Page 11 of The Briar Bargain
Elizabeth's mind grew sluggish, her thoughts fragmenting. She had saved Peter. That knowledge warmed her. Perhaps this was to be her fate, to perish in these waters, having done one truly noble deed. Her parents would be devastated. Her sisters would mourn. Poor Jane . . .
And what would Mr. Darcy think? Would he think her brave or foolish?
The absurd thought nearly made her laugh, which caused her to choke on more water. As if his good opinion mattered now.
A sudden splash nearby penetrated her dimming awareness. Through the watery veil obscuring her vision, she perceived a large form cutting through the current with powerful strokes. The figure drew closer, and Elizabeth saw with muted interest the visage of Mr. Darcy himself, his usually immaculate appearance utterly transformed.
His dark hair was plastered to his forehead, water streaming down his face as he made his way through the roaring river to her.
Languidly, she wondered why he was in the river. He would ruin his clothes.
But her thoughts drifted away, for the water had her now, drawing her down into its cold embrace, sweeping her around the bend where she could just make out a tangle of fallen trees waiting to catch her beneath the raging water.
Now she trulywouldbe trapped, just as Miss Bingley had feared. She would be pleased to hear she had been right all along.
And Elizabeth closed her eyes, at last, to rest.
Chapter Four
Darcy dragged his boot from the mud with an undignified squelch, grimacing as the cold seeped through the leather. The day had devolved into a seemingly endless battle against the elements, first the rising floodwaters, then the scattered livestock that refused to acknowledge the danger of their predicament.
"That is the last of them, I believe," said Bingley, his gaze fixed on the small flock of sheep now huddled together on higher ground. His typically immaculate appearance had surrendered entirely to the demands of the day; his coat was splattered with mud, his boots no better than Darcy's own.
Mr. Farrow, one of the tenant farmers, removed his cap and wiped his brow with a weathered hand. "We're much obliged to ye, gentlemen. Not many what would wade through all this mud for another man's sheep."
"I assure you, Mr. Farrow, I have sheep of my own at Pemberley," Darcy replied, allowing himself a small smile. "Though they are perhaps better behaved than yours."
This elicited a surprised laugh from the man, his weather-lined face crinkling with genuine mirth. "Aye, well, sheep be sheep, sir, no matter whose land they graze."
There was something liberating about this sort of conversation—direct, casual, unburdened by the complex social rules that governed his interactions in drawing rooms and ballrooms. These men judged him not by his lineage or fortune, but by his willingness and ability to assist when needed. It was a relief to engage in a little plain talking.
Bingley joined in with easy camaraderie. "I confess I have much to learn about estate management, but I find myself rather enjoying the practical aspects."
"You've a natural way with the animals, sir," offered another farmer—Johnson, if Darcy recalled correctly. "They don't spook when you approach."
"High praise indeed," Darcy said, clapping his friend on the shoulder.
Bingley flushed with pleasure at the simple compliment and entered a conversation about the river and how it flooded so rarely.
Harrison, Darcy's valet, approached with rope coiled over one shoulder. Darcy smiled at his bedraggled appearance. Not many valets would lower themselves to muck about in the dirt, but Harrison had once been his cousin Fitzwilliam's batman. Darcy suspected he rather missed the more active life he had once led.
"We have secured the pen on the eastern slope, sir," Harrison reported. "It should hold them until the waters recede."
"Excellent," Darcy said with a nod. He respected Harrison's efficiency; the man had proven invaluable throughout the crisis, demonstrating the same calm competence that had likely served him well in the army.
As Darcy turned to survey their handiwork, a flash of movement down the slope and across a large sodden field caught his eye. A solitary femalefigure moved with purpose into the woods that bordered the swollen river, walking with a swift, determined gait that seemed heedless of the treacherous ground.
He narrowed his eyes, trying to discern the identity of the wanderer. The distinctive silhouette of a woman's pelisse came into focus, the wind pulling the fabric away from a slender frame. With a jolt of recognition, he realised it was Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
"Miss Elizabeth!" he shouted, his voice carrying across the field. "Stop!"
Either she did not hear or chose to ignore his warning, for she continued her determined march to the river without pause.
"Bingley," Darcy called sharply, already moving, "Miss Elizabeth is heading to the river."
Bingley's head snapped up. "What?"
"What is she doing out here?" Harrison muttered, squinting against the grey light.
