silence before the lady said, “Mr. Darcy, I do not wish to intrude, but I confess to curiosity. Is it true that George Wickham’s father was the steward of Pemberley?”

“He was,” Darcy replied immediately, “and was as fine a man as you can ever imagine. He was faithful and hardworking and honorable. It is a genuine tragedy that his son turned out so poorly.”

“It is indeed,” Miss Bennet agreed with a sigh. “But then, children often are very different from their parents. Anyone who has visited Longbourn knows that, as all five of us sisters are distinct individuals with diverse personalities. We all share traits with our parents, like my shared love of reading with my father, but with rather more differences than similarities, I believe.”

“That is true enough,” Darcy agreed. “Wickham took after his mother, who was charming and handsome, but also a spendthrift. The elder Mr. Wickham was always poor because of his wife’s extravagance, and it was only due to my father’s generosity that Wickham was able to attend Cambridge.”

“And if Mr. Wickham had been unable to attend Cambridge, he likely would not have been so well able to ape the manners and speech of the gentry, which would have been advantageous for his victims.”

Again, Darcy cast a startled look at the lady on his arm, and she blushed and said, “I apologize, sir. I ought not to have criticized your father.”

“No, you are entirely correct about the matter,” he said. “My father was an excellent man, but he had a blind spot regarding the younger Wickham. As you know, Wickham is a gifted speaker with charming manners, whereas I have always had difficulty expressing myself. My father truly loved him and found him amusing, whereas, while I knew he was proud of me, I was not nearly as engaging a companion as our steward’s son.”

He hoped he did not sound as bitter as he felt about that issue. It had been painful to see the elder Mr. Darcy lavish funds and attention on George Wickham even after Darcy himself had realized that the young man was a degenerate.

“Mr. Wickham has a great deal of outward charm,” Miss Bennet agreed, “which he uses to conceal his serious moral flaws. But I wonder if there is another aspect to the situation. You were the heir to Pemberley, and based on your excellent management of what is truly an enormous estate, you have done a remarkable job. Did your father spend much time tutoring you about your responsibilities before he passed on?”

Darcy’s mind went back to life before his father’s death, and he smiled. “He did indeed. From a young age, my father instilled in me both the privilege and the responsibility of being master of Pemberley. I am grateful for his diligence in preparing me for the many tasks required in maintaining this estate. I am aware of many a young man who inherits without knowing what to do.”

“Your father was very wise, then. I also wonder if, perhaps, he was more at ease with George Wickham because he did not feel the need to instruct him in anything? He could enjoy his company, not considering what he should teach him next?”

Darcy came to a halt at these simple questions and found himself staring to the north, toward the tenant farms of the Jenkins and the Smiths. He could remember, even now, a conversation with his father some fifteen years previously, when the two farmers had argued over a broken fence. Darcy, at that time a mere boy of thirteen, remembered being surprised when his father had chosen to involve himself in such a small matter. The older Mr. Darcy had explained that the Jenkins and Smiths had not been on good terms for many years, and it was important for both families that he, as the master of the estate, give the affair his personal attention because he did not want further bitterness to form between the tenants. The feud had ended shortly thereafter, and now the two families were joined together by not one, but two marriages between their various offspring.

Darcy had accepted his father’s wisdom in the matter of the disputed fence and supposed all estate owners held similar views. He had learned differently at Cambridge; many of the young nobles and gentlemen thought only of how much money they could wrest from their tenants, with no interest at all in the welfare of the farmers themselves. Most would never dream of inserting themselves into an argument over a fence.

“Mr. Darcy?”

He looked down to see Miss Bennet’s face turned toward him, her brow wrinkled. “Is everything all right?” the lady asked.

He shook his head to clear it and began walking again, and he said, “My apologies. I was deep in thought over your very cogent questions. Yes, I think, without a doubt, that my father felt a burden to teach me thoroughly. That is very insightful.”

“Thank you. I have thought about such matters before. My father is not a particularly diligent master to Longbourn. I think ... I hope that if the estate had not been entailed away, he would have been more devoted to the estate.”

“It must be difficult indeed to care for an estate who will pass on to a distant cousin,” Darcy said diplomatically.

“It is,” Miss Bennet remarked as the pair crossed the bridge over the trout stream, “though I wish he had made the attempt. Regardless of the future of his daughters, he ought to have more care for the people of Longbourn themselves.”

Darcy did not respond, partly because he agreed with her analysis, and partly because he was struck again with her view on the matter. The ladies of high society never spoke of the tenants who worked the ground, whose rents allowed them to buy expensive clothing and ride in luxurious coaches.

Who was this woman who cared so much about those around her?

“Miss Bennet,” he said impulsively, coming to a halt.

“Yes?”

He hesitated, words of admiration on the tip of his tongue, but no, he could not, must not declare himself.

“Miss Bennet,” he said instead, “may I ask you to avoid speaking of Mr. Wickham in Georgiana’s presence? I do not wish to speak in details, but the truth is that he did something that greatly distressed her, and she has not yet quite recovered from her ordeal.”

“Oh!” Miss Bennet replied, her dark eyes grave with sympathy. “I am so sorry. What a viper, to be unkind to Miss Darcy!”

“He is,” Darcy agreed, and turned and began walking toward the house again. “He is.”