Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

April 1812, Pemberley

S ince he had achieved his majority and entered society, Darcy had spent the spring in London for the Season. He had not been at Pemberley for the spring planting since he was a boy, before he was sent to school. The talk of farming with the Grantleys had stirred within him a desire to remain in the country, to observe for himself the beauty of the springtime and the awakening of the land. To immerse himself in the ancient rhythms and traditions of the agricultural year. He took pleasure in the scent of the newly turned earth and the sight of tiny leaves unfurling. His decision gave him peace. Why had he ever spent so much time in the city?

George Darcy had been deeply attached to the lands of his fathers and had instilled that attachment in his son. Darcy's mother, however, had been a creature of society. Lady Anne's parents had been leading members of the ton , and when he had completed his education, the Fitzwilliams had expected him to attend the Season. After he inherited, he had felt an even greater obligation to participate in order to seek a high-ranking lady suited to be mistress of Pemberley.

So it was that in the spring of 1812, to the surprise of his steward, Darcy did not go to London. Bingley was not going to be there, and although he had other friends, no one in society cheered him so well. He directed his thoughts towards his estate and his senses towards the sights and scents of the awakening earth.

Lady Catherine had sent a flurry of letters, berating him for not attending her over Eastertide in favour of the wedding of a mere tradesman. He had responded civilly to the first few, but as more angry missives arrived with vague threats, he ignored them. After all, what could she do? He was his own master.

By the end of April, planting was nearly done and lambing well underway. Darcy had been inspecting fields with his steward, but they parted company at midday so he could return to his study. The sun was strengthening, but the breeze was still cool. He breathed deeply, savouring the fresh air. Urging his horse into a gallop, he flew down the road to Pemberley House until something flashed past the corner of his eye.

The next thing he knew, he was on his back in the dirt, opening his eyes to see two old men bending over him. "He's wakin' up, Squire," said one to the other. Darcy's brain registered the familiar lined face of Mr Pritchard, a near neighbour of Pemberley. The man who spoke, he vaguely recognised: a prosperous yeoman farmer whose holdings were also close. James Hedges, though Jamie was the name he was known by.

Darcy made to get up, but both men gently pushed him back. "You had better stay where you are, Darcy," said the squire.

"Aye, we've a wagon comin' for you," said Mr Hedges. "Looks like a deer scared your horse."

After an uncomfortable and undignified interval of being manhandled onto a farm wagon and taken to the nearest house, Darcy was assisted to a sagging armchair near the fire in a large, old-fashioned sitting room. The house was that of Mr Hedges, a rambling old farmhouse built of native stone and added onto higgledy-piggledy over many years. The heavy oak door to the sitting room was closed, but he could faintly hear voices beyond it; many voices, both children and adults.

Although glad of the aid he was receiving, Darcy had no idea how to speak to these relative strangers. He had met Mr Pritchard often enough at social events but was not on terms of familiarity. He had never spoken to Mr Hedges at all.

A stout, white-haired woman bustled into the room, bearing a tray with a basin of water and clean rags. She saw Darcy and gasped. "As I live and breathe, Jamie, if he isn't the image of old Mr Darcy! Just sittin' in that chair like in old times!"

She set the tray down on a low table next to the armchair, took up a cloth, and soaked it in the warm water. Without so much as an introduction, she began dabbing carefully at Darcy's forehead. "Fell off your horse, did you? I declare you're lucky you don't have more than that scrape."

A young woman entered through the open door carrying a tea tray. She stopped abruptly, her mouth agape. "Ma, it's Mr Darcy!"

Squire Pritchard spoke up. "This is the younger Mr Darcy, child. Now do pour us some tea while your mother takes care of his scrapes, there's a good girl."

The girl did as she was told, though she continued to stare at him. Within minutes, she had left the room, and Mrs Hedges had finished and taken away the tray, leaving Darcy with a cup of tea and a plate of cake sitting next to him on the table.

Darcy, somewhat rattled by his fall, sipped his tea and attempted to sort out this new information. "My father visited you, Mr Hedges?" he blurted, then took a breath. "I mean to say, I thank you both for your assistance, and for Mrs Hedges's care." Lightly touching the bandage on his head, he winced, then looked up. "Did anyone see to my horse?"

The two men exchanged a glance. Hedges spoke first. "Aye, lad, your horse is tied up by the stables, but you won't be ridin' again today."

Mr Pritchard agreed. "As to your other question, your excellent father did indeed regularly spend time here, as well as at my home, and those of other farmers and landholders in the area. We spent many evenings, dining together and playing cards or backgammon, and enjoying long conversations."

Mr Hedges nodded. "That chair you're in, that was his spot. When his health took a bad turn, we'd pull it closer to the fire and fill him up with my wife's lamb stew. It was his favourite." He smiled. "Brings back both sad and happy memories, it does."

At this, Mr Pritchard cleared his throat. "I cannot say that your lady mother was aware of our little club. The brief times she was in residence at Pemberley, your father did not join us. Lady Anne liked to see the distinction of rank preserved, and your father did not wish to displease her. You see, son, your father was at heart a farmer, happiest when he was caring for the land and sharing stories with other farmers."

Darcy sat in thoughtful silence, sipping his tea. His father had apparently had to conceal the friends he was most comfortable with from his wife. He knew his father preferred the country and his mother the city, and they had spent less and less time together over the years. He himself had been born at Pemberley, but Georgiana had been born in London.

As Pemberley's mistress, Lady Anne had delighted in her role as principal lady of the area. Her parties and entertainments were unmatched, though she did not always attend herself. She was less inclined to personally tend to those beneath her. Her beneficence was implemented from the proper distance, as she was unable to appear interested in their small concerns. Mrs Reynolds and other servants carried out visits to tenants and distributed alms. Darcy knew Mrs Pritchard herself cared assiduously for their tenants as well as others in need. He was proud of the Darcy family's reputation for generosity, but he suddenly realised that his family did not directly involve themselves with the beneficiaries of their charity. He himself did not; he had people to do that, but suddenly that seemed insufficient.

And instantly Elizabeth was back, once again jumping the fences that guarded his mind. He remembered catching glimpses of her as he rode the paths near Meryton, standing at the door of a tenant house with a basket or sitting on a stump with a very small boy on her lap, helping him to learn to count with his fingers.

He startled a bit at Mr Pritchard's voice. "Let us get you home, Mr Darcy. My gig awaits you. We'll tie your horse behind." He wagged his finger at the younger man. "Mrs Hedges's orders."

Darcy rose slowly and stiffly. Carefully and tentatively, he bowed to Mr Hedges and thanked him for his kindness and hospitality. "Please call me Darcy, as you addressed my father. I would very much like to join your club."

On his way back to Pemberley, the squire regaled him with more tales of his father and of other neighbours. Mr Hedges had sent a servant with a message to Pemberley, and Mrs Reynolds and Georgiana were waiting for him. Mr Pritchard touched his hat and winked as he turned his gig around. "See you at the club, Darcy."