Page 58 of A November to Remember

“Easy,” Darcy murmured, maintaining a punishing grip on the halter. He stroked the horse’s neck, pitching his voice low. “You are merely going to drag a piece of wood. It is beneath your dignity, I know, but one must make allowances. We are gentlemen, are we not? Gentlemen help people in need. That boy needs us.”

Elizabeth stepped into the horse’s line of sight, emanating resolve. Roc locked his eyes on her, let out a long, shuddering breath, and stilled, allowing the grooms to fit a draught collar and harness.

Darcy backed the horse up to the beam. Dickinson secured the thick ropes around the wood and attached them to the traces.

“Clear the area!” Darcy bellowed, gripping the lead rope firmly.

The men scattered. Darcy moved to Roc’s head, planting his boots in the mud.

“Walk on.” Darcy clicked his tongue, guiding the horse forward.

Roc leaned into the harness, the thick leather creaking. The stallion’s muscles bunched, his hooves digging deep grooves into the dirt. For a second, the beam held fast. Then, with a loud, shrieking scrape of wood against stone, the beam dragged forward.

“Hold!” Darcy shouted.

The horse stopped instantly, standing as still as a statue.

The gap widened just enough. A groom wedged a stout block beneath the timber to hold it open. Dickinson and Boodles reached in, grabbed little Mick by the shoulders, and hauled the sobbing boy out of the wreckage and into the arms of his father, a cheer erupting in the stable yard.

Darcy blew out a long breath, resting his forehead against Roc’s sweaty neck. The horse tossed his head, annoyed by the manual labour, and let out a demanding snort. He ignored Darcy, turning his head to nudge Elizabeth’s shoulder.

She laughed, bringing her hands up to scratch the horse’s neck. “You are a very brave gentleman. Yes, you are. And you expect compensation, do you not?”

She lifted the apple she was still holding and offered it to the horse, who started eating it with pleasure.

Darcy unclipped the harness and tossed it to a groom. He turned towards Elizabeth, feeling the acute lack of his cravat and the breeze coming through the tear in his breeches.

“I was a brave gentleman too, Miss Elizabeth. I believe I earned my apple.” Darcy leaned against the wooden fence next to her. “I ruined an excellent pair of breeches and inhaled half a century of dust.”

She kept her attention on the horse, but her brow rose to that challenging height he so adored. “Roc did all the heavy pulling, Mr Darcy. You merely stood there looking frantic.”

“I provided moral support. And direction.”

From across the yard, the three valets approached. Dawson, Boodles, and Dickinson moved shoulder to shoulder, carrying a woven basket overflowing with green apples. They stopped precisely ten feet away, eyeing the black stallion as though he might breathe fire.

“Apples, sir.” Dawson held the basket out at arm’s length. “For the beast.”

Miss Elizabeth laughed heartily. She walked over to the men, took the basket, and smiled at them. “Thank you, Dawson, Boodles, Dickinson. I shall distribute the rewards to all worthy gentlemen. You may retreat to safety.”

The three men bowed and vanished.

She pulled an apple from the basket and offered it flat-palmed to Roc, who crunched it happily.

“There, you have more,” she said. Then she picked up a second apple and tossed it to Darcy.

He caught it one-handed, raising an eyebrow.

She put the basket down, and her amusement faded into a more assessing look, her eyes sweeping over his dirt-streaked face, his untied collar, and his ruined clothes.

“I must confess, Mr Darcy.” She tilted her head slightly. “I never expected you to be so good with children. You were rather wonderful down there.”

She offered him a quick smile, turned, and walked back to the house, her grey skirts swishing softly against the grass.

Darcy stood in the mud, holding the apple, watching her until she disappeared through the garden door. He turned to Roc. “Do not look at me like that. At least she tossed me one.”

Roc snorted in complete agreement.

Darcy was not prone to dramatic interpretations; however, he could not help thinking that some kind of tragedy had fallen into one half of the Netherfield dining room while a great triumph was being celebrated in the other.