Page 63 of Courting Elizabeth

Fitzwilliam rubbed the back of his neck.

“Then we must hope Forster will heed my warning.”

“I do not like depending on hope.”

“Neither do I.”

The previous Monday, I had ridden up to the Thwaites’.

The yard smelled of warm manure and laundry. Mrs Thwaite had let me in without a word, her hands still red from her washtub, and had left me standing while her three daughters watched me from the stairs.

I had not spoken of reading.

I had asked who kept the farm accounts.

She had replied that her husband kept them in his head, that he made mistakes twice a year, and that the last error had cost them eleven shillings at the grain merchant’s in Lambton.

I had said that Ann already knew how to add three-digit figures.

Mrs Thwaite had taken a long moment to set down her cloth.

The girls had returned on Wednesday. Two other families had followed. Mrs Allen had sent me a note of four lines, the last simply announcing that she was keeping her apron.

I had said nothing of it to Fitzwilliam.

He had learned of it from his steward. That very evening, he had only asked how I had convinced the Thwaites, then listened until I finished. This restraint was worth more than another apology.

My anxiety over Lydia darkened the morning, however. After luncheon, Fitzwilliam proposed a ride. The sky was overcast, but the air mild. He assured me we would return before the rain.

“That’s remarkable confidence in your power over the elements,” I observed.

“Pemberley is a well-administered estate.”

“Even the clouds?”

“I am still negotiating their cooperation.”

We set off with a groom who kept his distance. My mount, a bay mare named Juniper, had been chosen for her calm temperament. Fitzwilliam rode a large black horse that seemed to have inherited his pride and his poor opinion of the rest of the world.

I pointed this out to him.

“Orion possesses excellent judgment,” he replied.

“He tried to bite your valet yesterday.”

“My valet had fastened a girth incorrectly.”

“So you defend all the arrogant creatures of this house?”

“Only those who resemble me.”

He smiled as he said it.

I still had not learned to resist his smile.

We rode through the woods, then across a sloping meadow where the tall grass undulated in the wind. Fitzwilliam showed me the boundaries of a farm, the location of the school I had visited with Mrs Reynolds, a small bridge that had been carried away the previous winter. Each project revealed a part of him: his need for order, his sense of responsibility, the genuine attention he paid to the lives that depended on the estate.

Perhaps I already loved him.