Chapter 11

Pemberley was like an image from a young girl’s fanciful dreams. She and Jane had been given a suite of rooms with a shared sitting room between, decorated in varying shades of green with silken draperies and at least three mattresses on the tall bedsteads. They had danced giddily around the chambers, giggling. Longbourn, as comfortable and charming as it had been, and Gracechurch Street, as modern and elegant as it was, could neither of them compete.

Sarah had not displayed awe, for the earl of Hampton’s country seat was of similarly vast proportions. But she had noted that for views on the outside and art on the inside, nothing could match Pemberley.

Elizabeth woke early, stretching luxuriously. It was so nice to be away from noisy London; as much as she enjoyed the variety of people and activities and adored the Gardiners, she had mourned the loss of her country life, the quiet pace, the beauty of nature, the solitude of sky, earth, and woods. It was not in her nature to be unhappy; she had made herself adapt, and quickly. Even though a part of her soul had been buried with her dear papa, for the few weeks she was here, she meant to revel in the freedom and safety of a beautiful countryside.

Once dressed, she found her way to the breakfast parlour before going to the first of Pemberley’s many gardens which she meant to explore, only halting in the doorway as she heard, much to her surprise, her name.

“Your Miss Elizabeth may be adequate, but never handsome enough to tempt me. I find matchmaking intolerable. I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who have been slighted by the men in their own counties and come to hound me in mine. I shall not allow myself to be pursued by this…this spinster society that has been forced upon me, and I warn you not to try it.”

Mr Bingley spotted her just as Mr Darcy spoke; it was too late to turn the other way and pretend she had not heard.

There was no other choice but to brazen it out.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said airily, smiling, stepping determinedly towards the selections upon the sideboard, as both men awkwardly rose. “’Tis a good thing I left my ear trumpet in London, else a beautiful morning might have been spoilt.”

Mr Bingley chuckled, in the too-vigorous tones of the embarrassed.

In a grave voice, Mr Darcy said, “Miss Elizabeth, I apologise for my hasty words.”

She turned to face him, giving a small curtsey in acknowledgement of his apology. “We shall suppose my memory is in as poor a condition as my hearing,” she said smilingly, hoping he could see that he truly had not distressed her in the slightest. “It is all to be forgot. Mr Bingley, last night you remarked upon a particular grouping of statues of Apollo, Venus, and Mercury in one of the gardens. Were they in the South Garden, or what they call the Archer’s Bow walk? We were speaking of both places at the time.”

Darcy watchedas Miss Elizabeth and Bingley bent over a rough drawing of Pemberley’s grounds that she produced from some pocket or another. He could say nothing else, for he could not take his eyes off of her. Something had happened to him as he looked at her, really noticed her for the first time. As she had twinkled up at him, forgiveness in her wide smile and good humour in those bewitching eyes, he underwent a corporeal response not experienced with such immediacy and power since he was a much younger man, before the world had grown unforgiving and complicated. Pure feeling, overwhelming in its depth and starkness, flooded him.

He even backed up a few steps, as if she possessed some magnetic force capable of drawing him in.

It proved ineffective. Further away, he saw the curve of her neck, the curls escaping from hair that he could tell grew in waves of thick sensuality, nearly impossible to tame. He had looked at her sister and seen an English rose, pale and perfect, the sight barely capturing his attention. In Miss Elizabeth, he saw a luscious peony in full bloom, spicy citrus scent, attractive, alluring, tantalising. Everything in him urged him to move closer.

He hurried from the room without a word of farewell.

Darcy’s mindwas not on the grouse. It did not help that he was much fonder of fishing than shooting. A man could calm, could think within the quiet tranquillity of water and nature. Shooting was noisy and violent; he could appreciate bringing in a brace for Cook, but anything more than a table’s worth seemed pointless. The other men’s laughter and chatter could not capture his attention either. Still, only his uncle seemed to notice his preoccupation. After a time, he had let the others draw ahead, falling into place beside his nephew.

“You have not yet fired a shot, Darcy.”

“You and Lord Roden between you have shot enough birds to more than compensate for any lack on my part.”

His uncle grunted in satisfaction. “An excellent morning. What is the matter, Son? Can I help?”

Darcy loved his uncle, loved his inherent kindness. With all his heart, he wished that he could have reached out to him when Wickham had broached the blackmail. In protecting his father, he had placed the earl on a pedestal of perfection; it had seemed wrong to betray his father’s lack of it. But the earl was as flawed as any man, as his dealings with Richard showed. He wondered what his uncle would say if he announced aloud that he had instantly lost his mind over one of his houseguests.

“I am concerned for Georgiana,” he said instead. It was not a lie.

“Georgiana?” his uncle asked, surprised. “I was telling Lady Matlock only this morning that I thought her in better spirits than I have ever seen her. Last evening, amongst her friends, she smiled more often than is usual.”

“Do you remember George Wickham?”

His uncle had to think a moment. “Steward’s son, was he not?”

“He has turned out very wild, unfortunately. Father left him a legacy of a thousand pounds and desired Pemberley’s living be given him. I knew he ought not to take orders, if he even would, and paid him three thousand for it. Still, when Mr Murray died, Wickham expected it would be his regardless.”

“The nerve!” the earl declared. “He could not have been serious!”

“Oh, he has plenty of nerve. When I refused him another shilling, he moved on to his next victim.”

Silence fell between the two men.

“Not Georgiana? She is only a young girl.”

“Scruples never afflict Wickham. She is no longer in any danger from him, at least as far as her own feelings—I destroyed those. Yet, I was required to do it by sharing some information that I wish she was never required to hear.”

“Better she hear it now than after a wedding to the rascal,” the earl murmured.

“That was my thought.”

The two men walked quietly for some time; the others were quite a way ahead, enough so that when a weapon fired, the echo sounded distant.

“It is time you took a wife.”

Darcy glanced at him. “It will never be Miss Lushington.”

“No? But you are a particular one. Her sister has given us three grandchildren, all of them as robust as one could want. Good-looking children too.”

“Nevertheless. I do not appreciate matchmaking.”

“I would not be so crass.”

Was his uncle na?ve to the designs of Lady Matlock, and even, possibly, Georgiana? But he continued his lecture.

“If you do not care for Rose, then do not miss another Season in town. One of the hordes of pretty young misses that follows you about there will surely have you—although you have made yourself so scarce, they may have all moved on.” He said this as though it were a joke and could not possibly be true. “Georgiana needs a sister.”

“I know it.”

“Darcy...” his uncle began haltingly. “Those stories in the papers of late—it is all nonsense, of course. I hope you do not think that scribblers hold any power over you. They do not. I have put about my theories as to the origin of such false tales—those who have taken up against me in the House, spreading lies of my family in the hopes of shutting me up. No one of any discernment will believe a word of it.”

“I am not concerned,” Darcy replied.

“Good, good.”

They walked for a few more minutes before the earl returned to his original topic—Darcy’s bachelorhood. “It is not always easy, to move from thinking as a young buck to setting one’s mind to becoming a husband. But only a fool thinks marriage a ‘leg-shackle’, some kind of prison. If you choose well, a good woman can add…” He paused, seemingly for once to struggle with supplying the right words, and huffed a breath. “It will sound foolish, but when you marry the right woman, you are never alone again. I think you have been lonely, Darcy, for many years. Part of that cannot be helped, for a man in your position. It does not always have to be so.”

“Yes,” Darcy said on a sigh.

“Choose well,” the earl advised. “But choose.”