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Pemberley. Home. For a day after arriving, Darcy basked in the comforting feeling of being surrounded by familiarity. But the differences within himself soon became obvious as well. Not simply that he had difficulty reading and writing but that his senses were…disordered, especially in the evenings, when fatigued. He would forget servants were in the room only to be startled when a small movement reminded him. He could not remember it happening with Lizzy—he had always been aware of her, no matter how quiet.
Too often, he missed what others were saying and had to ask for repetition. Darcy had always enjoyed business with, as his father had sometimes worried, an ‘unnatural interest’ in trade. He had mountains of correspondence, only some of which his solicitors had dealt with previously. It required his own attention, and yet his brainbox scrambled letters and words into Gordian knots that he must painstakingly unravel, taking hours to do what he had once done in minutes. It was vital that he hire a secretary, but it was one thing to ask Mrs Reynolds or Dobbs, his steward, to repeat themselves and quite another to trust a stranger. Any negative publicity could be fatal to his reputation. With every day that he was able to manage his own affairs, his sister and his future stayed within his control. So, he took an absurd number of hours producing a legible note explaining his whereabouts and had it sent to Highview via express. Perhaps Gardiner would agree to act in that stead for a time.
He missed Georgiana. He longed for Elizabeth. He envied Bingley, who had the privilege of watching over them. Vexation and despair flooded him. I ought to be the one to safeguard and protect them both. Painfully, he acknowledged the truth: Lizzy was right to have refused his suit. If he could not even take on a secretary, he was hardly ready to take on his uncle. It had been hubris to ask her as well as a sign of how much he had taken for granted—she had done so much to make his life run smoothly, whilst he pretended he could have everything simply because he wanted it.
* * *
Once upon a time, Darcy thought the day wasted if he did not work on seven schemes at once, if no letters were written or business transactions negotiated, if his stewards were not given multiple assignments, if projects were left unplanned.
He could no longer even think of seven things at once, much less work on so many. Although he felt his strength build daily, and there was definite improvement in every aspect resulting from his relentless efforts, the frustration was a constant weight of worry. Each day, he practised his letters, forcing his fingers to copy the pages before him while they coiled and curled in his brain. The helplessness of it, to look around him at Pemberley’s library, the work of generations, and know how difficult it would be to decipher any of it. But because it took ages to make sense of reports from Dobbs, he rode the land with the man instead. Because he could not depend upon his tongue, he spoke little and listened much. Because he could not easily write out orders, he thought carefully before he gave them, using as few words as possible to communicate clearly.
And to his surprise, he discovered things he had never known.
Dobbs began sharing more of his own ideas for improvements, many of which were astute and prudent. Had the man always possessed such ingenuity? And the land. How long since he had connected with the acreage itself, the farms, the fields, and the forests? When had it become merely recorded lists of assets and ledger entries instead of the soul of his prosperity? When had he ceased participating in harvests and barn raisings, coming to better know his tenants and letting them know him?
Not all his discoveries were pleasant. Several of his tenant homes were lacking, with large families expected to share tiny spaces. How could he have failed to notice that more was required than roofing repairs? How could he expect the children of his current tenants to remain here when they were housed so inadequately? What was to become of those who the land could not support if he could not increase its yields? What was to become of the farms if the majority of his tenants could earn more in factories elsewhere?
Many of the answers to his questions were uncomfortable. His father had taught excellent principals of thrift, industry, and diligence but allowed, encouraged, even taught him to follow them in an overbearing, selfish manner. He was accustomed to thinking of his father as all that was good, even benevolent, because he had generously rewarded behaviour of which he approved. It did not mean, however, that he had been particularly generous.
He had prized thrift—so money was saved in housing and wages amongst his people. True, the farms were, during some years, unprofitable, but in putting aside and storing against those seasons, he had neglected liberality during times of plenty.
There was no school on the estate for the children, so many of them must be as he: powerless to unravel the knowledge surrounding them, at the mercy of those who would take advantage. ‘Too much education will create discontent, son,’ his father’s voice whispered. “The most important knowledge they receive comes in listening to their parents, in teaching them a love for the land.”
But if they could not afford to marry, would love for his land help them sleep better at night?
Wherever he looked, he saw too much needing improvement. Nothing was as it seemed. Never had he needed the fine education his father had provided him as now, whilst sweating over the recording of a simple thought. Never had he wished he had seen more to the schooling and nurture of his tenants and servants than now, when the skills and knowledge he had unthinkingly hoarded were trapped uselessly inside his mind. The little he had done in the past was plainly not enough to ensure prosperity in the future.
And yet, helpless as he felt, incompetent to deal with so much as he was…as the days passed, he never ceased wondering about Elizabeth, how she fared, and if she ever spared a thought for him.
* * *
Lizzy stared at her dress choices, an unfamiliar feeling of despair filling her. She had attended assemblies in Meryton since she was fifteen, and while the plainness of her clothing had always been a challenge, she’d had four sisters. None of them had minded if she borrowed a ribbon, a necklace, or made over a dress they had tired of to improve her appearance. Not even Mary, although she was prone to offer annoying praise upon her own benevolence.
But something about their divergent lives before the wedding had damaged the degree of intimacy required to casually rummage through Jane’s jewellery and lace. Lizzy’s best dress was of good fabric in a dark colour somewhere between brown and black, with absolutely nothing in the way of trims. She’d worn it to most of the parties and dances in Ramsgate without thinking much about it. Why should she care now?
With a sigh, she acknowledged to herself that it was all pride. Her uncle had been correct; she had wanted to show her father that she had not only survived but had thrived during her absence. That she could come and go as she pleased without reference to his feelings on the matter.
Which you can, Lizzy,she reminded her reflection. Forget not, you are fortunate that your father ignores your presence at Netherfield.
A tap on the door interrupted her self-lecture.
“Come in,” she called, and Georgiana entered. Lizzy grinned. “Have you changed your mind and decided to attend the assembly? Or did Lydia and Kitty scare you off it?”
“Oh! Oh no. They have been most kind,” Georgiana replied, a little flustered by the question.
Lizzy knew her brash younger sisters made Georgiana uncomfortable.
“I was wondering whether you might like to wear my lace collar? I think it would look lovely with your dress.”
Her cheeks were pink as she held out the thing, and Lizzy knew that kind, sensitive Georgiana had been the only one to worry about Lizzy’s appearance. Her own sister had never given it a thought—she was so accustomed to seeing Lizzy dressed sombrely and for Lizzy to be the one who did all the asking…she had never had to give it a thought. Jane would willingly agree to whatever was requested of her, but it was not quite the same as being empathetic. And of course, pleasing Mr Bingley was her life’s work now.
“Thank you, Georgie.” Lizzy smiled at the younger girl. “You know, there will be other young ladies in attendance who are not yet out. A large group, in fact, will be watching the dancing in chairs put up near the floor for that purpose. I would stay beside you and introduce you around. Several of the families are quite nice and, ahem, a bit calmer than my younger sisters.”
“You are very kind. But…I truly am not ready for such entertainments. I…well…” She bit her lip, bowing her head, and dropped hard into the nearest chair. “Please understand. I am happy I am not yet out, and I have that excuse not to participate. I…I have made mistakes, in the past. I hope you do not take offence if I share no details, for I still have not learnt to view them with equanimity.”
Lizzy felt her heart turn over at her friend’s sorrow. What had Mr Darcy told her about the man who had taken such extreme advantage of Georgiana’s youth and loneliness? A man who had grown up on the estate, who was well known to her from childhood, and who was their father’s godson as well, someone whom Georgie had no reason to suspect of nefarious motive. What was his name? Wilson? Wexham? No matter.
Lizzy went to her, knelt at her feet. “Of course I am not offended. I never could be, not by you. I pray you will look forward rather than back. All will be well.”
