Failurewasthelastthing she was worried about.
Miss Darcy was as easy a creature as any Elizabeth had ever met. Enchanting and biddable, talented and kind, the only fault Elizabeth could find with her charge was that Georgiana Darcy seemed insecure around people, particularly men. Elizabeth began gently encouraging the young heiress in conversation and in her duties as the mistress of the manor, and saw some little improvement in only a fortnight.
Pemberley itself was also nothing to complain of. The house was everything splendid—grandeur tastefully married to simplicity—and the grounds were far more than her adventurous and poetic heart could have longed for. Even better, Mrs Reynolds seemed to have taken a special liking to Elizabeth. She could not stir from her room but that the housekeeper appeared to know of it and managed to put some kindness in her way. In fact, every person she met at the estate was a comfort and a delight to her world-weary spirits…
And then, there was the master.
Elizabeth’s encounters with Mr Darcy began to follow a pattern which was only predictable in the man’s very capriciousness. He would arrive in a room as a great storming gale, an overwhelming presence that instantly drew all eyes and ears under his sway. He never seemed in a temper or even mildly put out, but even if everyone in the room did not answer to him already, they would have found themselves doing so simply because he expected it and gave them no alternative.
It was not that he was rude. Not quite. He spared not a second thought for general niceties of conversation or banal observations about the weather or the day’s events. It was as if those means of putting others at ease and diverting the conversation to one’s liking were beneath his dignity and beyond his patience. Rather, he would leap into one subject after another with all the grace and tact of an axe felling a giant oak. Once satisfied, he often quit the room as abruptly as he had entered it, with no indication of when the remaining parties therein would see him next.
For the first two weeks, Elizabeth had found his manners terribly unnerving. She never could decide what precisely he expected or thought of her, and that was a novel sensation. In all her prior experience, she had prided herself on her perception of persons, but with Mr Darcy, she was constantly on edge. As a tactic to combat this uncomfortable wariness he inspired in her, she developed a regrettable habit of delivering saucy retorts to his blunter statements. Rather than object, he would sally with something doubly vexing, until Elizabeth could not decide whether they were arguing or teasing one another. Either way, it was all fearfully improper behaviour for a lady’s companion and her employer.
One afternoon, a few weeks after Elizabeth had come to Pemberley, Miss Darcy retired earlier than usual to dress for dinner. Elizabeth, restless from far less walking than she had been accustomed to, took the opportunity to venture out into the dormant garden for a bit of fresh air. The exercise proved a balm to her rumpled thoughts, and before she quite understood herself, she had walked over an hour round the paths that were manicured even in late winter.
Just as she was feeling chilled and wishing to return to the house, she saw Mr Darcy cross the path ahead of her. He was on a tall bay horse and glanced almost nonchalantly in her direction as he slowed to a trot, then a walk. After a brief hesitation, he dismounted and approached, leading his horse.
“I trust you approve of the walking paths around the lake, Mrs Wickham.”
She clasped her hands together and tried to conceal a shiver. “There are few who could not approve, even at this time of year.”
“But you have a discerning eye and a critical tongue, therefore your opinion is more worth the having.”
She tilted her head to peer at him under her winter bonnet. “You think me critical, sir?”
“Are you not? But it was not an insult, Mrs Wickham. I value the opinions of those who will give me the unvarnished truth, far more than the silver words of those who mean only to tickle the vanity. What do you think, do the trees hang too low over the path? Should the bank be reinforced around the shallow parts?”
“I found nothing wanting. Moreover, I do not know why you would apply to my expertise, for it is minimal. The only thing I could possibly find lacking is that it was altogether too quiet for my taste.”
He surveyed her with a raised brow. “You prefer a large company on your constitutionals, Mrs Wickham?”
“You mistake me. I was longing to hear birds singing, and perhaps a squirrel or two rustling in the trees to break the monotony of the wood, but that is a vain fancy for it is the wrong time of year. But since you ask about my social preferences, I should say that one agreeable companion is far superior to a dozen less agreeable persons.”
“And what, in your estimation, constitutes an ‘agreeable’ companion?”
She pursed her lips and looked up to the trees in thought. “A like mind and good conversation.”
He walked several paces before answering. “A like mind, I believe we could produce for you, but what do you call good conversation? A skilled and artful painting of the world by the spoken word? An exudate of feeling, poured out and picked apart by many eager voices?”
“No, indeed. Despise my taste if you will, but I delight in wit and absurdity. You speak of paintings and tapestries, but I liken good conversation more to a chess board. And sometimes, to nothing at all.”
“Nothing?”
She drew in a deep breath, closing her eyes and relishing the smell of pine in chilled air. “Sometimes, words only interrupt the harmony. Have you never known anyone with whom you could converse without saying a single word?”
He focused his gaze on the ground before them. “One.”
Elizabeth watched him in curiosity. His jaw flexed once or twice, and something flickered about his expression, but he seemed to will it away. They were nearing the house and stables now, and she was glad of the prospect of a warm fire as the afternoon waned.
“Have you been to Lambton yet?” he asked suddenly.
She looked up at him. “Lambton? No, but I suggested to Miss Darcy that we might venture there one day.”
He nodded grimly. “Be prepared to be treated differently there.”
“Differently? How so, Mr Darcy?”
He stopped, glanced up at the stables ahead, then turned to her. “Bernard Wickham was not loved in Derbyshire any more than he was in London. It may take a few encounters for the townsfolk to understand you were not of his stamp.” He lifted his hat without another word, mounted his horse, and jogged towards the stables.
