“That was not my intention.”
Mr. Philips strode toward her, irritation and fear warring visibly across his face. “Were you down there? Tell me you did not climb down into some unknown hole beneath a flooded cellar without waiting for me.”
Elizabeth winced. “I would prefer not to tell you that.”
“Elizabeth!”
“But look.” In her eagerness, she thrust out her hand too quickly. The coin slipped from her muddy fingers, struck the stone floor with a small ringing sound, and rolled in a bright arc toward Mr. Philips’s boot.
“Oh!” Elizabeth dropped at once to retrieve it, mortified by her own clumsiness. The coin had come to rest in a shallow crack between two stones, and she had to tug off her worn working-glove to pry it free.
She closed her fingers around it and rose, only to find herself face to face with the most handsome man she had ever met.
For one breathless instant, Elizabeth forgot the coin, the cellar, the mud upon her gown, and even the horror of her uncle’s scolding. The gentleman stood close enough that she could see the rain still darkening the shoulders of his coat and the sharp intelligence in eyes fixed, not upon the gold in her hand, but upon her face. His expression was grave, almost severe, yet something in the sudden stillness between them made her pulse skip a beat.
Behind her, Susie let out a little gasp. “Mr. Darcy!”
Chapter 9
February 1809—Matlock House, London
Matlock House had not changed nearly so much as Darcy had.
That was his first thought upon waking in the guest chamber that had been assigned to him the night before. The same heavy curtains framed the tall windows, the same carved bedstead occupied the center of the room, and the same portrait of some long-dead Fitzwilliam ancestor glowered down from above the mantel with an expression suggesting disapproval of everything after the reign of Queen Anne.
Outside, London looked damp and colorless beneath a February sky that threatened more rain without yet delivering it. Darcy stood at the window while tying his cravat, his gaze drifting over the wet street below. He had obtained leave from the Derbyshire militia with some difficulty, though no one had objected to his purpose when he explained it. Georgiana would turn fourteen that week, and he had not seen her since the previous autumn. The thought of missing another birthday had been intolerable.
He had intended to arrive earlier, but the roads made their own arguments and won nearly all of them. Rain, washed-out lanes, overturned carts, and endless mud had turned travelsouth into a trial of patience. By the time he reached Matlock House the previous evening, Lady Matlock had declared him half-starved, Georgiana had nearly knocked him backward with the force of her embrace, and Lord Matlock had taken one look at his boots and ordered wine with the air of a man overseeing battlefield triage.
Now, with the household gathered for breakfast, Darcy found himself subjected to Lady Matlock’s inspection once more.
“You are thinner,” she declared from her place beside the tea tray.
“I am not, Aunt.”
“You are.”
“I assure you, militia officers are fed at regular intervals.”
Lady Matlock gave him a look that informed him she placed little confidence in either militias or intervals. “Fed and nourished are not always the same thing. You have always had a most provoking habit of believing food unnecessary when work presents itself.”
Across the table, Viscount Milton hid a smile behind his coffee cup. As Lord Matlock’s eldest son and Richard’s elder brother, Milton possessed the Fitzwilliam height and coloring, along with a talent for appearing indolent while missing almost nothing. “Take care, Darcy. Mama has been deprived of her sons long enough that she must distribute all unused maternal concern upon you. Submit gracefully, or she will begin ordering broth.”
Georgiana giggled.
Lady Matlock turned upon her son. “You may jest, Milton, but if you looked as though you had been living upon dispatches and discipline for three years, I would say the same of you.”
Milton set down his cup with mock solemnity. “Then I shall endeavor always to look idle and overfed, merely to spare your nerves.”
“An ambition at which you have long excelled,” Lord Matlock said without looking up from his newspaper.
Georgiana laughed outright at that, then covered her mouth as though remembering she was nearly fourteen and ought to be more composed. Darcy watched her with a warmth that eased something in his chest. She had grown taller since he last saw her, though she remained slight, with the same gentle gravity that had marked her even as a child. At Pemberley, she had always seemed too quiet for her age. Here, among the Fitzwilliams, she appeared less burdened. Lady Matlock’s affectionate fussing, Milton’s teasing, and Lord Matlock’s steady presence had given her something Darcy could never have provided alone: a household full of easy attachment.
For a moment, he felt the pang of it.
He could imagine it too clearly—remaining at Matlock House, dining with family, seeing Georgiana every day, allowing other people to bear some portion of every burden. It was a dangerous thought because it was so pleasant. There were no damp tenant cottages waiting here, no militia rosters, no accounts to balance until his eyes burned, no constant reminder that Pemberley had survived only because sacrifice had become habit.
Then he looked down at his hands, at the faint ink stain upon one finger from the ledgers he had carried even to London, and the foolishness passed.
