Page 31 of Mr. Darcy's Folly
“I had no choice but to bring the geese back,” he admitted. “They arrived with great self-importance, herded by a rather smug tenant farmer, and promptly reclaimed their domain.”
“And was your valet pleased?”
Darcy let out a long breath. “He left my service two weeks later.”
It was too much for Miss Elizabeth. She threw her head back and laughed, though he noted she held her ribs as though they were painful.
Darcy could not quite suppress his own smile. “I am pleased to have entertained you, at least.”
She straightened, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Oh, indeed, sir. This is far better than your tragedy with the sheep. Pray, tell me, do you still keep geese at Pemberley?”
He sighed. “Yes. And they remain as unbearable as ever.”
Elizabeth laughed again, shaking her head. “I begin to think, Mr. Darcy, that your greatest enemy is not any man, but nature itself. It is a wonder you are so fond of it.”
He smirked and made a show of looking up. “It does seem to hold a particular grudge against me.”
“Well, at least you know your limits now.” She patted his arm. “Do not challenge the geese.”
He let out a small chuckle. “No, I have ceded the field. Fortunately, we also have a lake and a stream at Pemberley, neither of which seems to hold any interest for them.”
She pressed her lips together, but a soft sound escaped—another laugh, stifled this time.
“You find my failures comedic?” he asked, but in truth, he was pleased to give her something to think on other than where they were.
Her expression grew exaggeratedly solemn, though even in the gloom he could see her eyes danced with mirth. “Oh, no, sir. Not at all. A young master, barely out of the schoolroom, being dictated to by a gaggle of geese? How could anyone find such a thing amusing?”
His mouth lifted into a small smile despite himself. “You mock me.”
“Only a little.” She folded her hands before her and assumed an expression of great gravity. “But pray, continue. I am eager to hear whether you set fire to the grain stores or perhaps tried your hand at bricklaying with equally catastrophic results.”
He scoffed. “Nothing so dramatic, I assure you.”
“A pity.” She sighed. “I had quite envisioned you up to your knees in mud, covered in mortar and cursing the foolishness of man.”
His lips curled upwards. “I will have you know, Miss Bennet, that I am quite competent in the matter of mortar.”
She chuckled quietly. “Well, then. That is some consolation.”
The playful banter between them faded slowly.
“I think often of those early years,” he admitted after a moment. “Of what I might have done differently. Of how I was so determined to prove myself capable that I failed to see how little I truly understood.” His voice was quieter now, the words carrying an edge of something more fragile than regret. “I expected to step into my father’s place with dignity, with confidence. Instead, I stumbled—repeatedly—until I learned that leadership is not about certainty, but about listening. About understanding that the land, the people, even the geese, all had something to teach me if I would only pay attention.”
Miss Elizabeth did not laugh this time. When he turned his head, he found her watching him, her eyes thoughtful in the dim light.
“You were very young,” she said at last.
“Yes.” He hesitated. “And I had no choice but to become someone older than my years. But it appears I am not yet finished learning my lessons. If I had, I would have applied them to my life beyond Pemberley.” He met her gaze. “I am sorry for my behaviour in Hertfordshire. Most particularly for insulting you at the assembly. It was badly done.”
The flickering shadows made it difficult to read her expression, but he thought he saw understanding there.
“You are forgiven,” she said simply.
For a time, neither of them spoke.
Then she sighed, her breath soft in the stillness. “I expect,” she said slowly, “that you did not stumble nearly as much as you believe.”
“Less and less as time went on. My family, however, recalls only the mistakes.”
