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“A Mr Stewart?”
He shook his head, negative.
“Steward? Your steward?”
A nod.
“Pribbling puttock. No. Puny priggles. No! Derby. Pen.”
“Derby…Oh. Pen a letter to Derbyshire?”
“Yes. No.”
Finally, she had ‘Pemberley’ in ‘Derbyshire’ and understood he wished her to explain his circumstances to the steward there as well as provide instruction on a number of estate issues. The process of communication was wearisome and frustrating to him, certainly, but she noted that he never lost his temper with her inability to understand. All his vexation was self-directed.
“Are you worried?” she asked him once, after finishing the dictation to another of his men of business—he seemed to have numerous such men employed. “Do you fear that your finances will suffer due to your absence from town and Pemberley?”
It was a bold question, born of the subjects just dictated, and she only realised it to be none of her concern after the voicing of it. But he did not appear to notice.
He shook his head in the negative. “Fiend seize it. No. Many.” He gestured expansively. “Good men.”
“You have several different men managing your interests. Is that not dangerous? You are at the centre of all your business concerns, yet if you are unable to lead, who else will be able to sort out the intricacy of it? Might the pieces fail to unite, risking the collapse of all?”
He shrugged then smiled. “Fall…slower.”
The letters exhausted him, and she knew he chafed at his slow pace. He was apparently accustomed to doing the work of many men—certainly her father had not even a particle of his varied affairs. Tradespeople, solicitors, importers, exporters, and manufacturers formed a complex web of associations and investments. The earl could not touch most of it—would not have the slightest idea how to do it. Matlock would likely fix his attention on Pemberley and let the rest go to the devil, if it were up to him. And Pemberley, Mr Darcy explained, while the jewel of his holdings, was responsible for only a third of his profits—naming sums that she wondered at. Ten thousand a year was the least of it.
A lifetime spent with an indolent father who squandered—she did not think it too harsh a word—his fortune and failed to plan for the eventuality of his death for any of his family, never mind his least-favourite daughter, gave her a special appreciation for the complexities of the management of his affairs. As if she needed another reason to admire him.
The few non-Darcy servants took their orders from Lizzy and left him carefully alone. She could only imagine how he might be treated if he were to grunt nonsense and curse at them. Still, one had only to see how much improvement Mr Darcy had made in a single week to know that there was ample reason for optimism.
One niggling worry, however, only grew: Where were the Bingleys?
* * *
After dinner each evening, they did not separate but removed to a favourite parlour. Darcy did not talk, staring into the flames, exhausted from his day’s activities. He liked that Elizabeth felt no need to fill the space with words but simply let him be. He wondered what she thought of him, whether she considered him merely a pathetic invalid under her care. He had loved her before, as a daughter of Longbourn; now, a confluence of gratitude and appreciation heightened his early admiration. She was nearly perfect in his eyes, and sonnets memorised as a youth bloomed again within his mind.
He must have watched her too intently, for she looked up from her embroidery to meet his gaze.
“Is anything the matter, sir? Is there a draught?”
Shaking his head, he forced himself to speak. “Thinking…book.” It was not exactly what he meant to say but close enough.
She cocked her head. “Is your reading improving? Shall I fetch one for you?”
Actually, he had tried to read, again, earlier that day, but the words swam on the page, as they did when he attempted writing. He opened his mouth to say—or attempt to say—that he was simply tired but instead uttered, “‘Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, for thee, for myself, no quiet find.’”
Her eyes widened, dawning excitement on her brow. “Shakespeare? Perfectly said! I cannot believe my ears! Can you remember the rest? Can you try?”
Just as surprised as she, he tried again for more. “Fiddlesticks,” he blurted then closed his eyes in frustration.
“No, I am sure you can do it,” Lizzy cried, leaning forward in her seat. “Say it with me: ‘Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, the dear repose for limbs with travel tired…’”
“‘But then begins a journey in my head to work my mind, when body’s work’s expired,’” he quoted.
Lizzy clapped, bouncing a little on her seat. “Very good! Do you know this? ‘I love to hear her speak, yet well I know, that music hath a far more pleasing sound. I grant I—’”
“‘Never saw a goddess go, my mistress when she walks, treads on the ground,’” he finished.
