Page 6 of Mr Darcy’s Lakeside Romance

Fletcher stared at Darcy as if his master had just ordered him to eat a live eel. “Sir?”

“Take him under your wing, Fletcher. Teach him how to navigate a room without destroying the furniture. I expect him to be serving tea with flawless precision by Friday.”

“But sir—I am a valet, not a governess—”

“I have faith in your abilities, Fletcher.” Darcy clapped a dusty hand on the valet’s shoulder, leaving a grey handprint on the fine wool coat. “Mrs Reynolds sent him to the kitchens. You will likely find him covered in flour or being mauled by the dogs.”

Fletcher regarded the dusty handprint on his shoulder. His soul appeared to leave his body, ascending to the vaulted ceiling of the entrance hall.

Before the valet could formulate a protest, Darcy turned on his heel. He needed quiet and to wash the dust of the road from his skin, but more than that, he needed the stillness of the grounds. The house, filled with Georgiana’s chatter, Mrs Reynolds’s complaints, and the impending collision between Fletcher and Bates, was too loud.

“I shall bathe later,” Darcy announced to the room at large. “I am going for a walk down by the lake. I require thirty minutes of uninterrupted silence before I am forced to throttle someone.”

He marched back out the front doors, ignoring Fletcher’s muted whimper behind him. The late morning sun was painting the sky in shades of gold. He directed his steps to the path that led down to the great lake, determined to clear his head. He would walk near the water, focus his mind on estate business, and banish the lingering ghosts of Hunsford once and for all.

Chapter Three: A Collision of Worlds and Wolfhounds

The morning sun coming through the thin linen curtains of the Black Swan annoyed Elizabeth. She had not slept. She had spent the entirety of the night tangled in the linens, staring at the plastered ceiling while her mind constructed a thousand scenarios, each more mortifying than the last.

She was going to Pemberley.

Elizabeth willed the erratic hammering of her heart to cease. Mrs Honoria Lovejoy’s confident assurances echoed mockingly in her ears. The family is definitively away. It was a reasonable statement. A gentleman of Fitzwilliam Darcy’s consequence was likely attending suppers in Bath, casting his disdainful eye over the debutantes, judging them all unworthy of his lofty standards.

He was not at Pemberley. He could not be at Pemberley.

Elizabeth threw the covers aside, and went on to pour fresh water from the ewer into the matching basin, splashing it on her cheeks. She stared at her reflection in the small looking-glass above the washstand. Circles bruised the delicate skin beneath her eyes, betraying her nocturnal agitation. She pinched her cheeks, forcing a false flush into her complexion. She would not allow her Aunt Madeline and Uncle Edward to suspect her dread. She would be the picture of cheerful, unburdened curiosity. She would admire the architecture, praise the landscaping, and survive the excursion through willpower.

The fragrant aroma of fried bacon, toasted bread, and freshly brewed tea drifted up the staircase, pulling Elizabeth to the inn’s private parlour. She smoothed the skirt of her yellow walking gown—a sensible, unpretentious garment perfectly suited for trespassing on the grandest estate in the county—and fixed a smile on her face before pushing open the door.

Uncle Edward sat at the head of the small table, a linen napkin tucked into his waistcoat, demolishing a plate of eggs and ham. Aunt Madeline occupied the seat to his right, sipping her tea and perusing a guidebook to the Derbyshire peaks.

Uncle Edward brandished his fork in a salute. “Ah, Lizzy! You look refreshed this morning. The country air is already working its magic on you.”

Elizabeth took her seat, pouring a cup of tea with a steady hand. “I slept exceptionally well, Uncle. The beds here are superior to the accommodations at the posting inns. I am prepared for our grand adventure.”

Aunt Madeline lowered her guidebook, surveying Elizabeth’s face with unsettling precision. “Are you quite certain, my dear? You have a rather distinct tension about the shoulders this morning. If you are truly averse to touring great houses, Edward and I can divert our hired phaeton to the limestone caves at Castleton instead.”

Elizabeth’s heart executed a hopeful leap in her chest, but she suppressed it. She could not ruin their anticipated pleasure because her own foolish, impulsive mouth had created a mortal enemy of the estate’s owner.

She reached for a slice of toast, buttering it with unhurried strokes. “Nonsense, Aunt. I am eager to begin. Mrs Lovejoy painted such a portrait of the grounds last evening, I fear I shall be disappointed if the trees are not spun from gold.”

Her aunt chuckled, signalling the serving girl for another rasher of bacon. “Honoria has always had a flair for the dramatic. But Pemberley is indeed a marvel. I have not seen it since I was a young woman, delivering supplies with my father. I am eager to see how the young Mr Darcy has maintained the place.”

Elizabeth took a sip of her tea, the liquid tasting like ash. The young Mr Darcy. The name alone sent a phantom chill inside her, a visceral memory of the proposal at Hunsford parsonage. She could still see his rigid posture, the haughty, condescending tilt of his chin as he insulted her family, her connections, and her existence before demanding her hand in marriage.

I have struggled in vain, and I can bear it no longer.

She shoved the memory into a locked corner of her mind. He was in London. She was in Derbyshire. Their paths would never cross again.

The hired conveyance was waiting before the inn at ten o’clock. It was a modest, open carriage lacking the plush velvet squabs and springs of the Gardiner carriage, but it allowed for an unobstructed view of the countryside. Elizabeth settled onto the bench beside her aunt, unfurling her parasol to shield her face from the mounting heat of the late morning sun.

The drive from Lambton to the Pemberley estate was a matter of a few short miles, but the transition from the bustling, common village to the hushed splendour of the private grounds was immediate. They passed through a set of ornate iron gates surrounded by a picturesque stone lodge. They rolled onto an impeccably raked gravel drive that wound its way through a dense forest of oak and beech trees.

Elizabeth’s initial dread was overshadowed by awe. The woods were overgrown but not wild. For nearly twenty minutes, they drove through the shadowed timber, the anticipation building with every turn of the carriage wheels. Then, the trees abruptly gave way, and they crested a gentle rise.

Elizabeth’s breath trapped itself in her throat.

Pemberley stood across an emerald valley, an imposing structure of pale stone that seemed to rise from the earth itself. It was grand and breathtakingly elegant, devoid of the gaudy, ostentatious ornamentation that plagued so many modern estates. It sat on a slight eminence, backed by a wooded ridge that provided a dramatic frame for the architecture. In front of the house, a river swelled into a crystalline lake, reflecting the blue sky and its few white clouds with mirror-like perfection.