As we drew nearer, the reason for the pony’s alertness became apparent. Shouts echoed from within the nearest work building, followed swiftly by the door banging open. A thick-necked man stumbled out, propelled forcefully from behind. He wheeled to face his assailant—a grim-looking overseer with outrage etched in the lines around his mouth.
“I’ll have no lollygagging or smoking pipes on my watch!” The overseer’s bark carried clearly across the yard. He emphasized his point with a sharp jab of his finger. “You were warned, now off with you!”
“Here now, you can’t go tossing a man out his place for naught but lighting his pipe,” the worker blustered. His protestation was met with a swift kick to the backside. With a stream of curses, the disgruntled laborer snatched up a stone from the riverbank and hurled it forcefully. Glass shattered, an angry counterpart to the overseer’s answering shout.
Jane’s alarmed gaze flew to the closed door, now sporting a gaping hole at waist height. “Oh! Surely, he will not...” She clasped her niece’s little shoulders, concern furrowing her brow.
I swiftly gathered the reins, my unease growing as more men boiled out of the doorway in pursuit of their banished companion. “Come, let us be off quickly.”
I clucked to the pony, and the merry little creature hurried on, carrying us away from the scene at the mill. But still, the angry shouts and calls of “Bring him back!” rang clearly in the summer air. My pulse beat faster until we topped the hill, and the golden fields of wheat rose to hide the vista of seething discontent behind stone walls.
A fragile silence enfolded us, broken only by the creak of the phaeton and Anne’s happy babble. I risked a sideways glance at Jane as she bit her lip anxiously. “So much anger and resentment,” she finally murmured. “But surely one man’s careless mistake does not merit dismissal?”
“The mill is built mostly of wood, Jane. I remember Father… that is, Mr. Darcy, talking about it when he was building it. A fire would be the most dangerous thing in the world. He used stone where he could, and I think I remember him saying something about iron beams, but the roof and the walls and floors would be like dry tinder. And if the flame were hot enough, even wool would ignite like cotton.” I glanced over my shoulder, back toward the mill. “Did you see, it was not merely the overseer chasing that man away? No one else wants to risk a fire.”
“They would turn out one of their own?”
I shrugged. “If needs be, I suppose they would. But I think it is oftener the case that the workers are allied against the overseer. And the mill in general. I remember it was not popular when it was first built because of the power loom. I wonder if that has changed.”
Silence reigned for several minutes as we continued more somberly through the countryside. Then, mindful of little ears, Jane smiled brightly and pointed ahead. “Look, Anne, darling! Sheep!”
As fluffy distractions diverted our young charge, I flicked the reins lightly across the pony’s back. The images from the river played over behind my eyes... the overseer’s angry countenance, his work-roughened hands clenching into fists. How keenly Mr. Darcy’s original predictions of mill troubles had rung true in the voices raised and the stones hurled in defiance. What resentments stirred in other faces bent over the machinery that drove the great machines?
I thought with a pang of Mr. Darcy—two Mr. Darcys, rather. One, my dear friend and benefactor, who might now be with God. The other... My restless thoughts shied away from contemplating that stern-faced stranger in the Lambton cobbler shop. I would far rather think of George, with his sunny smile and his way of turning even a rainy day into sunshine.
Instead, I pictured a tall, grey-haired man leaning over a table scattered with plans and ledgers—George Darcy, Senior, explaining his vision for the mill to my uncle all those years ago. He had spoken of prosperity not just for landowners but also for laborers and their families. Of course, disputes still arose, but was there not a way forward guided by wisdom and compassion on both sides?
As I drove, I gazed out unseeingly across the patchwork of field and forest calm that had replaced the towers of brick. I had forced my mind back to happier thoughts—a laughing tow-headed boy racing across summer lawns without a care. Alongside him ran a skinny girl, one stocking sagging, tangled curls escaping their ribbon.
Perhaps Jane was right. I could go to Pemberley, could I not? Strangers were always touring the estate, so why not I? It was not as if I would have to intrude upon the family’s notice.
But if I shouldhappento stumble across someone I knew from before, and if they shouldhappento recognize me… then perhaps I might, at last, have some answers to the questions that had rumbled in my heart for seven years.
However, I would have to do it without Uncle Gardiner’s approval. He never told me why, but he always warned me against any overtures, and on this journey, he was watching me rather closely. Well… he would be going back to London in a few more days. With a deep sigh, I turned the pony’s head toward home.
Eight
Darcy
Ipacedthelengthof my study, hands clasped behind my back. The image of that laughing woman in Watson’s shop still plagued me. There was something so uncannily familiar in her dark eyes and the defiant angle of her chin when our gazes met. And yet, she had looked away without a word of greeting as though I was a stranger.
Was it Elizabeth Smith? Ithadto be.
My memory conjured an image from years past—three young children racing wildly across Pemberley’s lawns, shrieking and laughing. A scrappy blond boy of ten, my own awkward frame at fourteen, trying to keep up though my lungs screamed for air. And a girl with tangled chestnut curls escaping her braid, throwing insults and dares over her shoulder.
Lizzy.The girl I’d once loved like a sister.
Could it have been the same girl grown into a woman these seven years later? But if so, why had she not made herself known? An uncomfortable thought pricked at me. Had my manner not been warm enough? I was not the easiest man to read—everyone always told me that. Had she mistaken my shocked silence for haughtiness or disregard? Should I have taken a risk and gone back to find her once I conjured her name?
With a sigh, I strode to the window overlooking the drive. Somewhere beyond that gently sloping hill lay the village of Lambton. And perhaps, in its winding streets, the mysterious woman who had blushed crimson and hidden her face at the sight of me.
Never in my life had a woman—well, a woman unrelated to me—seemed not to desire my notice. Granted, my awkwardness and reserve in female company often worked to my detriment, but outright avoidance was unheard of. What had made Elizabeth Smith, if it was her, refuse even to greet an old compatriot? Did she resent me somehow for her abrupt removal from Pemberley all those years ago?
I winced at the memory. Both George and I had beleaguered Father relentlessly for weeks after she left, demanding an explanation for her sudden banishment. We wept, we threatened, we fought and shouted, but his stony features and curt replies gave nothing away. Over time, I had nearly managed to block the hurt of abandonment from my heart, only to have it come crashing back upon seeing those dark, defiant eyes once more.
A knock at the door interrupted my musings. I tugged my waistcoat straight and willed the scowl from my face. “Enter.”
Bingley walked in, an eager lightness in his step that made me instantly envious. If only my mind could know such untroubled thoughts.
