Elizabeth enjoyed the crispness of the winter air, but even she would not call it pleasant.
The group naturally divided into pairs as they walked across the fields: Jane with Mr. Bingley, both quiet and content; Elizabeth with Miss Darcy, who fell into step beside her; and Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy in the rear. Elizabeth took a deep breath, trying to dispel her unease, and offered Mr. Darcy’s sister a cheerful smile.
“Miss Darcy,” she began, “it is lovely to meet you. I hope you find the countryside agreeable.”
“Oh, I do,” Miss Darcy responded, her eyes brightening. “I have heard much about Hertfordshire, though I confess it is more charming than I imagined.” She glanced around them, her shyness giving way to something warmer. “Mr. Bingley has beenso kind, and I am happy to be out of London with my brother and cousin. The city has many attractions, but it can become so confining.” She glanced up, her fair cheeks a becoming shade of pink. “But perhaps you prefer town and all of its diversions?”
Elizabeth was touched by how valiantly the girl was trying to engage her and was determined to help her along. “I do enjoy visiting London, but I do not believe I would wish to live there.”
Miss Darcy laughed softly. “Nor I, for I far prefer Pemberley, particularly in the summer.” Her hesitation was slight but noticeable, and Elizabeth wondered if anything bothered her. “I must thank you, Miss Elizabeth, for welcoming us here today. I have wanted to make your acquaintance for some time.”
Elizabeth’s surprise must have shown, for Miss Darcy’s cheeks turned an even deeper pink and she added hurriedly, “My brother has spoken of you.”
Elizabeth’s brows shot up. “Has he?”
Miss Darcy nodded. “Yes. He wrote to me while he was here.”
She recalled that Mr. Darcy had been working on a letter to his sister when she stayed at Netherfield. Elizabeth had rather enjoyed watching Miss Bingley attempting to fawn over the man, for he had clearly been an unwilling recipient of her praise. It had increased her respect for Mr. Darcy—a little—to see that he did not accept such compliments as either genuine or his due.
“Fitzwilliam often remarked on your kindness to Miss Bennet and how he enjoyed your performance on the pianoforte.”
“Not my impertinence?” Elizabeth replied airily while her mind raced to assimilate this information. It went against everything she had thought of Mr. Darcy, and it disconcerted her to hear it.
“He called it your forthright nature.” Miss Darcy smiled when this produced a chuckle from Elizabeth. “It was a compliment, I assure you. We both respond better to direct speech than pretty compliments that may not be sincere.”
Elizabeth was intrigued. Miss Darcy’s gentle smile was free of artifice or malice, but now she was more conflicted than before, if such a thing were possible. If Mr. Darcy had spoken of her with any regard, why had he always behaved so coldly with her? They had once spent half an hour in the library at Netherfield entirely alone before she and Jane returned home, and though she had greeted him politely, he had only nodded in reply. He had not said even a single word to her.
Over Miss Darcy’s shoulder, Elizabeth glimpsed Mr. Darcy watching them, his gaze steady and unreadable. It unsettled her more than she would admit. As Georgiana looked ahead, distracted by Jane’s sweet laugh, Elizabeth wondered what he could possibly be thinking. And why did she care?
As she listened to Miss Darcy’s gentle voice beside her, describing what they had done in London for Christmas, Elizabeth listened and determined to be fair. Mr. Darcy might be proud, confusing, and infuriating, but his sister was little more than a girl and so very eager for companionship and connection. Elizabeth resolved to make her feel as welcome as she could.
As they strolled out of the garden and across the frosty fields towards the river, Elizabeth found herself surprisingly at ease with Miss Darcy. But before long, Mr. Darcy fell into step beside them, and Miss Darcy, casting a warm glance between them, murmured a quick excuse and dropped back to join Colonel Fitzwilliam.
For a moment, silence settled between Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, but then he spoke, his tone more candid than she remembered. “I trust Longbourn is as well maintained as ever?”
Elizabeth hesitated, sensing a deeper inquiry beneath the unusual question. “Yes,” she replied lightly. “Though I daresay the maintenance is rather more in Mr. Garret’s capable hands than my father’s.” She knew there were several issues thatrequired tending to—a fence, the ha-ha, a flooded field—but her father would likely wait until the spring to correct them.
Mr. Darcy’s brows drew together as if he had expected as much. “Is Mr. Bennet an engaged landlord?” His tone was calm, but there was a faint tension in his gaze, an unusual restlessness.
Elizabeth chose her words carefully. “My father prefers the study to the fields. Like many gentlemen, he trusts the day-to-day affairs to his steward. He does, however, pay close attention to the estate’s expenditures and profits.”
Mr. Darcy’s expression grew more serious, though he nodded politely. “Pemberley has a steward too, of course, though the property is a good deal larger.”
Elizabeth felt a twinge of discomfort, but for once, she did not think he intended to insult Longbourn’s size. In fact, it seemed as though his thoughts were far away. “Longbourn has its benefits and its challenges,” she answered diplomatically, keeping her tone bright. “I suppose every estate does. As a gentleman so dedicated to Pemberley, you must be familiar with such responsibilities.”
A trace of something like anxiety lingered in his eyes. How very odd.
“Pemberley was my father’s life work, and it has become my own as well, Miss Elizabeth.” He looked away, a slight frown creasing his brow. “There is much to consider, many people for whom I am responsible. Not only those in my employ, but those whose livelihoods depend upon the estate’s prosperity. As Pemberley goes, so go Kympton and Lambton. It requires a great deal of advance planning, and even then, things can and do go awry.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. His manner, usually so composed, felt raw, almost vulnerable. “I wish my own father planned more, to be honest.” She offered what she hoped was anencouraging smile. “You carry more than Pemberley on your shoulders, Mr. Darcy.”
He glanced at her, a hint of frustration flickering in his expression, though he maintained his composure. “I do, Miss Elizabeth,” he replied, his voice heavy with some meaning she could not grasp.
When he fell silent, Elizabeth was relieved. Mr. Darcy had spoken more freely with her in these few minutes than he had all of last autumn. And though he had been courteous, his questions left her feeling as though she had been subjected to a careful sort of interrogation. She could not shake the sense that there was more to his questions than simply making conversation.
As they continued their walk, her mind whirled with questions of her own, and she found herself casting sidelong glances at Mr. Darcy, feeling an unexpected sympathy for him. Whatever could have unsettled him so?
Chapter Five
