Page 5 of Mr Darcy’s Lakeside Romance

Darcy dismounted, tossing the reins to a waiting stable boy, and caught his sister in a tight embrace. She felt stronger, more solid than she had during the miserable, shadowed days in London last winter.

He pulled back, gripping her shoulders and studying her face. The fragile ghost of Ramsgate had vanished. Georgiana’s cheeks were flushed with a healthy pink, and her blue eyes sparkled with unburdened delight.

“You did not write to say you were coming!” She swatted his dusty arm playfully, unbothered by the dirt transferring to her sleeve.

“London grew unbearably hot, and I found myself longing for the trees.” Darcy smiled, the expression softening the harsh angles of his face.

Mrs Annesley appeared at the top of the stairs, her movements graceful and unhurried. The older woman possessed a warm, maternal countenance and a gentle authority that had worked miracles on Georgiana’s shattered confidence.

Darcy bowed to the lady. “Mrs Annesley. I trust my sister has not been tormenting the pianoforte too ruthlessly in my absence.”

“Miss Darcy plays beautifully, sir. Though she has spent more time in the gardens coaxing the hounds to jump through hoops than she has at her music.”

Georgiana linked her arm through his, dragging him to the open doors. “You must come inside. You look dreadful, Fitzwilliam. Are you certain you did not sleep in a ditch?”

Darcy chuckled, the darkness of the past weeks lifting. “Fletcher would undoubtedly agree with you. He is sulking in the carriage somewhere near Lambton and plotting my demise.”

They crossed the threshold into the entrance hall, the cool marble floor a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the courtyard. Darcy began to strip off his riding gloves, preparing to ask Mrs Reynolds for a hot bath, when a violent crash echoed from the shadows near the staircase.

A tall, gangly young man in the Pemberley livery shot up from the floor, his face the colour of a crushed strawberry. He had tripped over the edge of a rug and taken a brass umbrella stand down with him.

The young man scrambled to attention, his long limbs knocking at one another. “Welcome home, Mr Darcy, sir! I am—that is to say, the rug—it was unprovoked, sir!”

Darcy blinked, pausing with one glove half-removed. He looked from the trembling youth to the dented brass stand, and then up to the gallery where Mrs Reynolds stood, her lips pursed so tightly they had vanished.

“And who,” Darcy asked, keeping his voice level, “might you be?”

The young man stepped forward, executing a bow so rigid it appeared painful. “Bates, sir. The new footman. Mrs Reynolds hired me on Tuesday last. It is my utmost honour to serve the noble house of Pemberley, sir. I shall take your coat! And your hat! And your whip!”

Bates lunged forward and snatched the riding crop from Darcy’s hand, spun around to place it on a side table, and managed to strike one of the stone pillars with the handle, the crack echoing through the hall.

Two enormous wolfhounds, Apollo and Diana, who had been dozing peacefully, leapt to their feet. They took one look at the flailing new footman and began a low, menacing growl, their hackles raised in unified disapproval.

“Bates,” Mrs Reynolds called down, her voice dripping with housekeeperly disdain. “Perhaps you should return to the kitchens and assist with the polishing. Before you dismantle the manor.”

Bates deflated, his shoulders hunching up around his ears. “Yes, Mrs Reynolds. Apologies, Mr Darcy. The pillar jumped out at me.”

He scurried to the servants’ passage, but not before Apollo lunged forward, snapping his jaws at the loose fabric of Bates’s breeches. The footman yelped, executing a leap over a decorative urn before vanishing through the baize door.

Georgiana pressed a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Darcy sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I assume there is a reason we have employed a man who has the awareness of a blindfolded calf?”

Mrs Annesley, having followed them into the hall, offered a sympathetic smile. “He is the eldest son of Mrs Bates, the widow at the Lower Farm. She has four younger children, and the winter was hard on their crops. He is an earnest young man, Mr Darcy, though his limbs do seem to operate independently of his brain.”

Darcy nodded. That explained it. The Bates family had been reliable tenants for three generations. He would not turn the boy out to starve because he posed a hazard to the decorative arts. The lad needed the wages, and Pemberley could afford to replace a few broken vases in the name of duty.

Mrs Reynolds descended the stairs, her keys jingling on her apron. “He is a walking disaster, sir. The cook threw a wooden spoon at his head yesterday morning because he managed to tip a barrel of flour into the washing copper. The hounds despise him. I fear for the china.”

“He will learn, Mrs Reynolds.” Darcy adjusted his coat, ignoring the dust. “He needs proper instruction and a firm hand.”

Fletcher arrived, looking as though he had just stepped out of a tailor’s shop in Bond Street. Not a single hair was out of place, his boots gleamed, and his cravat remained a masterpiece, despite the summer heat.

Fletcher took one look at Darcy’s mud-splattered state and closed his eyes in silent prayer. “I shall order the bath drawn, sir. If we hurry, we might yet save your complexion from permanent damage.”

An idea bloomed in Darcy’s mind. He turned to his valet, offering a small smile.

“Fletcher. We have a new footman. His name is Bates. He is eager but lacks a certain... refinement of movement. I am placing him under your personal tutelage.”